PRAISE FOR
TOUGH COOKIE
“Chef Goldy Schultz’s life is a medley of murder, mayhem and melted chocolate. Tantalizing …highly readable fare.”—New York Post
“There’s a dollop of dead people inexplicably killed, a sprinkling of ski-country lore and a generous portion of recipes that will send you to the kitchen before you’ve stuck around to find out who did what to whom and why.”—The Denver Post
“You’ll love adding all of Ms. Davidson’s books to your kitchen bookshelves.”—Rockwall (TX) Success
“This is one culinary mystery that ages well. Diane Mott Davidson has always had the perfect recipe for mystery and mayhem, and this one is no exception. The plot is as cleverly laid out as are the mouth-watering recipes. The twists and turns are as subtle as Goldy’s secret ingredients—just when you’ve got it, you don’t. Tough Cookie is one great read.”—Mystery News
“Charming… Besides the food, Davidson’s strong points are her appealing characters and the vivid depiction of the Colorado high country.”—Booklist
“If you like to cook, scan the recipes; if you prefer to savor mysteries, skip the food; either way, you can’t lose.”—Sunday Morning Sentinel
“A most delicious crime caper.”—Romantic Times
“A writer whose story lines give readers something to sink their teeth into. Readers get all the usual Goldy goodies they’ve come to expect: humor, excitement, mystery and delicious recipes.”—The Oregonian
“The mystery rocks along, combining the best of the traditional cozy with a dollop of suspense and romance. It’s an entertaining culinary mystery with a satisfying ending.”—The Dallas Morning News
“Tough Cookie covers blackmail, art, gourmet cooking, prison reform issues, jealousy, grief and a television cooking show…. It’s as fast moving as a downhill slalom, swooshing from one subject to the next.”—The Baton Rouge Magazine
More Five-Star Praise for the Nationally Bestselling Mysteries of Diane Mott Davidson
“The Julia Child of mystery writers.”—Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph
“Mouthwatering.”—The Denver Post
“Delicious … sure to satisfy!”—Sue Grafton
“If devouring Diane Mott Davidson’s newest whodunit in a single sitting is any reliable indicator, then this was a delicious hit.”—Los Angeles Times
“You don’t have to be a cook or a mystery fan to love Diane Mott Davidson’s books. But if you’re either—or both—her tempting recipes and elaborate plots add up to a literary feast!”—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Mixes recipes and mayhem to perfection.”—The Sunday Denver Post
“Davidson is one of the few authors who have been able to seamlessly stir in culinary scenes without losing the focus of the mystery…. [She] has made the culinary mystery more than just a passing phase.”—Sun-Sentinel, Fort Lauderdale
“Goldy and her collection of friends and family continue to mix up dandy mysteries and add tempting recipes to the readers’ cookbooks at the same time.”—The Dallas Morning News
Also by
Diane Mott Davidson
Dying for Chocolate
The Cereal Murders
The Last Suppers
Killer Pancake
The Main Corpse
The Grilling Season
Prime Cut
Tough Cookie
Sticks & Scones
Chopping Spree
To Triena Harper
Chief Deputy Coroner, Jefferson County, Colorado
who serves the citizens
of our state with dedication, hard work,
and compassion.
Thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of the following people: Jim, J.Z., Joe Davidson; Jeff and Rosa Davidson; Kate Miciak, a brilliant editor; Sandra Dijkstra, the most energetic agent in the business; Susan Corcoran, a phenomenal publicist, and Jessica Bellucci, also fabulous in that department; Lee Karr and the group that assembles at her home; my sister Lucy Mott Faison, for testing and retesting the recipes at low altitude; John William Schenk, JKS, and Karen Johnson, Ravens Catering, for their unceasing willingness to answer questions; Monica Koziol, the Front Range Chef, for her help, guidance, and support in teaching the author how a personal chef operates; the extraordinarily knowledgeable and helpful Wayne Belding and Jeff Mathews of the Boulder Wine Merchant, for sharing their expertise; Katherine Goodwin Saideman, for her close readings of the manuscript; Emyl Jenkins; Commander Debra Grainger, Arvada Police Department; Richard Staller, D.O.; Triena Harper, chief deputy coroner, and Jon Cline, coroner’s investigator, Jefferson County; John Lauck, Criminal Investigator, District Attorney’s Office, First Judicial District of Colorado; Linda Gustafson, Vail; Greg Morrison, Chief of Police, Vail; Allan Stanley, member, Colorado State Parole Board; Carol Devine Rusley; Julie Wallin Kaewert; Kevin Devine, Lake Tahoe Ski Patrol Avalanche Control; Nicole Mains, personal trainer, Boulder Country Club; Jim Gray and Shirley Carnahan, Boulder Renaissance Consort; Elaine Mongeau, King Soopers Pharmacy, Evergreen; Janine Jones, Chris Wyant, and Mark Kimball, The Alpenglow Stube, Keystone Resort; Nate Klatt and Tiffany Tyson, public relations, and Sally Reed, floor director, KRMA-TV, Denver; Jim Buchanan; Keith Abbott; Bob Egizi, security manager, Vail Associates; Suzanne Jarvis, Village Security, Beaver Creek Resort; Tim Batdorff, Toscanini, Beaver Creek; Alan Henceroth, mountain manager, and Jim Gentling, Arapahoe Basin Ski Area; Meg Kendal, Denver-Evergreen Ob-Gyn; Russell Wiltse, Department of Film Studies, University of Colorado, Boulder; and as always, for his knowledge, patience, and suggestions, Sergeant Richard Millsapps of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Golden, Colorado.
Greedily she ingorg’d without restraint, And knew not eating Death.—JOHN MILTON, PARADISE LOST,
BOOK IX, 791–792
NATE BULLOCK MEMORIAL FUND-RAISER
FRONT RANGE PUBLIC BROADCASTING SYSTEM“Cooking at the Top!”
FILMING FROM
THE SUMMIT BISTRO
Killdeer Ski Resort, Killdeer, Colorado
December the Seventeenth
Mexican Egg Rolls with Spicy Guacomole Dipping Sauce/
1996 Cline Ancient Vine Zinfandel
♦Chèvre, Teardrop Tomatoes, and Poached Asparagus on
a bed of Frisée; Shallot Vinaigrette Sancerre
♦Chesapeake Crab Cakes with Sauce Gribiche/
1997 Les Monts Damnés Sancerre Sauvignon Blanc—Chavignol
♦Crisp Italian Breadsticks
♦Ice-Capped Gingersnaps/
1983 Château Suduiraut Sauternes
CHAPTER 1
Show business and death don’t mix. Unfortunately, I discovered this while hosting a TV cooking show.
Up to then, I’d enjoyed being a TV chef. The job didn’t pay well, but this was PBS. Arthur Wakefield, the floor director, had crisply informed me that most chefs made nothing for guest visits, much less five thousand clams for six shows. He could have added: And what’s more, those chefs’ kitchens haven’t been closed by the county health inspector! But Arthur said nothing along those lines. Like most folks, he was unaware that my in-home commercial catering kitchen had been red-tagged, that is, closed until further notice.
So: Bad pay notwithstanding, I was lucky to have the TV job. Actually, I was lucky to have any food work at all. And I certainly didn’t want more than our family and a few friends to know why.
I could not tell my upscale clients—those who’d made Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! the premier food-service business of Aspen Meadow, Colorado—that our plumbing wasn’t up to code. And of course, I could never let it be known that my dear husband Tom was ransacking the house for valuables to sell off, so we could buy fancy drains and thereby get my business reopened. No plumbing? No drains? It sounded nasty. Sordid, even.
In September, things had gone badly. The county health inspector, giggling from the shock engendered by his surprise visit, closed me down. The bustle in our kitchen immediately subsided. Calls for catering gigs stopped. Suppliers sent letters asking if I wanted to keep my accounts current. Yes, yes, I always replied cheerfully, I’m looking forward to reopening soon! Soon. Ha!
Without my business, an enterprise I’d lovingly built up for almost a decade, I entered a spiritual fog as thick as the gray autumnal mist snaking between the Colorado mountains. I gave up yoga. Drank herb tea while reading back issues of Gourmet. Spent days gazing out the new windows in our beautifully-remodeled-but-noncom-pliant kitchen. And repeatedly told Tom how gorgeous the kitchen looked, even if I couldn’t work in it.…
Truly, the place did look great. So what if it didn’t meet new county regulations mandating that every commercial kitchen sink have backflow protection? Months earlier, Tom had rescued the remodeling job after a dishonest contractor had made our lives hell. During time away from his work as a Homicide Investigator for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department, he’d put in marble counters, cherry cabinets, expensive windows, a solid oak floor. And the wrong drains.
To fix the problem, Tom was now tearing out the guts of three new sinks and prying up the floor beneath. He insisted we should heal our temporary cash-flow problem by selling a pair of historic skis he’d bought years before in an odd lot of military memorabilia. In October, I’d started calling antiques dealers while wondering how, during a prolonged closure, I could keep my hand in the food business.
There’d been no takers for the skis. How else to get money? I’d wracked my brain for other ways to work as a cook: Volunteer at a school cafeteria? Roll a burrito stand up and down Aspen Meadow’s Main Street?
Eventually, it had been my old friend Eileen Druckman who’d come through with a job. Loaded with money and divorced less than two years, Eileen had just bought the Summit Bistro at Colorado’s posh Killdeer Ski Resort. Eileen—fortyish, pretty, and blond, with cornflower blue eyes and a full, trembling mouth that had just begun to smile again—had hired a good-looking young chef named Jack Gilkey, whose food was legend in Killdeer. To Eileen’s delight, she and Jack had quickly become an item personally as well as professionally. When I told Eileen my business woes, she and Jack had kindly offered me the position of co-chef at the bistro. But I couldn’t work restaurant hours—seven in the morning to midnight—fifty miles from home. Restaurant workers, I’d noticed, had a high mortality rate, no home life, or both.
Eileen, ever generous, had promptly pitched a cooking-show idea to the Front Range Public Broadcasting System. They’d said yes. I’d demurred. Eileen argued that my cooking on TV, at her bistro, would boost her business plus give her a huge tax write-off. Meanwhile, I could use my television exposure to publicize the new culinary venture I’d finally hit upon: becoming a personal chef. That particular avenue of food work requires no commercial kitchen; it only requires a wealthy client’s kitchen. Just the ticket.
So I’d said yes to show business. The Killdeer Corporation had offered free season ski-lift passes to me as well as to my fourteen-year-old son, Arch. Shot through with new enthusiasm and hope, I couldn’t wait to cook and ski. I gave up herb tea for shots of espresso laced with whipping cream. In November, I plunged eagerly back into work.
Every Friday morning, I would appear at Killdeer’s Summit Bistro to do my bit before the camera. At first I was nervous. And we did have a few mishaps. Thankfully, Cooking at the Top! was taped. Viewers never saw me slash my hand—actually, sever a minor artery—while boning a turkey during the first episode. The spray of blood onto the prep counter had been distinctly unappetizing. The following week, I produced a meringue so sweaty it needed antiperspirant. I also dropped two roasts—one of them stuffed—and splattered myself with a pitcher of Béarnaise. But with glitches edited out, even I had to admit the Saturday morning broadcasts looked pretty good.
On the upside, I told jokes on-screen and mixed cream into smashed garlicky potatoes. I chatted about the rejuvenating properties of toasted, crunchy almonds while folding melted butter into almond cake batter. I gushed about the trials and joys of learning to ski as I chopped mountains of Godiva Bittersweet Chocolate. I swore to my viewers that my recipe made the darkest, most sinfully fudgy cookies on the slopes. I even assiduously followed Arthur’s tasting instructions: Take a bite. Moan. Move your hips and roll your eyes. Say M-m-mm, aaah, oooh! Yes! Yes! Watching the footage, Tom had quipped that the program should be called The Food-Sex Show.
All in all, the first four weeks of taping went well. By Week Four, though, my personal-chef business still had not taken off. I only had one upcoming job. Arthur Wakefield himself had offered me a gig the following week: preparing food for a holiday in-home wine-tasting. Arthur supplemented his floor director income by working as a wine importer. He needed to showcase some new wines—and serve a gourmet meal—to high-end customers and retailers. So, even in the personal-chef department, things were looking up.
Unfortunately, in Week Five, Cooking at the Top! hit a snag, one occasioned by a predictable Colorado crisis: blizzard.
“Don’t get hysterical on me, Goldy!” Arthur wailed into the telephone December the sixteenth, the night before we were due to tape the fifth episode. I held the receiver away from my ear and pictured him: Short, slender, with a handsome face and a head covered with wiry black hair, Arthur was single and, with the income from two jobs, well-off. Unfortunately, no matter whether he was fretting about the show or his precious wines, he wore an air of gloom. Sporting a band-collared black shirt, black pants, and brown rubber-soled shoes, he strode everywhere hunched forward with apprehension. That guy is stuck in a Doppler shift, my son—currently studying ninth-grade physics—had commented. As Arthur quacked into the receiver that night, I imagined him tipping forward precipitously, straining to peer glumly out his condo window, anxiously assessing the thickening wash of snow.
Without taking time to say hello, he’d launched into his late-night communication with a grim update on the severe winter storm bearing down on us. The weather service was predicting four feet of white stuff. Nevertheless—Arthur tensely informed me—despite problems with transportation and prepping, Front Range PBS had to shoot the show the next morning. I told him that it would take me an hour just to ready the ingredients on the menu. Arthur didn’t want to hear it.
“Then leave an hour early so you can deal with the roads!” he snarled. So much for sympathy.
I gripped the phone and glanced out the bay window Tom had installed during our remodeling. An old-fashioned street lamp illuminated fast-falling flakes swirling from a black sky. In the living room, wind whistled ominously down our fireplace flue. I sighed.
“Sorry I snapped,” Arthur moaned. “I’ve got a blizzard and a crew in revolt. Plus, my boss says our show has to raise money. The annual fund-raiser got canceled, so we’re up.” He moaned again, pitifully. I registered the clink of a bottle tapping glass. “One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We have to do it.”
I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn’t ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk our lives remembering someone who was already dead.
“Killdeer’s been dumped big time,” Arthur reported dourly. “We’ve already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn’t open my door this morning.” He stopped to drink something. “Are you getting any?”
In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. “About a foot today,” I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six-month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer—all ski resorts west of the Divide.
Arthur groaned. “The snowboarders and skiers? They’re ecstatic! They’ve got an eighty-inch base in December! How’m I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew’s having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast.” I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. “Know what that crew’s thinking, Goldy? I’ll tell you. They’re thinking Donner Pass.”
Tucking the receiver under my ear, I started heating some milk: It was definitely a night for hot chocolate. “Arthur,” I answered calmly, “why does the show have to be live? Why don’t you just postpone the taping?” I adjusted the flame under the milk. “Better yet, why not tell me exactly what’s going on?”
“Look.” I heard another gulp. “High winds closed the bistro early tonight. Whenever gusts reach forty miles per hour, Killdeer Corp closes the gondola, so tonight’s telethon was canceled. That’s why the kitchen crew couldn’t do your prep.”
I tapped the gleaming new Carrara marble counter and glanced at my watch: half past ten. “So we have to raise money during our show?”
He cleared his throat. “The show was an annual telethon. It brings in about ten thousand bucks each year, and the station uses the money to buy equipment. So tonight, when the telethon got canceled, my boss announced to viewers that instead of seeing our show Saturday morning, viewers could tune in tomorrow morning for a live version of Cooking at the Top!” He took a gulp. “We have to do it tomorrow, Goldy. The professional fund-raiser folks say that if you put people off for long, they’ll stow their checkbooks. Don’t worry, I’ve got phone-bank volunteers.”
“You said it was a memorial,” I reminded him.
“Haven’t you ever watched it?”
“Never. I can’t take telethons. Too much tension.”
“It’s in memory of Nate Bullock. High Country Hallmarks, you must have watched that.” Arthur took another desperate swig. Nate Bullock, I thought. A pang of regret wormed through my chest. Yes, I had watched High Country Hallmarks. And I’d known Nate. His wife, Rorry, had once been my friend.
“Wait a minute,” said Arthur. “My other line’s ringing. Probably a supplier telling me he slipped into a ditch with a truckload of champagne. Can you hold?”
I said yes. I gripped the phone cord, glanced out at the snow, and thought back. Eleven years ago, Nate and Rorry Bullock had been our neighbors in Aspen Meadow. Rorry. She and I had had good times teaching Sunday school at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. But our work and our relationship had ended when the Bullocks moved to Killdeer. High Country Hallmarks, Nate’s hugely popular, locally produced PBS show, had covered exciting aspects of Colorado life, from tracking cougars to evacuating in advance of flash floods. Safe at home, snuggled inside cocoons of comforters and sipping cocoa, Arch and I had watched it together often when he was little.
Tragically, Nate had been killed in an avalanche three years ago—tracking lynx for one of his own shows, reports said, although the television station denied knowledge of such a dangerous project. The papers had reported that the cause for the avalanche, and the reason for Nate’s being in its path, were a mystery. Investigations had led nowhere, and his death remained shrouded in unanswered questions and pain. Poor Rorry. The thought of my widowed friend brought sadness. Although I’d written to her after Nate’s death, I’d received no response.
Arthur returned to the line and announced he’d just calmed one of his cameramen. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a burp and went on: “All right. At six, two cameramen, a handful of volunteers, and I will drive up our equipment van on the—plowed, they promised me—back road. Is your van four-wheel drive?”
“No. And my tires are marginal.” Another side-effect of my cash-flow problem.
“Then take the gondola up the mountain. Since the bistro staff couldn’t do any of the prep, the owner and her head chef,”—here he sighed—“will be helping you. Now listen, going live is just a bit different. People expect mistakes. Don’t worry, it’s part of the fun.”
“Oh, gee, Arthur. It doesn’t sound like fun.” Overseeing a close friend who knew nothing about food prep and her chef-cum-boyfriend chopping mountains of scallions in time for a live broadcast? Fun? A wave of queasiness assaulted me.
“Just be there by seven, Goldy,” Arthur said, ignoring my protests. “Don’t come early. I have too much to do and you’ll be underfoot. When you get there, you can tell Eileen and Jack what you need and I’ll run you through the telethon scenario. We’ll start filming at eight. Ciao!”
He hung up. The wind wailed around the house. I whisked cream and sugar into a heap of dry Dutch-style cocoa, beat in the steaming milk, and liberally doused the cocoa with whipped cream. Worries about the next morning crowded in as I set two fragrant, filbert-studded fudge cookies on a china plate. I took a bite of cookie and nearly swooned over the combination of life-restoring dark chocolate and crunchy toasted nuts. Forget the show! Consume chocolate! Oh, and get some sleep, I ordered myself. Otherwise, people will call in to complain that the chef looks half dead.
The phone rang again.
“Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?” Doug Portman’s obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. “Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?”
“Yes, Doug.” What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We’d dated unhappily after I’d rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex-husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains-crisis had brought him back in our orbit.
“Still want to sell those World War Two skis?” Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. “The ones Ike signed?”
“If the price is right.” Tom’s historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10th Mountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he’d fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half. Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we’d need to replace the drains, I’d called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He’d turned me down.
“I’ve changed my mind. Eight thousand. Cash.” Doug said triumphantly. “Take it or leave it.”
“Great,” I said, surprised and pleased.
“Meet you at your cooking show, then.” Doug lived in Killdeer. “And hey. If I’m going to buy your skis, I want some of those goodies you’re making.” He paused. “I heard they charge nine bucks for spectators. Suppose you could leave me a free ticket at the restaurant desk? We’ll ski down together afterward. It’ll be fun.”
