Tough Cookie

“What are you doing?” I demanded of him. “Marla hates skiing.”

Tom hung up and regarded me intensely. “Yeah, but she’s a good skier, I’ve seen her. I want her there.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want Arthur Wakefield to make any unexpected moves on a caterer who’s broken into his wine cellar and riffled his papers. You better pray he didn’t discover what you did,” Tom commented as he moved off to clean himself up.

“Arthur will never know if you don’t tell him,” I shot back.

Discouraged, I scraped the moist, tender raisin rice onto a heated platter and covered it. Then I stirred the shrimp into the curry and called Todd, Arch, and Tom, who emerged showered, dressed, and smelling as sweet as ever. He seemed to have forgiven me for my morning’s escapade at Arthur’s. Or if he hadn’t, he was letting it go for now.

Everyone busied themselves with the condiments. I sprinkled peanuts onto my chutney-topped bowl of curry and took a bite. The crunch of nuts combined with the succulent shrimp robed in its spicy-hot, luscious sauce was out of this world. Tom winked at me in thanks. Somewhat dramatically, Arch announced that he and Todd would like to recite their Spenser to us tonight. They were, he informed us, splitting a stanza. I looked at Tom and he grinned. They would begin right after dinner, Arch concluded. They’d have their backs to us, though, as they couldn’t yet handle an audience’s faces.

When we’d finished, Tom scraped the dishes and insisted on washing them in the bathroom. Pretending to be flipping through a cookbook, I took surreptitious delight in watching Todd and Arch huddle over Spenser’s Complete Works.

Todd had stuck by Arch during the worst of my trials with The Jerk; in return, Arch had invited Todd to sleep over numerous nights after Eileen kicked her husband out. Todd, shorter than Arch but heavier, still had endearingly cherubic cheeks that were now deeply flushed at the prospect of performing. His unevenly shorn black hair had nothing to do with style and everything to do with his unconscious habit—developed after his father’s troubles were exposed—of tugging out his shiny curls. But he’d stopped pulling his hair out, Arch had assured me. I stared down at the cookbook, then peeked back up. Even though the two boys had gone from bikes to fantasy-role-playing games to snowboarding, they were still best friends, and I was glad of it. Friendship was a great blessing; we all needed to remember that. With a pang, I thought of Rorry.

Tom returned. The dishes were soaking in the tub. Arch announced that they were ready to begin.

“Book Five, Canto Two, Stanza Thirty-nine,” Todd began stiffly as he faced the convection oven. He cleared his throat twice, then woodenly recited:“Of things unseen how canst thou deem aright,Then answered the righteous Artegall,Since thou misdeem’st so much of things in sight?What though the sea with waves continualDo eat the earth, it is no more at all.…”

He turned and nodded uncomfortably at Arch. I held my breath and glanced at Tom. Should we be encouraging and clap at this point? Tom gave a tiny warning shake of the head. Arch stood facing the stove and began:“Nor is the earth the less, or loseth ought,For whatsoever from one place doth fall,Is with the tide unto another brought:For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”

“Excellent, Arch! Todd, wow! Fantastic!” Tom and I gushed, clapping wildly.

Todd reached up to scratch his fuzzy scalp, then remembered not to. Instead, he nabbed the Rockies baseball cap he usually wore, but had politely removed for dinner. “Thanks, Mrs. Schulz. My mom liked it, too. She said I didn’t need to work with Arch tonight, but I told her I did.” I suddenly remembered Arch’s remark—made when Jack had fixed us dinner at Eileen’s condo—that Todd spent tons of time at our house because he didn’t like Jack Gilkey. How would Todd fare if Eileen married Jack? If they did tie the knot, I only hoped poor little Todd would do better than Arthur Wakefield had.

The boys clattered off, promising to practice in front of each other. Tom disappeared, then reappeared carrying clean dishes, which he dried and clanked back onto shelves. Then he pulled out invoices to check that he’d received all the plumbing supplies he’d ordered. I stared at our shiny silver-and-white marble counters, darkly glowing cherry cabinets, and butter-golden oak floors. I had no more professional cooking to do until this week’s final PBS show.

I sighed. When I had a big event to prepare for, I always complained. Without work, I ached for it.

I quickly fixed myself a cup of cocoa. Unfortunately, the hot, creamy chocolate drink did not stave off the sudden pangs of emptiness. No work felt like no life. Whenever I was up to my elbows in coulibiac and flourless chocolate cake, I fantasized about the crocheting I would one day do, the beaches Tom and I would one day stroll. But here I was, as free as I had ever wanted to be, and my big worry was whether eight-thirty was too early to go to bed.

Outside, snow had begun to fall. I gathered my ski equipment, packed it into the Rover, and said goodnight to Tom. The boys—who had traded Elizabethan poetry for rock music—thanked me for dinner, swore they had their verses nailed, and promised to go to bed soon. I took a long, hot shower and fell into bed.

But slumber eluded me. Hours crept by as I stared at the snowflakes swirling around our street lamp. The pounding music stopped. Tom slid into bed. I did fall asleep at some point, because when the telephone jangled through my consciousness, it sounded very far away.

I blinked at the clock: The business line was ringing? At six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning? Somebody must want a catered holiday dinner wicked bad.

Tom groaned. “Want me to get it? It’s probably the department—”

“They never call on this line.” I fumbled for the receiver and mumbled my business greeting.

“Goldy Schulz of Goldilocks’ Catering? This is Reggie Dawson of the Furman County Register.” The voice was high and brittle, almost a falsetto. Reggie Dawson? I was not a regular reader of the Register, so the name rang no bells. The paper paid poorly, and staff turnover was high, I knew. Every now and then, I did an extremely low-budget going-away party for one of the reporters who’d been let go.

“You have regular business hours, Mr. Dawson?” I hissed. “Could you call me back? I’m not catering any business coffees or lunches at the moment—”

“The way I heard it, Mrs. Schulz, you might be out of the catering business entirely.”

Now he had my attention. I wished desperately we had caller ID on our phones. “What are you saying?”

“Four days ago, Douglas Portman died while skiing at Killdeer. You discovered his body, and you had prior ties to Portman.”

“So?”

“We’ve received information that you were renewing a romantic relationship with Portman. Can you confirm or deny this?”

Well! I’d watched a press conference or two in my day. “Deny,” I said fiercely.

“Were you rendezvousing with Portman because you wanted him to do something for you?”

“Like what?” My mind was reeling, and I was shivering in the early morning cold. Could there be an easy way to end this conversation? Was it better to talk to an obnoxious journalist, or cut him off? The wife of homicide investigator Thomas Schulz, local caterer Goldy Schulz, I imagined reading, whose abusive ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, is serving time for assault, refused to answer questions regarding her secret relationship with parole-board chief Douglas Portman….

Reggie Dawson persisted: “Did you bribe Portman to ensure that your ex-husband would stay incarcerated?”

“No. Of course not. Look, could you call me back—”

“Was that the favor he was going to do for you?”

“There was no favor—”

“Does your current husband, top cop Tom Schulz, know about your extramarital involvement?”

“There is no, there was no, extramarital—”

“Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?”

I didn’t answer right away, because I was not going to be interrupted again. To my surprise, this time the reporter waited for me to reply. Finally, into the lengthening silence, I said firmly, “I was skiing with Doug Portman. Period.”

“So now you’re trying to cover up your relationship with Doug Portman?”

My mind flitted to the undervaluation of the skis. “There is absolutely nothing to cover up.”

“Were you doing some kind of deal with Portman so you could bail out your failing business?”

“Now, listen here, Mr. Dawson, there is no failing business. I have a TV job in Killdeer—”

“Mrs. Schulz! Given what you’ve experienced in Killdeer, don’t you think it’s dangerous to be snooping around while your son snowboards alone?”

Icy fear washed through me. My mouth opened; no sound came out. Wording of state laws covering implied threats and explicit threats swam up from my unconsciousness.

I said, “Listen, you, you—”

But the line was dead.

Now sleep was officially impossible. Fingers shaking, I flipped through the phone book: no Reggie or R. Dawson or Dausson or anything close to it in the entire Denver metropolitan area, including all of Furman County. Tom brought me a pen and clean pad of paper. He urged me to write down every word of the conversation. While I did this, he called the department to see if they could expedite ID on the call. They promised to try.

Tom fixed me coffee, then started frying bacon for the boys. A lump had formed in my throat. I couldn’t even swallow coffee. Once the boys were digging into bacon and toast, Tom clasped my hands in his.

“Miss G. Do you want the boys to stay home while I finish the plumbing?”

The boys squealed in protest. There was nothing to do at home, and today they were supposed to get their classroom ready for the Christmas party! I said if Tom felt they would be safe, they should go to school. Tom called the department again and was assured a deputy could be sent to the school to protect some kids who’d been threatened. In response to the proliferation of high school shootings, Elk Park Prep parents had insisted on the erection of a new security gate attached to the electrified fence, and the round-the-clock presence of an armed guard in the school. Tom would also alert the guard to the possibility of danger, and instruct him to call the sheriff’s department at the first sign of suspicious activity. Okay?

“Yes. Thanks.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded full of doubt. Just before eight, Tom and the boys took off through a drapery of snowflakes. As soon as they pulled out, I called the food editor of the Furman County Register. There was no Reggie Dawson working there. Dawson could be doing something freelance, my friend added. But she doubted it.

So did I, I thought as I put on several compact discs of Christmas carols and gathered all the presents I still needed to wrap. Still, it was hard to stop thinking about the events in Killdeer. Who was my early morning caller? Why was he asking questions about my relationship with Doug Portman? Had he truly been threatening Arch? Or had I just misunderstood?

I unfurled foil paper and shiny ribbon, and began snipping, folding, and tying. Did Arthur Wakefield know that his attempt to publicize my presence at Cooking at the Top! in the Killdeer paper had backfired so miserably? On the other hand, could it have been Arthur on the phone? If what Rorry had said about the rumor mill in Killdeer was true, then anyone could know by now that my business was in jeopardy; that Arch snowboarded in Killdeer; that my ex-husband was in jail.

I labeled the gifts for Tom, Arch, Marla, and Julian, and slid them under beds and into other hiding places. Returning to the kitchen, I took out unsalted butter, sugar, flour, and double-strength vanilla, to start on the cookies for the neighbors. Still the questions from “Reggie Dawson’s” call replayed in my head.

Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County? Ridiculous, I thought, as I beat the butter and sugar into a fluffy mass. Of course not. Doug Portman had been killed before I could chat with him, sell him skis, or retrieve something from his car to show to Tom.

Once I’d mixed in the other ingredients and rolled out the dough, I stared at it. Wait a minute. Did someone think I knew what Doug Portman had been up to? Did someone think I hadn’t been there to sell Doug skis—but to do something entirely different? Like what? Act as a go-between with the police department? Expose Portman’s bribery scheme?

I put these thoughts out of my head as I cut molded stars, bells, Santas, and Christmas trees out of the smooth, buttery dough. Soon the kitchen was enveloped in the homey scent of baking sugar cookies. Once I’d cooled, frosted, and decorated the treats, I placed a dozen on each of ten paper Christmas plates, wrapped them in cellophane, and delivered them to the neighbors. My spirits soared as each neighbor offered thanks, hot cider, and hugs.

When I returned home, the phone was ringing. I picked up only to hear heavy breathing followed by a click. I pressed buttons to trace the call, then hung up and sighed.

Tom had been right to warn me to be cautious: I was finally convinced that the accident with my van had not been an accident, but a deliberate attempt to get rid of me.

CHAPTER 17

The next morning, I boarded the gondola just after ten. The previous day had ended without mishaps or additional anonymous calls. Still, all the way to Killdeer, I’d worried about Arch and whether he’d be safe at school. I’d worried whether “Reggie Dawson” would threaten, appear, bully, or harm me. Tom insisted that that kind of call was usually intended to keep someone away from an investigation. Since the caller had asked specifically about my relationship with Doug Portman, was that investigation what he wanted to keep me away from?

As the suspended car zoomed up Killdeer Mountain, I smiled politely at my fellow passengers—five chicly-clad skiers from Virginia—and reflected on what I’d learned thus far about the deaths at Killdeer. “Reggie Dawson” may have been trying to warn me away from the Portman case. But any one of his prying questions could engender negative stories about me. Publicity like that would make the reopening of Goldilocks’ Catering impossible, building code, drains, or no.

Three years ago, Fiona Wakefield and Nate Bullock had died at this resort—within hours of one another. Both deaths had occurred under mysterious circumstances. Jack Gilkey had been convicted of contributing to his wife Fiona’s death. A snowboarder accompanying Nate Bullock had vanished from the face of the earth.

Far below, out the window, I could just make out where Hot-Rodder intersected the catwalk. Hot-Rodder Run. Four days ago, Doug Portman, a not-unanimously-popular local art critic and chief of the state parole board, had died there. Portman’s death had also been shrouded in bizarre circumstances, not least of which was that someone had left him a death threat on a greeting card.

Portman must have felt law enforcement closing in on his profitable scam. Doug Portman had planned a Mexican escape—when someone closed a ski run and killed him.

Other strange occurrences might or might not be related to these three deaths, I reflected as we rolled up the last segment of snowy slope. Right after Portman was killed, someone had stolen and then returned Rorry Bullock’s Subaru. Her car might have been the one used in an attempt to dump me over a cliff. Why use Rorry’s car? What was the connection?

One ex-convict, cancer patient Barton Reed, had been denied parole by Portman, and had been mouthing public threats against him. Another ex-con, Jack Gilkey, had been terrified of what Portman’s death could imply for his future. Arthur Wakefield, son of one of the earlier victims, was enraged with Portman for letting Jack Gilkey out on parole, and was working with all his might to get his mother’s will set aside. Arthur had also been tracking Portman’s movements, and had broken into Portman’s condo to snag his mail, which included the ticket to Mexico.

The gondola car slammed open. I waited until the happy visitors had exited before I hopped out, retrieved my skis, and crunched onto the apron of snowpack surrounding the gondola structure. I stabbed my poles into the hard white surface and slotted my boots into my bindings. Let it go for now, I ordered myself. All around, enthusiastic skiers called to each other and sped off down the runs. I might not have a clue about what was going on in the Portman murder investigation, what had happened to Nate Bullock in Elk Valley, or how Fiona Wakefield had died. But I was here for the day. Inside a hooded charcoal-gray ski suit from the Aspen Meadow Secondhand Store, nobody would recognize me. It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was going to give myself the gift of having fun skiing, by golly! Sheesh.

Monday’s storm had blown eastward. Blinding sunshine flashed from between swift-scudding wisps of cloud. Whenever the sun shone, the snow turned to glitter. A gust of mountain air made my skin tingle. I took off on a blue run and felt the heady rush of sudden descent. Down right, down left, down, down, down … the skis obeyed, effortlessly whispering back, swish bend swish bend. Soon I was flying. In the best skiing, the body, mind, and skis are one. If your mind wanders, so do the skis, and your body pays.

“Hey, girlfriend! Not so fast!”

The call came from behind me. I hockey-stopped, throwing a four-foot-high wave of snow onto the yellow boundary cord, by the sign for Jitterbug Run.

“Goldy, for crying out loud!” squealed the voice. “I don’t want to hit you!”

Marla skied up beside me. I laughed and gave her a clumsy hug.

“So you’re going to be my bodyguard for the day. Is skiing a good pastime for heart-attack patients?”

“My cardiologist swears exercise is good for me.”

“And downhill skiing is okay?”

“It’s better than skateboarding, which I told him was my first choice.” Marla’s chosen attire for the slopes this morning was an ultraglamorous one-piece purple ski suit twinkling with shiny yellow squares. With this she wore a bright purple-and-yellow ski hat, streamlined yellow goggles, custom-made boots, and what looked like a new pair of skis.

I asked, “How’d you know where to find me?”

“I remembered the runs we took last year. Plus, Tom said you’d be dressed like a piece of granite.” She grinned. “So when is this dangerous lunch? I’m starving. Oh, and I called Eileen. After lunch, she’s going to tag along with us on her snowboard. We’re supposed to meet her at two at the bistro.”

