Tough Cookie gbcm-9

by Diane Mott Davidson

  On the far side of a boulder below me, a cowboy hat lay at the base of a small, barren aspen tree. A chill ran through me. Squatting cautiously on my skis, I slid carefully to the edge of the drop-off.

  Sprawled next to a mogul, Doug Portman lay motionless in the crisp white snow. His legs seemed to be tangled with one of his skis. Beside the sharp half of a broken pole, his left arm was impossibly contorted. A splotch of blood was spreading on the snow.

  “Ski patrol,” I whispered, as I turned and worked my way back up to Jitterbug run. “I—we—need help.”

  The crowd of skiers on Jitterbug were still grabbing at the whirling shreds of paper tumbling down with the snowflakes. “Help!” I called. No one paid attention. The bills swirled and landed on the slope, on moguls, on boulders, on branches of pine trees. Greedy hands reached impatiently for them.

  I unsnapped my bindings, hefted up my skis, and crammed them into the snow in the X-position, the emergency signal for ski patrol to stop and give assistance. Then I lunged back through the snow to the edge of the run, below the coiled yellow rope and the row of boulders. Surely Doug would be all right … They would send in a chopper and take him to safety.…

  “Mom!” I recognized Arch’s ski mask bobbing toward me. He was scooting himself forward, one foot on the snowboard. “Mom, what’s wrong? Where are your skis? Mom?”

  I put both hands straight out in front of me, warning my son to stop. Then, praying even as a stone formed in my chest, I glanced over the cliff. From this vantage point, I could see Doug Portman. He hadn’t moved.

  I didn’t want Arch to see him. I knew Doug Portman was dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mom!” Arch’s voice had grown desperate. “Why are your skis crossed? Mom? Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head. Unnerved by my silence and outstretched hands, Arch finally skidded his snowboard to a stop.

  Around us, the snow fell. Where was the patrol? Another torrent of bills swirled up from the lower run. More jubilant skiers joined those already on the plateau. They stretched, bent, fell, and rolled out of their skis as they merrily dived for cash.

  “Agh!” A woman’s shriek cut through the din. I could not make out who had screamed. “That’s disgusting!” shouted a tallish woman as she flung bills onto the snow. “That’s blood! There’s blood on it!” Her eyes searched the slope above. She saw me, my crossed skis, and my son, motionless on his snowboard. She took off down the hill.

  The skiers hoarding the bills slowed their grasping movements. Heads bent to inspect the money. Suddenly, mittened hands were throwing down fistfuls of cash. More bloodstained bills blew upward, swirled with the snow, then resettled on the slope. In places, the money left erratic pink trails. Skiers pushed off queasily, suddenly eager to be away.

  “Mom! What is wrong?”

  “What’s going on?” barked a man who’d skied up to Arch. Tall and lean, he wore stylish wrap sunglasses and a uniform. Ski patrol, I thought, in numb relief. A thick red headband held back his gray hair. “Are you all right?” he asked my son. “Whose skis are these?”

  Arch gestured and I waved my hands over my head. Another skier hockey-stopped six inches behind me, churning a wave of snow into my face. He too demanded to know what was happening. The ski patrolman shunted away this intruder by assuring him he had the situation completely under control. The skier took off and the patrolman addressed me. “Can you talk? Where are you hurt?” The patrolman’s light blue eyes, gray eyebrows, and well-tanned, deeply wrinkled skin conveyed a seriousness I felt I could trust.

  “Send my son away,” I said tersely, as if I knew exactly what the situation was, which I didn’t. “Please. I need to show you something. My son mustn’t see it.”

  There was a fractional hesitation in the patrolman’s shrewd eyes. Then he pivoted to Arch. “Young man, could you please proceed to the ski patrol office at the base?” he called. “Wait there. I’ll bring your mother down.”

  Arch cast a worried glance in my direction. I nodded to him that it was all right. Only then, with a last concerned look, did he reluctantly move away.

  “Are you injured? Can you tell me who you are?” demanded the ski patrolman.

  I told him my name, what I’d seen on the lower run, then motioned to my former perch. As I traipsed up clumsily in my ski boots, the patrolman, a deft skier, quickly two-stepped to the spot. He peered over the edge of the precipice, whistled softly in surprise, then pulled out his walkie-talkie and spoke rapidly.

  A moment later, he snapped his radio shut. “Mrs. Schulz, Goldy Schulz,” he said when I arrived at his side. My feet were so cold I couldn’t feel them. The patrolman touched my shoulder. “Did you see this man fall?” I shook my head. “Did you see someone hit him?” Again I indicated a negative. “There’s no one else on that run down there, Hot-Rodder.”

  I swallowed. “It’s closed.”

  “Have you talked to any other patrol members? When was the run closed?”