Everybody promised fun. I sighed and told him no problem. A free ticket? Eight thousand dollars to spend, and Doug couldn’t spring nine bucks for public television? But this was typical. Doug never paid for what he could scavenge for free. I told him I’d see him the next morning and signed off.
With my hopefully soporific hot drink in one hand and the second oversized chocolate cookie in the other, I strolled to the kitchen’s back wall. Gusts of wind plastered icy flakes against our new windows. I put down the cocoa and placed my palm on the cold glass. The snow relentlessly batted against the pane, tat-tat-tat-tat. A whirling curtain of snow streamed past our deck light. The deck itself boasted at least eighteen inches of new powder. I prayed for Tom to be safe. He was down in Denver, working a fraud case. His Chrysler’s snow tires were in pretty good shape. Piloting my own rear-wheel-drive van to Killdeer the next morning would be another story.
I wanted to do the show. I pulled my hand away from the window and sipped my creamy drink. With my catering business shut down, the program’s wide audience still showcased the personal-chef venture, for which I refused to give up hope. Now, with Doug’s offer, I finally had a deal for the skis. Plus, knowing the show was dedicated to remembering dear Rorry Bullock’s husband, I had to get to Killdeer in the morning.
I bit into the cookie and watched the snow. Christmas was only nine days away, but the Yuletide spirit eluded me. I’d bought a snowboard for Arch—his heart’s desire—and a new revolver for Tom. I was no gun-lover—far from it—but I’d learned a great deal about firearms from Tom. The dangers and risks of his work had convinced me he needed another weapon, even if all he used it for was practice. So: We had some gifts. Our tree sparkled in the living room. We had plans to bake Christmas cookies together, as a family. But without a job after the New Year, I felt a lack of purpose, and Christmas was just one more landmark on a calendar I didn’t want to face.
Things could be worse, I consoled myself as I drank more cocoa. I could be out in this weather. I could be facing the holidays without a husband, like Rorry Bullock. My heart ached for her.
Handsome and effervescent, Nate Bullock had always been one to court—and then miraculously escape from—the perils of mountain life. Had he secretly been tracking Canadian lynx, reintroduced to the Front Range after the native lynx habitat had been destroyed by development? Who knew? One fact everyone agreed on was that Nate Bullock had strayed—or hiked intentionally—into Killdeer Valley, an area that was off-limits for all humans, not just skiers, because of the possibility of avalanches. The avalanche, that killer tide of snow that sweeps the unsuspecting to their death, was much to be feared in the Colorado mountain winter.
That’s why the Valley is out-of-bounds, Killdeer officials had solemnly intoned, ever wary of their liability insurance. Avalanches in the high country happen without warning. Of course, this had not prevented Killdeer Corporation from recently deciding to expand the resort onto the slope adjacent to the Valley. Next season, a new lift would take skiers and snowboarders right over the area where Nate had died. Poor Rorry, I thought again, with guilt. Would she be at the fund-raiser? Would she want to talk to me, when all I’d done was write her a sympathy note? Why hadn’t I been more persistent in checking up on her after Nate’s death?
I finished the cookie and downed the cocoa. Late at night, problems loom large. I had to crawl to bed and get some beauty sleep. Or, as I checked my pudgy, curly-blond-haired reflection in the frosted window, just some sleep, period.
Early the next morning, in an impenetrable, windy, predawn darkness, I loaded the historic skis into my van. It was still snowing hard. A torrent of flakes iced my face as I stamped inside. I left a note for Tom, whose large, warm body had finally snuggled in next to mine around two A.M. I packed up my boots and skis, traipsed out to check the tread on my radial tires—barely adequate—and set out for Killdeer.
As my van negotiated the snow-crusted expanse of Main Street, the wind lashed fresh snow across my windshield. When I pulled over to scrape it off, I was hit in the face with a swag of holiday evergreen and a strand of white lights. Convulsing in the wind, the decorations had torn loose from a storefront. I climbed back into the van, shivered, and started the slow trek to the highway.
Once the van was headed west on Interstate 70, I cranked the wipers as high as they would go to sweep off the relentlessly falling snow. Traffic was light. Beside the road, a herd of bighorn sheep clustered below a neon sign warning of icy roads on both sides of the Eisenhower Tunnel. When I passed Idaho Springs, a radio announcement brayed the news that an avalanche had come down late the previous afternoon at the Loveland Ski Area. Cars slowing down to watch the cleanup were clogging the road, the announcer solemnly declared.
“Perfect,” I muttered.
Twenty minutes later, I braked behind a long line of cars. Through the snowfall, I could just make out dump trucks laboring in the Loveland parking lot as they scooped away a three-story-high heap of snow, rocks, and broken trees. Under the pile was a maintenance building. The radio announcer passionately recited a rumor of a scofflaw skier who’d ducked a boundary rope and precipitated the slide. The avalanche had raced down the hillside, snapped a stand of pines like match-sticks, and buried the vacant building. Passengers riding up the high-speed quad lift had seen the skier schuss to safety—and away from being caught.
Concentrate on your driving, I warned myself, as I entered the neon-lit purgatory of the tunnel, that deep, dark passageway bored beneath the Continental Divide. After a few minutes, the snowpacked descent from the tunnel loomed ahead in the early morning grayness. When I emerged, a sudden wind whipped the van, rocking it violently. Another thick shower of snow blanketed my windshield.
I thought: What would it be like to die in an avalanche?
CHAPTER 2
At six-twenty, my van crunched into the snowpacked parking lot of the Killdeer resort. To the east, the sky was edged with pewter. My fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. When I turned off the engine, flakes instantly obscured the windshield. I hopped out onto the snowpack. A frigid breeze bit through my ski jacket and I stumbled to get my footing. Righting myself, I tugged up my hood, cinched it tight, and donned padded mittens.
I struggled to get my bearings. Through the swirling drapery of flakes, the parking lot’s digital display flashed the happy announcement that the temperature stood at 19°. Windchill –16°. Welcome to ski country!
Lights from the ski area cast a pall across the imposing face of Killdeer Mountain. Columns of snow spiraled around the lampposts. A lead-colored cloud shrouded the runs. The digital sign went on to proclaim that the mountain now boasted an Eighty-five-inch base topped with Thirty-three inches of new!!!—ski-talk for how much snow we’ve got.
I pulled out my Rossignols, bought on sale long ago. I’d need them to follow Doug down from the bistro at the end of the show. The other skis, the valuable pair, I would be selling to him in less than three hours. I tossed down my poles and put on my boots. Another blustery breeze stung my eyes. The sign joyously screamed: More SNOW on the way! followed by a smiley face and the words Ski with CAUTION!
In the back of the van, I pulled out three blankets to hide the precious skis. The carved names glowed briefly: Abetone, Della Vedetta, Corona. They were a glorious find, and I would have loved for Tom to keep them. Arch, who was obsessed with learning about the Second World War, was extremely unhappy with us for thinking of selling them.
I was supposed to pick up Arch after the show. With his teachers out for a faculty conference yesterday and today, he had stayed overnight with his best friend, Todd Druckman, Eileen’s son, in her gorgeous Killdeer condo. The boys loved to snowboard together. I was dreading one of his adolescent bad moods when he heard these skis were actually sold.
It was not something I wanted to think about. I spread out the blankets, threw a tarpaulin over the whole pile, and locked the van.
I could just hear the muffled jangle and clank of the gondola, half a mile away. Apparently, this morning’s winds had not been strong enough to delay the six o’clock start-up, when the ski patrol ascended the mountain. Resignedly, I shouldered my skis, poles, and backpack, and crunched across the mammoth lot. Buck up! I ordered myself. Doing the show and selling the skis will get you closer to reopening. I breathed in tangy wood smoke and blinked away stinging snowflakes. An arctic breeze whipsawed my scarf, and my boots cracked and slid on the hard-pack. I trudged along in the semidarkness, determined to get out of the cold wind that had whipped to a fury in the lot’s open space. Despite my resolution to be cheerful, I wondered why people thought hell wasn’t frozen over.
Panting, my thighs and toes numb, I finally arrived at the artfully carved wooden sign welcoming me to Kill-deer. I leaned my skis and poles against the signpost. Under my bundled clothing, my body felt slick with sweat. Ahead, snow tumbled steadily around gold-glowing street lamps lining the walkway to the gondola. Extracting a tissue from my pocket, I wiped my eyes and blinked at Killdeer’s just-like-Dickens row of brightly-lit Victorian- and Bavarian-style shops. The street lamps, I’d learned, stayed on until the sun was completely up. In my month doing the cooking show, the days had become shorter; the pale, cold sun had risen later and later. I’d teased Arthur that by the close of the year we’d be doing the show in the dark. Arthur had sighed glumly and then suggested we could do a champagne breakfast show, bubbly supplied—like all the other vintages we featured—by Wakefield Wines. Now, thinking of my frozen fingertips, I wondered if Arthur had schnapps up at the bistro. If so, did I dare drink some before “going live”?
Actually, I didn’t want champagne or schnapps. I wanted coffee. I cared not a whit about the admonition that caffeine constricts skiers’ cells and lowers their body temperature. If I wanted to be awake to cook at the top and raise money as well, I desperately needed several shots of the good stuff.
Luckily, I knew there would be one place open at this hour. My spirits rose as I schlepped my load down the short, charming avenue. Storefronts twinkling with thousands of holiday lights made Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, fifty miles away, look as stark as a Shaker living room. In several hours, these brightly festooned boutiques would become a hive of commercial activity. I wouldn’t be trucking in high-priced commerce, but never mind.
I sniffed the scent of the dark, fragrant brew even as I rejoiced at the Open sign dangling from the door of Cinda’s Cinnamon Stop. I dropped my equipment near the covered decking that ran by the shops and clopped up the wooden steps.
“Hey, Goldy!” bellowed Cinda Caldwell from her steamy walk-up window. Cinda’s hair, dyed in a range of pink hues from cotton-candy to scarlet, was luminous behind the swirl of fat white flakes. “Come in, come in, I need to talk to you about something!”
I’d come to know Cinda—tall, athletic, endlessly enthusiastic and energetic—during my stint with the program. “You look worse than usual!” she cried cheerfully. “You’re still doing your show?”
“Yes, but I need your coffee to transform me into a chipper TV personality. Make that a warm, chipper TV personality.”
She guffawed. “Want three or four shots? Need a pastry with your espresso? On the house! C’mon!” she hollered impatiently. “There’s something I really need to tell you!”
“Okay, okay, triple shot, thanks,” I called back dutifully. “And I’d love a cinnamon roll.” I congratulated myself on being too early to appear at the bistro. What else could I do while I waited for Arthur’s crew to finish setting up, but indulge in free treats at Cinda’s?
I stuck my head into the warmth of her shop. The Cinnamon Stop boasted a short counter and eight round wooden tables plastered with snowboard stickers. A higgledy-piggledy assortment of plastic and wooden chairs bunched around and between the tables. The huge screen that showed snowboarding videos during working hours was dark. Cinda, who had gained unexpected renown as one of the first female snowboarders in the state, whisked back and forth in her minuscule working space. She wore a bright yellow turtleneck and purple ski pants. A fluorescent purple-and-yellow headband held her tangle of pink hair in place. On the wall behind her, a poster of a snowboarder catching air vied with old-fashioned Christmas bulb lights strung around a fluorescent Burton snowboard. The board hung at an angle beside a row of Cinda’s freestyle trophies. “Almost there!” she promised me. She was so upbeat, you’d never know she’d blown out her knees several years ago on the Killdeer half-pipe—that long, snow-covered half-cylinder favored by boarders—and hadn’t touched a board since.
“Drink.” Cinda thrust a paper cup of steaming dark liquid at me, then a paper plate topped with a twirled roll glazed with cinnamon sugar. “Listen, before I get into the serious stuff, I have to ask you something.” Her brown eyes, set in an elfin, freckled face, sparkled. “Do I hafta use Grand Marnier in your chocolate truffles? I’ve got some bargain brandy left over and was hoping I could substitute.” She gave me an open-mouthed smile.
I took a healthful swig of caffeine and wondered if you could chug an espresso, slam down a roll, lie politely, and still get the heartwarming effects of caffeine and sugar. Probably not. “The truffles will turn out better if you use high-quality liqueur. Cognac yes, brandy no.”
She surprised me by leaning in close. She smelled like vanilla. “How about this question, then. Didn’t I read in the paper that you’re married to a cop? He works for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department?”
“Yes. He does.” Crime alert. Regardless of what the thermometer said, my mind was not so frozen that it didn’t recognize the coffee, the roll, and the truffle question as an introduction to something else altogether. I gave her an innocent look. “You need help?”
She fiddled with the psychedelic headband. “It’s probably nothing. But a guy came into the shop a few nights ago, plastered, wanting coffee. My waiter, Davey, gave him some Kona. I used to know the drunk guy. Name’s Barton Reed. He was a snowboarder until he got into some kind of trouble and had to go away for a while. He’s a big-bruiser type with about twenty earrings in each ear, all little crosses and saints’ medals. Not that he’s religious—I heard he gave up that a long time ago. Anyway, Barton boasted that he’d gotten hold of a poison that could kill you if you just touched it.”
I pondered the espresso in my cup before answering: “Did he say he was going to use it?”
“He said he’d put patches of the poison in a letter, if you can believe that. You open the letter, you’re dead.”
“Did he show the letter to Davey?”
She paused and looked cautiously around the empty shop. “No. Here’s the bad part, Goldy. Barton said he was going to deliver this poison-in-a-letter soon. To a cop.”
My skin prickled. I heard my tone sharpen as questions tumbled out. “Do you know where this Barton guy lives? Did you report what he said?” She shook her head. “How about the cop? Did you get his name?”
Cinda picked up a rag and wiped the counter beside my half-full coffee cup. “Nah, I figured it was a hoax. So did Davey. Plus, who’m I going to report it to? Ski patrol? Forest Service? I couldn’t imagine the Sheriff’s department traveling way over here, to the edge of the county, to hear about some drunk who claims he’s going to send a poisoned Christmas card to a cop.” She shrugged. “So I figured if you came by for coffee today, I’d tell you about it. See what you thought.”
It was getting on to seven o’clock. Still, this was very worrisome and I had to call Tom. Unfortunately, I’d left my cell phone in the van. I asked Cinda for her phone; she hoisted one to the counter. Quickly, I pressed the button for a Denver line and dialed first our home number, then our business line. Tom must have left early: Both calls netted answering machines. I pressed buttons for his Sheriff’s department line and left a voice-mail asking Tom to call Cinda Caldwell about a threat to a policeman. Hanging up, I rummaged through my backpack full of culinary tools, pulled out my dog-eared wallet, and extracted one of Tom’s cards. “Call this number in thirty minutes, Cinda. Tell Tom everything you told me. Thirty minutes. Promise?”
She looked at me uncertainly. She took the card and fingered it cautiously, and I could imagine her telling Tom, Goldy told me to call you, it’s probably nothing, but she figured it might be kinda important—
I put my mittens back on. “Need to hop. They’re doing our show live today. It’s a fund-raiser dedicated to Nate Bullock, remember him?”
Still staring at the card, she nodded her rainbow-pink head. “Sure. The TV tracker dude.”
“I’m doing Mexican egg rolls. Crab cakes. Ginger-snaps.”
Now she looked at me, perplexed. “I’ll try to catch it. But you know my customers would rather see an extreme ski video than a cooking show.” She shrugged.
I finished the roll—flaky, buttery, and spicy-sweet—polished off the coffee in two greedy swallows, and thanked her again.
When I ducked out of the warm shop, another fiercely cold wind struck me broadside. I struggled past the brilliantly lit facade of the Killdeer Art Gallery. In the Christmas-plaid-draped front window, black-and-white photos of backlit snowboarders making daring leaps off cliffs vied with garish, romantic oils of Native Americans beside tipis. A third of the window was devoted to watercolors of mountain villas. Just visible behind these were collages made up of images of ski equipment. When Coloradans enthused over Western Art, they weren’t talking about Michelangelo.
The last shop on the row was Furs for the Famous. Ah, fame. Fame was much desired by the hoi polloi, much despised by celebrities, much avoided by the infamous. As I clomped back down the steps toward the gondola, fueled by Cinda’s rich coffee, I reflected that I had no use for fame. Doing a gourmet cooking show had spawned neither gourmet cooks nor ardent fans. But complainers—who wrote and called and stopped me in the grocery store to ask if they could substitute margarine for butter, powdery dried muck for fresh imported Parmesan, and blocks of generic je-ne-sais-quoi for expensive dark chocolate—these I had in abundance. Tom had given me an early Christmas present: a T-shirt silk-screened with: DON’T ASK. DON’T SUBSTITUTE.
And speaking of Tom, being married to a police investigator had also brought me recognition, as Cinda’s question demonstrated. Sometimes I felt like the pastor’s wife who is told of incest in a church family. Nobody wants to bother the pastor with it, right? Somebody’s sending a poisoned letter to a cop? Don’t bother the cop! Let Goldy handle it.
I walked down the snowpacked path and tramped across an arched footbridge. Four feet below, Killdeer Creek gurgled beneath its mantle of ice. Christmas and the promise of more snow would soon bring an onslaught of skiers. I trudged onward resolutely, not wanting to think about the holiday, and all the parties I would miss catering.
Sell the old skis. Get the new drains, I told myself. Develop the personal chef sideline, then reopen your business. And quit worrying!
I clambered up the ice-packed pathway to the clanking gondola. The car manager, his hair swathed in an orange jester cap, his face spiderwebbed from a decade of sun, stopped a car for me. I heaved my backpack and poles into the six-seater while the car manager whistled an off-tune Christmas carol and clanked my skis into the car’s outside rack. The car whisked away.
Up, up, up I zoomed toward the bistro. Even though snow continued to fall, the sky had brightened to the color of polished aluminum. The muffled grinding of the cable was the only sound as the car rolled past snow-frosted treetops and empty, pristinely white runs. This early, an hour and a half before the runs officially opened, I was alone on the lift. Our small studio audience usually rode up at quarter to eight. Early-bird skiers who couldn’t brave the cold would still be guzzling cocoa at Cinda’s or the Karaoke Café. Or they could be poring over maps of Killdeer’s back bowls, those steep, ungroomed deep-snow areas braved by only the hardiest of skiers. Or maybe they would be having their bindings checked at the repair shop, or just staring out at the snow-covered mountains. In other words, they could be anticipating real fun.
I shifted on the cold vinyl seat and peered downward. Below the new blanket of flakes, groomed, nub-bled snow had frozen into ridged rows. The grooming was left to the snowcats, those tractor tanks that churned and smoothed the white stuff after-hours. By the time I skied down at nine, I knew, the new powder would be lumped into symmetrical rows of moguls: hard, tentlike humps of snow arrayed across the hill like an obstacle course. As much as I loved skiing, and I did, this might or might not be fun.
Halfway to the top, the car stopped. This happened occasionally, when children failed to make the hop onto the seats and their parents went nova. But it shouldn’t be happening now. I glanced back at the base; the gondola station was out of sight. A sudden wind made the cable car swing. I shivered and looked down at the runs. How far down were they, anyway?
Think about something else, Goldy. What you’re doing later. Selling Tom’s skis. I tightened my grip on the cold bars and took my mind off the distance to the ground.
Tom’s skis, I reminded myself. Yes. The buyer was Doug Portman. Not exactly a happy thing to think about, but never mind.
Doug Portman was a social-climbing accountant who had somehow become a rather large cog in our state political machine. Dressed in dapper seersucker or corduroy, he was always a hobnobbing presence at law enforcement picnics and other events. I didn’t know what he did to earn his living now, and didn’t want to know. The only thing I knew was that he had married for money and could now indulge in his collecting hobby. Still, I felt guilty about selling him Tom’s skis, since I had not told Tom to whom I was selling them. You didn’t exactly say, Uh, honey? I’m selling one of your most prized possessions to a guy I used to date … oh yes, I still have his number….