Oh, brother. “Is Jack coming with her?”

Marla wrinkled her nose as she readjusted her goggles. “Not sure. I hope not. I don’t want some hotshot skier making me feel old.”

“Let’s go then, ancient one.”

We flowed into a rhythm of long slaloms. Marla really was a marvelous skier. She held herself confidently, maneuvering with adept turns and aggressive grace over the bumps. Her chief objections to the sport were the cold and the crowds. As neither was a problem this day, we could swoosh past each other, laugh, and feel the exhilaration of blue skies, smooth slopes, and speed. Finally we pulled up by a black square denoting an advanced run.

“Race ya,” she squealed.

“No way.”

“One, two, three, go!”

And we were off. Two minutes later we collapsed at the bottom. Marla had beaten me handily. We giggled all the way down the catwalk to the gondola.

On the way back up, we had a car to ourselves, and I quickly filled her in on what I’d learned about the Bullocks: the artificial insemination, Rorry’s suspicions about Nate’s infidelity. Marla looked dubious. As far as she knew, Nate Bullock had not been having an affair. Then again, they had not moved in the same circles.

“So pregnant Rorry is the one I’m supposed to be protecting you from today?” she demanded. “That’s why Tom called and asked me to keep you secure?”

I laughed. Since we were lunching with Arthur, I couldn’t tell her about my surreptitious foray into his wine cellar, and risk she’d make a verbal slip. “Tom just worries about me since the van accident. Plus, Arthur makes both of us a little nervous.”

“I will protect you!” Marla vowed as she took off down the slope.

We skied three more fast runs before heading for the Summit Bistro. I’d forewarned Marla that Arthur wasn’t expecting her, in case he was less than charming. But when we stomped through the wooden doors, Arthur, leaning against a stucco wall by the ski boot check, grinned broadly.

“Do you enjoy wine?” he asked Marla solicitously after I’d introduced them.

“I used to, but it doesn’t go with my heart medication,” she replied with a twinkly smile. “But if you recommend a particular vintage, I’ll order a case for my cardiologist.”

“Let’s go, then,” Arthur said as he whisked us toward the table he’d chosen. To Marla, he murmured, “Remind me if there’s a retail wine merchant in Aspen Meadow.…”

When our waitress appeared, Marla ordered shrimp brochettes with no oil and no butter. Arthur said he’d have the same, but with the fats. He cheerfully pulled a large silver flask from his pack while I ordered vegetarian chili in a bread bowl. For someone commemorating the anniversary of a tragic death, I thought he seemed awfully chipper.

“Arthur,” I began, “I know this day is significant for you, I mean with your mother—”

“Wait a minute, I know you!” Marla cried. Folks at neighboring tables glanced our way. Marla, unfazed, continued: “Your mother was Fiona Wakefield. Fiona and I used the same hair colorist in Denver.”

Arthur unscrewed the flask. “How long ago was this?” he asked evenly.

“Four years.” Marla reflected momentarily, then plunged on. “So you’re the one who works with Goldy on the PBS show?”

Arthur nodded and poured equal amounts of red wine into the bowls of two wineglasses on the table. “A robust Côtes du Rhône,” he intoned reverently, placing a glass in front of me. Well, I guess this was going to be one of those rare times when I had wine with lunch. Anything for the client, as they say.

Marla exclaimed, “Now I’m putting it all together! Fiona used to tell me about your work. These days, Goldy keeps me up to date. I just didn’t connect the two.”

Arthur lifted his glass. “To the memory of my mother Fiona,” he intoned.

Marla snagged her water glass. The three of us clinked glasses solemnly. The wine was very good. Arthur used words like fruity, perfect for a picnic. After a few swigs, even Arthur’s ability to irritate me faded. I had a sudden warm vision of the three of us enjoying a wine-tasting tour of France. Another sip or two, and I was thinking maybe I could beat Marla if we took that advanced run again!

“How well did you know Mother?” Arthur asked Marla.

“Not that well,” Marla replied. “I remember how proud of you she was. Fiona used to say there were only a handful of people in the world who were able to make the kind of wine-tasting distinctions her son could.”

Arthur blushed. Why had I never thought of laying a little flirtatious flattery on my wine-importing floor director? No question about it, Marla was in her element. Flirting with Arthur was her way of playing bodyguard.

I smiled a little too broadly and a headache loomed from nowhere. Unfortunately, no basket of bread and plate of butter pats graced our table. I’d skied four runs and chugged a glass and a half of red wine on an empty stomach. Tipsiness, apparently, was one of the consequences of stupidity.

Which brought me to the question of exactly how much wine Fiona had drunk just before she died three years ago. I wondered what the chances were that Arthur would share that information with me.

“Ah, Arthur,” I asked, forcing myself to focus on the business at hand, “didn’t you want to talk to me about this week’s show? We wouldn’t want to repeat what happened last time, when there was so much disorganization, and then Doug Portman—”

“We can’t tape on Friday, which is Christmas Eve.” He stopped to pour himself more wine. I covered my glass with my hand.

“Not tape Christmas Eve,” I repeated. “Good idea. So—?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” replied Arthur. He tore his eyes away from Marla. “Taping will be at four. Arrive by three-thirty. Can you manage it? Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you how well my wine-tasting went.” He dipped into his backpack again and handed me an envelope. “This is your check.”

I thanked him and zipped the check into my ski jacket pocket. “So, tomorrow,” I prompted him, “what will we be doing?”

“We don’t want to guilt-trip folks to buy turkeys at the last minute. Could you do a very simple holiday breakfast? No eggs to coddle, no casserole to bake. An easy bread recipe, if that would work. And your wonderful oatmeal. Then you can wiggle your hips over a big bowl of sliced fruit and some hot, sizzling Canadian bacon. Voilà! Merry Christmas.”

“No problem,” I replied, despite the fact that no easy bread recipe leapt to mind. But I had learned not to voice worries to Arthur. I looked around again for our waitress, so I could beg for a bread basket. She was nowhere in sight. My eyes caught a glimpse of someone else, though, and my skin pricked with gooseflesh.

Barton Reed sat hunched at a table next to a window. He was staring out at the gondola, the ski racks, and the folks making their way to the bistro. Just the way he had at Cinda’s Cinnamon Stop, he was clutching something in his hand and seemed to be looking for someone—someone in particular. When he turned to scan the restaurant, I ducked.

The waitress placed sputtering kabobs of grilled shrimp, cherry tomatoes, and onion quarters in front of Marla and Arthur, and a bread bowl heaped with steaming chili in front of me. While she was placing a basket of rolls onto the table, I glanced uneasily at Barton, whose earrings sparkled in the chandeliers’ light. He had poured a bottle of Mexican beer into a tall glass and was sipping it while keeping his eyes glued to the out-of-doors. One of Reggie Dawson’s questions played through my mind: Were you meeting Portman because you wanted him to do something for you?

What exactly did Barton Reed want?’

“Actually,” Arthur was saying to Marla, “I was going to take Goldy to that very spot after lunch. Would you like to come?”

I tried to ignore Marla cooing at Arthur that it would mean so much to her to be included! I spooned up some chili. It was a hearty mixture of corn, pinto beans, black beans, and tomato, all wrapped in a spicy south-of-the-border sauce. I wondered if I could duplicate it.

And it was pretty good with the Côtes du Rhône, I had to admit, although I knew better than to drink any more of the fruity wine. I sipped water while polishing off the chili as Marla told Arthur about her pre-heartattack holiday in Provence. Arthur listened devotedly, asking if she’d tried this, that, or the other wine. We ordered coffee as Arthur delved into a narrative of a tasters’ boat ride he’d done in Germany, along the Rhine.

“Don’t fall for this guy,” I murmured to Marla as we retrieved our ski boots. “I’m not sure he’s aboveboard.”

She tugged her purple-and-yellow hat over her curls. “Jeez, not to worry! I’m trying to protect you!”

Arthur joined us before I could reply. “Now, where’d I leave my skis?” he asked as we came out the bistro door.

Just then, a gaggle of boisterous six-year-olds pushed toward the three of us. Marla teetered away as two of them elbowed past. Arthur reached out to help Marla get her balance. Unfortunately, he miscalculated his momentum, overcompensated to avoid collapsing on the kids, and careened into me instead. With a clattering of ski boots and a flurry of hats, goggles, and mittens, Arthur, Marla, and I spilled ass-over-teakettle down the metal steps.

“Wipeout!” the kids chorused gleefully.

Arthur muttered evil words in the direction of the ski school instructor, who swiftly shepherded his young class away before more damage could be done.

“Maybe you should have some more coffee,” I said to Arthur. “After all that wine—”

“Maybe that instructor should control his group!”

“Arthur—”

“Let’s go!” As if to prove he was fine, he took wide, purposeful steps in the direction of the racks.

Once we were buckled into our skis, Arthur announced that we needed to head down Bighorn, a black run, to get to the overlook. He added that we’d be able to switch over to a green—easy—run, aptly named Easy-as-Pie, once we left the overlook. To my surprise, he schussed expertly to the top of Bighorn and waved for us to follow.

“As long as it gets us to Big Map by two,” Marla replied loudly.

Bighorn turned out to be a precipitous mogul field. The bumpy slope was so steep you couldn’t see past the first two hundred feet, where it curved to the right. Taut cords marking the out-of-bounds wooded areas bordered the slopes. When surveying the moguls, I tried to rid myself of the unhappy thought that each one represented a skier’s grave mound.

Arthur maneuvered nimbly through the bumps. He jumped and turned, jumped and turned, as if he were having great fun. I knew the strength it took to keep one’s skis rigidly parallel, as he did, to plant one’s pole with great exactness in the middle of each mogul. He was an expert, there was no doubt about it.

At the far right and left of runs like this, there was usually a narrow, smooth path without moguls. With misgivings, I pushed off behind Marla, and the two of us executed short, tight slaloms down the run’s right side. Fiona and Jack, I reflected as cold wind slapped my face, must have been very good skiers.

Finally, we came around the curve on the empty run. Arthur loomed in front of us. He looked creepily triumphant. I was suddenly glad Tom had asked Marla to accompany me. The enigmatic Arthur Wakefield, an unexpectedly strong skier, could definitely mow someone down. His hand pulled up the boundary rope. He was not even remotely out of breath.

“This way, ladies,” he announced as he pointed to a slender trail winding through thickening pines. Beyond the trees lay a glimpse of blue sky. “This only goes about twenty yards, then you’re on the overlook.” He pointed to a wider, more gently sloping path. There were logs piled across it. “The ski patrol blocked off the old path.”

“This is illegal,” I commented to Arthur as we ducked the rope. “Ever heard of the Skier Safety Act, boss? We could be ticketed and thrown off the slope for the day. Or worse.”

“I know,” Arthur replied grimly. “Don’t I know.”

I summoned a firm voice. “Would you go first, please?” He shot me another skeptical look, then skied ahead on the two-foot-wide trail through the trees.

Marla poled her way up next to me. She was breathing hard. She peered in disbelief at the path Arthur had just taken. “What is this, a frigging obstacle course?”

The ground on the trail path alternated between deep clumps of snow and slick ice. I carefully made my way over the bumps. With my goggles on, the scarce sunshine in the woods brought sudden twilight. I had agreed to come here because I wanted to know more about Arthur and the deaths three years ago. But I was wary, and intended to remain extremely cautious.

Soon the trees opened onto a granite ledge. I slid to a stop on the ice-covered outcropping. Realizing I was just fifteen feet from the edge of the precipice sent my heart into my throat. I breathed deeply to steady myself; my eyes watered from the frigid wind. Despite the danger nearby, the panoramic sweep of snowcapped peaks, forested valleys, and ice-sculpted ravines was undeniably stunning. To our left, skiers in a back bowl resembled gnats floating down a hill.

“Wow,” said Marla. “I never knew this view was here.”

“The ski patrol doesn’t want you to know,” Arthur told her. “That’s why they closed the old path.” He pointed to smoke rising from a small building on a hill to our right. The plain beige edifice, which looked as if it had once stood in the middle of a forest, was now surrounded by hundreds of tree stumps. “That’s the expansion area. The resort is under tight construction-loan deadlines, so they’re working night and day to clear it. Killdeer needs to start lift construction in the spring. Over there,” he added, pointing to a small cabin at the edge of the construction area, “Killdeer Corp has stationed a full-time security guard, just in case any environmentalists take violent exception to the expansion plans.”

He raised his eyebrows at us and pointed higher up the peak to the right of the construction area. That mountain featured a bare shelf of trees clustered around a sheer dropoff. “That’s Elk Ridge,” said Arthur. “The steep area below the ring of woods is a leeward-facing, thirty-two-degree slope.” He swept his mittened hand down to a wide, partially wooded, gently sloping valley below the ridge. It looked like a postcard of a pristine, snowy meadow. “That’s where the avalanche came down three years ago, the one that killed Nate Bullock.” Moving parallel to the dropoff near us, Arthur worked his way to the edge. I stayed put and motioned for Marla, standing next to me, to do the same.

“Not to worry,” she muttered, her eyes on the perilous drop-off. Arthur kept moving forward.

“Careful, Arthur.” The words were out of my mouth before I noticed. Motherly habits die hard.

Arthur knelt on his skis and gestured to the area below the dropoff. “There,” he said, “is where Jack Gilkey pushed my mother to her death. In court, Jack insisted I’d given her too much to drink, that someone—me, he meant to imply—came out of the trees and hit him so hard with a rock that he fell unconscious into the snow. Then whoever this Mr. Atlas was, he pushed my mother over the edge.” He looked at us. “Do you actually think one person could incapacitate a strong man and push an athletic woman to her death?”

“It’s possible,” I said grimly, thinking back to the terrible stories of spouse abuse and murder that I’d heard since my years of ridding myself of The Jerk. Arthur gave me a black look.

“No, Arthur, Goldy doesn’t think one person could do all that,” Marla said hastily. “Let’s go back.”

I asked sympathetically, “How much wine had Jack given your mother at lunch?”

He shrugged. “Three glasses of a spätlese Riesling that I’d recommended. And no, I wouldn’t have given them a bottle if I’d known he was going to taunt her to race here. Race here? Why would you do something so foolish?”

Why indeed? I murmured that I did not know, and recalled Jack’s claim that Fiona had initiated the race idea. And I’d believed his explanation: that his wife had had too much to drink, that she had challenged him—her young, virile husband—to race to a dangerous spot, to prove—or so it seemed—that she, too, was young, virile, and sexy, since she was willing to take risks.

That weirdly victorious expression again swept over Arthur’s face. “Don’t you want to see what those articles were talking about, Goldy? The articles you thought I left for you?”

“She doesn’t.” Marla said it firmly. “And if she gets any closer to that edge, I’ll have another heart attack.”

Arthur took a last long look over the side of the outcropping, his face unreadable, then got to his feet and skied quickly past us, toward the run. When we found our way out—Arthur checked for lurking ski patrol members before we sneaked back onto Bighorn—he showed us how to get onto Easy-as-Pie. “Matter of minutes.” He turned back to the rope. “I’m going back in for a bit.”

Marla and I shook our heads in sympathy … and bafflement. Arthur nodded to us, as if he’d made the point he intended to make. He asked me to call him that night about the exact menu they’d put on the graphic for the next show, then scooted under the rope. Soon he disappeared through the trees.

“That guy is weird,” Marla commented as she adjusted her goggles. “Plus, he drinks too much.”

Eileen was waiting for us at Big Map; she waved enthusiastically as we skied up. Wearing a skintight royal blue ski suit and a red-and-royal-blue tasseled dunce cap, she looked the epitome of cute as a button. No matter what Arthur Wakefield thought of Jack Gilkey, he had clearly wrought a transformation in Marla’s and my old friend.

“Come on, come on, we don’t have much time,” Eileen chided gaily. “Jack’s going to meet us at the bistro at twenty to three. Feel okay on Mission Hill? It’s a very smoothly groomed intermediate run.”