  “I haven’t seen or talked to anybody.” My voice seemed to belong to someone else. “I have no idea when the run was closed.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About fifteen minutes. Listen, I’m freezing. I need to be with my son. And—” I hesitated, then added, “I should tell you, I … I know that guy down there. We … started off skiing together at the top, and I was supposed to meet him at the base, but he was skiing faster—”

  “We’re getting help for him. What’s his name?” I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. “Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him.” Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. “Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It’s important.”

  His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I’d first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug’s left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.

  One of the patrolman’s questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?

  Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman’s body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the … Move the … Easy…. With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But, my mind supplied, there’s so much blood … money everywhere….

  Who closed the run? When?

  Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash?

  I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol’s traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.

  “Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?” The patrolman eyed me skeptically. “Do you need me to go with you?”

  “Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for … medics or for … law enforcement?”

  “They’re following procedure.” His calm blue eyes studied me. “Don’t worry about Mr. Portman, we’ve got the situation under control. Let’s go now, all right?” I nodded. He murmured in
to his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.

  “Mom.” His voice was hoarse with anxiety. “Are you okay?”

  “Call Tom,” I told him. “Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we’re okay but that it’s an emergency.”

  Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.

  “Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz,” said my escort.

  I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he’d be back in a minute.

  I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room. His hair had become matted on one side, wildly skewed on the other. His cheeks were bright red.

  “I got Tom. I told him you were all right but you’d been in a ski accident. He wanted to know what happened, and I said maybe you could come talk.” He grimaced. “Those patrol guys by the phone said you couldn’t come out yet. Tom said, ‘Why not?’ I said I didn’t know, and Tom said he was leaving right away to come get you. He’ll be here in about an hour and a half.” My son pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked me over curiously. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, hon. Thanks.”

  “So what happened? Somebody with a bunch of money had an accident?”

  “I think so.” I frowned. A needle of anxiety poked my chest … poor Arch. “Somebody was skiing and had a bad fall.”

  He glanced at the front office, then turned back to whisper, “They’re really arguing about something out there. Gotta go.”

  A moment later my silver-haired companion returned. He was accompanied by a taller, massively built, grim-faced fellow who was carrying a covered paper cup. The big guy—fortyish, thinning dark hair, lumpy face—wore a belted maroon ski suit with the Killdeer logo across the chest. He introduced himself as Joe Magill, from Killdeer Security, before placing the cup on the desk in front of me.

  “Your son said you liked coffee, so we brought you some.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at the drink but did not touch it.

  Magill, who had an oddly diffident air about him, announced that he was in charge. He gestured at the silver-haired man, said I already knew Patrolman Ted Hoskins, and that he and Ted had a few questions, if I didn’t mind. I said nothing as the two men sat down. But I knew protocol: If there was any kind of investigation, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department was in charge. Their efforts would be aided by the Forest Service, which leased land to the ski resorts, and by the ski patrol, a group of trained volunteers. In terms of who was in charge, Killdeer Security was fourth down the list.

  “Now, Mrs. Schulz,” Joe Magill began smoothly, “what we’d like you to do is talk to us about your day, beginning with when you got up this morning—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. I took a shaky breath. “Mr. Magill? You’re from Security?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Schulz. Anytime there’s an accident on the slopes, we’re responsible for investigating. Did you witness the accident?”

  “Could you please tell me where Doug Portman is now?”

  Magill inhaled impatiently. When he leaned back in his chair, his ski suit made a silky, scratching sound. His opaque eyes widened. “Portman died in the ambulance, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I see.…”

  “Your son told us your husband is a police officer.” Magill again.

  “Yes, that’s correct. He’s on his way.”

  “This is not an official questioning, Mrs. Schulz. But we need your help. The sheriff’s department and ski patrol will conduct an official interrogation as soon as a deputy arrives. The ski resort just needs to know if you witnessed the accident.”

  “Why does the ski resort need to know that?”

  Magill cleared his throat. “In a case like this, with a prominent Killdeer citizen killed, we’re probably going to be facing litigation of some kind. We need to know precisely what happened.”

  “Mmm.” I probably should have drunk some coffee, but I held back. Accepting a drink from Magill felt as if I were conceding points to a man I did not know well enough to trust. Plus, I’d been at enough crime scenes to know that we should wait before I started answering questions. Not that this was a crime scene, but … Tom, I felt confidently, would want me to wait for a Sheriff’s deputy to arrive.

  “Mr. Magill,” I said finally, “have you contacted Mrs. Portman?” I stared at the paper-covered bulletin board and tried to conjure up a mental picture of Doug’s wife. I’d met Elva Portman at a crowded law enforcement cookout several years ago, and had had a chance to talk to her for a few moments at a gallery opening I’d catered in Killdeer. She was sophisticated and wealthy, with glossy dark hair and porcelain skin, a young Rose Kennedy. Loved paintings with bold brushstrokes. Couldn’t eat bell peppers.