Outside, the snowflakes whirled and thickened. My face was numb with cold. I briefly released my death-grip on the metal bars to tighten my hood. The time before Christmas should be full of laughter, parties, shopping, decorating, baking, family gatherings. So why was I dealing with the loss of my beloved business, a live television fund-raiser for a kind, outdoorsy fellow who’d died in an avalanche, and—as of twenty minutes ago—a crazy earring-studded guy sending poisoned love notes to a cop? Not to mention the sale of a valuable collectible item, more or less under the table, to a man I’d vowed never to see again?
But I was seeing him again. So much for never.
CHAPTER 3
The gondola inexplicably started again and I sighed with relief. At the top, I popped through the doors, shouldered my skis and pack, and headed onto the mountain’s flat peak. A bitter wind blew me into the snow before I could don my skis. I gasped as my body hit the hard-pack and pain exploded up my knees. Poor Cinda, I thought as a red-clad ski patrol member gently helped me up. When she wrecked her knees, had it hurt as much as this?
“You all right?” the tanned patrolwoman asked, her voice tight with concern. “Need help getting to the show?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I struggled to my feet, slung on the backpack, then conscientiously slotted my boots into my skis. Eventually, today’s show will be over, I consoled myself as I reached for my poles.
I skied cautiously to the racks by the Summit Bistro. The restaurant occupied the eastern third of an enormous blond-log edifice known as the Chapparal Lodge. Snuggled within a stand of pine trees, surrounded by a wide apron of log decking, the lodge housed the bistro, the kitchen, a cafeteria, and mountaintop ski patrol headquarters. The lower level contained a storage area, rest rooms, and pay phones. I racked my skis and reflected that until a few moments ago, I’d had no dealings with the patrol, who were summoned if you had a crisis on the slopes. Patrol members, expert skiers who wore red uniforms emblazoned with white crosses, brought injured skiers down on sleds, closed dangerous runs, and yanked lift tickets from reckless skiers and snowboarders. Apparently, they also felt they should pluck a mid-thirtyish woman to her feet when she did a face-plant in the snow.
I sighed and surveyed the sprawling lodge, where I now prayed someone had thought to start a coffeemaker.
The bistro’s heavy wooden door was locked. Banging on it hurt my frozen knuckles and produced no response. Blackout curtains covered the windows. The crew’s bustle inside must have muffled my knocking. Then again, maybe they hadn’t made it up the back road. This was not something I wanted to contemplate.
How was I supposed to get in? Eileen had told me that the rear part of the lodge’s basement contained the mammoth trash- and food-storage areas, plus railroad tracks leading to the gondola. The gondola’s cars were removed at night, so that a second crew could run canisters of trash down the mountain, and unpack the food supplies that ran back up. I moved along the decking and peered down: the TV van, complete with chained tires and a hood of snow, was parked by the rear entry. So the crew was here. This was good.
Melting snowflakes trickled down my cheeks and lips. It would take another ten minutes to struggle downhill to the lower entrance. I retraced my steps past the bistro door to the cafeteria entrance, yanked on all six doors, and finally found one open. Eureka.
The darkened cafeteria was empty. But at least I was inside the building. There were two ways of looking at Killdeer security, I thought as I readjusted my backpack and made my way to the kitchen entry. With all the locked doors, computerized scanning of lift tickets, and red flags screaming Danger! Run Closed!, you’d think Killdeer was an outpost of the Pentagon. On the other hand, in the last five weeks I had repeatedly seen boundary ropes down, run signs askew, office doors unlocked, and scofflaws ducking lift ticket scanners. Add to this: untended kitchens left open.
I pushed through the doors and looked around hopefully.
“Hello?” I called into the gloom. No answer. No Eileen Druckman and Jack Gilkey chopping egg roll ingredients. A single fluorescent bulb cast a pall over the cavernous space. Rows of steel counters lined with cutlery, pans, and bowls, alternated with shelves burgeoning with foodstuffs. My footsteps echoed and reechoed on the metal floor.
Through the kitchen’s swinging doors, noisy hustling and shouting was suddenly audible. I stripped off my snow-coated jacket and boots, opened my backpack, and slipped into the sneakers I wore for the show. Then I whipped past the walk-in refrigerators and deep sinks and pushed through more swinging doors to the restaurant.
The glare of TV lights blinded me. Mysteriously, the lights did not diminish the intimate feel of the dining room. Chandeliers elaborately twined with fake deer antlers, stucco walls stenciled with painted ivy, plush forest-green carpeting, a moss-rock fireplace with a glowing hearth—all these gave the bistro the air of a ritzy hideaway. Silk roses and unlit candles topped pristine white damask tablecloths. Along one wall, a blond woman was hanging an arrangement of artworks. Elegant Gourmet Restaurant at Eleven Thousand Feet Above Sea Level? No problem!
About five and a half feet in height, wearing his usual black shirt and ski pants, Arthur Wakefield tucked his clipboard and ever-present bottle of Pepto-Bismol under his arm and barreled in my direction, leaning forward at an acute angle. His taut, no-nonsense air made him look older than the twenty-nine I knew him to be. The director, Lina, a paraplegic woman who rarely left the production van, I had only met once. She gave her cues to the two cameramen and to Arthur via headsets. I had a full plate dealing with Arthur himself: He worried and complained enough for three people.
Clean-shaven down to the cleft in his dimpled chin, Arthur wore his ultracurly black hair combed forward, Roman-emperor-style. Dark circles under his eyes made me wonder about the hangover quotient. I braced to hear the latest crises.
“Here you are, then. Four minutes late.” He tsked, then added, “Rorry Bullock was supposed to be here at seven. Nobody’s seen her. Eileen Druckman should have arrived with her chef. So we’re in a bit of a pickle. A gherkin, maybe.”
“Just tell me what I need to know so I can get ready.” I hesitated. “No Rorry?” Again, I felt guilt. I should have called her, maybe offered her a ride.…
“Do you know her?”
“She and Nate used to live near us. Rorry and I taught church school together.” Glancing around at the chaos in the dining room, I had a sudden memory of the fun Rorry and I had had with our fourth-grade class, as we acted out the story of the Valley of Dry Bones. All of us had leaped wildly around the narthex floor once the boy playing Ezekiel prophesied.…
Arthur asked, “Did you know she was pregnant when the avalanche happened? They’d been trying for ages. Right after Nate died, she lost the baby.” He sighed, and I wondered if the miscarriage, with all its attendant physical and emotional pain, was the reason Rorry had not responded to my letter. Why hadn’t I followed up? “Everybody at the station loved Nate. And his shows were popular with the granola set.” Arthur searched his pockets fruitlessly for an antacid. “So every year we do a memorial fund-raiser for him. The Federal Communications Commission only lets us raise money on air for ourselves. Sad, because Rorry needs money.” He raised a black eyebrow at me. “I was hoping you, Goldy, could introduce Rorry. I wanted her to say a few words at the beginning of the show. She said no to me.”
“I haven’t seen her in a long time—”
He smoothed the top of his curly hair. “Just ask her yourself, will you? Do you have your script?” I nodded; he glumly assessed the top page of his clipboard. “Live fund-raising is not that different from taping. Just crack a joke if something goes wrong. Most important: If the phones stop ringing? We’ve got zip. If that happens, the camera will focus on the silent telephone bank. I’ll cue you. Watch your screen. Be out here and ready to go at quarter to eight. Got it?”
I nodded compliantly. Arthur again consulted his clipboard. I gazed at the far wall in search of dark-haired, slender Rorry Bullock. What would I say to her? Why hadn’t I known about the baby?
Arthur waved at the row of grills and stovetops along the back wall of the restaurant. Called the hot line, this was where I did my work before the camera. Then he pointed to a row of empty chairs against the far wall of the bistro. “That’s where the phone bank will be. We’ll get you wired when you come out.”
I nervously made for the hot line. Five weeks earlier, Arthur had impatiently explained that broadcasting from Killdeer presented too many technical problems to go live for all six weeks. But we were doing it today. Although the term for my persona on camera was “the talent,” this talent was definitely afraid of committing more bloopers. I suspected I was the cause for Arthur changing from Rolaids to an extra-large bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Did that affect his taste buds, I wondered?
When I finished arranging plates on the hot line’s tile bar, I whisked back to the kitchen. Thank heavens: Eileen and Jack had finally arrived.
“Goldy!” Eileen Druckman called and rushed to hug me. “You made it.” She had newly short, newly blonder hair and was wearing a clingy royal blue turtleneck and black ski pants. She looked terrific. “Think the boys will be able to snowboard in this mess?”
“When did snow ever stop two fourteen-year-olds?”
In the background, Jack Gilkey smiled bashfully as he looked up from chopping scallions. Jack was pale and thin, and possessed craggy good looks, sort of French Cro-Magnon man. His dark eyes were earnest, and his long, mahogany brown hair was woven into hundreds of thin braids pulled into a ponytail.
“Thanks for helping, Jack,” I said sincerely. He nodded, and I wondered again why Arthur had been adamant that I should do the show alone, without help from the bistro’s excellent chef. Jack had fixed a stupendous dinner for Eileen, Arch, and me at Eileen’s condo, so I knew he was a great cook. Plus he was much cuter than I was.
Ah, well, who was I to decipher the mysteries of PBS? The three of us set to work filling glass bowls with black beans, shredded cooked chicken breast, grated cheddar cheese, and egg roll wrappers. I fished out my script, peered into the dark interior of the larger of two walk-in refrigerators, and retrieved a bag of delicate frisée greens and a head of crisp radicchio. Because I prepared only two longer or three shorter recipes per show, I wouldn’t actually be tossing the salad today, although I would talk about it. Arthur had told me to instruct folks to use the meal’s wine, rather than lemon juice or vinegar, as the acidic ingredient in the dressing. Easy enough, as were the crab cakes, which I had urged Arthur to include. They were made from pasteurized crab, and sent my clients to heaven. Make that my former clients.
“Any progress on getting your business reopened?” Eileen asked, once we’d set up the ingredients so they didn’t obscure the large portable screen where I watched the camera’s movements. The babble of voices from the telephone bank almost drowned her out.
I mumbled, “Not yet,” and scanned the row of chairs set up behind the two cameras. I was startled to see the face and shoulders of Rorry Bullock emerge from just behind the screen. Now that I saw her, what should I say? I didn’t know.
I sighed and turned my attention back to my work. Fifteen minutes to showtime. I still needed to be wired. A bubble of panic rose in my throat. Arthur nodded to me, then in Rorry’s direction. While Jack and Eileen leafed through the script to make sure I had every single ingredient, I hurried over to the screen.
“Rorry?” I asked nervously. “Remember me? Goldy? Fellow church school teacher? Supervisor of kids carving clay tablets of the Ten Commandments?” One of our more memorable projects, the tablet-making had been surpassed only by the blowing of horns to bring down the Sunday school walls, à la Jericho.
Rorry turned and faced me. She was wearing a sagging gray sweatshirt, and looked uneasy and out of place. She was dunking a tea bag into hot water. Her look was unexpectedly defiant.
“I’m sorry,” I stumbled on, wishing I hadn’t tried to be funny. “This day must remind you of Nate—”
“Long time no see, Goldy.” Rorry’s face was unreadable, her tone bitter. She slurped some tea. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, in spite of what she’d said. “Didn’t mean to upset you—”
“I’m not upset,” she interrupted. “Just puzzled.”
“About what?” My question sounded stupid, even to me. I shakily wired the microphone Arthur handed me through my double-breasted chef’s jacket.
“Two minutes,” he warned. “Mrs. Bullock, I don’t suppose we could convince you to say a few words for PBS—”
“No!” Rorry’s reply was nearly a shout. The hand holding the plastic cup trembled; pale green tea slopped out. Arthur rushed away.
“Rorry,” I murmured. “I just heard about the, your, other loss. I didn’t know about the baby, and I know you loved Nate—”
“Nate is the only man I’ve ever loved,” she cut in fiercely.
Why the rudeness? I didn’t get it. My cheeks reddened. Why did I always make things worse when I was nervous? “I know you did—”
Rorry lifted her chin. “You don’t know a thing, Goldy.”
She walked away from the screen, toward the spectators’ seats. Slowly, she seated herself. I gasped, stunned. During my years of marriage to my first husband, Doctor John Richard Korman, a.k.a. The Jerk, I’d seen plenty of his ob-gyn patients. I could read them pretty well. Why had no one told me about Rorry?
Three years after the death of the only man she swore she’d ever loved, Rorry Bullock was nine months pregnant.
I didn’t have time to reflect on Rorry and her condition, though. Arthur raced back and sternly ordered me to test my mike. I nodded, swallowed, and rasped, one, two, six. My tongue was dry. When Arthur moved away, I poured myself a glass of water from the hot line sink. Had Rorry remarried? Did she have a lover? What was going on?
Don’t be preoccupied while you’re on TV; everyone will be able to tell something’s wrong, Arthur had warned when we’d first begun shooting. After the turkey-boning and sauce-spilling incidents, I’d concentrated harder. Now Arthur—clutching Pepto and clipboard—murmured into his headset about the sequence of shots. He rechecked the audio for the six-person phone bank. Then he trotted over and delivered a last set of directorial laws: “Never admit you’ve made a mistake. We’ll break at the halfway point to show a clip from one of Nate’s old shows. Watch the screen, watch your time, but don’t be obvious. I’ll signal you.”
Finally he backed away. I blinked into the bright lights, forced myself to clear my mind, and shuffled through my notes. Do the egg rolls first. On the counter, the delicate wrappers lay next to the glimmering bowls of stuffing. Quickly, the crab cakes. Talk about how satisfying a hot, succulent shellfish dish is after skiing.
On the hot line’s closest stovetop, a finished set of crab cakes was waiting for the final shot of the entrée Last, do the dessert. I would have preferred a chocolate treat, but Arthur said chocolate was too tricky with dessert wine. So I was making gingersnaps. The wine Arthur had paired with them cost seventy-five dollars a pop.
Arthur morosely called for silence, then counted down loudly from five to one. The red light on top of Camera One blinked on. I took a shaky breath.
“Greetings from Killdeer!” I began, and hoped I was the only one who could hear the wobble in my voice. “A very special show today commemorates the loss of a dear friend of the Front Range Public Broadcasting System.…” And I talked on about how we remembered Nate, how special his show had been to those of us who’d been regular viewers. Then I gave the phone number where folks could call in, and segued into a cheerful review of the show’s menu.
My screen showed the visual for the egg rolls. When the camera returned to me, I mixed the cheeses with the other south-of-the-border ingredients and swiftly rolled them into the wrappers. I slid the egg rolls into a deep-fat fryer that Chef Jack, hovering on the sidelines, had set to the proper temperature, and we were on our way. If I could only ignore the two cameras intimately focused on me, I thought, I’d be fine. I’m never happier than when I’m cooking.
I launched into my patter about buying crab and mixing it with easy-to-find ingredients. I smiled at the camera, mixed the ingredients for the sauce, and patted rich cracker crumbs on both sides of the soft, luscious cakes. Then I dropped them into the hot sauté pan with a tantalizing splat. The phones rang; I gabbled on about food and love going together.
Standing beside Jack Gilkey, Eileen grinned crazily when I commented that the Summit Bistro was a cozy, romantic spot to enjoy lunch during a day of skiing. Arthur shot Jack a dark look and swigged Pepto-Bismol. I rolled on.
You could offer a rare, old-vine zinfandel with the appetizers, and a sauvignon blanc with your main course, I sang out gaily. At this, Arthur, bless his heart, finally cracked a smile. Then he guzzled more Pepto. The camera panned to the phones, where three of the volunteers were chatting with donors. Off-camera for a moment, I scanned the crowd and bit back my second gasp of the morning.
Doug Portman, buyer of Tom’s historic skis, had arrived. Looking older, pudgier, and balder than the last time I’d seen him, he waggled his fingers at me, despite the fact that I’d forgotten his free-food ticket. Just then all the phones rang. I made Rorry Bullock’s face out in the crowd. Her eyes were slits, her face tormented. Why? The fund-raiser was going well. Why was she so upset? Arthur wrote on his clipboard: 10 seconds to BREAK! I quickly moved the crab-cake pan to the sink and introduced a clip from one of Nate’s programs.
Once the five-minute spot was underway, I sat, drank more water, and reviewed my script. A live show. While the audience shifted in their seats, my palms sweat and my heart jogged in my chest. Still, I was beginning to think I might survive this ordeal. I had just finished readying the dessert ingredients when Arthur waved his clipboard. 30 SECONDS!
I could hear the crack in my voice when I announced, “The aphrodisiacal qualities of ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg in these gingersnaps will spice up your love life, no question about it! Especially if you pair them with a luxurious dessert wine.” I raised my eyebrows naughtily at the camera and started up my hand-held mixer. Plasterlike blocks of butter stalled the mixer’s motor. Hnnh, hnnh, the engine growled. I pressed the button again, again, and yet again. The beaters refused to move. I glanced up: The live-show disaster I’d feared had struck. The cluster of folks closest to me—Eileen and Jack, the two cameramen, and Arthur Wakefield—were gaping at me. I felt like the pilot of the Hindenburg.
My ears buzzed and I heard Rorry say, You don’t know a thing, Goldy. The seconds ticked off; the camera eyes glared. I pressed the mixer button hard. Hnnh! Hnnh! The bank of phones fell silent.
I grinned at the red light on top of Camera One, quickly unplugged and replugged the mixer, then pressed the Restart button. The beaters strained and moaned, as if they were blending cement. Hadn’t Jack or Eileen softened the butter? Did “room temperature” at eleven thousand feet mean forty degrees? The butter was hard as a brick.
Arthur’s gloomy visage loomed behind the camera. He looked as if his best friend had just gone down in the Hindenburg.
The mixer ground gears, stuttered, and made a small sound along the lines of kerpow! before spewing a cloud of dark smoke in my face. I coughed and choked. What had Arthur said to do? Tell a joke. Somewhere in my brain, I had surely stored half a dozen funny stories of culinary mishaps. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of one.
Fanning away the smoke, I blinked at the bank of lights. Arthur furiously scribbled a command, then, scowling, held up his clipboard: COOK!!!
I locked the bowl into the behemoth backup mixer. Bigger, more powerful beaters roared into clumps of butter and dark brown sugar. Encouraged, I tentatively cracked an eggshell on the bowl’s rim. Although I expected the egg to rupture, the first yolk and white plopped politely into the swirling mixture.
“As easy as cookies are to prepare,” I announced nonchalantly to the crimson camera light, “some skiers would prefer to spend their day on the slopes. So they’ll turn dessert preparation over to their personal chef!” I added with a two-hundred-watt smile. I was prevented from further self-advertisement by Arthur, who was waving his clipboard at me. Faster!!! it screamed.
The second egg was uncooperative. When I cracked the shell, the egg exploded. Arthur went to overhead cam in time to shoot errant eggshell daggers floating briefly on the batter before being gulped into the creamy vortex. I could imagine perplexed viewers calling in to ask: Does the recipe call for eggshells? How long has this woman been in the food business?
Cursing silently, I stirred molasses into the batter and slapped in a tumblerful of vinegar. I brandished a flat grater and insisted that grating whole nutmeg was essential. While demonstrating, I unfortunately grated three of my right knuckles, and blood spurted onto the nutmeg flecks. Without bothering to sift or whisk the flour and spices together, I dumped the whole mess into the molasses mixture and clicked the mixer over to “stir.” The mixer moaned and sent up a windspout of spicy flour. I groped for a towel to wipe the powdery mess off my face. My microphone squealed.