Marla and I said Mission Hill sounded fine. With our skis stored in the gondola rack, and Eileen’s snowboard lying across half her metal seat, we rumbled back up the mountain. Once we’d unloaded and found the run, it was just a matter of minutes before the three of us were laughing and shouting, spraying snow on each other, and yelling “Wahoo!” every time we sped past each other down the slope.

Jack Gilkey caught up with us the second time we ascended in the gondola. Under her breath, Marla muttered, “I’d forgotten how yummy-looking that guy is.” Jack, dressed in a fashionable beige-and-black ski suit and a dunce cap to match Eileen’s, seemed cordial, even a tad shy, toward Marla and me. His solicitude and affection for Eileen was obvious. I watched as he cautioned her to slow down, sternly, like the mother hen Arch often accused me of being.

Eileen knew how to ride a snowboard, I’d give her that. She must have been practicing every day for years to be able to make the jumping, leaping, twisting moves she did that afternoon. Marla and I laughed at her antics, while Jack skied cautiously behind her. Maybe this trying-to-prove-you’re-virile thing was a universal phenomenon in May-September relationships. Who knew? They were having a great time. We all were.

One thing about intermediate ski slopes: There’s a lot of yelling. Kids call to their parents to wait for them, and vice versa. Usually it’s all good fun. Sometimes it isn’t. Husbands and wives scream at each other to speed up or slow down. Ski school instructors try to keep their charges in an orderly line behind them, calling out directions like a caterpillar head noisily instructing its lengthy tail.

An occasional skier wears a Walkman, even though it’s illegal. These skiers want to block out the noise, or time their ski maneuvers to the bars of Strauss waltzes or Three Dog Night. I don’t listen to a Walkman, but I do ignore the yelling. It’s distracting and can make you fall.

So I didn’t hear a bawled caution. At least, not the first one.

Yelled warnings of “Look out! Move! Get out of the way!” finally got my attention, however. I brushed snow from my goggles but couldn’t see what the problem was. I skied to the far side of the run. More screaming erupted as I looked up the hill and tried to determine the source of the commotion.

In her sparkly suit, Marla was easy to spot on the opposite side of the run. A ski school class had stopped in its tracks. A gaggle of snowboarders in backward baseball caps flew down beside me. Further up the slope, a lone snowboarder was hurtling down the hill. He was headed toward a skiing couple not far from me.…

The startled couple moved one way, then another to get out of the speeding snowboarder’s way. Each time they sped up and turned to avoid him, he changed direction. It was like watching a torpedo homing in on a target.

The couple, I suddenly realized with horror, was Eileen and Jack.

“Eileen!” I screamed. “Jack! Get out of the way! Move!” What could I do? “Hey, snowboarder!” I shrieked. “Stop!”

Eileen and Jack turned back, then started to scoot toward the trees. Down the boarder came, faster and faster. Was he drunk? Was he crazy?

The snowboarder hit Eileen and Jack with all the force of a speeding bowling ball. Two bodies went flying. The big boarder struggled to right himself, then kept going down the hill. As he came nearer, I feared for a moment he was going to hit me, too. Then I realized he was slowing down.

He stopped inches away from the tips of my skis. Then, almost in slow motion, he toppled sideways and then backward into the snow. Cautiously, I made my way to his side.

When I removed his dark goggles, Barton Reed’s eyes were closed. The sound of wailing drifted down the hill. Jack Gilkey was crying, calling desperately for help. He was leaning over a blue-clad body sprawled in the snow.

Eileen.

CHAPTER 18

The ski patrol took Eileen and Barton down the mountain in sleds. The two patrol members would tell us only that Eileen was unconscious. Barton was nearly so, and had a broken leg. How fast was the boarder going, the patrol wanted to know? As fast as any downhill racer I’ve ever seen on television, I told them. It wasn’t the kind of collision where folks get covered with snow. It was the kind of crash that leaves limp bodies. Lifeless bodies.

The patrol wouldn’t let us near Jack, whom two other patrolmen were treating for shock. Marla and I got permission to leave and skied down. As we lugged our equipment to our cars, I filled her in on what I knew about Barton Reed. That he was a convict. That he was in remission from cancer. That he had had a possibly deadly resentment for Doug Portman, and apparently also had it in for Eileen or Jack or both.

We headed eastward in convoy, Marla in her four-wheel-drive Mercedes behind the Rover. Overhead, two Flight-for-Life helicopters thundered eastward. The ski patrol members had told us where Eileen and Barton were being taken: Lutheran Medical Center in Wheat Ridge, northwest of Denver. I tried to keep my eyes on the road while punching in our home number on the cellular.

“Eileen’s been hit,” I began without preamble when Tom answered. “On the slopes. I saw it coming. I didn’t—” My voice cracked. “I couldn’t do anything.”

“Slow down, Miss G. Someone hit Eileen? What was it, a skiing accident? Is she all right?”

“She’s unconscious. Oh, Tom. Barton Reed hit her. He was watching for her and then he hit her. With his snowboard. It was deliberate. I saw it.” Emotion closed my throat. I struggled for control and said: “The helo’s taking her to Lutheran now. Reed, too. Oh, Tom, why would he do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. Look, Wheat Ridge is in Jefferson. I’ll call someone from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department to be there at the hospital when they arrive. You … think I should pick up Todd from school and bring him down? What about Arch?”

Of course Todd should go to his mother. I told Tom so. “But I have to warn you, she looked terrible. All limp. Would you …” I couldn’t say it. Tears welled in my eyes. “Would you see if … if the priest from St. Luke’s can come down, too?” Best to prepare for the worst.

Ninety minutes later, Marla and I careened side by side into a hospital parking lot. Belatedly, I realized I’d tossed my ski boots in the Rover’s hatch and driven to Wheat Ridge in my socks. By the time I’d tied up my sneakers, Marla was opening the Range Rover door and peering inside.

“Goldy? Can we walk in there instead of running? I can feel my blood pressure rising.”

“You shouldn’t go in. Just stay out here and relax.”

“Are you kidding? The best place to be when you’re having a heart attack is inside the hospital.”

“Marla—”

“I am kidding.” We walked across the snowpacked road to the hospital. Low, dark clouds obscured the view of the Front Range. Marla asked, “Did you see what happened?” I nodded, and she went on: “I’ve been thinking about it all the way over here. Like TV. Instant replay.” She shuddered. “It wasn’t what it seemed.”

The automatic doors opened. A rush of warm antiseptic air washed over us as we entered the high-ceilinged hush of the hospital’s lobby. As we headed for the information desk, I asked, “Wasn’t what it seemed in what way?”

Marla faced me. “That snowboarder, the one you said you knew? Barton Reed. He was headed for Jack. Not Eileen.”

“How’d he miss?”

“Who knows? I saw it right from the start. Reed was perched at the top of the run. Eileen had boarded to the side. Jack was traversing the run. Reed took off toward Eileen. But he was on a snowboard. To gain momentum, he would have to go fast one way, then turn, still cruising fast, and fly over to hit Jack. Jack was too far away for Reed to go straight down the fall line to whack him.” I suppose I looked puzzled, because she continued: “Goldy, listen. A snowboard is different from skis that way. To build up momentum, if he was aiming for Eileen, he would have gone left, not right, and then doubled back to hit her.”

I struggled to recall what I’d seen. I didn’t know enough about snowboarding to analyze the way Barton Reed had come down the slope. Had Jack seen the danger? I thought he’d reversed direction to protect Eileen, or at least to get her out of harm’s way. Had he been trying to protect himself instead?

The woman at the information desk informed us that Eileen Druckman was in critical but stable condition in Intensive Care. Internal injuries, head injuries, what? I pressed. The woman replied that she did not know. Starting soon, Eileen could have family-member visits, two people at a time, for ten minutes per hour. As Marla and I rolled up the elevator to Intensive Care, I again tried to dredge up the memory of precisely what I’d seen on Killdeer Mountain. If you didn’t know much about snowboarding—and I didn’t—interpretation was not possible. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how much Marla knew about snowboarding, either.

Plus, what did I really know about any relationship between Barton Reed and Jack Gilkey? When I’d dropped Arch off on Saturday morning, Jack had known about Reed’s sentence. He’d also known that Portman denied Reed parole.

I had never thought to ask how he’d come by his information.

Tom and Arch were standing in the ICU waiting room when we arrived. Todd, though, was nowhere in sight. I was so happy to see Arch I hugged him before he could protest.

“Mom. Please. Stop.”

“I’ve been worried about you.”

“Why? I wasn’t skiing. I was in school.” I must have looked defeated because he made his tone brighter, more comforting. “It’s okay. A nurse just came out and told us Eileen’s awake, but real weak. She’s got a concussion. Todd’s in there with her. Oh, and Tom says that Todd can stay with us. You know, indefinitely. Until his mom’s better.”

“Of course he can.”

Arch’s smile was joyful. He adored company. Then he hrumphed and raised an eyebrow at me. “Jack’s in there with her, too. Crying, crying, like a big baby. And he’s not even a family member.”

“Well, hon …” I couldn’t think of what to say.

Tom came to my rescue. “I’d love a hug.” He wrapped me in his arms. The relief of his company was exquisite. “The priest was in a counseling session and couldn’t come. But I promised I’d call the church phone with updates.” I murmured that that was fine. With Eileen conscious and being cared for, I wasn’t quite so panicked.

“Hey, Arch, old buddy,” Marla interjected. I’d almost forgotten she was beside me. “I’ve spent so much time here in Lutheran Hospital I know the location of every place where candy, cookies, and soda pops are sold. What’s more,” she added as she drew her leather change purse from a pocket and jangled it, “I have the means of entry. I do need company, however.”

With little success, Arch again tried to hide a smile. “All right.” To Tom and me he announced, “I’ll bring Todd something, too.”

As soon as they left the waiting room, I ran Marla’s theory about the accident by Tom.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Did you think Barton was aiming for Jack?” I mumbled that I did not know enough about the dynamics of snowboarding. Tom drew his cellular out of his pocket and punched buttons. Jail, he mouthed to me. While he was on hold, a large Hispanic family entered the waiting room. All looked desperately nervous and worried. I counted the number of kids and adults and matched it to the available seats—an old caterer’s habit—and realized not all of them would be able to sit down while awaiting the fate of their loved one, because Todd and Arch had left their books, schoolbags, coats, and other paraphernalia all over the place.

Since Tom was still on the phone, I moved the boys’ stuff. Whether the two of them would do any school-work while we were here was extremely doubtful. When I tried to lug the huge load over to our couch, the cursed quantum mechanics spattered-cookie-sheet experiment crashed from a bag, spewing thousands of bits of dried frosting all over the waiting-room carpet. A stray chunk pelted the eye of a twentyish male member of the Spanish-speaking family, and he cried out. I snagged some tissues and hurried over to his side, mumbling one of the few Spanish phrases I knew: “Lo siento, lo siento.” I’m sorry. He grinned and wiped his eye. My Spanish was very rusty, but it seemed the rest of his family was reprimanding him for overreacting, clucking to each other that Diego was such a crybaby. I told him again that I was sorry, and Diego announced in perfect English: “No problem. I was just surprised.”

Oh-kay. I returned to where the cookie sheet was perched beneath a mountain of school equipment. When I tried to extract it, Arch’s Spenser book toppled from his bag, pulverizing several hundred of the hardened icing pieces. I stomped to Tom’s side and savagely threw the remaining books and bags onto the couch. Except for Diego, the Hispanic family watched open-mouthed, certain, I was sure, that I had a relative in emergency psychiatric care.

Amused and still on hold on the telephone, Tom gave a silent clap to my temperamental performance until he finally reached the person he was seeking. He asked about the location and duration of incarceration for Jack Gilkey and Barton Reed. He drew out his spiral notebook and jotted down something, thanked the person providing the information, then disconnected.

“Four years ago,” Tom told me in a low voice, “Cañon City was already running well over capacity. That’s when Reed began serving his fraud conviction. Because there was no room for him at the state prison, he was incarcerated at the Furman County Jail. And you already know that when Gilkey was found guilty of criminally negligent homicide two years ago, he was also sent to the county jail. They were in the same section, on the same floor, as John Richard Korman.” He flipped his notebook closed. “So you have to figure Gilkey hadn’t just heard a story about Reed being denied parole. He knew the story because they knew each other. When Jack was granted parole, I bet it didn’t go over too well with the former champion snowboarder.”

“Darn it,” I grumped, as frustrated by this information as I was with the schoolbook mess. “If only the Furman County cops could get evidence to see if Portman was dirty. The guy must have kept records. Well, maybe not. But if Barton Reed had some information about Jack Gilkey, or Doug Portman, that we could get out of him, it sure would answer a lot of questions.” And deal with the early-morning innuendoes from Reggie Dawson, I added silently.

Tom raised his bushy eyebrows. “Our guys are going through forty-six boxes of military memorabilia, Miss G. Lotta stuff in there, lotta places to hide things like files or computer disks.”

“I know, I know. But the more I try to figure out what happened with Doug Portman, the more questions come up. What’s the truth about the death of Fiona Wakefield?” I looked out the waiting-room window. Dark, silver-edged clouds did not spell anything but more snow. “Who triggered the avalanche that killed Nate? Or was it even triggered by a person? If it was, where is that person? Why did Barton Reed try to kill somebody today? And exactly whom did he try to kill? Doggone it!”

Tom shook his head. “I forgot to tell you, that collage lady called you today. Boots Faraday. Wants to see you the next time you come to Killdeer. You’re supposed to give her a call.”

“Oh, peachy. I can’t wait.” I thought for a minute. “Have your guys talked to Barton Reed?”

“Not sure.”

“May I visit him? Am I allowed to?”

Tom pursed his lips and considered. Finally he said, “You can visit him. But he’s got a badly broken leg, he’s lost some blood, and he’s in pretty bad shape. He’s immobilized and can’t hurt you. I don’t want you hurting him, though.” I gave him a sour look. “If Reed gets better, he may face criminal charges for assault,” he told me, then paused. “There’s a Jeffco deputy at his door. Room ten-nineteen. The deputy knows me, just tell him you’re my wife. The only person I’ve told him not to let in is Jack Gilkey.”

I didn’t need prodding. Tom promised he’d take care of Arch and Marla, and especially Todd, when they returned.

At the door of 1019, I identified myself to a young Jefferson County deputy and asked to see Barton Reed. The deputy inquired about ID, meticulously scrutinized my driver’s license, then told me to go on in. I knocked gently. From within came a groan.

If Reed didn’t want company, I would leave immediately. Even aggressively snowboarding convicts deserved hospital privacy. I pushed open the surprisingly heavy metal door.

A single small light illuminated the form in the bed. Barton Reed’s right leg was thickly bandaged and suspended. His head and left arm were also swathed in gauze. Flecks of dried blood clung to his forehead and cheek. All of his jewelry had been removed; tiny dark holes freckled his ears. The earrings lay in a dish on a metal bureau. On top was a silver cross on a tarnished chain.

“Barton?” I whispered.

He was breathing heavily. “Henh?”

“Do you want me to leave? I’m just here to visit.”

He mumbled something that sounded like, “Who you?”

“Goldy Schulz,” I replied. I moved closer to the bed so he could see me. One of his eyelids was blackened, swollen shut. The other eye—clouded and blue— opened and regarded me blearily. I went on: “I first saw you last summer. At Aspen Meadow Health Foods. You were getting an herbal cancer treatment.” He shook his head, and I wondered how much painkiller they’d given him. “And I was at Killdeer today. I saw the accident.”

His groan was deep and guttural. “You from … the church?”

The question took me back. “The church?”

His face was sheened with sweat. “I’m gonna die.”

“Of course you’re not,” I said, panicked. “Let me call a doc—”

“Nah.” The sole blue eye assessed me. “Why’re you here?”

“I just wanted to see you—”

He sighed. “Is she dead?”

I swallowed, then said, “Who?”

“Lady I hit.” His bulging eye questioned me.

The lady I hit? So he didn’t know Eileen Druckman? Had he not been aiming directly for her? “No. She’s hurt, but hanging in there.”