  Again I got Magill’s flat eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the squeaky suit in the chair. “Elva and Doug Portman have been divorced for a couple of years. Elva lives in Italy now. So, you knew Portman, but haven’t been in touch with him for a while? Patrolman Hoskins said you were skiing together?”

  I looked up at the water-stained ceiling. This guy does not need to know my story. I hadn’t even told Tom I was selling his skis to Portman. I was suddenly conscious of how badly Portman’s death might play out in the media. Prominent citizen dies on way to rendezvous with cop’s wife. I wished desperately I’d never contacted him about the damn skis.

  Magill inhaled noisily through his teeth, a gesture of impatience. “Patrolman Hoskins told me that you claimed to be acquainted with Portman. But your son said he didn’t know him—”

  “My son? My son?” I snapped to attention, enraged. “You should know you can’t question a minor without a parent present!”

  Magill’s suit squeaked as he leaned forward. “I’m not here to hurt you, Mrs. Schulz. I know you’re a caterer, I know you do the TV cooking show.” He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then asked in a perplexed tone, “Does your reluctance to talk to us mean you’re here in some official capacity for your husband?”

  “In some official capacity for my husband?” I echoed, bewildered. I remembered Doug Portman’s words: I’ve got something for Tom in my car. I’d thought it was a book about the 10th Mountain Division, or a magazine on military memorabilia. But what would make Magill think I was here in an official capacity? He knew I did the show. I wish Magill also realized that I’d endured a snowstorm, a TV show that had to rank high in the annals of disastrous live performances, and a lethal accident. That was enough for one morning, thanks. This security guy’s unofficial and inept interrogation had not impressed me favorably. Where were the police?

  At that moment, as if in answer to a prayer, a short, dark, mustachioed man in a green sheriff’s department uniform walked into the cramped office.

  “Mrs. Schulz, forgive me for taking so long,” said the deputy, whose name tag announced he was Sergeant Bancock. “I happened to be near the Eisenhower Tunnel when the call came, so I got here as fast as I could.” He nodded to Magill and then dismissed him with an impassive, “I’ll call you. Hoskins, you stay.”

  Magill, angry to be banished, banged the door shut with a little more energy than required. Pulling out a notebook, Sergeant Bancock sat down and began to ask me a routine set of questions: my name and address, what I was doing at Killdeer, and so on. Like Magill, he asked me to describe my day. This time, I did. I had just come to the part where I looked over
the slope at the run below, when my husband strode in. Thank God.

  Tom, a handsome, bearlike man with gentle green eyes and thick, sandy-brown hair, didn’t need to announce that he was in charge. He just was. I felt thankful for it, and for him.

  Bancock stood and shook Tom’s hand. “Schulz. We’re just getting going here.”

  “This is Ski Patrolman Hoskins,” I said, getting to my feet. Tom nodded at Hoskins, hugged me, then searched my face.

  “You all right, Miss G.? Want to go outside for a bit?”

  “Thanks,” I whispered. “I just want to get this over with. Is—”

  “Arch has gone back to the Druckmans’ condo,” Tom reassured me, anticipating my question. “He’s spending another night. I’ll take you home, if you want. We can leave the van here.”

  I had to bite my lip not to exclaim: “Oh, yes, take me home, please!” Instead, I told him I was fine. Tom smiled tenderly at me, tilted his head at Ski Patrolman Hoskins, and sat down beside me. Sergeant Bancock smoothed out a fresh page in his notebook.

  “Not much longer, Mrs. Schulz,” he said. “Of course, the coroner may have more questions for you later. You want to talk more to Killdeer Security, that’s up to you.” Bancock reviewed his notes. “You told Patrolman Hoskins that you were meeting Douglas Portman later this morning. Is that correct?”

  I gave Tom an apologetic look. If he saw I was sorry—deeply sorry—that I hadn’t told him who the buyer of his skis was, maybe he’d forgive me.

  But Tom did not look angry. Instead, he looked dumbfounded. “Meeting Doug Portman? You were selling Portman my skis?”

  “I knew Doug collected stuff, and—”

  “How did you know Portman?” Bancock interrupted sharply, with a warning look at Tom.

  “Sergeant Bancock, Tom and I have been married not quite two years. Before that, I was a single mother. Every now and then I would go out. On a date. I spent a couple of evenings with Doug Portman, enough to know he collected military memorabilia. And I knew he’d become involved in politics. Something in law enforcement, right? I saw him every now and then at the picnics.” I paused. Bancock, Hoskins, and Tom all waited, too. “When I went out with Portman, he was a forensic accountant. I’d hired him regarding divorce proceedings from my first husband. I hadn’t really talked to him for years,” I went on. “I knew he’d married, now apparently divorced. When Tom said he wanted to sell some World War Two skis, I called Doug. We agreed to meet this morning after I did my cooking show.”