Mexican Egg Rolls
with Spicy Guacamole
Dipping Sauce
2 tablespoons vegetable oil,
plus additional oil for deep-fat frying
1½ pounds chicken breast, trimmed of fat and finely chopped (½-inch square pieces)
2½ cups chopped onions
1 to 2 tablespoons prepared dry chile mix, to taste
1 cup canned black beans, well drained
4 ounces (1 small can) chopped green chiles
1 cup grated Cheddar cheese
1 cup grated Monterey Jack cheese
½ cup finely chopped cilantro
½ jalapeño chile, seeded and finely chopped
3 tablespoons of picante sauce
1 teaspoon salt
1 pound egg-roll wrappers (16 in a package)
In a wide frying pan, heat the 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Add the chicken and onions, stir well, then add the chile powder and stir again. Stir for several minutes, until the onions turn translucent and the chicken is just cooked. Remove the pan from the heat, and add the beans, chiles, cheeses, cilantro, jalapeño, picante sauce, and salt, and set aside. On a very lightly floured surface, place 1 egg-roll wrapper at a time and, following the directions on the wrapper package, roll ¼ cup of the filling into each egg roll. Complete the 16.
In a wide frying pan, pour vegetable oil to a depth of ½ inch. Heat to 370°F, then place no more than three egg rolls at a time into the oil and fry for 3 minutes per side, or until golden brown. Drain on paper towels. Serve with sauce.
Makes 16 egg rolls
Guacamole Dipping Sauce:
1 avocado, peeled, seeded, and chopped
juice of 1 lime
1 cup fat-free or regular sour cream
½ cup medium-hot picante sauce
⅓ cup finely chopped cilantro
1 tablespoon grated onion
½ very finely chopped jalapeño chile, whirled in a small blender or food processor
Either mash all ingredients together until well combined, or whirl in a food processor until smooth. Chill and serve with egg rolls.
Chesapeake Crab Cakes
with Sauce Gribiche
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
½ cup finely chopped celery
½ cup finely chopped onion
2 cloves garlic, crushed
⅔ cup lowfat mayonnaise
¾ teaspoon dry mustard
½ teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon salt
⅛ to ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper, to taste
1 pound crabmeat (can use refrigerated pasteurized crab)
1⅓ cups club cracker crumbs, divided in half
2 additional tablespoons vegetable oil, divided in half, plus extra to oil baking pan
In a frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon oil over medium heat, add the celery and onion, lower heat, and add garlic. Sauté over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, for 3 to 5 minutes, or until translucent but not brown. Remove from the heat and set aside.
In a large bowl, combine mayonnaise with spices. Add crab, ⅔ cup cracker crumbs, celery, onion, and garlic. Stir until well combined. Using a ½-cup measure, scoop out crab mixture and form into 6 cakes about 4 or 5 inches in diameter.
Spread the last ⅔ cup cracker crumbs on a plate. Dredge the cakes in the crumbs.
Preheat oven to 300°F. Lightly oil a 9x13-inch baking pan.
In a wide frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon vegetable oil over medium heat until it shimmers. Place 3 crab cakes into the pan and cook approximately 4 minutes per side, until golden brown. Place the cooked crab cakes into the baking pan and put them in the oven while you cook the rest of the crab cakes. Add the second tablespoon of oil to the hot frying pan and cook the last 3 crab cakes approximately 4 minutes per side, until golden brown. Place in the baking pan in the heated oven while preparing the sauce.
Makes 6 crab cakes
Sauce Gribiche:
1½ teaspoons finely chopped shallots
2 gherkins, minced
1½ teaspoons capers, drained
1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley
1½ teaspoons minced fresh tarragon
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
¼ teaspoon dry mustard
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon sugar
freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 cup lowfat mayonnaise
1 large egg, hard-boiled and finely chopped
In a small electric mincer or well-cleaned coffee grinder, combine shallots, gherkins, capers, parsley, and-tarragon. Pulse for about 5 seconds, or until thoroughly combined and well minced. Set aside. Stir together lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, dry mustard, salt, sugar, and black pepper. Stir into mayonnaise along with egg and minced shallot mixture. Serve with crab cakes.
Ice-Capped
Gingersnaps
½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1½ cups dark brown sugar
2 eggs
½ cup dark molasses
2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar
4 cups all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
Frosting (recipe follows)
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter two cookie sheets.
Beat butter until creamy. Add brown sugar and eggs and beat until well combined, then add molasses and vinegar and beat thoroughly. Sift together all the dry ingredients and add-gradually to butter mixture. Using a 1½-tablespoon scoop, space cookies out 2 inches apart on sheets. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, until cookies have puffed and flattened and appear slightly dry. Allow to cool on sheet 1 minute, then transfer to racks and allow to cool completely.
Frosting:
1½ cups confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons whipping cream
2 tablespoons milk
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
In a shallow bowl, mix all ingredients well with a whisk. Holding the cooled cookies upside down by the edges, dip the tops into the icing. Allow to cool, icing side up, on racks until the icing hardens. Store between layers of wax paper in an airtight container.
Makes 5 dozen cookies
I wondered if Arthur had opened the bottle of dessert wine, and if he’d let me chug it after the show.
Muttering, I scooped the fragrant dough into Ping-Pong-ball-size spheres. The phone volunteers raised eyebrows at each other: Some caterer! I slapped the uncooked cookies into what Arch called the “pretend” oven and struggled to compose a last enthusiastic pitch about new equipment for PBS.
Two lights above the phone bank flashed as the ringing halfheartedly resumed. I rinsed my hands and wiped them on the towel. Volunteers murmured to the donors. How much longer? My watch was obscured by gingersnap batter. I plunged back into my monologue, urging viewers to tuck crab-cake sandwiches into their packs before a full day of skiing.
Camera One swept a wide-angle panorama of the hot line burgeoning with the completed, cooked dishes. Then the cameraman focused on the volunteers manning the phones, which had once again, drat them, gone dead. Arthur, pale with panic, shifted to a visual with the phone number viewers could call. He then ran a prepared tape of avalanche-avoidance safety tips. Shun steep, leeward slopes. Listen for broadcast warnings of avalanche danger. If you’re caught in unstable snow, grab a tree and hold on. And never, ever ski out of bounds.
Too bad Arthur hadn’t run safety tips for cooking live. I felt acutely, painfully embarrassed. You don’t know a thing, Goldy. No kidding.
I looked for Rorry Bullock.
She was gone.
CHAPTER 4
As the credits rolled, I scanned the interior of the bistro. Arthur was talking urgently into his headset. Jack was handing Eileen a champagne glass filled with orange juice. Or perhaps it was part orange juice, part champagne. Eileen cupped the glass in her hands and beamed Jack a grateful smile. No one was hustling up to offer congratulations or tell me how much money we’d made. True, the show had been flawed by the cookie fiasco, and had lacked the public support of the pregnant widow. But there should have been some good news. Wasn’t that what public broadcasting was all about?
Unfortunately, the only news coming my way was in the shape of pudgy, self-aggrandizing Doug Portman. His pate shone in the bright lights as he waved and shouldered toward the set through the dispersing crowd of spectators. I swallowed. How did you greet someone you’d had three dates with, eight years before?
“Hey, Goldy?” Doug bellowed. “You forgot my ticket!”
“Sorry, I—”
“Ready to rock?” he hollered. “It’s really coming down out there!” People stared at him.
“Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” I yanked off my microphone and surveyed the mess on the hot line counter. Fortunately, the bistro staff cleaned up after each show.
“Arch and Todd decided to take a group snowboarding lesson,” said Eileen, suddenly at my shoulder. “Want a mimosa before you take off? Jack made them.”
“No, thanks, I’ve got some business to conduct. Need to be sober. Are you skiing down?” Eileen replied that she was staying to talk to the PBS people.
The kitchen was jammed with folks, so I couldn’t change there. I nabbed my clothes and Eileen and I walked together down the hallway to the bistro’s ladies’ room. While I was taking off my chef duds and slipping back into my ski clothes, Eileen sighed. “Sorry about the butter,” she said ruefully. “It was almost frozen in the walk-in. Our microwave isn’t working, and I was afraid to smash it to soften it, ’cuz that would have looked bad.”
“Not to worry. Is Jack skiing down now? He was awfully nice, and I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his help.”
“He has to do lunch prep, sorry.” She looked at me solicitously. “Goldy, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, and thanks.” We left the ladies’, then paused outside the Lost and Found and glanced outside. The sky had turned a bright nickel. Swirling snow powdered Widowmaker Run. With a pang, I thought of poor Rorry.
“You can always stay with us, if the weather gets really bad,” Eileen told me cheerfully. “We’ve invited Arch for another night.”
“Thanks. But I promised Tom I’d be back this afternoon. I can pick Arch up tomorrow when I do my contract with Arthur, my one and only personal chef client.”
“Friend, if you make a round trip to Aspen Meadow in this weather, you’ll be one tired caterer.”
“I’ll be okay.” Impulsively, I hugged her. Eileen was always a thoughtful friend, the best kind there is. “Thanks again.”
Outside, I could just make out Doug Portman’s glimmery black metallic ski suit and leather cowboy hat. He was stamping over to the snow-covered ski rack. Before pulling down his skis, he scanned the exterior of the lodge. Seeking me, no doubt. He doffed the snow-gorged cowboy hat and whacked it against his thigh. Ride those skis, pod’ner! Would Doug’s hat make it to the bottom of the mountain, or would it join the fifty other cowboy hats I’d just glimpsed in the Lost and Found?
“Gotta split,” I told Eileen. I zipped up my sensible down jacket and knotted the string on my waterproof hood. Eileen finished off her drink and handed me my scarf. I glanced at her empty champagne glass and hoped she wasn’t skiing down anytime soon.
In the bistro dining room, the arriving restaurant staff was clearing away the last vestiges of the show. The phone volunteers were wolfing down the food, without benefit of forks and spoons, no less. Hey! Fund-raising is an appetite-building business. One of the phone-answerers, a wife of a member of the Killdeer Hunt Club—they shot elk and deer, not foxes—stuffed a Mexican egg roll into her mouth and called out that we’d raised six thousand dollars in half an hour. She added, “That’s pretty good.” I didn’t know if she meant the egg roll or the money. Scooping up two more egg rolls, she yelled to me, “And that was in spite of everything!”
Doug Portman had returned to the bistro and was looking around impatiently. I felt annoyed to be hurried. But I slipped my hands into my new padded mittens—a gift from Tom—donned my ski boots, and walked as gracefully as possible to the front door. Of course, walking gracefully in ski boots is like waltzing on cannonballs.
“It’s snowing harder,” Doug informed me, ever the weather reporter. “We’ll take Widowmaker to Doe’s Valley to Hot-Rodder to the base. I’ll meet you at Big Map.”
“Big Map,” a familiar landmark at the base of Killdeer Mountain, was a large, plastic-covered map of the entire ski area’s terrain. I could find the map without a problem, but when I mentally reviewed the runs Doug was talking about—a mogul-laced “black” run—i.e., a steep ski trail covered with big bumps, designated for expert skiers—followed by a “blue”—intermediate, that would no doubt be treacherously icy under the new snow, followed by another precipitous black slope—I thought: No dice.
“You go ahead,” I told Doug politely. “I’ll take an easier route, probably be a few minutes after you.”
He scowled and shifted in his ski boots. “I don’t have time for you to come after me. I want you to come with me,” he insisted, still macho to the core. “I’m running late already.” He hesitated. “Does Tom know we’re meeting today?”
“Er, sure,” I lied.
“Great. I’ve got something for him in my car. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.” He squeezed my elbow meaningfully. “It’s great to see you again, Goldy, after all this time.”
I pulled my arm away and wordlessly clopped to the door. If it hadn’t meant so much to Tom that he sell the skis to make up for the expense of the new drains, I’d probably be skipping this whole encounter. Great to see me again, sure. I’d go down the runs Doug wanted me to, but very slowly. If he didn’t like that, tough tacks.
Outside the entrance to the lodge, giant icicles hung from the roof, their thick bases as solid as tree trunks. The snow was now falling in thick pale sheets. Doug pulled his skis from the rack, snapped them on, and shoved off without so much as a backward glance. Once he whizzed away, the heavy snow instantly enveloped him.
With more caution, I started down the smooth side of Widowmaker. Weight on the downhill ski, press through the arch of your foot, my first ski instructor had taught me. I’d do my best.
The new powder on the slope, the falling snow, the lack of sunshine, my gray-tinted goggles—all these made seeing difficult. As skiers whizzed past, I concentrated dutifully on the slope five feet in front of my skis. Usually, I found skiing an invigorating escape. This was not true, however, when the slope you were on was too challenging. The curtain of snow enclosed me tightly. I could hear my labored breathing and feel every creak of my bones.
Most runs are set up like slant-sided wedding cakes. Long sloped sections alternate with narrow flat areas. On the flat sections, you can meet up with friends, figure out where you are, or just plain rest. At the first opportunity, I pulled over to a flat area by a sign marking the beginning of two more blue runs. One was Doe’s Valley, where Doug had said he was going. It led to black runs. Right next to it, and feeding into the bottom of Doe’s Valley, was the easier-sounding Teddy Bear Run. I decided to take it. I could catch up to Doug on Hot-Rodder.
Teddy Bear Run was smooth and dreamy, yet still steep enough to present a challenge. Feeling less apprehensive, I let loose with some speed. After the pressure of the show, the release was exhilarating. I surged down the slope, and felt as if I was flying.
I hockey-stopped dramatically, flushed with the thrill of my run, on the last flat area. At the top of Hot-Rodder, neon yellow ropes stretched on bamboo poles across the entry to that particular slope. One of the ski patrol’s Closed! Hazardous Conditions! signs swung from the middle of the ropes. Which way would Doug have gone? Beyond Hot-Rodder lay a double-black diamond run—the most challenging and dangerous—with the happy name of Coffin-Builder. Few skiers were bold enough to vault down that turnoff. The ones who did were lean and fast; they hung briefly in the air and then plummeted from view. That was probably where Doug had gone. It was where I would not go.
To my left, a blue run named Jitterbug beckoned. Before deciding which way to go, I waited for a noisy class of snowboarders on its way down Teddy Bear. Their instructor, clad in a bright blue ski school uniform, led the group as it artfully carved the snow. The kids balanced on their boards, adjusted to nuances in the terrain, extended their arms, and leaned into the hill—all as graceful and quick as surfers. I thought I spotted Arch in his new burgundy jacket, but when I called his name into the blowing snow, there was no response. Without a glance in my direction, the young snow-boarders slid swiftly past.
I was cold. Icy pinpricks of snow fell on my cheeks and lips. I shivered inside my jacket and headed toward Jitterbug, which I knew to be a curvy blue run without too many surprises. At the base, Doug would be ticked off with me. But there was no way I was skiing down Coffin-Builder.
The few straight stretches of Jitterbug were bordered by trees on the left and a yellow cord to the right. After a few moments, I stopped on the right side of the slope to rest. Snow obscured the far mountains, but the vista downward was breathtaking. The yellow cord marked a no-man’s-land of rocks and pines that led down to two steep mogul fields, Hot-Rodder closest to me, Coffin-Builder beyond. On Coffin-Builder, a handful of expert skiers zigged and zagged through the bumps. I certainly hoped that it was Arch I’d seen at the top of Jitterbug. If I thought he was boarding down a black run, I’d probably have a heart attack.
I skied fast down the next section of Jitterbug. When I careened around a bend, I spied a crowd of people clustered ahead of me. Digging in my skis, I sent up a cloud of snow as I came to an abrupt halt.
Why was everybody stopped?
Something scraped my cheek and I pulled back. It was a large shred of ash. Or a torn chunk of map. Without thinking, I tried to catch it. It was indeed a wadded piece of paper. That’s when I realized that, along with the snow, this large confetti was coming down everywhere. It was as if someone had torn up a newspaper and carelessly dumped the crumpled bits of litter from the lift.
Litter?
“Mom, hey, Mom!” Arch’s voice sailed past me. “Over here!”
I turned, but did not see my son. All around, gaggles of skiers had halted and were scooping up the tumbling papers. I did not see any snowboarders. “Arch!” I cried into the mêlée. “Where are you?”
“Here, Mom!” Suddenly my son scraped his snowboard next to my skis. Swathed in his dark red outfit and a stay-warm ski mask that made him look like an escapee from a horror movie, Arch clutched a handful of the paper. His prescription goggles had been pulled up at an angle on the top of his head, and I could just make out his merry brown eyes above the mouth mask. “Money!” he announced. “Hundred-dollar bills! It’s falling with the snow! Here,” he squawked as he thrust a fistful of bills at me. “Put these in your pocket, would ya?” Before I could protest, he scooted off on the board to retrieve more of the falling cash.
There was squawking and yelling among the skiers now, as a sudden updraft swirled the precious bills heavenward, where they mixed with a new tornado of flakes. A member of the ski patrol showed up and started hollering ineffectually for order.
Still uncomprehending, I stood grasping the wad of bills Arch had handed me, then stuffed them into my pocket. I dug in my poles and scooted to the slope’s right side. An abrupt shift in the wind spun up a fresh storm of bills. The money smacked my goggles and I was momentarily blinded. I wiped the bills away and strained to see their source. They seemed to be blowing up from somewhere below where I stood.
To my right, the yellow boundary cord had torn loose from its moorings. The cord lay in a loop, then disappeared under the snow. Past the boundary pole, a row of boulders obscured the drop to the lower slope. I hesitated, then cautiously skied to the torn yellow rope. With great care, I glided down to the edge of the rocks that stood between Jitterbug and the steep drop-off to Hot-Rodder.
The view of the lower run was obscured by more boulders and a cluster of pines. Several sets of tracks led through the trees, while more circled the rocks. Money continued to fall. Damn. I had a very sinking feeling, despite the gleeful cries from the skiers downslope. Using the perpendicular-to-the-mountain two-step taught to all beginning skiers when they need to get uphill, I maneuvered up and around the rock pile.
On the far side of a boulder below me, a cowboy hat lay at the base of a small, barren aspen tree. A chill ran through me. Squatting cautiously on my skis, I slid carefully to the edge of the drop-off.
Sprawled next to a mogul, Doug Portman lay motionless in the crisp white snow. His legs seemed to be tangled with one of his skis. Beside the sharp half of a broken pole, his left arm was impossibly contorted. A splotch of blood was spreading on the snow.
“Ski patrol,” I whispered, as I turned and worked my way back up to Jitterbug run. “I—we—need help.”
The crowd of skiers on Jitterbug were still grabbing at the whirling shreds of paper tumbling down with the snowflakes. “Help!” I called. No one paid attention. The bills swirled and landed on the slope, on moguls, on boulders, on branches of pine trees. Greedy hands reached impatiently for them.
I unsnapped my bindings, hefted up my skis, and crammed them into the snow in the X-position, the emergency signal for ski patrol to stop and give assistance. Then I lunged back through the snow to the edge of the run, below the coiled yellow rope and the row of boulders. Surely Doug would be all right … They would send in a chopper and take him to safety.…
“Mom!” I recognized Arch’s ski mask bobbing toward me. He was scooting himself forward, one foot on the snowboard. “Mom, what’s wrong? Where are your skis? Mom?”
I put both hands straight out in front of me, warning my son to stop. Then, praying even as a stone formed in my chest, I glanced over the cliff. From this vantage point, I could see Doug Portman. He hadn’t moved.
I didn’t want Arch to see him. I knew Doug Portman was dead.
CHAPTER 5
Mom!” Arch’s voice had grown desperate. “Why are your skis crossed? Mom? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. Unnerved by my silence and outstretched hands, Arch finally skidded his snowboard to a stop.
Around us, the snow fell. Where was the patrol? Another torrent of bills swirled up from the lower run. More jubilant skiers joined those already on the plateau. They stretched, bent, fell, and rolled out of their skis as they merrily dived for cash.