“Is he … dead?”

I hesitated again, torn between wanting to get information and trying to be pastoral to a man who believed he was dying. “Who?”

“Kee-rist! You an owl or somethin’?” This question sent him into a fit of spasmodic coughing.

“Gilkey?” I said when his paroxyms abated. “Were you aiming for Jack Gilkey?”

Reed started coughing again. “Is he dead?” he repeated hoarsely.

“Do you mean Jack Gilkey? No, he’s not dead. Do you mean Doug Portman? Yes. Did you hit him, too, the way you hit that lady?”

“I’m dying,” Barton Reed repeated dully. “There’s no hope.”

“There’s always hope.”

He turned his head away.

Since he didn’t seem to want to talk about Jack Gilkey or Doug Portman, I said brightly, “You’re quite a snowboarder. Maybe when you get better—”

“She wouldn’t do the half-pipe with me anymore. Said she was hurt but that was … crap. Just chickened out.”

I knew better than to say Who? a third time. I decided to try the Rogerian technique, one of the few remembered remnants from a mostly-useless psych degree. The famous shrink Carl Rogers had maintained that you should always repeat what the patient says. See where it leads. I repeated dutifully, “She said she was hurt.”

“She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened.”

“It never happened.”

“Is there an echo in here?” Barton turned from the window and batted his good eye at me. A puzzled look came over his face. “Is he dead? I gotta know.”

I folded my hands and tried to think of what to say. Barton Reed was confused. He was convinced he was at death’s door. He craved information or absolution or something, and I just didn’t know how to provide it.

He groaned. “You from the church?” he repeated.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then pray for me.”

I took his bandaged hand in both of mine and clasped it. No matter what, give what you’ve got, Rorry and I always told our class. God can take a couple of sardines and five hard rolls and turn it into a feast, and God can help you pray with an incoherent criminal in physical and spiritual pain.

“Our Father,” I began; he mouthed most of the prayer with me. When we finished, he was asleep, and I hadn’t learned who “he” was in his insistent question: Is he dead? I figured I could come back and visit him the next day, and hope he’d be more coherent.

But it did not happen. The next morning, Tom and I received a call: Barton Reed had died of a heart attack at midnight.

CHAPTER 19

That morning, Thursday, after we got the call, I prayed for Barton Reed. Then I cleared my mind and did my yoga before pulling myself into the shower. I couldn’t focus. Again and again I saw Barton Reed, crouched, hell-bent, racing down the slope, sending Eileen sprawling. The previous night, I had not been allowed to see Eileen. The doctor told Todd his mother was doing so well she could probably be out of Intensive Care today. Todd, subdued and shaken, had come home with us. He’d spent the night in Arch’s room, in Julian’s old bed.

Jack Gilkey, his eyes red and swollen, had informed us that he was spending the night at the hospital. He asked Tom to call the bistro so someone else could do the lunch shift the next day. Before we left Lutheran, the Hispanic family took notice of poor Jack. They told us the grandfather of their clan had been in a car accident, and they, too, would be spending the night in the waiting room. Diego offered Jack hot homemade tamales. The last I saw of Jack, he was holding a tamale in one hand and a Dos Equis in the other.

Now, as I toweled off, I wondered how he was doing. Sleeping on a couch always seems convenient until you’ve done it for six or eight hours. I slipped into warm clothes and descended to the kitchen. Tom, who was poring over a plumbing manual, set it down to fix me a double espresso topped with a soft dollop of whipped cream. I sipped it and stared out the bay window in my no-longer-commercial kitchen. Too much had happened. Too many people had been hurt. No break, no light, appeared on the horizon. Outside, as if echoing my gloom, a steady snowfall that had begun during the night showed no sign of letting up.

“I’m taking the boys to school,” Tom announced. “They want breakfast at McDonald’s first. Can I bring you something?”

“No, thanks. Are they sure they want to eat out? I have to put together breakfast dishes for today’s show, and I can offer them something good in about half an hour.…”

Tom touched my shoulder. “Todd says he doesn’t want to sit around. He’s asked the doctor to call him at school if there is an emergency.” He smiled mischievously. “And both boys are desperate to get their Spenser presentation over with so they can have their Christmas party. Nothing like the lure of Christmas cookies.”

“Oh, Lord!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to make anything—”

Tom picked up a foil-covered platter from the marble counter and crinkled up a corner. Underneath the silvery wrapping lay dozens of crisp brown Chocolate Coma Cookies, each one studded with dried tart cherries, toasted almonds, and dark chocolate chips.

“What in the—?”

“Miss G., you wanted your recipe tested, didn’t you? After I finished putting in the drains—”

“Tom! You’re done?”

“ ‘O, ye of little faith,’ ” he began as the boys catapulted into the kitchen howling that they’d fed the animals, could they please go get some breakfast burritos? Todd and Arch both seemed better, each buoyed by the other’s presence, each enthusiastic about the prospect of their upcoming holiday party. They did not want to discuss Eileen’s condition, but only asked me to send them good vibes for their presentation. I promised I would.

Tom set two cookies on a small china plate and left it by my espresso. The crunch of almonds, tang of cherries, and rich, luscious chocolate woke me right up. I decided to call the upcoming day’s TV menu “Feel-Your-Oats Holiday Breakfast.” Rashers of crisp Canadian bacon, a bowl of icy vanilla yogurt, and a mountain of fresh fruit would go perfectly with the two starchy dishes I’d decided to prepare—spicy Swiss oatmeal and homemade bread. By seven-thirty, I had called early-rising Julian. He was flattered to fax me his new five-grain bread recipe. I thanked him, then proofed yeast while measuring out the cereal. A fresh, dimple-skinned orange, a new jar of Indonesian cinnamon, and more tart cherries beckoned to go into the oats.

By nine-fifteen, I was actually humming to myself, a sure sign the culinary work had once again helped me get life back into perspective. I realized the time set for Arch and Todd’s presentation was only half an hour away. I checked that the bread dough had risen properly and sent the boys a silent prayer of encouragement.

The phone rang. Concerned that it might be the hospital calling about Eileen, I picked up rather than letting the machine answer. It was not the hospital. It was Boots Faraday.

“Look, Goldy,” she said without preamble, “Arthur Wakefield insists I owe you an apology.”

“What?”

“Arthur’s an old friend, and he didn’t mean any harm by running that article about you.” She paused, struggling, I supposed, to adopt an unfamiliar apologetic tone. “I … I heard about your friend Eileen Druckman, and that awful Barton Reed, and that you were there when it happened. I realized that you really are in the middle of a mess.”

“Yes, it’s bad,” I admitted. But why call me? Unless, of course, she wanted to confess that Doug Portman’s mean critique of her work had driven her to kill him six days ago.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Boots went on. “I … I … don’t know whether it’s relevant. But … I’ve decided to tell you anyway—It doesn’t matter anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I do know what Nate was doing the day he died. It wasn’t tracking lynx. That was just the standard story he told me to put out if he ever got caught.”

“Got caught doing what?”

“Filming in Killdeer’s out-of-bounds area. He … didn’t think he’d get killed, of course.” She sighed. “He was trying to make money, before his baby arrived. He … was making a sports-genre video.”

“A what?”

“An outdoor sports film, haven’t you ever seen them? You can catch them on the sports channels. The most popular around here are the extreme snowboarding videos. They show boarders leaping and spinning and jumping off ledges and generally risking death for a ride.”

“Okay, yes,” I said, remembering the big screen at Cinda’s. “But … what kind of money could you hope to make from one of those?”

She laughed at my naïveté. “Big money. The good ones sell for fifty to a hundred thousand. For the great ones, you can make two hundred fifty thousand to half a million.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. Nate had talked to a distributor who was a friend of mine, a collage client. The distributor wanted to see a rough cut of whatever extreme snowboarding film he could do. But Nate didn’t want to get Rorry’s hopes up, so he begged me not to tell anybody.”

“Was Barton Reed the snowboarder who was with him?”

“I … don’t know.”

“Were you the boarder?”

She groaned. “Of course not. I don’t engage in risky behavior. By the way, that includes sleeping with married men, in case Rorry has been filling you in on her paranoid baloney.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Listen,” she said brusquely, “I’ve been trying to protect Nate’s good-granola-guy reputation for three years. Don’t you think died tracking lynx sounds better than died making money? But I wanted you to know the truth. I don’t know if it will relate to any of your problems.”

Or your problems, I thought, such as my wondering if you triggered the avalanche, and that’s why you’ve been lying for three years. After a moment, I asked, “Did Nate or Rorry know Doug Portman?”

“Nate knew about Portman through the artists’ association. I’m not sure whether Rorry knew Portman or not. I just wanted you to know the truth about Nate. Because Arthur asked me to talk to you,” she added stiffly. “And he’s a good friend.”

“Thanks, Boots.” I didn’t say, Is it the truth? Or, Is Arthur more than a friend to you, by any chance? I said only, “You … don’t know anything more about Doug Portman, do you?”

“Only that he wouldn’t have known a decent piece of artwork if he’d run into it.” She banged the phone down before I could comment.

I slid the bread into the oven, set the timer, and simmered some of the cinnamon-orange oatmeal mixture to test it. I took a bite of the creamy concoction with its moist tart cherries. Heavenly. I was about to spoon up some more when the phone rang again. Boots, I figured, remembering more truth.

“I hear you’re still trying to figure things out up in Killdeer,” came the raspy voice of Reggie Dawson.

I exploded. Enough was enough. “Who are you? You’re not a journalist. I checked. What do you want?”

“If you don’t want your son hurt, you better start skiing at Vail, caterer. Quit being such a busybody.”

“You leave my family alone!” I hollered, but whoever it was had hung up. I pressed buttons to trap the caller’s number, and prayed that the telephone company’s central computer had indeed registered the call. Then I called Tom’s voice-mail and told him there had been another threatening call, and could the department please try to trace it, again?

Thoroughly unnerved, I called Elk Park Prep. Yes, I was assured, Arch Korman and Todd Druckman were fine. No intruder could get into that school, the receptionist told me, what with all the metal detectors and video cameras that had been installed over the summer. But hearing the anxiety in my voice, she put me on hold and went to check on Arch’s exact location. When she returned, she said Arch and Todd were just going into English class. Oh, yes, I replied, as relief washed over me. The Spenser report was due in fifteen minutes. I thanked the receptionist and hung up.

The comforting, homey scent of baking bread wafted through the kitchen. Outside, snow fell. I told myself I’d done everything I could to figure out who “Reggie Dawson” was. Arch was safe, and Tom would find the threatening caller. And nail him.

I fixed myself a cup of espresso laced with cream and ordered myself to think positively. At nine-forty-five, I sent good vibes to the boys as they faced the class to perform. I tried to send a telepathic message to Arch to look only at kids he knew would not laugh when he began. I visualized him standing confidently and speaking clearly…. Whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found … Wait a minute. “Found if sought,” I said aloud, and stared out at the falling snow.

Numerous times, I’d heard an avalanche described as a “killer tide.” A tidal wave of snow that comes down the mountain.

I thought of Arch’s physics experiment. Most of the frosting had spattered on the cookie sheet. But a very few drops, in places only one, had spattered far away. This was what had happened in the hospital waiting room, when Diego had been hit in the eye by a very errant chunk of dried frosting. That’s quantum mechanics. Or quantum physics, if you prefer.

He was filming a sports-genre video, Boots had said.

His camera was stolen along with the TV, Rorry had insisted. But the TV had been the only item recovered.

Whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought…. In the killer tide of an avalanche, maybe some things—one item in particular—had followed the patterns observed by quantum physicists and spattered far away.

I chugged the last of the espresso and dialed the main number for Killdeer. After an eternity of punching numbers for menu options, I was finally connected with a woman in Killdeer Security.

“I’m calling about a missing item,” I began.

“Let me get into my program for the Lost and Found,” she said pleasantly. Computer buttons clicked. “How long ago was the item lost?”

“Three years.”

She gurgled with laughter. “We only keep items sixty days, ma’am. Then they get sold at a police auction or sent to a shelter in Minturn. Sorry.”

“Wait a sec,” I replied. “Let me think. Look, I have another question. What happens to all the stuff that gets rolled up into an avalanche? You know, besides sticks, rocks, and trees? Say a person goes down and you find his body without his skis. Do you ever find the skis? In the spring, maybe?”

“Hmm.” The poor security woman tried to sound as if she were pondering my question, but her dubious tone said she thought I was some kind of nut. “Well …”

“Look,” I said patiently. “The snow slides down. Say it knocks down a house. Do the chimney bricks and furniture end up at the bottom of the hill? How and when do you clean up the debris left by an avalanche?”

“Actually, in an avalanche everything gets thrown all over the place.”

“So how does the debris get picked up?” I persisted. “I mean, not just from an avalanche, but from the whole ski area?”

She sighed. “When our maintenance guys groom the slopes in the spring, they scoop up everything they find. Wallets, jewelry, hats, mittens, you name it. Those items get logged into our Lost and Found for sixty days. You mentioned an avalanche. Where did it come down?”

“Elk Valley. Three years ago.”

Her voice stiffened. “I see.” After a pause, she went on: “Even though it’s an out-of-bounds area in the winter, Elk Valley is used in the summer as a nature trail. Each year before the trail is opened, our maintenance team cleans up the valley. The items they might have picked up would have come to Lost and Found. For sixty days. All items would have been logged in, and logged out to go to charity.” She added tentatively, “Unless the item happened to be very valuable. We keep jewelry in the safe for longer. Up to a year.”

“And your log goes back how long?”

“Five years.”

“Can you do a computer search,” I said, feeling my heart start to race, “for a certain log entry? I’m looking for a—” What was it Rorry had said? “A Sony, um, VX-One Thousand. A videocamera.” Quantum mechanics, I reminded myself. The camera might have been thrown anywhere. Might have been found anytime. “It might have been turned in at any point in the last three years. If it went to a shelter or police auction, I can try to track it down. I just need to know if you ever had it.”

She tapped buttons. “Okay … nothing from three years ago.” More clicking. “Nothing from last year.” She paused and tapped some more. “Hmm,” she said at length. “How about that.”

“What?”

“Our construction workers in the expansion area were cutting down trees this September. They found a camera inside its case under a pine tree and turned it in.”

“Is it a Sony—”

She wouldn’t let me finish. “So, it’s yours? Were you caught in that avalanche?”

“I, I—It’s not important after all this time, is it?”

“Yeah, it is. There are initials on the case. Can you identify them?”

My heart was pounding in my throat. “N.B.”

She said, “Yes. Is that you?”

“No. It was Nate Bullock’s camera. He was killed in the avalanche.”

“Okay,” she said blithely. “Bring ID to prove you’re a family member, and you can get it between nine and four any day of the week.” She hung up.

My skin was cold. Bring ID to prove you’re a family member. I tried to call Tom on his cellular but the mountains were obscuring the signal. Even if I could talk my way into claiming Nate’s camera, would it actually work after all this time? Wait: Julian’s film class. I reached for the phone.

“Hey!” Julian cried. “Twice in one morning. How’d the bread come out?”

I turned on the oven light and peered in at the risen, golden-brown loaves. “Almost done. And the scent is heavenly.”

“Great,” he said, pleased.

“Listen,” I said, “I have a video question for you.”

“Shoot,” he replied. Then he laughed. “Sorry. Film joke.”

“If cassettes have been in a camera, or in a case, outside, for three years, would they be usable?”

“Gosh, Goldy. First bread, now old cameras. The stuff you come up with.” He reflected for a few seconds. “Was the case protected?”

“Under a tree.”

“Wait, let me ask my roommate.” He left the line for a few minutes, then came back. “Okay. The film should be all right unless the camera’s rusted shut and moisture has gotten into the apparatus itself. Just the cold alone shouldn’t hurt it. In Colorado, some folks even keep their film cassettes out in their garages, to keep them fresher. But … why do you need to know this? Are you going to film your cooking show in the snow?”

“I’ll tell you Christmas Eve.”

He laughed again. “Whatever.”

I hung up and contemplated the problem in front of me. I desperately needed to prove I was a family member. I punched in the numbers to Rorry Bullock’s trailer. She picked up and dropped the phone. Then she declared in a gritty, sleep-saturated snarl: “Whoever you are, you better have a great reason for waking me up. Otherwise, I’m going to kill myself for forgetting to shut off my ringer.”

I identified myself and apologized. Working a double shift that included nighttime, of course she’d be upset to be roused.

“It’s okay,” she said grumpily. “Goldy. I’m glad you called. I broke off a chunk of the frozen lasagne and heated it in the microwave. Fantastic! The baby loved it so much he twirled around in utero. I thought I was going into labor.”

I laughed, then asked seriously, “Rorry, could I come over this afternoon? I might have some answers to your questions about Nate. But … I need you to claim his camera from Killdeer’s Lost and Found.”

“Someone found his camera? It’s in the Lost and Found after three years?”

“This fall, workers in the expansion area discovered it under a tree. They turned it in. Because it was valuable, it’s been in a safe there ever since.”

“I, I can’t.…”

“Please, Rorry.” I made my voice calm, comforting. “Please listen. You don’t have to do anything with the camera. But I need it, to see if there’s anything left of the tape Nate was making.” When she said nothing, I went on: “Four people have died after suffering accidents at that ski area. Nate, Fiona Wakefield, Doug Portman, and now a guy named Barton Reed—”

“The snowboarder? That guy who went to jail?”

“He died of a heart attack last night at Lutheran. After being in a terrible snowboarding accident.”

“But how can a tape that’s three years old … tell you anything?”

“I don’t know if it will,” I admitted. “But every time I try to figure out what’s going on, questions come up over what happened that day Nate died—”

“Have you found out who his girlfriend was?” she interrupted.

“No. Or if he even had one. But I did find out that he really was trying to make a sports video.”

“A sports video? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know exactly—”

“I’m not sure I want to see the film,” she interrupted me. “I mean, not if it can be viewed. Not with the baby so close. It’s like a snuff film. Of my dead husband. I can’t do it.”

“Rorry. Please. This is important. Because I knew that guy Doug Portman, because I was on my way to meet with him the day of Nate’s memorial, all kinds of nasty questions are coming up now about me. I may never get my business back if I can’t figure out what’s happened—what’s still going on up at Killdeer. Losing my business is not as bad as what you’ve gone through in losing Nate, but it hurts. And I, too, have a child to think of.” She groaned. I continued desperately, “Just claim the camera with me, will you? Please? I’ll do the rest. You don’t have to watch a thing.”

She was silent. My heart sank. She was going to refuse. “Okay,” she said, to my surprise. “When will you be here?”

I told her I should arrive around one, that we could go up together to the Killdeer Lost and Found at Ski Patrol Headquarters. I remembered the state of her car, and promised I’d take her to work, too.

“You’re doing the PBS show at four?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s been rescheduled because of Christmas Eve. I don’t have to be there until three-thirty.”

“Why don’t you just spend the night here afterward? Then you won’t be driving back to Aspen Meadow so late. You could look at the tape, then take me to work for the four-to-twelve shift. I’ve got someone who’ll bring me home. You could do your show, and come over afterward. You’ll have the place to yourself until I get off at midnight.” She paused. “Unless you don’t want to stay in my ratty trailer, of course.”

I swallowed, thinking of “Reggie Dawson.” I didn’t care about staying in a trailer, but I was worried about Arch. And then of course, there was all the preparation I had to do at home tomorrow, Christmas Eve. But I was worried that Rorry needed company, especially right before the holiday. If Tom would agree to be with Arch around the clock, then I would stay with Rorry. I could leave before dawn tomorrow morning and arrive home early enough to thaw the turkey and find the stockings we always hang by the fireplace. “Sure, I’d love to stay with you. Thanks. See you at one, then.”

I left a message on Arthur’s answering machine detailing the exact menu graphic and food preparation I needed for our last show. Very easy, I assured him, in conclusion. See you at three-thirty.

It was going to be a full day. No time for lunch, anyway, so I made two peanut-butter-and-cherry-preserves sandwiches for Rorry and me. If the baby loved lasagne, he was going to flip for PB&J. While I was wrapping them in wax paper, I put in a call to Tom. Would he have arrived at the sheriff’s department by now? Did he have a meeting? Miraculously, he picked up.

“Hey, Miss G., I was just about to call you. Don’t panic. First of all, I left the boys off and they’re fine. I called Lutheran, too. Eileen’s doing better. They’ve moved her into her own room. She’s resting comfortably, as they say. The nurse told me Jack finally left the hospital and went back to Killdeer,” he added, “so he’s not sleeping on the waiting room sofa anymore. And those anonymous phone calls: Made from a pay phone in Killdeer, our guys tell me.”

Doggone it. I told him of my plan to do the show and spend the night at Rorry’s. Considering the weather, Tom replied, that was probably a great idea. And yes, he would pick up Arch and stick to him like epoxy until I came home.

I also told Tom of my find—make that potential find—at the Killdeer Lost and Found. He tapped the receiver, a click click click sound that did not betoken approval.

“What’s the matter with that?” I demanded. “I’ll bring the camera, the case, and whatever’s in it straight back to you.”

“I’m trying to figure out if this film could be considered evidence. If it is, you should be leaving it alone.”

“If it’s evidence of malfeasance, if it’s anything, you’ll have it first thing tomorrow. But I’m the one who has articles left anonymously, I’m the one getting threatening calls. I’ve got a bigger stake in finding out what’s going on up there than you all.”

“I have a stake in protecting my wife. Doesn’t that count?”

“Look, Tom, all I’m doing is looking at something, if there is something. Then I do the show and come home first thing tomorrow morning.”

Worry threaded his voice. “Are you going to have somebody you trust with you today, all the time?”

“I’ll be with Rorry, then I’ll be onstage for PBS, then I drive back to Rorry’s. Then I drive home.”

“After the show, have somebody walk you to the Rover. Not that wine guy; he might have discovered you found the ticket he stole from Portman’s place. Call me the moment you get to Rorry’s. And lock all the doors.”

“Tom, it’s a trailer. There’s only one door. And it’s a ski town, not the inner city.”

“In the past week, Killdeer Ski Resort has had more unexplained accidents and deaths per capita than the worst ten-block stretch in Denver.”

I said, “Now there’s a happy statistic.”

CHAPTER 20

Gusts of wind whipped waves of snow on the windshield as I drove out of Aspen Meadow. Because of the poor visibility, I drove slowly up the interstate’s right lane. With its high center of gravity, the Rover rocked with each blast. On the ascent to the Eisenhower Tunnel, a whining eighteen-wheel rig loomed abruptly and my foot slammed the brake. The Rover skidded onto the shoulder—and stalled.

I restarted the car and contemplated what the wind and snow would mean for riding the Killdeer gondola. But as I emerged from the west side of the tunnel, the breeze softened. By the time I reached Killdeer, snow-flakes were swirling thickly but gently to the whitened earth.

Rorry was watching for me from her trailer’s bay window. She clambered down her steps and waddled through the snowfall to the Rover. She wore a fluffy-white-fur-lined pink maternity ski suit. She looked like the Easter bunny.

“I can’t wait to get this over with,” she said bitterly as she slammed the passenger door and settled into her seat.

“The pregnancy or getting the film?”

“Both.”

“Buck up. I brought you a sandwich.”

We munched our sandwiches and drank bottles of water as I drove cautiously toward the mountain base. Because snow was still falling fast, I splurged and parked at the close-in pay lot. It was the least I could do for Rorry, who made her unwieldy way through the street of shops, and stopped at Cinda’s to go to the bathroom.

A sudden storm will drive all but the most die-hard skiers home, or at the very least, into mountain-base cafés for tequila, steaming hot chocolate, or both. True to form, Cinda’s was mobbed with skiers slamming down drinks while watching one of Warren Miller’s extreme skiing videos. Knowing what I now knew about Nate’s last tape, I averted my eyes. Cinda, whose hair held some of the hues of Rorry’s ski suit, offered us free Viennese coffee with a shot of rum.

“Or rum flavoring,” she told Rorry. “Might be better for the baby.” Rorry declined. I promised Cinda that I would have a celebratory Bacardi-coffee, heavy on the Bacardi, when I finished my last show that afternoon. She told me to break a leg.

Rorry and I had our season tickets scanned and clambered onto the gondola. As we ascended, the wind picked up dramatically, thrashing the snowfall sideways like thick confetti. Our gondola car quivered and swayed. When the wind abated slightly, a few skiers and boarders were visible battling their way down the runs. Between the runs, clusters of whitened pines nodded and bent in the wind.

Rorry’s face was pinched, the circles under her eyes dark and deep. She squirmed on the cold metal seat. I remembered that last month of pregnancy all too well. You didn’t suffer just an occasional pain, but almost constant physical unease, whether you were walking, sitting, or sleeping. I couldn’t even imagine the discomfort of a jarring ride on a cable car.

When the gondola shuddered to a halt at the turnaround, Rorry groaned as she heaved herself up and out the clanging doors. I felt guilty about asking her to walk to the lodge to claim Nate’s camera, and was tempted to take her ID into the Lost and Found myself. Maybe I could bluff my way through. But before I could put the thought into words, she was barreling ahead of me and I had to plow through ten inches of fresh powder to catch up.

A mob of skiers was clamoring to gain entry to the lodge. Rorry looked back at me in confusion. I pointed to the bistro. It would be inconvenient to go through the restaurant to the Lost and Found, but easier than trying to push through the people-jam at the main doors.

The aromas inside the restaurant were tantalizing: Roasting beef melded with tarragon, rosemary, and the scent of baking bread. Several of the diners were dipping into steaming bowls of what looked like cream of asparagus soup topped with spicy grilled prawns. My peanut-butter-smeared psyche howled with pain.

The first person I saw was Jack Gilkey. With his tall chef’s hat set at a slightly rakish angle, his handsome face filmy with sweat, he was placing bowls of the delicious-looking soup on the hot line. A half-dozen servers jockeyed to be first to shout more orders at Jack and whisk away with their soup orders. Jack caught sight of me, then smiled broadly and gave a thumbs-up sign—referring to either Eileen’s improved state or the state of his prepping for this afternoon’s show—and went back to ladling out food.

“You’re friends with the chef?” Rorry demanded under her breath.

“He’s living with an old friend of mine, Eileen Druckman. She owns the bistro.”

Rorry exhaled in disgust. “He’s a jerk.”

We pushed through the side door and walked down the hall to the Lost and Found. “What makes you say that?”

“Jack Gilkey,” Rorry responded hotly, “is like the teacher who’s nice to the parents but treats the kids like dirt. When he thinks you have something he wants, or you’re his superior, he’s as sweet as chocolate pie. You work for him, you’re dung. A couple of our guys who load the canisters won’t come up here anymore, ’cuz Gilkey blamed them when he forgot to order all the ground beef for a day. He even tried to get them fired. Gilkey knows he needs to fax the right forms down to us at the warehouse, but when he screws up, he’s always looking for somebody to blame.” Her voice was tight with anger.

In the Lost and Found, we were greeted by none other than Joe Magill, the brusque Killdeer Security fellow who’d asked me so many questions after the death of Doug Portman. Rorry dug into the Easter-bunny ski suit for her wallet while Magill asked what we needed. I gestured to the Lost and Found sign and said I had called about a camera and case, initials N.B. on the case. Magill tapped suspiciously on his computer, scowled at the screen, and tapped some more. He was about to say something when Jack Gilkey poked his head in the door. He was holding a plate laden with a grilled filet mignon, Duchess potatoes drizzled with melted butter, bright green edible-pod peas, and a small salade composée of marinated cherry tomatoes and baby corn. Agh!

“Here’s your lunch, Joe,” he said to Magill.

“You’re the man,” Magill replied, taking the plate, “you’re too much!” He frowned at us. If you two would just leave, his expression clearly said, I could eat.

Jack turned to me. “You’ve heard the good news about Eileen?” When I nodded, he said, “I’m going down to see her tonight. Want to come?”

“Can’t, sorry. I have to do the show, and then—”

“Okay, that’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he interrupted. “I’ve got your five-grain-bread dough rising, plus a loaf baking now. The cereal’s in a green plastic bowl in the refrig.” He made a face. “Arthur Wakefield brought the menu up. He’s having lunch here with one of his wine customers.”

I thanked him and he retreated quickly. Sure enough, he had not said a word to Rorry, or even taken any notice of her. She raised a telltale eyebrow at me: You see? Dung.

“Ladies,” Joe Magill said with a tinge of impatience, “I’m not seeing your camera case in our inventory.”

“That’s impossible! I called Killdeer Security just this morning. They said it was here!”

“Said it was here,” Magill replied with exaggerated politeness, “or said it was in the Lost and Found safe at the base?”

“Oh, phooey,” muttered Rorry, as she turned away. I was so angry that the Killdeer Security woman had not told me this on the phone that I said nothing. If you bite off a bureaucrat’s head, what do you get? Three more bureaucrats.

The main entrance was still crammed with skiers. The impossibility of fighting through them meant that Rorry and I had to retrace our steps. Unfortunately, it was my bad luck to run into Arthur Wakefield as I pushed open the door to the bistro. And I do mean run into.

Arthur sprawled backward, but managed to tuck his silver wine flask under his arm. My first paranoid thought was that he must have been watching me through the door’s glass square. He just hadn’t retreated quickly enough when I’d pushed through the entrance. He righted himself with dignity, then begged us to come over to his table for a minute. More bad luck: Arthur was having lunch with Boots Faraday. Boots smiled at me and nodded awkwardly at Rorry, who’d stiffened instantly at the sight of her.

“So, what are you two doing up here? Scoping out the last show? Having lunch?” Arthur, seemingly oblivious to the female hostility, asked his questions as he wiggled up next to us, unscrewed the flask, and poured white wine into two glasses. I looked longingly at their plates of baby-vegetable strudel napped with a creamy sauce, probably béarnaise. Arthur leaned in close to my shoulder, sniffed, and cried triumphantly. “I smell peanut butter!” He looked at both of us expectantly. “How about some ten-year-old Grand Cru chablis, then?”

Rorry moaned in disgust. “I go out, nine months pregnant, and all everybody offers me is booze.”

Boots’s expression said: Didn’t I tell you this woman was difficult? She said abruptly, “Did you get my message, Goldy?”

“I didn’t get your message, I just talked to you a few hours ago—” But I stopped when Boots shot me a stern look. Aha: She was trying to ask me if I’d told Rorry her story about Nate making an extreme sports film the day he died.

“That’s okay.” Two spots of color flamed on Rorry’s cheeks; she was glaring at Boots. “You don’t have to try to send Goldy some kind of secret message, the way you used to do with Nate and your early morning calls. I know your code. One ring means, Call me back. Two rings mean, Meet me for lunch. He finally told me, you know.” Rorry’s tone was angrily triumphant. Boots looked flabbergasted. “He swore it was all innocent. That you were just afraid of my jealousy. If it was all innocent, how come I had the phone company trace your calls to a pay phone outside the Killdeer Art Gallery? Why didn’t you call from your house? Too afraid I had caller ID?” She whirled on Arthur. Startled, he cradled the wine to his shoulder. “Are you married, Arthur? That’s the kind of guy Boots goes for.”

Arthur’s voice squeaked, “Rorry, please! Boots Faraday is a customer!” Boots clamped her mouth into a forbidding line. Arthur gulped, set the wine flask down, and frowned. He repeated his question: “What exactly are you and Rorry doing up here, Goldy?”

Luckily, Rorry remembered my warning about not divulging the purpose of our trip. I told him I just wanted to make sure Jack and his staff were prepping the last show. Arthur nodded, and Rorry announced that we had to go. During the gondola trip down, I endured Rorry’s litany of complaints about Boots Faraday, who, Rorry insisted, had tried desperately to break up her marriage.