“Agh!” A woman’s shriek cut through the din. I could not make out who had screamed. “That’s disgusting!” shouted a tallish woman as she flung bills onto the snow. “That’s blood! There’s blood on it!” Her eyes searched the slope above. She saw me, my crossed skis, and my son, motionless on his snowboard. She took off down the hill.
The skiers hoarding the bills slowed their grasping movements. Heads bent to inspect the money. Suddenly, mittened hands were throwing down fistfuls of cash. More bloodstained bills blew upward, swirled with the snow, then resettled on the slope. In places, the money left erratic pink trails. Skiers pushed off queasily, suddenly eager to be away.
“Mom! What is wrong?”
“What’s going on?” barked a man who’d skied up to Arch. Tall and lean, he wore stylish wrap sunglasses and a uniform. Ski patrol, I thought, in numb relief. A thick red headband held back his gray hair. “Are you all right?” he asked my son. “Whose skis are these?”
Arch gestured and I waved my hands over my head. Another skier hockey-stopped six inches behind me, churning a wave of snow into my face. He too demanded to know what was happening. The ski patrolman shunted away this intruder by assuring him he had the situation completely under control. The skier took off and the patrolman addressed me. “Can you talk? Where are you hurt?” The patrolman’s light blue eyes, gray eyebrows, and well-tanned, deeply wrinkled skin conveyed a seriousness I felt I could trust.
“Send my son away,” I said tersely, as if I knew exactly what the situation was, which I didn’t. “Please. I need to show you something. My son mustn’t see it.”
There was a fractional hesitation in the patrolman’s shrewd eyes. Then he pivoted to Arch. “Young man, could you please proceed to the ski patrol office at the base?” he called. “Wait there. I’ll bring your mother down.”
Arch cast a worried glance in my direction. I nodded to him that it was all right. Only then, with a last concerned look, did he reluctantly move away.
“Are you injured? Can you tell me who you are?” demanded the ski patrolman.
I told him my name, what I’d seen on the lower run, then motioned to my former perch. As I traipsed up clumsily in my ski boots, the patrolman, a deft skier, quickly two-stepped to the spot. He peered over the edge of the precipice, whistled softly in surprise, then pulled out his walkie-talkie and spoke rapidly.
A moment later, he snapped his radio shut. “Mrs. Schulz, Goldy Schulz,” he said when I arrived at his side. My feet were so cold I couldn’t feel them. The patrolman touched my shoulder. “Did you see this man fall?” I shook my head. “Did you see someone hit him?” Again I indicated a negative. “There’s no one else on that run down there, Hot-Rodder.”
I swallowed. “It’s closed.”
“Have you talked to any other patrol members? When was the run closed?”
“I haven’t seen or talked to anybody.” My voice seemed to belong to someone else. “I have no idea when the run was closed.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About fifteen minutes. Listen, I’m freezing. I need to be with my son. And—” I hesitated, then added, “I should tell you, I … I know that guy down there. We … started off skiing together at the top, and I was supposed to meet him at the base, but he was skiing faster—”
“We’re getting help for him. What’s his name?” I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. “Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him.” Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. “Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It’s important.”
His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I’d first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug’s left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.
One of the patrolman’s questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?
Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman’s body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the … Move the … Easy…. With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But, my mind supplied, there’s so much blood … money everywhere….
Who closed the run? When?
Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash?
I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol’s traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.
“Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?” The patrolman eyed me skeptically. “Do you need me to go with you?”
“Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for … medics or for … law enforcement?”
“They’re following procedure.” His calm blue eyes studied me. “Don’t worry about Mr. Portman, we’ve got the situation under control. Let’s go now, all right?” I nodded. He murmured into his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.
“Mom.” His voice was hoarse with anxiety. “Are you okay?”
“Call Tom,” I told him. “Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we’re okay but that it’s an emergency.”
Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.
“Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz,” said my escort.
I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he’d be back in a minute.
I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room. His hair had become matted on one side, wildly skewed on the other. His cheeks were bright red.
“I got Tom. I told him you were all right but you’d been in a ski accident. He wanted to know what happened, and I said maybe you could come talk.” He grimaced. “Those patrol guys by the phone said you couldn’t come out yet. Tom said, ‘Why not?’ I said I didn’t know, and Tom said he was leaving right away to come get you. He’ll be here in about an hour and a half.” My son pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked me over curiously. “Are you hurt?”
“No, hon. Thanks.”
“So what happened? Somebody with a bunch of money had an accident?”
“I think so.” I frowned. A needle of anxiety poked my chest … poor Arch. “Somebody was skiing and had a bad fall.”
He glanced at the front office, then turned back to whisper, “They’re really arguing about something out there. Gotta go.”
A moment later my silver-haired companion returned. He was accompanied by a taller, massively built, grim-faced fellow who was carrying a covered paper cup. The big guy—fortyish, thinning dark hair, lumpy face—wore a belted maroon ski suit with the Killdeer logo across the chest. He introduced himself as Joe Magill, from Killdeer Security, before placing the cup on the desk in front of me.
“Your son said you liked coffee, so we brought you some.”
“Thanks.” I looked at the drink but did not touch it.
Magill, who had an oddly diffident air about him, announced that he was in charge. He gestured at the silver-haired man, said I already knew Patrolman Ted Hoskins, and that he and Ted had a few questions, if I didn’t mind. I said nothing as the two men sat down. But I knew protocol: If there was any kind of investigation, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department was in charge. Their efforts would be aided by the Forest Service, which leased land to the ski resorts, and by the ski patrol, a group of trained volunteers. In terms of who was in charge, Killdeer Security was fourth down the list.
“Now, Mrs. Schulz,” Joe Magill began smoothly, “what we’d like you to do is talk to us about your day, beginning with when you got up this morning—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. I took a shaky breath. “Mr. Magill? You’re from Security?”
“Yes, Mrs. Schulz. Anytime there’s an accident on the slopes, we’re responsible for investigating. Did you witness the accident?”
“Could you please tell me where Doug Portman is now?”
Magill inhaled impatiently. When he leaned back in his chair, his ski suit made a silky, scratching sound. His opaque eyes widened. “Portman died in the ambulance, I’m sorry to say.”
“I see.…”
“Your son told us your husband is a police officer.” Magill again.
“Yes, that’s correct. He’s on his way.”
“This is not an official questioning, Mrs. Schulz. But we need your help. The sheriff’s department and ski patrol will conduct an official interrogation as soon as a deputy arrives. The ski resort just needs to know if you witnessed the accident.”
“Why does the ski resort need to know that?”
Magill cleared his throat. “In a case like this, with a prominent Killdeer citizen killed, we’re probably going to be facing litigation of some kind. We need to know precisely what happened.”
“Mmm.” I probably should have drunk some coffee, but I held back. Accepting a drink from Magill felt as if I were conceding points to a man I did not know well enough to trust. Plus, I’d been at enough crime scenes to know that we should wait before I started answering questions. Not that this was a crime scene, but … Tom, I felt confidently, would want me to wait for a Sheriff’s deputy to arrive.
“Mr. Magill,” I said finally, “have you contacted Mrs. Portman?” I stared at the paper-covered bulletin board and tried to conjure up a mental picture of Doug’s wife. I’d met Elva Portman at a crowded law enforcement cookout several years ago, and had had a chance to talk to her for a few moments at a gallery opening I’d catered in Killdeer. She was sophisticated and wealthy, with glossy dark hair and porcelain skin, a young Rose Kennedy. Loved paintings with bold brushstrokes. Couldn’t eat bell peppers.
Again I got Magill’s flat eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the squeaky suit in the chair. “Elva and Doug Portman have been divorced for a couple of years. Elva lives in Italy now. So, you knew Portman, but haven’t been in touch with him for a while? Patrolman Hoskins said you were skiing together?”
I looked up at the water-stained ceiling. This guy does not need to know my story. I hadn’t even told Tom I was selling his skis to Portman. I was suddenly conscious of how badly Portman’s death might play out in the media. Prominent citizen dies on way to rendezvous with cop’s wife. I wished desperately I’d never contacted him about the damn skis.
Magill inhaled noisily through his teeth, a gesture of impatience. “Patrolman Hoskins told me that you claimed to be acquainted with Portman. But your son said he didn’t know him—”
“My son? My son?” I snapped to attention, enraged. “You should know you can’t question a minor without a parent present!”
Magill’s suit squeaked as he leaned forward. “I’m not here to hurt you, Mrs. Schulz. I know you’re a caterer, I know you do the TV cooking show.” He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then asked in a perplexed tone, “Does your reluctance to talk to us mean you’re here in some official capacity for your husband?”
“In some official capacity for my husband?” I echoed, bewildered. I remembered Doug Portman’s words: I’ve got something for Tom in my car. I’d thought it was a book about the 10th Mountain Division, or a magazine on military memorabilia. But what would make Magill think I was here in an official capacity? He knew I did the show. I wish Magill also realized that I’d endured a snowstorm, a TV show that had to rank high in the annals of disastrous live performances, and a lethal accident. That was enough for one morning, thanks. This security guy’s unofficial and inept interrogation had not impressed me favorably. Where were the police?
At that moment, as if in answer to a prayer, a short, dark, mustachioed man in a green sheriff’s department uniform walked into the cramped office.
“Mrs. Schulz, forgive me for taking so long,” said the deputy, whose name tag announced he was Sergeant Bancock. “I happened to be near the Eisenhower Tunnel when the call came, so I got here as fast as I could.” He nodded to Magill and then dismissed him with an impassive, “I’ll call you. Hoskins, you stay.”
Magill, angry to be banished, banged the door shut with a little more energy than required. Pulling out a notebook, Sergeant Bancock sat down and began to ask me a routine set of questions: my name and address, what I was doing at Killdeer, and so on. Like Magill, he asked me to describe my day. This time, I did. I had just come to the part where I looked over the slope at the run below, when my husband strode in. Thank God.
Tom, a handsome, bearlike man with gentle green eyes and thick, sandy-brown hair, didn’t need to announce that he was in charge. He just was. I felt thankful for it, and for him.
Bancock stood and shook Tom’s hand. “Schulz. We’re just getting going here.”
“This is Ski Patrolman Hoskins,” I said, getting to my feet. Tom nodded at Hoskins, hugged me, then searched my face.
“You all right, Miss G.? Want to go outside for a bit?”
“Thanks,” I whispered. “I just want to get this over with. Is—”
“Arch has gone back to the Druckmans’ condo,” Tom reassured me, anticipating my question. “He’s spending another night. I’ll take you home, if you want. We can leave the van here.”
I had to bite my lip not to exclaim: “Oh, yes, take me home, please!” Instead, I told him I was fine. Tom smiled tenderly at me, tilted his head at Ski Patrolman Hoskins, and sat down beside me. Sergeant Bancock smoothed out a fresh page in his notebook.
“Not much longer, Mrs. Schulz,” he said. “Of course, the coroner may have more questions for you later. You want to talk more to Killdeer Security, that’s up to you.” Bancock reviewed his notes. “You told Patrolman Hoskins that you were meeting Douglas Portman later this morning. Is that correct?”
I gave Tom an apologetic look. If he saw I was sorry—deeply sorry—that I hadn’t told him who the buyer of his skis was, maybe he’d forgive me.
But Tom did not look angry. Instead, he looked dumbfounded. “Meeting Doug Portman? You were selling Portman my skis?”
“I knew Doug collected stuff, and—”
“How did you know Portman?” Bancock interrupted sharply, with a warning look at Tom.
“Sergeant Bancock, Tom and I have been married not quite two years. Before that, I was a single mother. Every now and then I would go out. On a date. I spent a couple of evenings with Doug Portman, enough to know he collected military memorabilia. And I knew he’d become involved in politics. Something in law enforcement, right? I saw him every now and then at the picnics.” I paused. Bancock, Hoskins, and Tom all waited, too. “When I went out with Portman, he was a forensic accountant. I’d hired him regarding divorce proceedings from my first husband. I hadn’t really talked to him for years,” I went on. “I knew he’d married, now apparently divorced. When Tom said he wanted to sell some World War Two skis, I called Doug. We agreed to meet this morning after I did my cooking show.”
Bancock made another notation in his notebook, then leaned forward, his expression impenetrable. “And did you?”
“Yes. He came to the bistro, where I was doing the show. Afterward, it was snowing hard. We agreed to ski down and meet at Big Map.” I faltered. “That’s how I knew what he was wearing … the black suit and cowboy hat. That’s how I recognized him on the slope, when he’d … fallen.”
Bancock stopped scribbling. “Did you see him drink any alcoholic beverages?”
“No,” I replied without hesitation. “Nor did I see him eat anything.”
“Did he complain of headache, nausea, chest pain, anything like that?”
“Nope.”
Hoskins interjected, “But … did he seem drunk?” When I shook my head, he continued: “Did he seem tired?” No. “Have you skied with him before?”
“Never.”
Bancock was writing again. “Had he skied any runs prior to coming to the bistro?”
I thought back to the morning. Had Doug been pink-faced, sweaty, breathing hard? Had he seemed tired? “Don’t think so. Why?”
“Was Hot-Rodder one of the runs you were supposed to go down together?”
“Yes. But it was closed.”
“It was closed,” Bancock repeated crisply. “Bamboo poles with ropes and red flags were pulled across the top. But we can’t find anyone on the ski patrol who shut the run.”
Patrolman Hoskins glanced at Bancock; Bancock nodded at Hoskins to go ahead. “How about his equipment?” Hoskins asked me. “Did you see anything wrong with his skis or boots? Maybe his poles or bindings? Did he complain of anything not working, being loose?”
When I shook my head again, Bancock took up the questioning. “All right. Now, please describe once again everything that happened once you left the bistro. We need to know every detail you can remember.”
This I did, including seeing Doug disappear into the snowfall, my own slower skiing as I followed, getting caught up with the crowd trying to catch money. Suddenly remembering the wad in my pocket, I pulled out the bloody bills and placed them in a paper bag offered by Hoskins. Then I recounted how I’d looked for the source of the cash and seen Doug on the run below…. Total time elapsed from the bistro to the death scene: about twenty-five minutes, I concluded.
“Please describe the exact appearance of the victim,” Bancock said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone.
This I did: ski suit, hat, skis off and broken, one pole down the slope. Doug, covered with snow, sprawled motionless, looking as if he’d taken a spectacular fall and landed like a grotesque rag doll. The blood. I shuddered.
“And what did you think when you first saw him, Mrs. Schulz?”
“That he’d hit his head.”
“The money,” said Bancock thoughtfully, tapping his notebook. “Did you request he pay you in cash, instead of by check?”
“He said he was paying cash, and I didn’t ask why. Eight thousand dollars.” I thought again of the blizzard of falling currency on the mountainside, and swallowed.
Tom rolled his eyes and Bancock snorted.
The latter went on, “Did anyone else but you know he had the money for the skis on him?”
“I don’t have a clue.” How much of that scattered eight thousand would the authorities ever recover? I shot another apologetic look at Tom. My husband’s face was blank. I said, “What’s going on here?” An awful suspicion dawned on me. I turned to Tom. “Did you know Doug Portman in some official capacity? What did he do exactly?”
Tom exhaled before replying. “He was in corrections. And yes, I knew him in an official capacity.” He checked Hoskins’ face, which revealed nothing, then Bancock’s. The sergeant nodded.
“Doug Portman was the chairman of the state parole board,” Tom told me. “You didn’t know?”
“No.” Why would I? Belatedly, I remembered Cinda Caldwell, and her customer who’d mouthed threats about poisoning a cop. Did a parole board chief qualify as a cop? “Wait, there’s something else—” I told them of this morning’s interchange with Cinda. “Tom, didn’t you get the message I left?” He shook his head and said he hadn’t yet retrieved his messages. Bancock wrote down the name of Cinda’s café. He asked Patrolman Hoskins if he had any further questions; Hoskins replied in the negative. The young deputy reviewed his notes, then asked for our phone numbers. While Tom recited them, I walked to the outer office to check on the snow. It was still coming down hard.
Does your husband know I’m meeting you?
I’ve got something for Tom in my car….
Doggone. I dashed back to the office. “Sergeant Bancock. There is something else I forgot to tell you. This morning, just before we left the bistro? Doug told me he had something for Tom.”
Bancock gave me a curious look, then transferred the curiosity to Tom. “Had something for your husband?” he asked me. “What?”
“I have no idea. He mentioned it was in his car.”
“Know what kind of vehicle he was driving?” Bancock asked.
I did not. Hoskins and Bancock went out to phone Portman’s office, in search of a description. Tom asked, “Have you received any mail from the Department of Corrections lately?”
“No. Why?”
“The DOC sends out notices to a convict’s victims and relatives of victims, before the convict comes up for parole. The board holds a hearing before parole is granted, so the victims can give their opinion on the guy getting out. Or not getting out.” He shook his head. “If the DOC sent you a notice about John Richard, it might mean trouble for you. You see that, don’t you?”
“Why? What trouble? What does this have to do with The Jerk? Look, Tom, all I did was go out with Doug Portman, eight years ago. Today I was just going to sell him some skis. Which one of those is a crime? What could that have to do with my ex-husband?”
Tom gnawed the inside of his cheek. “John Richard has been in the Furman County Jail for how long, four months?”
Blood rose to my cheeks. No. Not parole for The Jerk. Not yet. Please. I counted back. In September, John Richard had finally been convicted of assault—not of me, but of another woman. With the state penitentiary operating at double capacity, he was currently serving his two-year sentence in the Furman County Jail. “Almost four months.” I searched Tom’s face. “That’s got to be too early for parole.”
“Sorry, Miss G. I haven’t memorized all the statutes.”
“He couldn’t be. Anyway, Tom, no matter what’s going on with John Richard, Doug Portman died while skiing. This can’t have anything to do with John Richard. End of story.”
But I knew all too well that wasn’t quite the end of the story. Why would Doug insist on buying Tom’s skis with cash instead of a check? Wasn’t that foolhardy? And speaking of foolhardy, if the run was closed, why was Doug Portman on it? People who died skiing usually suffered heart attacks. Or they collided with an obstacle and died of internal injuries. If Doug suffered an internal injury, there was an awful lot of his blood on the slope.
I knew, too, that a suspicious death raises questions first about the person who discovers the body. Say a woman finds the body of a parole board member. Say she has an abusive ex-husband, now in jail. The ex-husband is no threat, until he comes up for parole. If he’s granted parole, what happens if the formerly abused wife takes exception to the decision of the parole board?
My body felt numb. This time, however, it wasn’t from the cold.
CHAPTER 6
Hoskins and Bancock reappeared to say they had a description of Portman’s BMW and were going to search for it. When the door closed behind them, Tom scraped a chair over, clasped my elbow, and spoke in a gentle voice.
“Look. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“They were your skis. I should have told you—”
“Goldy, please. There’s a lot going on here that’s out of whack.”
“No kidding.” I finally took a sip of my coffee. It was cold.
“For one thing,” Tom went on calmly, “why would Portman give you something for me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s an article discussing the rising values of collectible skis. Wouldn’t he have called the Sheriff’s department directly if he’d had something to give you from work?”
He waved a hand. “We’ll know pretty soon. If this is work-related, if it has to do with a case, you shouldn’t be acting as courier.”
“What could he have had for you, relating to one of your cases, that couldn’t wait until Monday morning?”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Portman was kind of an eager beaver, very self-impressed. Of course, maybe on your dates, he didn’t give that impression—” He chuckled.
“That’s not funny,” I said as he smiled.
“If some guy I put behind bars and he let loose out on parole has become a troublemaker, then we have problems.” Tom moved his hand up to my shoulder. “I know you don’t want it, but it might be a good idea for somebody to be with you.”
“I don’t need pampering, Tom. I’m fine.”