“Boots does have a really nice body, for an older woman,” Rorry conceded as the car door opened at the base. “I even thought Nate might have been doing a porno film of her, and she’d use photo clips from it in one of her stupid collages.”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we,” I commented as we headed for the building marked Base Security—Patrol Office and pushed through to the Lost and Found. Rorry, again distinctly uncomfortable, insisted she had to sit down.

“Are you all right?” I asked desperately.

“Yes, it’s just that damn woman,” Rorry replied as she lowered herself into a padded chair. “She gives me indigestion.”

“Item?” inquired the patrolman behind the desk. It was Hoskins! These people must run on a six-day rotation, I thought. My helper from the day of Doug Portman’s accident asked if I was doing all right, and if my son was okay. I told him we were both fine, but that my friend and I desperately needed help finding something. Hoskins said seriously, “And the item is …”

“A camera case.” Rorry reached up to slap her ID onto the counter. “Initials N.B. It’s in the safe, we called.”

Hoskins tapped keys on his computer, disappeared, then returned with a dirty, crumpled case made of heavy-duty gray fabric, frayed in places. When Rorry saw it, she cried out in surprise and alarm, and began to weep. Damn, had I done the wrong thing? She held out her hands and I gave the case to her. She hugged it to her huge belly, rocking back and forth and sobbing as if her heart were broken.

“Rorry,” I said softly as I knelt down beside her chair. “I’m sorry. What can I—”

“You want me to get a paramedic in here?” Hoskins asked me. “She doesn’t seem well.”

“She’s not going into labor. Could you please just get her a glass of water?”

“Take the camera,” Rorry moaned when Hoskins had left. “See if the cassette’s in there, watch it somewhere, and then let’s get out of here. I can’t take any more in one day. Please, Goldy.”

When Patrolman Hoskins returned with water for Rorry, I asked if there was a VCR in another office where I could watch something quickly. He shook his head, then asked dubiously, “Are you sure your friend is going to be all right?”

“Yes, I think so. This camera belonged to her dead husband, and … It’s a long story.”

“You need a VCR?”

“Yeah.”

Hoskins lifted his chin at the wide front window. “Cinda’s got a couple of VCRs at her place. Why don’t you try her?”

Of course. I thanked him and went back to Rorry. I unzipped the case and checked the camera, which was spotted with rust. The word Sony was still visible. I rezipped the bag, patted Rorry’s shoulder, and murmured that I would be right back.

The snow seemed to be letting up a bit as I made my way to the Cinnamon Stop. The café was still hopping with business, though, and a video showing a freestyle snowboarding competition was drawing oohs and aahs from the enthralled crowd. I shouted my request to Cinda, who was steaming milk for a latté. Did she have an extra machine in the back where I could watch a film?

She gave me a puzzled look, then cried “Sure!” and muttered something to the waiter I recognized as Ryan. He pointed to a door and I waded through the boisterous crowd to join him.

“You need help with a video?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, my friend’s pregnant and about to pop. My Lamaze teacher gave me a childbirth video,” I improvised blithely, “and I need to see if it’s in good enough shape to show.”

Ryan shrugged, as if my lie were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, which it probably was. He turned on the VCR while I struggled to open the camera, first with my fingernails, then with a pair of scissors from Cinda’s desk. When the latch finally gave, the shears snapped. Ryan took the cassette and showed me how to operate Cinda’s VCR.

Fast-forwarded, Nate Bullock’s tape was spotty with visual static. When the film opened with the first shot, the snow-capped rustic sign for Elk Valley and Elk Ridge, I grabbed the remote control from Ryan and hit “Stop.”

Ryan turned to me. “Lamaze at a ski resort? What is this, ‘Cliffhanger Childbirth’?”

I opened the office door to usher him out. “It’s women’s stuff. Not a place you want to go, Ryan.”

He muttered something like You can say that again and zipped out. Worried about Rorry in the present, and what this video was going to show me about the past, I took a nervous breath. Then I hit the Play button.

Nate Bullock’s garbled-but-familiar PBS voice gave me a jolt. I couldn’t make out a word of what he was saying. From the tone of it, it sounded like an introduction. After the shot of the sign, his next shot was of the path beyond it. Next the camera panned to his companion, whom I couldn’t quite make out. Rorry was right about one thing: She was a female. The woman had a snowboard slung under her arm. Nate went from a long shot to a close-up.

I cried out: A conservative form-fitting navy-blue ski suit, no psychedelic outfits. A short cap of brown hair, no spill of pink curls. No jewelry. But her athleticism, her pretty face with its freckle-sprayed pixie nose, her bright, lopsided smile: All these were unmistakable.

Cinda Caldwell.

Barton Reed’s words in the hospital echoed in my brain: Said she was hurt, but that was crap. Just chickened out. Of course, Cinda was the most famous female snowboarder in Killdeer. Young, pretty, and as adept at snowboarding as anyone. She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened.

No, it never happened, I thought as I watched. Nate expertly clicked off the camera and then resumed taping from the valley. Cinda was far above, on the right edge of Elk Ridge. Nate zoomed in on her doing a smooth right to left, then left to right maneuver on the steep white slope. Cinda’s flowing movements were as effortless and breathtaking as big-wave surfing.

Nate’s garbled voice came on again; the tape clicked off. The next time Cinda appeared she was up higher, near the top edge of the steep, forest-lined bowl that Arthur had pointed out to Marla and me the day before. Nate zoomed in. Poised unafraid at the edge of the bowl, Cinda’s face was happy but determined. Then her concentration broke. She stared, puzzled, into the distance. A look of horror spread over her face, and she gestured to the camera.

“Over there,” I could lip-read her saying. She pointed and mouthed the words again. Nate lowered the camera. You could hear him yelling. Then the camera rose and panned vertiginously. I blinked and realized I was looking through treetops at Bighorn Overlook. In the distance, Cinda screamed. Her voice sounded as if she were underwater.

A small noise made me jump. The office door had opened. Cinda, her flaming pink hair backlit by the café’s bright lamps, stood rigidly in the oblong of light. She stared at the initials on the camera case in my hands, then lifted her eyes to meet mine.

She said, “What are you going to do with that? Get me killed, too?”

CHAPTER 21

No,” I said immediately. “At least, I’m trying not to. Is this film why you quit snowboarding? You were afraid?”

“Yes. Still am. Not to mention feeling guilty about Nate.”

I took a deep breath. “And do you feel afraid because you saw who pushed Fiona Wakefield over the cliff?”

She sighed. “Yes. But all I saw was people struggling on Bighorn Overlook. Does the tape show what happened?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

Cinda closed the door, muffling the noise of the café behind her. “What are you planning on doing?”

I shrugged and glanced at my watch. Desperate as I was to see the rest of the tape, my fear of interruption and my desire to protect evidence, not to mention my need to do the last PBS program, dictated that I not view any more of the tape just then. I needed to find out what Cinda knew, and then I needed to split. Fast. “I haven’t got immediate plans,” I answered noncommitally.

“Goldy, please. Don’t turn in that tape. It’ll be the end of me. I was hoping you could figure out what happened, and leave me out of it—” She bit her lip.

“What are you talking about?” I stared at her. “Leave you out of it? You were so eager to get me to figure things out, you left the articles and ordered The Stool Pigeon Murders and the avalanche book, didn’t you?” She nodded bleakly. “For crying out loud, Cinda, you took my frigging library card?”

“It dropped out of your wallet here a few weeks ago. I’d been meaning to give it back to you. But then you got involved looking into Portman’s death. And I thought, well, Goldy’s the one who’s supposed to be so good at solving crimes, why not let her solve this one?”

“Did you call me pretending to be a journalist named Reggie Dawson?”

She grimaced. “Of course not.” She sighed. “Look, I know you’re angry, but please, think about what I’ve gone through since the avalanche. That day changed my life, for the worse. Who killed Fiona Wakefield? And did whoever do it see me up on the ridge? Did Nate tell anyone that I was the one he was filming? Does anyone know I’m the one who started the avalanche that killed Nate Bullock?”

“What do you think?” I asked her. Again, I was aware of the tape in her VCR. I was also aware that I suddenly did not trust Cinda Caldwell.

“I followed Jack Gilkey’s criminal trial,” she was saying. “I don’t think Gilkey knew I was the one snowboarding in the out-of-bounds area on Elk Ridge. But Gilkey, or whoever pushed his wife off the overlook, knew some snowboarder was on Elk Ridge. It was in the papers when Nate died. In jail, Gilkey befriended my old buddy Barton Reed. Maybe it was just to be friendly, but Gilkey asked Barton a million questions about scofflaw snowboarders in Killdeer. Barton wrote me about his new friend; told me the two of them would be out soon; we could all go snowboarding. I wrote back that I hadn’t done any boarding since my knees gave out the year before.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this last week, when you were so upset that Barton had made a threat against someone in law enforcement?”

The freckled skin around Cinda’s pale eyes crinkled in sudden fury. “Oh, sure. And then have the cops ask me, ‘How do you happen to know so much about Fiona Wakefield’s death, Ms. Caldwell?’ And I say, ‘Well, Officer, I think I saw something just before I caused an avalanche in an out-of-bounds area, an avalanche that killed a PBS star!’ Do you think that kind of confession would keep me out of prison?”

How long had I been away from Rorry? How was I going to manage to be up at the bistro in less than an hour? “Look, Cinda, I have to go—”

“I had to tell you what Barton said!” she continued, impassioned. “Do you think I don’t have any conscience left? Barton had cancer, he was half crazed, he wanted to kill some guy in law enforcement. I couldn’t be responsible for two deaths! Why don’t you play the tape? Then we can see what’s what.”

“No,” I said firmly, as I ejected it from the VCR, slotted it back into Nate’s camera, and zipped up the case. “I need to leave. Meanwhile, Cinda, you have to come forward and talk to the authorities. This tape can help, and you must help, too. We have to find out who really killed Fiona—”

“If it was Jack, he can’t be tried for the same crime twice,” she countered stubbornly.

“I know, but listen. Eileen Druckman is one of my best friends. If it is true that Jack cold-bloodedly killed his wife, then Eileen has to know. She has to dump him, before it’s too late. If it was Arthur, he needs to be arrested and punished. If it was Barton Reed, then we can close the case. If it was Boots Faraday, then she can get ready to teach art classes in prison.”

“I can’t,” said Cinda, her jaw clenched. “I’ll go to jail for the rest of my life.” She held out her hand. “Give me the tape, Goldy.”

“No.”

At that moment the office door opened. Cinda and I froze. Rorry Bullock’s huge belly came through first. She looked blankly from Cinda to me. Behind Rorry, Ryan’s head appeared. He peered over Rorry’s shoulder.

“Hey boss,” he said desperately. “I’ve got four people out here screaming for vanilla lattés, and I can’t find a new bottle of extract.”

I announced: “Time to go.” Hoisting the camera case, I made an internal bet, the kind that always drives Tom crazy when I tell him about it later: Cinda would not risk exposing herself in front of Ryan. Nor would she wrench the case from my hands while Rorry was there. She knew she’d have a struggle on her hands, one she was bound to lose.

Rorry, the very pregnant widow of the man whose death Cinda had inadvertently caused, said, “Goldy, I need to go to work. And you need to do your show,” she reminded me.

“Oh, yes, your show,” said Cinda.

Doggone it. “See you later,” I gushed as I pushed past Cinda to lead Rorry out. “Thanks for letting us use your tape player.”

“Well?” Ryan stage-whispered as we made our way to the exit. “Did you see what you need?”

I was acutely aware of Cinda’s rigid form behind us, her ears tuned to our every word. “Not yet,” I replied loudly. “Maybe the tape’s too screwed up.”

Anything to stall for time.

The sun was struggling through parting clouds as Rorry and I crunched through the new snow to the car. Her questions spilled out. You see who the snowboarder was? No. Was Nate really filming a sports video? Yes. How did the avalanche start? Not sure, I replied tersely. Probably from the construction noise that day. She paused, then asked in a low, husky voice, Did you see him die? No, I replied honestly. I really need to look at it again, I added grimly, and have the police analyze it.

When I dropped her at the warehouse, I asked her once more if she was doing okay. It had been a successful trip, but arduous. Yes, yes, she assured me quickly, just fine. She handed me a spare key to her trailer and said a co-worker would be bringing her home about midnight. Then she disappeared behind the large warehouse doors. It was hard to tell if she was satisfied with my answers about the tape. Probably not, I reckoned, since half of them were lies.

As I drove away, I tried to figure out the best way to get to the bistro, where the show would be filmed. The new, unplowed snow was too deep to try to get up the back road in the Rover. I wasn’t going to ski down. So I had to take the gondola both ways. But how would I avoid Cinda’s, with its panoramic view of the path to the gondola?

I decided to park in the Elk Ridge lot. Then I could walk back through the trees to the creek, find the first way across, and head straight to Big Map. I had on thick waterproof leggings and good boots, and could probably move pretty fast. But Cinda was younger and much stronger than I was. Bad knees or no, I didn’t want to tangle with her.

I glanced at the camera case on the passenger seat beside me. What should I do with the cassette? Would it be safer with me or safer in the car? In the past week, it seemed as if everyone I’d come to know in Killdeer had had their place or their automobile broken into. I couldn’t risk leaving the tape in the Rover: I stuffed it into a small opaque plastic bag inside my cooking-equipment bag.

The parking lot was three-quarters full of cars and emptying quickly. Folks had had enough of skiing. They wanted to beat Denver’s Christmastime rush-hour traffic. I remembered Tom’s warning not to be alone. To get up to the bistro for the final episode of Cooking at the Top, I would have to take the least public route possible.

The trailhead, filmed as Nate’s establishing shot, offered food for thought. In the film, these signs appeared without posted warnings. Now, the arrows to Elk Ridge and Elk Valley were covered with a sign stating Closed for Winter——No Entry. Beyond the trailhead, a formidable wooden barrier stretched from one sheer rock outcropping to another. But there was something else that offered possibilities.…

A bright orange sign posted beside the trailhead screamed Construction Workers Only!!! and marked the beginning of what must be, under the plowed snow, a dirt road. Did the construction road wind around to the gondola? Was I willing to chance it?

From the Rover, I could see the plowed road was not without security: tall poles abutted huge snowdrifts on both sides. Bands of padlocked horizontal chains attached to each pole were undoubtedly designed to ensure no scofflaw skier or boarder squeezed through to get to the ridge. But whatever project manager had overseen the installation of the poles into dirt bases—rather than wide, deep, cement bases—must have been from a warmer climate. Our state’s heavy snowfall guaranteed that any mailbox, road sign, or metal pole pushed into shallow dirt was going to heave out sooner or later, as the ground froze, thawed, and refroze. In this case, the heaving had happened sooner, and one of the poles now leaned precariously into the road. This left a gap that I bet was big enough for a short, only-slightly-pudgy caterer to squeeze through.

I shouldered my bag resolutely, hopped out of the Rover, locked it, glanced all around, and made for the construction road. After squeezing between the pole and drift, I trotted along the pocked, snowpacked road. Thank God I wouldn’t be skiing down tonight, and was therefore free of skis, heavy ski boots, and poles. Then I made a surprising and unhappy discovery. The road meandered up twenty yards and then forked. Did the left side go over to the gondola? Was I willing to find out? I didn’t have time.

The right side of the fork swung up and joined, or rather, became the path that led to Elk Ridge and Elk Valley. The path, formerly a narrow hiking trail, had been widened to accommodate two vehicles. I couldn’t imagine how the nature-loving summer hikers were going to react to this transformation, but it wasn’t going to be pretty. By the time the Sierra Club could drag Killdeer into court early in the summer, the lifts and runs would be built. No wonder Killdeer had undertaken the challenging winter construction schedule.

So I had a problem: It was ten to three, and I needed to get to the bistro by three-thirty. Since the dirt construction road did not lead to the gondola, I needed to go through town. Damn.