“Where’s Julian?” he asked pleasantly, as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Julian is—” Actually, where was Julian? This fall, our twenty-year-old family friend and boarder had transferred from Cornell to the University of Colorado. Julian Teller’s lifetime ambition, temporarily derailed owing to this change in colleges, was to become a vegetarian chef. Meanwhile, he was determined to pursue his B.A. no more than an hour away from us, his adopted family. “Julian is … let’s see … it’s Friday.” Julian apprenticed in a Boulder restaurant on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and his classes were … “Friday afternoons, he has film class. Then at night the class watches old movies. Afterward, he spends the weekend at a friend’s apartment.”
“Which means he won’t be home.”
“Look, Tom,” I replied impatiently. “Please. I’ll be fine. I’ll probably still be up cooking when you get back tonight.” I had lots of work to do at home, none of which required a commercial kitchen: preparing for an intake meeting with Arthur and baking cookies for a library party. The library wanted to throw a come-one, come-all holiday party for patrons. I’d offered to bring the Christmas cookies. I was doing this volunteer food service so people would know I was still out there. So people would not think I had quit the food biz altogether. And what a price to pay for the Sunday reception: missing the Broncos play the Kansas City Chiefs! But I was determined to be a caterer full of the holiday spirit. And, with any luck, I’d have everyone fed and the place cleaned up in time to catch the second half.
Tom snapped open his cellular and called Marla. My best friend was not home. Tom checked his watch and announced to Marla’s machine that she should cancel her plans for the rest of the day, drive to our house, and wait. “Goldy needs you,” he concluded.
In spite of all that had happened that day, I smiled at the thought of hopelessly busy-with-life, immensely wealthy Marla Korman careening her Mercedes to our curb to await my arrival from Killdeer. Maybe she’d do it; Tom’s message ensured she’d be eager for bad news. Meanwhile, I had Arch to speak to, a weekend crammed with nonpaying jobs, and looming questions about my former relationship with a parole board member, now mysteriously deceased.
Next Tom called Eileen Druckman’s condo and asked for Arch. He handed me the phone.
“Mom?” My son’s tentative, worried voice crackled across the connection. “Now can you tell me what happened?”
I told him a guy skiing Hot-Rodder was in an accident and I just had to talk to the patrol for a while. Was he sure he didn’t want me to come get him?
“I’ll be okay here, I guess.” He sounded uncertain. An adolescent boy wants to be with you and yet despises mothering; he wants to make sure you’re okay but doesn’t want to appear to care. “What happened to the guy? Where was all that money coming from? Did somebody try to rob him?”
“Honey, I don’t know. He died—”
“He’s dead? Did he run into a rock or something?”
“Nobody has a clue. And yes, he was carrying a lot of cash; he was our buyer for Tom’s World War Two skis. Listen, hon, I’ll be coming back to Killdeer in the morning to meet with a client. We could ski together in the afternoon, if you want.”
“Uh, no thanks.” Ski with someone as uncool as your mother? No way. “Look, Mrs. Druckman wants to talk to you. I told her you witnessed an accident.”
I groaned as Sergeant Bancock appeared at the door and summoned Tom to the outer office. Tom’s lips brushed my cheek before he left.
“Goldy, what’s going on?” Eileen’s husky voice demanded. “Arch has been awfully worried about you, and so have I. There was an accident on the slopes? Someone died? Was it near the bistro, or further down?”
“No, it was closer to the base,” I replied. “And I’m fine, thanks, there’s no need to worry. I think a skier was going too fast on a closed run. He had a terrible fall.”
“Arch said there was money all over the slope?”
“The man was carrying a lot of cash. It was disgusting. People were crazed, trying to grab it up.”
Eileen muttered something about drunk skiers, then said she and Todd were looking forward to having Arch for another night. After the lunch rush, Jack was coming home to make them homemade spinach ravioli stuffed with pine nuts, napped with a Dijon mustard cream sauce.
With my stomach growling, I hung up. Parole for The Jerk. How was I going to research that? Not at the Killdeer Ski Resort, that much was clear. Tom still had not returned. A new hubbub emanated from the front office. Now what? I ventured out in search of more info.
Surrounded by ski patrol members and uniformed sheriff’s deputies, my husband stood by a scarred oak desk. All the law enforcement folks seemed to be talking at once.
“Hello?” I called politely. “Would it be okay for me to take off?”
Tom murmured to a deputy and the deputy nodded. Then my husband turned and beckoned for me to come forward. When I joined them, Tom said, “Look, but don’t touch. Please.”
Perplexed, I stared down at the desktop. It was strewn with pamphlets, maps, memos, correspondence. Nothing on it looked especially unusual.
“Look at what?” I asked Tom.
With his fingertip, Tom carefully pushed back piles of paper, exposing an open greeting card. All the deputies and ski patrol folks craned down to make their own closer inspection. As a result, I couldn’t read the thing.
“Wait.” Tom’s ocean-green eyes regarded me solemnly; he spoke deliberately. “Don’t look at it yet, Miss G. I need to know precisely what Doug Portman said he had for me. Word for word.”
“Well,” I began. I shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that memorable. He said, ‘I’ve got something for Tom in my car.’ That’s it. Why?”
Tom waved me forward. The crowd pulled back. As I leaned toward the opened card, Tom warned, “Don’t even breathe close to it.”
“What does the outside say?”
“It’s a congratulations card. The outside message reads: ‘Good Job!’”
Inside the card, an explosion of bright yellow stars was accompanied by the card’s own greeting: You’re a Star! Beside the yellow stars, where your thumbs grasp a card to open it, was something much more menacing.
Glued on both inside card edges were two perfectly round, filled pieces of plastic material. I frowned. From Med Wives 101, I recognized the plastic rounds as transdermal patches. Each was filled with a blue gelatinous substance. Patches of this type were usually used to administer pain or nausea medication through the skin, when the patient was unable to take a pill or give himself a shot. I looked more closely and saw a small, hand-printed message.
Thanks for nothing, Asshole! You’re dead!!! There was no signature.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, mystified. “Was this card in an envelope? Was it addressed to someone?”
“It was in an envelope, an opened one, but there was no one’s name on it,” Tom said grimly. “This may be related to your coffee lady Cinda’s story. Maybe this is the threat the guy was bragging about making. Threaten a cop? Threaten a parole board member? Anyway, I have to stay here and talk to these people. Then I’m going to take this card down to the crime lab.” He shook his head. “If that blue jelly contains, say, anthrax, we could be dealing with something nasty. I’ve already called over to the coroner about getting the crime lab to run a couple of different drug screens on Doug Portman.”
“So you think he …” I couldn’t finish my thought.
“Might have been poisoned? Might have been close to dead before he hit that last mogul? Don’t know.”
My skin crawled. “Tom. Please tell me you didn’t touch those patches.”
“Nah. Sniffed ’em, though.” Everyone laughed except me.
Irritably, I said, “Cinda told me that her waiter, Davey, talked to Barton Reed, the guy who was making the threats. Last night.”
Tom riffled through the chaos on the ski patrol desk and unearthed a blank piece of paper. “Could you draw me a map to get to Cinda’s place?”
It was while I was doing this that Hoskins and Bancock appeared at my side and announced I was free to go. They might be calling me later, they said again. As I handed Tom my crudely drawn map, Marla phoned. She eagerly informed Tom she’d be at our house at three o’clock, and did I need a bottle of cognac, prescription tranquilizers, or chocolate cookies and freshly ground espresso beans? Whatever you think, Tom told her, with a rich chuckle. That meant she’d show up with all of it.
Blisteringly cold sheets of snowflakes assaulted us on the way to my van. Words were blown out of our mouths into the swirling snow. When we finally found my vehicle, we moved Tom’s skis out onto the snow-covered lot and searched in vain for my tire chains. I hadn’t used them for three winters, and they weren’t wedged into any of the van’s crevices. We put Tom’s precious skis and my battered ones back in and flung my equipment behind the front seat. Then Tom hugged me hard and murmured into my ear that he’d be home as soon as possible.
“Take it slow and you’ll be fine,” he assured me. “I’ll call you. And Miss G.—until then, please try to stay out of trouble.”
There’s nothing like a Colorado winter to give you respect for nature’s harsher side, I reflected as I piloted the van up the interstate’s long climb to the Continental Divide. Vehicles of all varieties—with Nebraska, Illinois, Texas, and yes, Colorado license plates—littered the snowbanked shoulder of the ascent. Drivers struggling to dig out and chain up soon became caked with snow. They looked like miniature Abominable Snowmen.
In one place the guardrail was out. I shuddered to think of the thousand-foot plummet someone must have taken. Further along the shoulder, a man scooted beneath his station wagon. His prone body brought back an unwanted vision of Doug Portman’s sprawled corpse. My van slid sideways. I grasped the wheel more firmly.
It was hard to concentrate on driving. First I focused on the aborted sale to Portman. Tom had said, You know what that’s going to mean, don’t you? Within the next day or two, I could surely expect a slew of unwanted, potentially embarrassing questions. Why had you planned a private rendezvous with a parole board member? Why did you keep this meeting a secret from your husband? What connection did you have with the large sum of cash the dead man was carrying?
How, I thought, do I get myself in these messes?
The taillights in front of me blinked scarlet in the blinding snow. I braked. My defroster whined as it la-bored—with little success—to keep my windshield clear.
The memory of the puzzlement in my husband’s eyes made my heart ache. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had betrayed Tom, even if it was with that infamous cheapskate, Doug Portman, who’d died with cash pouring out of his bloody jacket.
I pressed carefully on the accelerator. Why had I ever gone out with Doug Portman? At one time, he’d saved Arch and me thousands of dollars. Would that come out, too? I groaned.
It had all started so simply. After I’d finally kicked The Jerk out, I’d hired Doug Portman. I was trying to take care of Arch, but making ends meet was a challenge. At the time I had no moneymaking job, only an apprenticeship in the Denver kitchen of a restaurant belonging to my late friend André Hibbard. When I’d needed money for groceries, for Arch’s clothes or shoes, or to send Arch on a school field trip, John Richard had repeatedly pleaded poverty. This was a joke, but no matter how my lawyer tried to pry bucks out of the soon-to-be-ex, all we’d get were lies, delays, and more obfuscation. Finally, my lawyer had recommended I hire a forensic accountant to track down John Richard’s true income and assets. When I called Doug Portman, he informed me he was an artist, and just did the accounting on the side. I’d told him he could illustrate his reports, as long as his work got me a good divorce settlement and decent child support.
He’d guffawed, that unforgettable, gasping hyena laugh that I’d quickly come to hate.
I shook off this thought and glanced outside. The snow had become a whiteout. I thought I must be near the Eisenhower Tunnel, but it was almost impossible to tell. I slowed the van to a crawl. When the whirlwind briefly thinned, a pickup truck in front of me slewed right, then left. I stopped and waited until the truck was underway again. When I touched the accelerator, my tires spun on the ice. Holding my breath, I backed up slightly, turned the wheel, and accelerated gently. To my immense relief, my van started forward again.
I sighed and thought back. Doug Portman had updated me weekly on the progress of his investigation. John Richard, who’d been having an affair with a woman in the St. Luke’s choir, had enriched Miss Vocal Cords’ bank account by a hundred thousand dollars. He’d also put his Keystone ski resort condo in his father’s name. Doug had tossed a file on my kitchen table that proved John Richard had paid taxes on a sum several hundred thousand dollars more than what he’d told my lawyer he’d earned. Forensics is the study of evidence, Doug had announced pompously, and I am a master of it. He’d chortled. Now you can prove how much this loser doesn’t care what happens to you and your son. Want to go eat Chinese?
Silly me. I’d said yes. At least somebody cares about me, I’d thought. When we went to dinner, Doug brought his portfolio: color photographs of his paintings. Over wontons and mu shu pork I commented politely on pictures of large, nonfigurative canvases which seemed to feature dull blotches of drab color. He declared his artwork was going to make him rich. It had been a reasonably painless evening that turned sour when the check came and Doug announced, Your half comes to fifteen bucks. Had I not cooed enough over his artwork? Surely he knew how broke I was? Did he treat all his female clients this way? Nobody, it seemed, wanted to treat me to anything.
The next time Doug presented me with a dismal report on John Richard’s assets, he’d followed it with, In the mood for some Italian? After a momento of hesitation while I calculated my cupboard contents, I offered to prepare fettucine Alfredo. He wolfed it down, even asked for the recipe. Over coffee, I was politely enthusiastic as he showed me another fat portfolio, this of his representational paintings. All depicted historical weapons: the repeating rifle, the Colt .45, the bayonet. He said he was hoping to get a New York show for these works. Collectors would pay thousands for each painting! I murmured compliments.
The next week’s discouraging report on The Jerk must have engendered some guilt on Doug’s part. He pulled out tickets to a Denver showing of military memorabilia. Arch and Doug and I strolled past exhibits of samurai swords, bloodstained maps of battlegrounds, state-of-the-art grenade launchers. I found it boring; six-year-old Arch had been in heaven. Doug sprang for vendor hot dogs outside Currigan Hall. He liberally squirted on ketchup and rattled on about his volunteer work at nearby Capitol Hill. It seemed Doug was campaigning for a friend who was running for the state senate. I dislike guns, I dislike hot dogs, and I find the state senate boring. Arch sagely assessed my mood while pasting mustard on his wiener; on the way home, he asked if the end of my relationship with Doug Portman was in sight.
Through the spinning flakes ahead, the tube of the Eisenhower Tunnel finally yawned. In the lane next to the van, another driver went too fast and careened off the median before straightening out.
When Doug had slapped his final report on my kitchen table, he’d assessed my rack of pots and pans and demanded, “What’s cooking?” I’d smiled. I’d announced that nothing was on the menu but a trip to my lawyer. This had marked the end of my nonromance with Doug Portman, forensic accountant, artist, and bore. I’d received the house, a sixty-thousand-dollar divorce settlement, and a sizable adjustment in child support. Doug, with his ego, paintings, and plans, had been a man on the way up—and out of my life.
On my final approach to the tunnel, I tried to remember what Marla had told me about what had happened to Doug. He had married Elva, just the kind of wealthy woman he needed. He’d given up accounting and moved to Killdeer, where he’d become involved in Elva’s art gallery in addition to his own increasingly political commitments. His candidate had been elected; Doug himself had become involved in building high-end condos while writing about the arts for a regional newspaper. Someone must have told me he came to Sheriff’s department functions because he was connected to corrections. What I’d never guessed was that his political benefactor had made him chief of the state parole board.
If I was going to avoid even more suspicions about what was going on with my business and my life, I was going to need to find out more, I determined as I squashed down on the accelerator. And not only was I going to find out all about Doug Portman, I was going to find out the exact status of John Richard’s stint behind bars.
Without warning, the van lurched forward. Wild honking burst from all quarters. A car had hit me from behind. I yelped as another hard thud shook the van and my teeth. More cars honked, but in the suddenly thicker snowfall I couldn’t see the vehicles around me. My van slid across the left lane, where the bumper hit the divider with such force my neck snapped forward. I spun the steering wheel, but balding tires on ice have a life of their own. Another sickening thud sounded against my rear bumper.
It was a pileup, I realized helplessly. I was the second domino, behind the pickup truck. But where was the truck? A grinding crash of metal on metal thrust me forward. I gasped as the van skated back across the lanes. Another bang resounded. The van skidded inexorably toward the guardrail. I saw a fleeting image in my rearview mirror, a horrified face. I braked again. It was hopeless. Another car whacked me broadside. My van crashed through the guardrail and I was airborne.
CHAPTER 7
Down, down, down the snow-covered hill the van flew. I was sure I would die. An internal brain screen flashed images of my younger self on the Jersey shore with my mother. Then I was holding Arch as a newborn. Pain shot across my back. Warm liquid ran up my arm. I saw Tom slipping the wedding ring on my finger. I thought, But what will he have for dinner?
The van slammed into something hard, jolting me forward. A wave of shadowy whiteness obscured the windshield. The van again bounced onto something hard—a boulder?—and shuddered. My vehicle flipped over, then flipped back. I was screaming. Then, with a terrifying boom, the van hit another rock. The windshield shattered. A shock wave of icy snow hit me in the face.
Suddenly, everything went still. I had the confused thought: Arthur’s intake meeting. I won’t be able to cook this afternoon. It seemed terribly easy to lie still and sleep…. I’ll bake the librarians’ cookies tomorrow….
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Suddenly, a distant voice called, “Hello?” My voice wouldn’t obey my brain. I shook my head; snow slithered from my hair. I felt very, very cold.
Pawing and scraping sounds were audible overhead. “Hello?” the voice called again. I groaned and called back, “Yes,” in a submerged voice. Actually, the rest of me was underwater, technically speaking. I wondered if I was frozen. I laughed weakly. Pain rippled through my chest and down my arm. Was there anyone else in the van with me, the voice asked.
“No,” I tried to howl but it came out like a sob.
I should not attempt to move, the voice cautioned. I didn’t want to move. I was breathing raggedly; my lungs hurt. Blood seeped down my arm. I squirmed: More snow fell away from my face. Suddenly, I was desperate to act. I reached up until my mittened hands were clear, waving in the blessed air. I called that I could get out on my own. Before I could do so, however, strong hands reached in and gently tugged me out of my prison.
The cold wind was a bitter shock. Something kept growling in my ear, like a huge mosquito. I was placed on a slanted stretcher. My head spun; my thoughts whirled. Always use unsalted butter in baking. Falling snow-flakes burned my eyes. I was on a sled, not a stretcher, attached to a puttering, exhaust-spewing snowmobile. The sled was set at an angle because of the slope. I coughed—which hurt—and blinked. I couldn’t see my van, but I could make out three men in uniforms. One of them was bent over my arm. I wrenched sideways on the sled to see what he was doing, but I was strapped in. The movement afforded me a look at my vehicle. The van looked like a squashed beer can—one that would never be recycled.
The men asked me my name and address. I almost giggled, thinking that this was the third time today uniformed people had come to my rescue. That had to be a record. I heard my rusty voice answering them, thanking them. I asked how my arm was, and heard: “Cut. Not too bad.” They said I needed to go to a hospital in Denver. I mentioned my clinic in Aspen Meadow. It had an X-ray machine, a doctor on duty, and was an hour closer than Denver to our present location. “It’s where I live,” I added, although I had just told them that. “My home.” Home. My home. Oh, Lord, when will Tom finish our kitchen? I started to sob, and the men clucked that I was lucky to be going anywhere.
Commotion on the roadway accompanied the arrival of two ambulances. Panicked, I asked if others had been in the accident. The officers looked at each other, then told me not to worry.
One fellow gently probed my neck. A lump of fear squeezed my throat shut as I peered down the hill. There was a smashed white pickup truck below my van. Its skewed, crushed cab was buried in snow. I couldn’t see if anyone was in the front. The slope was strewn with debris and snow chunks churned up by the collision.
A horrific worry sprang into my consciousness: Had it been the pickup truck, and not a boulder, that had cushioned my van’s landing? I said a silent prayer for the truck driver.
Two newly arrived paramedics checked my bones. In the swiftly falling snow, it was hard to get bearings, but from what the people around me were saying, it seemed the van and the pickup had landed on an outcropping that formed a cliff in the steep bank. Below us, the slope was precipitous, at least forty degrees, and formed a ravine with the high forested ridge running into the Divide. At the bottom of the deep gulch between the two hills, who knew how deep the snow was? Ten, fifteen, twenty feet? I shuddered.
Foul-smelling exhaust and the roar of the snowmobile engine announced we were about to go uphill. The snow was coming down so hard it seemed impossible to breathe. Glancing back at my wreck of a van, I thanked God that Arch had not been with me.