I scuttled back to the parking lot and the main road. The Victorian-style boutiques in Killdeer were mobbed with last-minute Christmas shoppers. I melted into the frantic crowd. Shielded by the mob, I stayed as far away from the Cinnamon Stop’s windows as possible. Eventually I was chugging up the mountain in a gondola car next to a skier complaining about the snowstorm and how long it had taken to blow through. Across from us, three teenagers, more philosophical about the weather, were singing carols in harmony. While the wind still gusted fitfully, the snow had thinned to flurries. The sky rolled with new dark clouds that parted and thinned in the west. By morning, with any luck, it would be clear, and they would have plowed the interstate back to Aspen Meadow.

Once off the gondola, I surveyed the bistro. Smoke curled out of the two chimneys. Late-day skiers straggled out to catch one last run. Stay with someone, Tom had warned. It would not be smart to take the hidden cassette directly into the restaurant. I could be mugged or pickpocketed by “Reggie Dawson” or any other unsavory character, and lose the evidence forever. Reflecting, I gnawed the inside of my cheek and then set off for the lower entrance, the one that led to the bistro’s storage areas. At this time of the day, workers should be down there sorting and packing the day’s trash into canisters. They wouldn’t mind a servant coming through the servants’ entrance, would they?

The two lower-level barn-type doors were partially open. My entry with my toolbag raised the eyebrows of the pair of grizzled, hulking workers. Both were so swaddled in scarves, hats, heavy gloves, layers of sweatshirts, and what looked like padded dungarees, that they were unrecognizable.

“I’m one of the cooks,” I explained to one as I squeezed past the first stinking canister. He nodded apathetically and turned back to his work, while I scuttled along the tunnellike, neon-lit hallway. It was dank and cold. I was surprised at how depressingly subterranean the concrete basement was, at how tired and raggedly clad the workers had been. The bistro’s storage area was as unglamorous a workplace as the bare trailer park was a living area. As I bustled into a freezer-lined room and tucked the cassette between boxes of frozen chocolate cakes, I wondered if the rich folks who played on the manicured slopes outside had any idea of the economic underside of their vacations. The workers labor all day and night, dress and eat poorly, and are crammed into freezing trailers at the edge of town. Not something for the resort owners to be proud of.

I rushed up the steps and, panting, came through the uncrowded kitchen, where the six-person evening staff was bemoaning the fact that one of the two walk-in refrigerators was out of order. It would take twice as long to prep for the evening meal, they complained, as they set about cutting leeks, carrots, onions, and celery into julienne. I set my bag down and asked one of the cooks if Jack Gilkey was here. No, Jack had gone to Denver to see Mrs. Druckman in the hospital. The food for the show lay prepped on a sideboard, the cook added. He pointed to a counter. The other cooks began to snigger, and I thought I caught one of them saying, “At least he isn’t here to take the credit for our work, the way he usually does.”

I slipped into my jacket and uniform for the show, then inspected Jack’s—or his subordinates’—impressively organized foodstuffs, all labeled: a loaf of Julian’s crusty golden-brown five-grain bread sat next to the yeast, molasses, and other ingredients. The cereal and its ingredients were similarly laid out. Beside these was a platter lined with grilled Canadian bacon and plump sausage links. At the end of the counter, a crystal plate was adorned with concentric circles of fresh sliced ruby red strawberries, golden pineapple, and emerald green kiwi, all dotted with fat blueberries and raspberries. My stomach reflected on the long-ago peanut butter and jelly, and sent up a distress signal. Later, I promised myself.

Jack had left me a note: Goldy—I’ll give Eileen your love. Break a leg! J. I guessed I was one of the people Jack looked up to. Or was hoping to get something from, as Rorry claimed? I wouldn’t mind working with him one bit, if I could be sure he was a good guy.

Hopefully, Nate’s video would tell all.

I scurried out to the hot line with the first batch of ingredients. Would the bistro audience be disappointed to be receiving only oatmeal, bread, Canadian bacon, and fruit for their nine bucks? I didn’t know. Boots Faraday, now apparently a regular at the show, was seated serenely by the fireplace. So, unfortunately, was Cinda Caldwell. My heart lurched.

Arthur strode toward me, clipboard in hand. He appraised me menacingly. I felt myself blushing. Finally he said, “I suppose you know the chef’s gone to see the owner in the hospital.” He made it sound as if I had put Eileen there.

“Not to worry, Arthur. Jack left everything done.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes skeptically, then handed me the visual they would post for the menu. There was the usual Front Range PBS logo, followed by:Feel-Your-Oats Holiday Breakfast Celebration

Platter of Strawberries, Kiwi, Pineapple, Raspberries, and Blueberries

Skiers’ Swiss Cereal

Grilled Canadian Bacon

Toasted Thick-Sliced Five-Grain Bread

Butter, Jams

Champagne, Coffee

“You have to put that it’s Julian Teller’s five-grain bread.”

“This is public TV,” Arthur replied stiffly. “No advertising.” Before I could protest, he added: “Are you going to tell me what Rorry Bullock was really doing up here today?”

Startled, I answered, “She was seeing how the other half lives, Arthur.” When he hrumphed, I tapped the menu. “Make it ‘Julian’s Five-Grain Bread,’ and it won’t be an advertisement because you’re not using his last name. If you don’t, I’m not going to talk about the champagne. It’s too dry to serve with this sweet food, anyway.”

Arthur’s groan of protest attracted stares. Then he grunted assent and whisked morosely away. Fifteen minutes until showtime: I concentrated on transporting ingredients. The crowd grew more boisterous with each minute. A tech handed me the mike wire and I threaded it through my jacket. I’m almost done, I thought with an unexpected pang of regret. As challenging as Arthur and the whole TV gig had been, the thought of jumping into the abyss of no work after the New Year brought a lump to my throat.

And so I did the show. Without a single calamity or disaster. I realized I hadn’t thought of a single sexy thing to say about the food except that molasses was reputed as an aphrodisiac, and oats were widely used in the diet of the British Isles, and didn’t the Brits, after all, know lusty, ribsticking food? Finally, after nibbling on the bread, swishing my hips about, and taking an eye-rolling bite of the oatmeal, I beamed at the camera and crooned, “That’s comfort food for you. And doesn’t everyone want to be comforted and loved at this time of year?”

To my astonishment, and to Arthur’s consternation, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. Tears welled in my eyes as I smiled at the camera and Arthur made his wild Cut motion. The taping was over. The audience divided into those leaving and those staying for treats. I hustled out to the kitchen, eager to be on my way back to Rorry’s for a hot shower and a glass of some wine that Arthur would no doubt disdain.

The kitchen staff was clustered around a problem with the oven. I barely noticed them as I made my way to the clothing closet by the broken refrigerator. Feeling triumphant, I took off my apron and hung it up, then bent to unbutton my jacket. Then I sensed a movement behind me and my blood ran cold. Always have somebody with you.

Skiers’ Swiss Cereal

1 cup rolled oats

1 teaspoon very finely chopped orange zest

½ teaspoon cinnamon

2 tablespoons dried tart cherries

2 cups skim milk

Brown or granulated sugar

Cream, butter, or milk

The night before you plan to serve the dish, in a glass bowl, combine the oats, zest, cinnamon, and cherries. Stir well, then stir in the milk. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate.

The next morning, place the mixture in a medium-sized saucepan and bring it to a simmer. Lower the heat and cook, stirring frequently, for 4 to 6 minutes, or until the oats are tender and the mixture is thick. Serve immediately, either as it is or with brown or granulated sugar, and cream, butter, or milk.

Makes 4 one-half cup servings

Julian’s Five-Grain Bread

2 cups five-grain cereal (available either in the cereal or the health-food section of the grocery store) or rolled oats

2⅓ cups water

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

¾ cup dark molasses

¾ cup milk

1 teaspoon dark brown sugar

5 teaspoons (2 packages) active dry yeast

2 tablespoons bread-dough enhancer (optional) (recommended brand: Lora Brody’s, available at Williams-Sonoma)

4 cups bread flour (or all-purpose flour), plus up to 1 cup more flour for kneading (if required)

2 cups whole wheat flour

Butter two 9 x 5-inch loaf pans.

Place the cereal in a large bowl. Bring the water, butter, and molasses to a boil. Pour this mixture over the cereal and set aside to cool to 100°F.

Heat milk and dark brown sugar to 100°F. Pour into a large bowl and stir in the yeast. Allow to proof, about 10 to 15 minutes.

Mix the cooled grain mixture into the yeast mixture. Combine the optional bread dough enhancer with the first cup of bread flour and stir into the yeast mixture. Beat the other 3 cups of bread flour and the whole wheat flour into the mixture, beating well to combine. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn dough to oil the top, cover with a clean kitchen towel, and let rise in a draft-free spot, at room temperature, until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

Add as much of the additional bread flour to the dough as needed to make a dough that is not too sticky to knead. Knead on a floured surface until the dough is smooth and satiny, about 10 minutes.

Divide the dough into 2 pieces and place them into the pans. Cover with a towel and allow to rise until almost doubled.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until the loaves are deep brown and sound hollow when knocked. Remove the loaves from the pans and allow them to cool completely on racks.

Makes 2 loaves

Something hard and heavy hit my skull with such force that black lightning formed in front of my eyes. Startled, I opened my mouth to cry out. The heavy object crashed down on my head again. My knees buckled and I hit the floor. Something sticky was slapped over my mouth. Duct tape? By the time powerful arms dragged me into the refrigerator, I could see nothing. Understand nothing. The hard, cold floor of the walk-in rose up to slap my cheek. I remember unholy anger, intense, sudden grief for Arch and Tom, then nothing.

CHAPTER 22

An echoing storm of pain was my first indication I had regained consciousness. A scarlet fog covered my eyes. When a cough convulsed my chest, I gagged. My mouth was taped hard and tight. I was painfully cold, chilled to the core, lying on my side on an icy floor. Another cough snagged in my throat. I felt myself choking and beat down panic.

“Where is it?” demanded a husky voice close to my ear.

The tight duct tape mangled any response I could make. Suddenly, without warning, the cold, dense darkness lifted; a door beside me opened. Far above, a tiny fluorescent light made my eyes ache. I moaned. Strong hands hitched under my armpits and roughly hauled me out of the dark space. I struggled to get to my knees; my hands were taped together. I was in the bistro kitchen. Out the window, the sky was black. It was late at night. The lodge would be deserted.

Out of nowhere, a hand slapped me hard across the face. I reeled. It was the kind of hit I used to take from John Richard. One hand pulled my hair hard to tilt my head back, while another hand yanked the duct tape off so roughly I knew my cheeks were bleeding.

I blew a mouthful of vomit all over Jack Gilkey. He cried out and swung at me again. I dodged—one thing I’d learned in my years with The Jerk.

His glossy dark brown hair was loose and wild, his handsome face menacing, gray with shadow. He grabbed me in a choke-hold around the neck. His mouth brushed my ear. “Where’s the tape, bitch?”

My brain thumped and throbbed. The building seemed to echo the vibrations in my head. “The videotape,” Jack snarled.

“If I tell you,” I managed to say, “will you let me go?”

In answer, he tightened his grip around my throat and shook me hard. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. I made a squeaking, submissive sound.

“Is it here with you? In this building?”

“Yes,” I said, when he shook me again. Think. “Yes, yes, let me take you to it.”

“No.”

“It’ll take you hours to find it. Maybe more.”

He didn’t reply. Panic gripped my gut. Then he said, “Get up,” harshly, with just a shade of doubt. In this I took comfort. Apparently, Chef Well-Organized didn’t have a plan to cover this exigency. Think. How could I get away from him? The agony in my brain made mental work impossible.

“Please undo my hands,” I whispered. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. “I’ll fall if I can’t get balanced.”

“No way,” he snapped. Then he lifted his flannel shirt, revealing a flat stomach—and a small pistol. He pulled the gun out of his waistband. “Don’t move unless I tell you to, don’t fall, don’t run, don’t yell. If you do, I’ll kill your son at your house in Aspen Meadow, once I lure your husband out of the house. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said angrily, still trying to think. On my feet, I shuffled through the long, shadowy kitchen. Why had the TV people left without checking on me? They must have figured I’d gone down on the gondola. I should have kept somebody with me. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to Tom’s warnings? Hindsight. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Easy. You’re going to die hitting a tree. You hiked out of the bistro, got confused, and bam. We’ll get more snow by morning, nobody will ever know it wasn’t an accident. Move.”

I shambled groggily toward the hall that led to the storage-area stairway. Think. What do cops advise in a situation like this? Talk to the criminal. Use his name.

“Jack,” I begged, “Eileen’s my friend. I was just trying to help her—”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, prodding the gun painfully into my back to push me forward. “I knew you were looking for something, and guessed it had to do with Nate because today you brought Rorry here. I quizzed Magill, found out about the camera, and figured out what you were doing.” His voice deepened. “You’re not on Eileen’s side. You’re on the cops’ side, that’s why you came here in the first place. To set me up, figure out Portman’s scheme. You’re not going to steal Eileen from me, trying to prove to her I killed Fiona.”

Reggie Dawson’s call echoed in my brain: Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?

“But you did, didn’t you? You killed Fiona. That’s what’s on the tape. How’d you kill Doug Portman? I thought you were prepping for lunch on Friday—”

He laughed and shoved me. “You give your staff a ton of prep, they don’t notice whether you’re there or not.”

“Jack, were you the one who hit my van on the interstate—”

He opened the door to the storage area. He didn’t need to answer; of course he’d tried to get rid of me. He just hadn’t been successful the first time. “Get down those stairs,” he commanded.

“Jack,” I said softly, “did Eileen know you bribed Portman so you could be paroled early?”

“She knew and she didn’t know.” He announced it triumphantly. “I needed ten thousand a month for six months, but she never asked what for.” He gave me a shove. “Alimony?” Another shove. “Child support?” Shove. “Surely not bribery, Jack?” He laughed sourly. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

We’d reached the first landing. The foul smell of trash rose up to greet us. “Please, Jack,” I begged. “Please stop, I have to rest.” I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. “So, you framed Barton Reed? Your old prison chum? You knew he had cancer, knew he’d had the Duragesic, knew he hated Portman?”

Jack shrugged. He was so marvelously good-looking, it was hard to believe he was so evil. “Portman said he sniffed an investigation coming. He was skipping out. What if they got him, with all that money I’d paid? He’d go to prison. If he did, so would I. I had to get rid of him. Making it look as if Reed had done it seemed like a good idea, since he didn’t have long to live anyway. Reed figured out what I’d done. Too bad. So he tried to get back at me, mow me down on the slopes. And he nearly killed Eileen instead. I could have killed him for that—I wasn’t married to her yet.”

“And you needed the money from Eileen that you didn’t inherit from Fiona.”

Jack shrugged, then poked me with his ugly little gun. “Time to get moving.”

The pistol in his hand was a .22, accurate only at close range. Six shots, unless he had more ammunition. We were coming down to the rail that led to the canisters. I had to run away from him, hide, run out onto the slope, hope I could get away from him—something, or else I’d die, like everyone else who’d stood in Jack Gilkey’s way. I had to act.

I tensed my leg muscles and kicked Jack’s washboard stomach with all my might. He gasped in pain and surprise and banged into the wall. Then I jab-kicked him hard in the back; he fell to his knees. I ran, clumsily, stupidly, as fast as I could. I ran for my life. Down the steps. Down the hallway. Down the rail toward the canisters. I could hear Jack stumbling down the stairs after me, cursing.

Five canisters were lined up. Oh, when did the night crew arrive? No telling. I squeezed along the wall and tried to figure out which one to duck into. The one farthest from Jack, of course. It was poised right at the large double doors, and it was half full of food scraps and garbage. Beyond the front canister was darkness made silvery by moonlight. I clumsily climbed up the sides, jumped into the canister, and slithered down into the trash. It was all I could do to keep from gagging.

I heard a shot. Jack was firing into the canisters. One shot, two, three. This was going to be it, I thought, and prayed for Arch and Tom. With taped hands, I used my body to burrow as deep as I could into the trash. I thought I was going to vomit again.

Then, without warning, there was a loud kee-chunk, and the canister quivered violently. I could hear male voices in the distance. The night workers? Were they coming? I was surrounded by rotting lettuce and meat fat. Would the workers hear me if I squirmed to the top of the garbage? Could I risk calling to them, with Jack—armed—so close to the canisters? No. Clink. Ke-chunk, clink. It was the clank of metal doors being closed on trash canisters, followed by the whir of the descending gondola.

Behind me, a loud pop was followed by a zing. Another shot. Jack was shooting at my canister. Pop-zing.

I could hear Jack howl. Then my stinking, packed canister swung out into the darkness.

The night air was stingingly cold. But I’d escaped Jack. I knew the gondola operators at the top could stop the cars, but they could not reverse their motion. That could only be done by the operator at the bottom. So even if Jack knew I was in this canister—and he didn’t—he wouldn’t be able to bring me back. With a startling suddenness the canister dropped and I was swaying, out of range of Jack’s lethal little .22. Would he hurt the canister workers? I doubted it. He had only one target tonight: me.

I wriggled between two bags of mind-numbingly smelly garbage. My head hurt, my cheeks hurt, everything hurt. The stink was inconceivable. I’d never get the smell out of my hair, I thought, and giggled insanely. The canister had holes in its walls and top. Through the holes overhead, a distant light was shining. The canister shook; an almost full moon came into view.

Down, down the canister rolled. In my mind’s eye, I saw the gleaming container, suspended twenty feet above the ground, streaming noisily through the night.

I had to get the tape off my hands. My only choice was to feel with my tongue around the duct tape till I came to an edge. Then I began, slowly, laboriously, with my teeth, to tug off the tape. The blood running down my face didn’t make the task any easier. But at least biting and wrenching the tape off, centimeter by centimeter, took my mind off the cold, the smell, the canister swaying and creaking in the frigid wind, high above the mountain.

When I finally had the tape off, the canister clanked onto the track, then began to move laboriously toward the warehouse. I was on the ground, but where? How long had I been on the gondola? Ten minutes? Twenty? What had Jack been doing? I knew he kept ski equipment at the bistro. Would he try to ski down in the moonlight? How long would it take for him to get his equipment on—five, six minutes? How long to schuss down from the top? The fastest I’d ever made it was six minutes, and I was nowhere near the expert skier Jack was.

Suddenly the canister shuddered and stopped. I clambered up through the trash to the metal door. My heart sank. Through the holes of my cage, the moonlight on the slope showed the canister was only halfway down the track to the Killdeer base. I wasn’t even in sight of the warehouse. Jack must have stopped the lift engine from the peak. Dammit.

I peered down through the holes in the metal. The moonlight illuminated much of the mountain, including nearby woods and what looked like a catwalk or cleared path of snow. With blood pounding in my ears, I pushed on the container door. It swung open.

I leaped out and looked all around. Had Rorry missed me and called Tom? Would he call someone to go looking for me?

I tried to get my bearings. The cleared path was not a catwalk, I realized. It had a plastic orange fence going up one side … The construction road! If I followed it, I would get down to the Rover where I had a spare key in the wheel-well.

I hobbled over to the road and started to run. Within seconds, my chest burned with the exertion and the cold. Did I hear something? I stopped, panting, looked up the moonlit slope, and saw the shadow of a lone skier. I turned and again ran. Could I possibly make it to the Rover before Jack caught up with me? My brain cursed my agonized legs. How far to the parking lot? Maybe fifteen minutes, if I could keep up this brutal pace. I ran and ran, and after an eternity, reached the fork that led back to the parking lot and trailhead to Elk Ridge. Wheezing, I stopped and tried to catch my breath.

Scritch, scratch. Scritch-scratch. Very regularly, the sound came from behind me. Scritch-scratch. I glanced back. Jack, on skis, was poling swiftly along the snow-covered road, cross-country-style. He was perhaps fifty feet behind me. Damn. I moved my legs as fast as they were able to go. But I knew in my heart I’d never make it to the Rover before he closed the gap.

And he had at least two more shots left.

With sudden decision, I ran up the snowpacked road of the left fork, toward the construction site. On skis, Jack could go swiftly downhill; as fit and muscular as he was, he could traverse flat terrain quickly as well. But he could not go uphill on skis, unless he was Superman. I had to get to the guard’s cabin first.

Low clouds, silvered by the moonlight, rolled across the sky. How far was the cabin, if the dirt road ran right across the valley? A half-mile? A mile? Jack would have to stop; he would have to remove his skis and boots. No one could run in that clunky footwear. You can beat him, I told myself. All you have to do is run.

I looked over my shoulder. Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. Jack was gaining on me. I even thought I saw him smiling at me.

“Goldy!” he called placatingly. “Stop! Let’s talk!”

Yeah, sure. I ran up the track. A sudden pool of darkness swallowed me and I slowed. Tall pines loomed on the right side of the construction fence, casting black, swaying shadows on the road. Run, I ordered myself. But whatever you do, don’t fall. If you do, you’ll die.

Behind me, the sounds of Jack removing his ski equipment were barely audible. Damn it. I couldn’t believe he would still follow me. He couldn’t be tried again for Fiona’s murder. Why not run away, rather than risk exposure? Because he’d told me he had killed Doug Portman. Because he desperately wanted Eileen’s money. The tape would show Eileen and the world that Jack had murdered his first wife to get her fortune. Eileen would dump him; he would go to prison for murdering Portman and the truck driver he’d killed on Interstate 70, when he’d been trying to nail me.

I came to the spot in the road where it veered upward and became the old hiking trail. I did not know how far the trail went before it diverged—a high side leading to Elk Ridge, the low, level side heading through the valley. As I ran, I peered into the darkness. Was the faint light I saw the guard’s cabin far, far up the hill? Or were my eyes playing tricks?

The wind whispered in the pines. In the moonlight, I could make out lodgepole pine branches littering the slick, snow-hard road. The branches had been blown down by the wind. I would have to be careful; stepping on them would alert Jack to my location. Had he found the road yet? How fast could he go in stocking feet? He was almost ten years younger than I was, and an athlete. Grimly, I quickened my pace.

Minutes later, winded and puffing, I was wondering if, in the dark, I had missed the turnoff to Elk Valley. Then, as I fought down panic, it suddenly appeared on the left, and stopped me in my tracks. The left-hand split to the old hiking path was completely blocked with a gigantic pile of dead trees. The sign posted on the trees saying Warning——Avalanche Area——Do Not Enter! filled me with alarm. I couldn’t climb over the pile of trees … it was eight or nine feet high. But going through the valley was the fastest way to the expansion area—and the security guard’s cabin.

To my consternation, I suddenly realized the construction road ran over Elk Ridge. For a moment, the wind ceased shuffling through the trees. Behind me, the faint huffing noise drew nearer. Jack was coming.

I whispered a prayer. Then I headed up the hill.

How far to the cabin now? Twenty minutes? I tried not to think. Just head upward. Up, up, up, no time for rest, despite the fact that my sides were screaming with pain.

Ten minutes later, the wide, shimmering expanse where Cinda had started her fatal run in Nate’s film opened up on my left. It was startlingly beautiful, like a giant’s sugar bowl, steeply tipped, frozen hard, glittering in the moonlight. And—people will never learn—running straight across the steep, concave space were the unmistakable paths of half a dozen ski tracks. At the other end of the ski tracks, set perhaps twenty feet into the pines, the lights of the security guard’s cabin glowed yellow in the shadows. I could just make out the path of the construction road. It ran across the treed top of the ridge, then curved right down to a parking lot surrounding the cabin.

I looked behind me. Jack was about a hundred feet back, running methodically, despite socks, despite ice and snow.

Think. The fastest way to the cabin was straight across the steep bowl, the way the ski tracks ran. But I could never go that way. It was too dangerous, especially after all the new snow we’d had. Still, I didn’t have time to go over the forested ridge and make it to the cabin. Even if I could run straight on the road the whole way over, Jack would come straight across and cut me off.

Stay in the trees, I decided. Above the bowl, but below the road. It’s the only safe way. Hug the shadows, stay off the moonlit side of the road. When you get near the cabin, call for help. I ran.

At the top of the ridge, I dared another glance down. Jack had left the road and was running through the bowl, in the skiers’ tracks, about a hundred feet back. He knew where I was headed, and he intended to get there first. Worse, he was wearing shoes. He must have brought them in his ski jacket pockets, along with his pistol. The man was not going to be deterred.

Well, neither was I. “Help!” I screeched as I pelted down the center of the road. A third of a mile left. “Help! Security! Come out of the cabin! Help! On the road, above you! Help!” Despite the fact that wood smoke whipped out of the metal-pipe chimney, no face came to the window, no door opened. My heart pounded madly. Dammit! Was the guy deaf?

Jack was two-thirds of the way across the tracks. He ran as nimbly as Mercury, as Pan, as every Greek god who’d ever been known for speed. Badly winded, I continued my bumbling pace. A quarter-mile to the cabin. The wind had picked up again. There was no use yelling for someone to rescue me, because it wasn’t going to happen. I was going to die on this mountain. Just like Nate and Fiona and Doug.

Pow. Jack, only forty feet away, both hands gripping the pistol straight in front of him, had fired at me. I tried to zigzag as I ran, but each step brought me closer to him. We were both racing down the sides of a triangle; the cabin was where we would intersect.

Thirty feet from the cabin, totally out of breath, I hugged a tree and stopped, bent over and wheezing.

“You’re not going to make it, Goldy,” he called fiercely as he kept advancing toward me, aiming the gun. Fifteen feet away. He was almost to the edge of the bowl. I clung helplessly to my tree. “Good-bye!” he screamed as he fired again.

The frigid air boomed and reverberated with the explosion. I squeezed my eyes shut as terror closed my throat.

An image of church school with Rorry floated into my mind. Our teaching: the fall of Jericho. Joshua. I looked up: The moon skidded drunkenly between the branches. Had I been hit? Jack’s shot echoed and reechoed in my head. After the Hebrews blew their horns. The earth was moving, the moon was wobbling in the sky. The walls came tumbling down. I gripped the tree and turned my head to the groaning, trembling slope. A mammoth slab of ice and snow had dislodged from the mountain. Joshua’s troops made the noise. The monumental size of the slide, like a skyscraper imploding, was beyond belief. The avalanche’s deafening rumble pained my ears. A mist of snow burned my eyes. The walls came tumbling down. My knees gave out beneath me as I held onto the tree. A fifty-foot vertical wave of snow was roaring downward, toward us.

A vast cloud of mist exploded upward. Darkness flashed inside it. Jack Gilkey screamed and fell. Then he was sucked into the killer white tide of the avalanche that rushed past me and swept him away.

CHAPTER 23

A helo carried me out. At the roar of the avalanche, the guard in the cabin, who’d been listening to a football game on the radio and was therefore deaf to my cries and the sound of gunfire, came bursting outside. He phoned for help.

On the way to Denver, I told two Sheriff’s deputies all I knew about Jack Gilkey and his deadly, double-dealing relationships with Fiona Wakefield, Doug Portman, and Barton Reed. The paramedics insisted I go to the hospital to be checked for frostbite, injuries, and shock. I kept assuring them that I was fine. But they did not believe a wildly shivering woman whose face and clothes were covered with blood and garbage.

“Lady,” one of them said, “at this point you couldn’t buy a ticket straight home. That ankle looks badly bruised. Did you fall on it when you were holding on to the tree?”

I nodded numbly and looked down at the snow-covered Continental Divide far below, the sparkling rows of tiny cars going east and west, ruby lights one way, diamonds the other.

You can’t buy a ticket home. That was really the problem, wasn’t it? Trying to buy your way into anything. Jack had tried to buy his way out of a prison term by bribing Doug Portman; like Fiona Wakefield, Eileen Druckman had thought her money could bring her a handsome young husband who would really love and cherish her. Nate Bullock had tried to provide a better lifestyle for his beloved pregnant wife by making a video that had killed him. Even I was not immune, with my misbegotten attempts to use earrings and treats to purchase a girlfriend for my dear Arch. And hadn’t the lure of money made me ignore my scruples and try to sell Tom’s skis to Doug Portman?

All that night and the next day, Friday, I was cossetted, bandaged, medicated, questioned, and scolded. With Arch and Todd Druckman in tow, Tom raced to the emergency room to meet me. Todd hurried off to see his mother; Arch brought me soft drinks from the soda machine and (bless him!) some of Julian’s life-restoring fudge. Tom gave me updates and called Rorry to tell her I was all right. I learned that Jack Gilkey’s body had been dug out by Killdeer Ski Patrol’s Avalanche Rescue Team. Arthur Wakefield was being charged with breaking and entering and mail theft. The latter was a federal offense. Arthur, Tom said, had hired a lawyer who was a teetotaler.

During a break between X-rays, I visited my old friend Eileen. I had told the authorities that I wanted to be the one to give her the bad news about Jack. Gently, I did so.

Todd comforted her. She patted his head and kept sobbing that she was sorry, just so sorry. Todd said he was fine! And besides, the nurses had announced he could spend Christmas with her, on a guest sofa in her hospital suite. And then Eileen cried some more, but this time with happiness.

Christmas Eve, bandaged, weak, and awkward on my crutches, I slid into a pew next to a surprised Julian and Marla. Tom and Arch joined us. In the pew behind us, three of my former Sunday school pupils were giggling in their home-fashioned shepherd costumes. They tapped my shoulder and twirled for my approval. I gave them the thumbs-up. Tom kissed my cheek, Marla handed the kids sticky chunks of ribbon candy, Julian winked at everyone. Even Arch smiled. You can’t buy what you want, I reflected. It all comes as a gift.

“I’ve got three news items,” Tom whispered as the organist warmed up for the prelude of carols. “Ready?” I inhaled the sharp, invigorating smell of Christmas greens and nodded. “First,” he said, “we found a computer disk with all of Portman’s records. It was tucked inside a cigar box belonging to a Civil War general. Second, we found Nate’s tape where you left it in the bistro freezer. Cinda Caldwell confessed to being out-of-bounds with him when he died.” He tilted his head at me and I nodded. “She was all weepy, said she’d plead guilty to whatever they wanted to charge her with. The district attorney told her thanks, but the statute of limitations had expired on out-of-bounds excursions. And to her surprise, causing an avalanche that killed somebody who was also out-of-bounds is not a crime. She said she was going to give lectures on winter sports safety, donate some of her shop’s profits to avalanche victims worldwide. I mean, the woman has gotten religion.” He took a deep breath and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “And this, Miss G., is your certificate of reinspection. You passed. The inspector is smitten with your drains. Almost as much as I am smitten with you.”

I hugged him so hard he chuckled like Santa. The service started and the packed church surged into song. We prayed and heard Bible lessons. At the Intercessions, an usher handed the priest a note. He opened it and beamed at the congregation.

“A former parishioner,” he told us, “has given birth to a seven-pound, thirteen-ounce boy. Joshua Nathan Bullock was born to Rorry Bullock at three-thirty this afternoon.”

Everyone smiled and clapped. The tiny white lights on the church’s ceiling-high Christmas tree twinkled and glimmered. I reached out to embrace Arch, and to my surprise, he reciprocated with an enthusiastic, tight hug.

“That’s the best bit of news yet,” I whispered to him.

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Arch whispered back, and I hugged him harder.

What a gift, I thought, to have a son.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Diane Mott Davidson is the author of ten Goldy novels: Catering to Nobody, Dying for Chocolate, The Cereal Murders, The Last Suppers, Killer Pancake, The Main Corpse, The Grilling Season, Prime Cut, Tough Cookie, and Sticks & Scones. Diane lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her family.

If you enjoyed Diane Mott Davidson’s

TOUGH COOKIE,

you won’t want to miss any of her tantalizing culinary mysteries. Look for them at your favorite bookseller. And look for her latest scrumptious mystery,

CHOPPING SPREE,

available from Bantam Books!

CHOPPING SPREE

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

TOUGH COOKIE

A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Bantam hardcover edition/March 2000

Bantam mass market edition/April 2001

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2000 by Diane Mott Davidson