Crap, I thought crazily as the snowmobile hauled me up the hill, Tom’s damn skis are still in the van. Leave them, I thought just as quickly. They’ve caused enough trouble already.
Paramedics bustled me into the ambulance. One tended to me and monitored all my signs, while the other asked how I was doing.
“Not very well,” I said. “Not very well at all.”
Once we arrived at the clinic, my doctor checked for internal injuries and put a butterfly bandage on my arm. She told the ambulance driver to take me home. I should call her that night if I felt worse. I either thought or said, Welcome to Aspen Meadow, an old-fashioned kind of town.
This, then, was the scene that Marla told me she witnessed from the front seat of her Mercedes, parked in front of our house: an ambulance driving up—she knew I’d be in it, she said drily—followed by two handsome paramedics coaching me down onto our sidewalk. Me hollering that I was fine, to quit touching my arm. According to Marla, the hunky paramedics wisely declined to comment.
Beneath her fur coat, Marla’s bulky body featured one of her pre-Christmas outfits, a forest-green silk shift highlighted with silver and gold threads, plus matching suede boots. She clucked, fussed, tossed her brown curls, and asked how I’d hurt myself this time. She shook her head when I said I’d been fine when I left Killdeer, but then there’d been this pileup.…
She said I shouldn’t have been driving. My van hacked and sputtered just getting across town, she pointed out. Forget making it home from a mountainous ski area. In a blizzard, no less. I agreed with her—what else was I supposed to do?—while she fixed me tea. As I drank a cup of strong, delicious English Breakfast, Marla brought a merlot out of our pantry. It had been a gift from Arthur Wakefield, who’d commanded me to sample it only with roast beef. Because of her heart medication, she couldn’t have any. But she felt strongly that I should have some.
As I was finishing my first no-meat-accompaniment glass of wine, Tom called. I filled him in on my latest accident without too much detail, ignoring Marla’s smirks. Tom said he was bringing Arch home from Todd’s. My son was worried about me; he’d changed his mind about staying with Todd and wanted to be in his own place. Tom also said he’d called Julian. Julian was skipping his night of old films to join us for dinner—dinner that he would fix.
Marla told me to sit still while she set our oak kitchen table. She lamented that the library board was having a dinner meeting that evening, so she wouldn’t be joining us. I watched her work. No question about it, the glass of merlot was killing the pain in my arm. I’d have to suggest tea with it to Arthur instead of beef…. Marla hugged me gently and left, promising to call.
Two hours later, Tom, Julian, Arch, and I dug into Julian’s succulent, lemon-and-garlic-laced sautéed jumbo shrimp—his scrumptious version of scampi—served over spinach fettucine. I took a good look at Julian. His handsome, haggard face, dark-circled eyes, and ear-length brown hair gave him the look of a typical sleep-deprived college student.
He sensed my mood. “Don’t you like the shrimp?” he asked earnestly.
“It’s out of this world,” I replied, and meant it. But the events of the day had taken away my appetite. Arch and Tom, their mouths full, made mm-mm noises.
Julian put down his fork. “Goldy, now that your van’s totaled, I want you to take my Rover. If I stay in Boulder, I don’t need it.” Julian’s deluxe white Range Rover had been a gift from former employers. Before I could protest, he persisted: “My apprenticeship pays enough for me to share an apartment with some friends I’ve made. And I will be able to get around, oh mother of all mother hens.”
“Julian,” I murmured, “don’t. Who are these friends, anyway?”
He laughed while Tom looked doubtful. Arch, stricken, exclaimed, “So you’re moving out? You’re leaving us?”
“Guys!” cried Julian. “If you’re going to miss me so much, I’ll come back every weekend!”
We agreed that I would take the Rover, and I thanked him. Julian beamed. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to drive that vehicle for a personal chef assignment, especially with a bandaged arm. But the Rover was luxurious. More importantly, it had four-wheel drive. Julian then further mollified us with helpings of his pears poached in red wine and cinnamon sticks, surrounded with golden pools of crème anglaise. The first mouthful of juicy, spiced pear accompanied by the silky custard sauce was almost enough to make me forget my troubles. Still, I found that I couldn’t take more than three bites.
When the dishes were cleared, I searched for and found a bottle of generic buffered aspirin. Tom announced that he was doing the dishes, no easy task, as our lack of kitchen drains still dictated use of the ground-floor tub. I was to relax, he insisted, and Arch and Julian should go do something fun.
Julian opened his backpack and pulled out a foil-wrapped package of his trademark fudge dotted with sun-dried tart cherries. I declined any, but Tom took two pieces before clearing the plates. With a mischievous smile, Julian offered a chunk to Arch. “Hey, buddy, how about a second dessert? Better yet, how’bout I fix a batch of this Christmas fudge for Lettie? I can put in crushed peppermint drops instead of cherries.”
Arch shot him a dark look. “No, thanks.” Lettie was Arch’s girlfriend, or at least he had been “going out with” this lovely, long-legged blond fourteen-year-old—the two never actually went anywhere—at the end of summer. To me, of course, Arch provided no updates on the status of the relationship. My only indications that he had any social life at all at Elk Park Prep were the carefully folded notes I found in his pants pockets when I was emptying them in the laundry room. Fearful that these papers were homework assignments that he would later accuse me of tossing—this had happened—I always unfolded them enough to read the first line. If Arch’s small, vertical handwriting began, This class sucks! then I knew to toss the paper. He was communicating with somebody, anyway. Still, if we needed to plan for an additional Christmas present—Arch was notoriously lastminute on these things—I needed to know.
“So, is Lettie still in the picture?” I asked, noncom-mittally.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” Arch’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he informed Julian, who now seemed repentant that he’d brought Lettie into the conversation, that he had something to show him. The boys disappeared. I swallowed three aspirin and wondered if there was any chance they could be contemplating Arch’s ninth-grade reading assignment in Elizabethan poetry, or the homemade quantum mechanics experiment he was supposed to devise for his physics class. Probably not.
“Are you all right?” Tom said quietly, once he’d filled the bathtub with soapy water and the dishes were soaking. “You hardly ate a bite.”
The aspirins weren’t kicking in. “No, I’m not all right. But I will be soon. Thanks for asking.” I wiggled my unfeeling fingers, rubbed my rapidly-blackening elbow, then tried and failed to move my neck from side to side. If I hadn’t broken anything, how come everything hurt so much? Tom came over and gave me a healing kiss.
Just before eight o’clock, a state patrolman knocked on our door. Into our kitchen Tom ushered a tall, corpulent man with black hair so short and thin it looked like someone had ground pepper over his scalp. His name was Vance, and he wanted me to write down all I remembered about the accident. I scribbled what I remembered of the blur of events: cars skidding every which way, my inability to see what happened, being hit from behind, skidding, being smacked again and again and again. I’d hit another vehicle, crashed through the guardrail, and sailed down the hill. I begged for information about the truck’s driver. The cop announced glumly that he’d died. My heart ached.
Officer Vance read what I’d written, put down the pad, and tapped the tabletop. “Tell me again what happened on the way up to the tunnel. Before the accident.”
Patiently, I tried to visualize, then articulate, the happenings of those few minutes. The snow had been falling in sheets. Visibility had been wretched. What vehicles I could see were sliding haplessly on the ice. Then something had hit my van. All around me, cars were honking, thudding, spinning out of control. I’d careened down the hill, crashed into the truck, sunk into deep snow. I’d truly believed, I told the officer, that I was going to be buried alive in the white stuff.
As I related my story, neither Tom nor Officer Vance interrupted me. When I’d concluded, Officer Vance mused, “As far as you could see, then, there was a white pickup truck about ten yards in front of you. There was also a vehicle behind you.”
“And one behind that, and one behind that.” I waved my hand in a gesture of ad infinitum. The movement made my elbow howl with pain. “The noise of the crash was like books falling on your head. Thud, thud, thud, thud.”
“But you couldn’t see the cars behind you very well,” the policeman asked, “because of the poor visibility, right? Are you sure you didn’t hear that thud, thud, thud, and then your mind just supplied the image of books falling?”
I frowned and thought back. I knew this cop was trying to get at something. There had been a vehicle directly behind me. And yes, one behind that. That was all I could remember seeing. When I announced this, Tom pursed his lips. Officer Vance didn’t blink.
“Right,” Vance murmured. When Tom sat down at my side, Officer Vance slid the salt, pepper, and three unused serving spoons into a line. His thick, carrot-like fingers moved the salt cellar. “This is the white pickup.” Then the peppermill: “This is you.” The first spoon: “This is the guy behind you, another van.” The second spoon: “Then there’s another vehicle behind that van.” He placed the last spoon in place. “Then here’s somebody quite a bit farther back.”
I concentrated on the objects, then moved the first two slightly to give the right scale of distances. But I had not seen a fourth vehicle, somebody quite a bit farther back. It had been snowing too hard.
Vance pointed to the last spoon. “The driver of this car farther back, a woman from Idaho Springs, was in a Subaru station wagon. Only she didn’t skid into anybody. She was right behind another Subaru wagon, and the two of them were ten car-lengths behind you. Just before the accident, she swears that other wagon sped up wildly and rammed into the van behind you.” Officer Vance moved the next-to-last serving spoon up toward the first spoon. “Then she heard the noise of cars colliding. She braked, and skidded. Ahead of her, the other Subaru sped up and rammed the van twice more. The snow made it hard for her to see exactly what had happened. In a fraction of a second, she saw the truck, and then your van, go over the cliff edge.” He sighed. “By the time we got there, what with the snow and all the cars going by on the way to the tunnel, there weren’t any skid marks left. Apart from what this woman said, we don’t have a trace of the two vehicles behind you.”
“I don’t remember the cars behind me. Van, one or two Subarus, nothing.”
Vance shrugged. “You were hit, you hit a truck.”
“But … because of the snowfall, I didn’t see the truck. At least, I didn’t see it go over.”
“The guardrail was busted in two places,” he told me, “but aside from that, we don’t have much physical evidence. The van behind you took off,”—he raised his shrewd, assessing eyes to mine—“and we can’t find this Subaru the woman saw.”
“So … are you telling me this accident was a planned hit-and-run?” I was incredulous. “That someone deliberately rammed the van behind me? Rammed it three times? Why would anyone do anything that insane?”
Officer Vance held up his hands. “That’s what I was hoping you could help me with.”
Tom reached over and gently clasped my fingers. “You witnessed a ski accident in the morning—”
“I didn’t witness it,” I protested. “I just … saw a guy lying on the slope. He died in the ambulance.”
“In the road accident,” Vance interjected, “we still don’t know the identity of the guy in the pickup. We only know he’s dead. Which makes the accident vehicular homicide.” I moaned. “With the storm so bad, they won’t be hoisting up either vehicle until the morning.” He paused. “Did you see any vehicle, any person you recognized, anywhere on the road from Killdeer to the Eisenhower Tunnel?” Officer Vance demanded.
“No. Sorry.”
“Did you witness any aggressive driving prior to your being hit?” Again, I shook my head. Officer Vance sighed. “This could have been a drunk. It could have been someone ticked off with the van driver, which would explain why the van was long gone by the time we got there.” When I stared at him in baffled disbelief, he picked up the pad, placed a card with his name and number on the table, and thanked me for my time. And if I remembered anything else … I nodded mutely and thanked him for coming. Tom showed him to the door.
“Do you think someone was trying to hit me?” I asked Tom, when he returned to the kitchen and poured milk and sugar into some cooked rice. “What are you doing?”
“Making a treat. I know you’re bullheaded enough to try to cook tonight, and you can’t do it on aspirin and an almost-empty stomach.”
I sighed. “You didn’t answer my question about the car accident.”
He nodded and stirred the cooking mixture, which gave off a rich, homey scent. “I don’t know. Hitting a van behind someone else’s van isn’t a very reliable way to kill someone on the road. Still, driving Julian’s Rover is a good idea,” he added thoughtfully. “As far as the roads go, the storm was breaking when Arch and I came through. No matter what, I feel more comfortable with you behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive. And speaking of the Rover, did you know General Farquhar had all the windows tinted very dark and bulletproofed?” I rolled my eyes at the mention of the super-paranoid military man, Julian’s benefactor. Tom searched for a set of custard cups, then went back to stirring. “I want you to keep the cellular with you all the time. Watch who’s around. Have somebody with you if you can. Just as a precaution, especially over in Killdeer, okay?”
“First of all, Tom, I can’t even entertain the idea that that accident was a deliberate hit-and-run. The interstate was very icy. I could barely see the truck in front of me. And I think I’d have noticed somebody tailing me all the way from Killdeer. I mean, I’m grateful to be alive, but trying to execute the kind of move we’re talking about, under those conditions, could be suicide.”
“Miss G. Please. It’s not difficult to take precautions.”
“Sure, yeah, okay, I’ll be careful.” What did I have to lose? I already had a messed-up TV career, a ton of debt, no business, a wrecked van, and two mysteriously dead men: a parole-board member and a truck driver. Speaking of which. “Look, I need to call Arthur. The doctor said I could drive if my arm wasn’t bothering me. So I’d still like to meet with Arthur tomorrow to arrange my personal-chef work for his party.”
“I knew it,” Tom said resignedly.
To demonstrate my resilience, I got up, zipped over to my kitchen computer, booted it, and searched for my notes on the assignment.
Tom shook his head. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
But I was already dialing. Arthur answered on the first ring.
“Thank God you called, Goldy.” His tone was laced with mournful drama, as usual. “In the morning, I need you to be here by ten. I’ll explain how I want things to go, and show you the layout of the kitchen before you start work. I’ve got dozens of callings to make about my wines—”
“Wait a sec,” I interrupted as politely as I could. “Please, Arthur. I’m not sure I’ll be able to be there by ten. There will be the ski traffic, and I have things to pack up, and I’ve got vehicle problems, because unfortunately I was in a car accident today—”
“But it’s stopped snowing. You were in a car accident? For heaven’s sake! There was an accident on the mountain today, guy was killed going down a closed black run. The Forest Service is closing Killdeer Mountain for a few hours in the morning to help the Sheriff’s department investigate it. That won’t stop the ski traffic, unfortunately,” he said mournfully. “A day for accidents. What a shame.”
“Yes, indeed.” I tried to make my tone noncommittal. “Maybe we can make our plans now, and you could just leave the key for me.” I took a deep breath and waited for an explosion. I wasn’t really expecting sympathy. I picked up the aspirin bottle and shook out a couple more. In Med Wives 101, we’d often told each other you could take up to six at a time. This was not advisable, medically speaking, but then again, being the wife of a medical student wasn’t exactly advisable, either.
“I can’t do that,” Arthur replied, exasperated. “I live at 602 Elk Path in West Killdeer. Be here at ten. I want … I want the dishes you prepare to be almost done. Then I’ll put on the finishing touches so my guests will think I slaved for hours.”
“Ah, well, I’ve never—” I began, but he was gone.
I hung up the phone and frowned. Most of my clients start out anxious, I reassured myself. Once I serve them food, they’re content. Only Arthur didn’t want me to serve the food. He didn’t even want me to finish cooking it. Ah, sufficient unto the day was the catering thereof. Or something like that.
With a flourish, Tom handed me a custard cup brimming with warm rice pudding. He’d sprinkled the pudding with cinnamon and garnished the top with a massive dollop of whipped cream. The cream melted slightly and slid sideways on the warm pudding. I took a bite: the dessert was dreamily thick, like a homey, melt-in-your-mouth porridge from heaven.
“Incredible,” I said, and took another greedy bite. “I’m getting better already.”
“That’s why I made it,” Tom said triumphantly. “Think the boys would want some?”
We listened. The faint thump of rock music reverberating through the ceiling was a sure sign the boys weren’t listening to Tudor-style lute music.
“Better leave them alone,” I replied. “After all, rice pudding is also great chilled.”
Tom smiled appreciatively and dug into his own custard cup. “Julian seems good,” he commented. “Tired, though.”
“I’m worried about him.”
“Miss G., you worry about everything. He loves being back in Colorado and he loves the film class, he told me so himself. Maybe he’ll make how-to-cook-vegetarian videos after he graduates.”
I smiled and scraped the bottom of the pudding cup. “Thanks for the treat. Can you possibly help me with the cooking I need to do for the rest of the weekend?”
“Cooking with you is only my second favorite thing we do together.”
I laughed. From the walk-in, I drew out unsalted butter and eggs. Then I retrieved a bag of premium bittersweet chocolate chips and several bars of Godiva Dark from our pantry shelves. The library’s Christmas Open House was in two days and I’d be away from my kitchen tomorrow. I asked Tom if he would chop the Godiva; he smiled and held out his hand.
I removed a pork tenderloin I’d started marinating the day before. Professional culinary literature urges the prospective personal chef to bring the first meal—a marvelous dinner using your best recipes—gratis. This is to show your client what a good and generous person you are. Arthur, if he’d been noticing, might already think I was a good and generous person. On the other hand, he probably thought I was a klutz. Still, that assessment could change once he ate his deliciously tender, herb-spiced, free pork dinner.
“Tell me about the parole board,” I urged Tom, to distract myself from fretting about Arthur.
He sighed and continued to chop. “There you go again. Worrying.”
I tapped buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the chocolate cookie recipe I was working on. “Come on,” I said, trying my best to sound reasonable. “I just want to know how the board operates. And I’m interested in your theory as to the reason Doug Portman had an anonymously written card containing a threat, and maybe some poison, too, and why he wanted to give it specifically to you.”
Tom sliced the chocolate into dark, fragrant chunks. “First things first. There are six members on the state parole board, all appointed by the governor. Statutorily, two of them have to have a law-enforcement background. Portman didn’t have a law-enforcement background, but I know he watched the newspapers. All the parole board members do. Every day, they’re scared some felon they let out on parole might have committed a big crime. The board members really don’t want that kind of thing coming back to haunt them. So.” He pushed away the chopped chunks from the first chocolate bar and started on the second. “I think Portman got that card from someone I put behind bars, and he let out. But why would someone he let out come back and threaten him?”
I printed out the cookie recipe. “Maybe it’s someone he denied parole to, who’s finally out now. The name Barton Reed doesn’t ring a bell? The guy at Cinda’s?”
He shook his head. “I’d have to see a picture.” He finished chopping the chocolate with a flourish, then rinsed his knife in the bathroom. When he came back, he gave me a long, gentle hug.
“You don’t have to figure this out, Goldy,” he murmured in my ear. “We should have the crime lab results back by Tuesday. Why not let go of this until then?”
“Whatever you say,” I replied in a low voice. We both knew I never gave anything a rest, but dear Tom chose not to point this out at that moment. He merely mumbled something unintelligible, hugged me tight, and said he was going upstairs to check on the boys. I promised him I’d join him in a bit.
In truth, there was only one thing I could do to start cracking a case: Cook.
CHAPTER 8
I pressed the tenderloin through the plastic wrap. Before roasting, it had to reach room temperature, so the inside could cook along with the outside. I stabbed the pork with the sharp end of my digital readout thermometer, a help if you want to serve succulent, juicy meat but have a client who is trichinosis-phobic, then preheated the oven. I didn’t want to take a guess as to the types of phobias Arthur held dear, but judging from our chats, fears about food were a distinct possibility.
Once the meat was in the oven, I set the beater to cream the butter for the cookies. Then I pulled out a bowl of wild rice that had soaked overnight. After one of our shows, Arthur had confessed he had wines to introduce to his best clients, and needed to do it at an in-home party, rather than in a bustling restaurant. He disliked cooking, even though he was pretty good at it. Could I help him?
Yes. And I would feed him in the bargain. I was taking a cereal concoction, the pork tenderloin, wild rice steamed in homemade beef stock, and a large salad of arugula and steamed asparagus. All free, to show my goodwill.
Within ten minutes the kitchen was filled with the enticing fragrance of herb-flavored roast pork. I started the rice cooking in the homemade beef stock and turned my attention to the library-reception cookie recipe. As I carefully mixed dry ingredients into the creamy, bronze dough, my injured arm began to ache. My mind’s eye raced backward to the van plummeting down the snowy slope. Really, it was a miracle I’d survived.
I mixed the chopped chocolate, dried cherries, chocolate chips, and nuts into the batter. A van behind me … Yes, I vaguely remembered now, it had been one of those shuttle vehicles that ran between the ski resorts and Denver International Airport. But another vehicle close behind the van? I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember. Nothing came.
As I scooped the chocolate-cherry-nut-studded batter onto cookie sheets, I recalled reading many an article about high-country drivers fleeing scenes of weather-related accidents. Sticking around on a snowy, slick roadside in poor visibility could be more hazardous than taking off. At least, that’s what hit-and-run drivers claimed after a snowstorm, if they were apprehended—a rare occurrence.
The thermometer beeped. I removed the sizzling pork, checked the timer on the luxuriantly scented wild rice, and slapped in the first cookie sheet. A wave of fatigue swept over me. It was past eleven. I had to finish the cookies and let the meat and rice cool. Then I could go to bed.
But something kept nagging at me—something besides the death of Doug Portman, besides the threatening poison patches, besides even the accident. What was it? I sifted through my emotions. What was I feeling? Numb.
Snowboarders’ Pork Tenderloin
2½ pounds pork tenderloin (2 tenderloins)
½ cup Dijon-style mustard
1 tablespoon pressed garlic (4 large or 6 small cloves)
¼ cup best-quality dry red wine
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon dried thyme, crushed
½ bay leaf
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon granulated sugar
Trim fat and “silver skin” from tenderloins. Rinse, pat dry, and set aside. Place all the other ingredients in a glass pan and whisk together well. Place tenderloins in the pan, turn them to cover with the marinade, cover the pan with plastic wrap, and place in the refrigerator for 6 hours, or overnight.
Thirty minutes before you plan to roast the pork, remove the tenderloins from the refrigerator to come to room temperature.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Use a roasting pan with a rack; line the bottom of the pan with foil and place the tenderloins on the rack. Roast the tenderloins until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the center registers 140°F—about 20 to 25 minutes. Do not overcook the pork: the center should still be pink when served. Remove from the oven and slice.
Makes 10 servings
Chocolate Coma Cookies
1 cup blanched slivered almonds
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate (2⅓ 1.5-ounce bars of Godiva Dark or 1½ 3-ounce bars of Lindt bittersweet chocolate)
1 cup dried tart cherries
12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips (1 regular-size bag)
2 cups rolled oats
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar eggs
2 eggs
1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter two cookie sheets.
In a nonstick pan, toast the almonds over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, for about 5 to 10 minutes, until they have just begun to turn brown and emit a nutty aroma. Turn out onto a plate to cool. Chop the chocolate bars into small chunks, no larger than large chocolate chips, and set aside.
In a large bowl, combine the cherries, chocolate chips, and oats, and set aside.
Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and set aside.
In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter until creamy. Add sugars and beat until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla. Beat the mixture until well combined, about a minute. Add the dry ingredients to the mixture and beat at low speed until well combined, less than a minute. Add chocolate chips, chopped chocolate, cherries, and nuts. Using a sturdy wooden spoon, mix well by hand, until all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated. Using a 1-tablespoon scoop, measure out cookies onto sheets, leaving two inches between cookies (about a dozen per sheet). Bake 12 to 14 minutes, or until the cookies have set and are slightly flattened and light brown. Cool on sheets 2 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool completely.
Makes 6 dozen cookies
I turned on the oven light. The cookie spheres were softening, the batter bubbling to a golden brown. I closed the recipe file on my computer and opened a new one, labeling it only “Unfortunate Friday.” Then I sat and frowned at the empty screen until the timer beeped.
I removed the baking sheets. Tiny lakes of melted chocolate winked inside the crisp, golden cookies. While they were cooling I put in another sheet, then checked the rice: about fifteen more minutes.
Back at the computer, I typed:1. What intersection of Tom and parole board member Doug Portman would lead to a death threat on Portman? Was the death threat even linked to DP’s skiing accident? Does it have something to do with Barton Reed?2. Why was Hot-Rodder closed? Who closed it? Did Portman ski down the run, knowing it was off-limits? Or was the run closed after he was on it? Who knew he had $8,000 cash on him? Was his death a bungled robbery? Why would it be bungled? How did Portman die, exactly?3. What was Doug Portman’s background in Killdeer? Who were his friends and neighbors? More importantly, who were his enemies?4. Who hit my van?
Treat every puzzle with questions and chocolate, was my motto. And it worked, usually. Despite the fact that I’d already indulged in three desserts tonight, I had to taste one of my cookies, right? I mm-mmed over the first bite, with its crunchy toasted nuts, tart sun-dried cherries, warm dark chocolate, and buttery, crisp cookie. I took another bite, and felt as if I must be going into a chocolate coma. So that was what I would call them: Chocolate Coma Cookies.
Hold on. Treat every puzzle with … I finished the cookie, licked my fingertips, emptied the steaming wild rice onto a wide platter, and removed the second sheet of cookies to a rack. What had I heard earlier in the day? I stared at the blinking cursor.
Don’t feel sorry for me. An inscrutable face. An acidic tone. I’m not sad … just puzzled. I typed:5. What is bothering Rorry Bullock? Is she still grieving her husband’s mysterious death? Or is she embarrassed to show up pregnant and unmarried, three years after her husband’s death?
I frowned at the computer. Maybe Rorry had remarried, and I just hadn’t heard about it. Hold on: There was one person who would know the answer to that question. Marla.
I checked my watch: eleven-fifteen. Long years of church work had taught me that if you had even one compulsive talker on a committee of overly nice folks, the meetings can extend ad nauseum. If Marla had come home and gone to bed, she would have turned off her ringer and directed calls into her machine. So I wouldn’t wake her up if I called, I thought happily as I punched in her numbers.
“Goldy? What in the world are you doing up?” Marla had caller ID and loved to greet me with a breathless question.
“Cooking. How’bout you?”
She groaned. “I can’t drink because I’m on heart medication. But I keep thinking, if I had a drink and died, I’d never again have to listen to Karen Stephens talk for three hours without taking a breath.” She groaned again. “It would be worth it.”
“Listen, I saw Rorry Bullock today. Up at Killdeer.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d say she’s about a week away from giving birth.” I paused. “Did she remarry? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant?”
“Oh, that doggone prayer group and their insistence on secrecy,” Marla groused. “Yes, she’s pregnant, and we’re praying for her because she doesn’t have any more money now than she did when she and Nate were living in an apartment here in Aspen Meadow.”
I asked tentatively, “And the father is … ?”
“Hah! Ask Rorry! She definitely has not remarried, I can tell you that. Anyway, I’m convinced she hasn’t come back to visit St. Luke’s because somebody would tell her she should get married before she has the baby.”
“Oh, please!”
“When do you want to get together? We could ski during the week.”
“I’ll call you. First, though, I’ll let you get some sleep. Your fatigue is making you into a cynic.”
I signed off and reread what I’d written in the computer. Satisfied that I had outlined the questions that had been troubling me, I wrapped the meat, packed up the cookies, and stored the cooled rice. It was nearly midnight. I could sleep for six hours, wake Arch to go see Todd, pack the Rover, and be on the road to Killdeer by seven. I crept upstairs and curled up next to Tom’s warm, deliciously fleshy body. I heard a soft rustling sound and peered over his shoulder. A new torrent of flakes pattered against our windows. Lit by the street lamp, the blue spruce outside our window was swathed in snow. By morning, Aspen Meadow would be blanketed, and in one week we would have a white Christmas.
I snuggled closer to Tom. I had very little besides the revolver to put under the tree for him. I resolved to look for another gift in the Killdeer shops. A little shopping trip would cheer me up after I finished with Arthur. Of course, to get to Killdeer, I would first have to shovel out the Rover.
Make that, sleep for five hours.
When my alarm shrilled at five A.M., the darkness in the house seemed impenetrable. Out the window, the spruce had vanished. How much more snow had fallen? I shivered and checked my new clock. It was one of those digital jobs with a battery that kicks in when the power goes off. Through my early morning daze, I realized that that was precisely what had happened. I shivered, then concluded that with no power, there were no streetlights, no nightlights or—more crucially—no heat. Unless it was an extended outage, the contents of my refrigerator and freezer should be fine. Still, I wondered if we could afford to move to Arizona.
“Don’t go,” Tom murmured.
“Don’t the Rockies train near Phoenix?” I asked. “When does spring training start?”
“What?”
“I’m talking about the baseball team, Tom.”
He groaned, turned over, and pulled me in for a gentle hug that melted my body’s residual stiffness from the accident. “End of February. You want to worry about sports, the Broncos are playing Kansas City tomorrow.”
“I want to have an excuse to go to Arizona, and following our baseball team’s spring training might be the excuse I’m looking for. At the moment, though, I have to pack up for my personal chef job.”
“Not yet,” he murmured into my ear. He moved his hands along my lower back. “You’re freezing, for heaven’s sake. Let me warm you up.”
After carefully moving my sore arm, I yielded happily. What was there to worry about? The food was done, and if the Rover was four-wheel drive, why bother to dig it out? Besides, I thought as I kissed Tom’s inviting mouth and rolled in closer to him, this was our favorite thing to do together, right?
Twenty minutes later, I felt much warmed and much revived. After a quick shower—there was still hot water in our tank, thank God—I toweled my wiry-wet blond curls. Maybe the ghostly effect of the two candles I’d lit in the bathroom—our flashlights had vanished sometime during the kitchen remodeling—made me appreciate all we had. Just think, I reflected as I buttoned my catering uniform, the medieval monks had it worse than this. True, they washed and dressed by cold candlelight in the morning’s wee hours, but without hot water or hotter sex, how good could they have felt when their day began?
To my surprise, Arch woke and slid from his bed without complaint. He wasn’t cold, because he’d slept in his ski clothes. That was one way around a power outage.
I handed him a candle for the bathroom and then made my way downstairs. From their lair off the dining room, Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat began to stir. In addition to the drains, one issue that had sent the county health inspector into the ozone layer had been our family’s ownership of a dog and a cat. Per code, Tom had dutifully partitioned off a separate space in our dining room. Within this designated pet area, Tom had built a canine-feline exit to the out-of-doors. Our dining room looked like someone had stuck a large closet in it, but that was all right. Think of a pet store next to a caterer’s, I’d said to the inspector, when I called to tell him of the change. He’d snorted and hung up on me.
Now Jake the bloodhound was eager to go out and bay at the darkness, but there was no way I was letting him loose this early. Scout the cat opened a sleepy eye, rose, sashayed to the bottom windowpane abutting our front door, and cast a disparaging look at the cold, dark snow. He moved off to his food bowl and meowed loudly. There was no telling Scout it was too early for anything.
While dripping copious amounts of hot candle wax on my right hand, I managed to spoon out cat food for His Majesty. Tom pounded down the stairs. He was carrying another candle along with boots, mittens, and a heavy jacket. He was going to start a fire and clear Julian’s car of snow, he announced. While I held my candle up to the dark depths of the still-cool walk-in, Tom, whistling happily, wadded newspapers, snapped kindling, and piled up logs in the living room fireplace. By the time I had the food loaded in a Styrofoam box, my dear sweet husband had a blaze crackling. I came out to warm my numb hands and saw that he’d also filled his antique black kettle with water and hung it on the post he’d installed in the hearth while he was redoing our kitchen. Steam spiraled from the kettle.
“Listen,” he told me, “I have a meeting this morning I can’t skip. But if you can be back by four, I’ll drive Arch back down to see his dad.”
For heaven’s sake. I had forgotten it was Saturday, Arch’s regular jail-visit day. Taking Arch to see The Jerk always put me into a rotten mood, so whenever someone else offered to escort Arch on this dreaded mission, I jumped at the offer.
“Thanks, Tom. That’ll really help.”
He nodded and shuffled outside with Arch. Moments later, a sudden blaze of headlights lit the driveway and the Rover engine roared to life. Inside, a stiff wind howled down the flue. I could just make out Tom and Arch whisking what looked like ten inches of powder off the Rover. I strained to hear a faraway rumble that signaled the approach of a county snowplow.
“Ready to roll?” Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. “Got a box ready?”
“Yes, but I’ll carry it out, thanks.”
“Not with that arm, you won’t.” He stomped into the house, yanked off his boots and tossed them onto the mat, and sock-footed his way to the kitchen. Who was I to argue with a cop, especially one who was much bigger than I was?
Fifteen minutes later Arch and I sat in the Rover, travel mugs of creamy chocolate steaming between us. Tom’s makeshift version, composed of kettle-dipped water, cocoa, sugar, powdered creamer, and milk, was actually quite luscious, like a hot chocolate gelato. Of course, as my mammoth fourth-grade teacher had told us, Hunger makes the best sauce. That teacher ought to know, my mother had commented drily.
Main Street had not lost power, and the thermometer on the downtown branch of the Bank of Aspen Meadow read four degrees. Snow had filled the street’s gutters with two-foot drifts that had been wind-sculpted into sharp-edged peaks. Streams of Christmas lights whirled in the snow and battered the windows of Darlene’s Antiques & Collectibles and the Grizzly Bear Saloon. Seeing Aspen Meadow Arts and Crafts reminded me of the years when Arch and I had spent hours buying presents for his teachers. Arch had agonized over framed solitary gold-plated aspen leaves and pieces of bark painted with images of bull elk. When I’d asked him last week what cookies he thought I could make for his teachers this year, he’d curtly replied that The other kids aren’t bringing the teachers gifts. Now I glanced at the decorated windows, and ached for those old times with my son, before what the other kids are doing dominated our lives.
“Arch,” I said tentatively as he sipped his cocoa, “does Lettie have pierced ears?”
“Oh, no, Mom, don’t start. Do not buy Lettie anything.”
“I just asked—”
“Why do you want to know? Are you going to pierce them for her if she doesn’t?”
“I just thought—”
“That you’d buy something for her for Christmas. The way you always do.”
“Arch! I have never bought a female friend of yours a single thing for Christmas!”
“Remember those two Valentine’s Days, when you went out and bought big baskets of candy and stuffed animals for girls you thought I was going out with?”
“But you were—”
He turned to face me. “I was not going out with them,” he said fiercely. “I wanted to buy them bags of M&M’s. But oh, no, good old Mom had to buy the most expensive baskets possible.” His tone was scathing. “And then you were all upset when you found out I wasn’t going out with the girl you just bought all that stuff for. Mom, you can’t buy me a girlfriend.”
I took a slug of cocoa and told myself to be patient. “I thought you told me Lettie was your girlfriend.”
“Yeah, and I wish I hadn’t told you anything.”
“Arch!”
“Don’t buy her anything!”
“Don’t worry!” I shot back.
Arch turned toward his window with much aggravated shuffling of his down jacket. Suddenly I deeply regretted offering to take him snowboarding this morning, especially since I had just remembered Arthur Wakefield informing me that the mountain would be closed for a few hours for the Forest Service investigation into Doug’s accident. I sighed and glanced at Arch. If he’d been so worried about me last night that he’d canceled his overnight with Todd, why wasn’t he being nice this morning? Ah, adolescence. In any event, if Lettie wanted little silver pine trees dangling from her earlobes, the girl was out of luck.
We passed the lake, and I tried to put Lettie out of my head. Streetlights ringing the snow-covered sweep of ice revealed a lone fisherman with a lamp attached to his cap. I could not imagine how cold he was. No fish could taste that good.
I snuggled into my warm leather seat. The gorgeous Rover boasted every possible amenity, and gave a smooth ride, to boot. Julian had been wonderful to loan it to me. When it struck me that Julian could find out what Lettie wanted for Christmas, I instantly banished the thought. Perhaps I was trying to buy a Christmas present, a girlfriend, and happiness for my son.
No more.
CHAPTER 9
By the time I gingerly pulled the Rover onto the interstate, ski traffic was flowing steadily westward. Cars and trucks hummed through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Arch was asleep, or pretending to be. West of the Divide, the snow had finally stopped. A bank of thick white clouds clung to the far mountaintops. Above it, an azure-tinted sky promised sunshine. From the high drifts lining the roadway, wide swathes of snow blew across the lane dividers and obscured them. I was too timid to take my eyes off the road to see if there were any signs of my accident. The last thing I needed was to total another vehicle.
Tom had called the wrecker service that dealt with near-the-tunnel mishaps and asked them to tow my van to a secure storage lot in Dillon, near the tunnel. After I finished in Killdeer, I would pick up the historic skis on the way home. We wouldn’t try to sell them again—of that I was absolutely certain.
When I made the turnoff for Killdeer, a red-tailed hawk swooped close to the Rover. I braked and Arch woke with a start. After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed to a herd of elk along a rocky stretch of road only sparsely covered with snow. Since he’d turned fourteen, he’d ceased giving direct apologies. He simply resumed speaking as if nothing had happened. While I found this disconcerting, at least it was better than silence. Eileen Druckman complained that Todd gave her the silent treatment on a daily basis.
I turned onto Camp Robber Avenue, named after a wild bird frequently seen on the slopes. The killdeer was also a bird commonly seen in our state, and its distinctive “kill-dy, kill-dy, kill-dy” call could be identified by even the most inept birders, among whom I counted myself. But the loud, invasive camp robber ruled the slopes, boldly hopping onto picnic tables, pecking at leftover hamburgers, then carrying off its booty to nearby pinetops.
I passed a series of gray, white, and beige clapboard double-wide houses, actually massive duplexes marketed as condominiums. This was a misnomer, of course. Any half-house here possessed more floor space than our Aspen Meadow home.
I was surprised to see Eileen watching at a window when I pulled into her driveway. She wore a robe undoubtedly designed by the same guy who’d dressed Elizabeth II for her coronation. I glanced at my watch: eight-thirty. I’d made great time. Still, the anxiety in Eileen’s face was worrisome. I told myself I could spend a maximum of thirty minutes here before taking off to find Arthur’s place. But it was important to check on Eileen, and comfort her if she needed it. If Todd was in one of his silent phases and Jack was cooking at the bistro, my friend could be desperate for adult conversation. I’d been there myself.
But Jack answered the door. He was certainly a handsome dude, and I wondered again—although I’d never asked Eileen—exactly what had brought the two of them together. Disheveled half-braided dark hair surrounded his pale, unshaven, impish-looking face. His lustrous dark eyes were as big as Bambi’s. His well-built, slim-hipped torso was shown off to good advantage by a turtleneck and printed chef’s pants. A voice deep in my reptilian brain announced that this guy could melt women as easily as he did butter.
“Enter, O famed culinary one,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ve made you a pecan-sour-cream coffee cake.”
I grinned back. No matter what people tell you, caterers do get hungry. Ravenous, in fact. Arch tramped up the beige wool-carpeted stairs toward Todd’s room without any kind of farewell.
“Want to have an early lunch at Cinda’s?” I called after him.
“No!” floated down the stairs.
“Meet me at Big Map at two, then, buddy!” I called up. A door slammed. At that point, I didn’t really care whether he’d heard me or not. Still, sour-cream coffee cake would do for my sudden need-to-kill-emotional-pain-with-calories.
Eileen, wearing what I now saw was a quilted pink satin robe, appeared from the living room.
“Goldy!” she exclaimed as she clasped me tight. “We’re so worried.” Her pressure on my banged-up arm made me howl with pain. Eileen pulled away. “Oh, my God, you’re hurt!”
“Just a little surface cut.” I had to get to Arthur’s, so I decided not to go into a detailed description of the van being hit.
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