When the dishes were cleared, I searched for and found a bottle of generic buffered aspirin. Tom announced that he was doing the dishes, no easy task, as our lack of kitchen drains still dictated use of the ground-floor tub. I was to relax, he insisted, and Arch and Julian should go do something fun.
Julian opened his backpack and pulled out a foil-wrapped package of his trademark fudge dotted with sun-dried tart cherries. I declined any, but Tom took two pieces before clearing the plates. With a mischievous smile, Julian offered a chunk to Arch. “Hey, buddy, how about a second dessert? Better yet, how’bout I fix a batch of this Christmas fudge for Lettie? I can put in crushed peppermint drops instead of cherries.”
Arch shot him a dark look. “No, thanks.” Lettie was Arch’s girlfriend, or at least he had been “going out with” this lovely, long-legged blond fourteen-year-old—the two never actually went anywhere—at the end of summer. To me, of course, Arch provided no updates on the status of the relationship. My only indications that he had any social life at all at Elk Park Prep were the carefully folded notes I found in his pants pockets when I was emptying them in the laundry room. Fearful that these papers were homework assignments that he would later accuse me of tossing—this had happened—I always unfolded them enough to read the first line. If Arch’s small, vertical handwriting began, This class sucks! then I knew to toss the paper. He was communicating with somebody, anyway. Still, if we needed to plan for an additional Christmas present—Arch was notoriously lastminute on these things—I needed to know.
“So, is Lettie still in the picture?” I asked, noncom-mittally.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” Arch’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he informed Julian, who now seemed repentant that he’d brought Lettie into the conversation, that he had something to show him. The boys disappeared. I swallowed three aspirin and wondered if there was any chance they could be contemplating Arch’s ninth-grade reading assignment in Elizabethan poetry, or the homemade quantum mechanics experiment he was supposed to devise for his physics class. Probably not.
“Are you all right?” Tom said quietly, once he’d filled the bathtub with soapy water and the dishes were soaking. “You hardly ate a bite.”
The aspirins weren’t kicking in. “No, I’m not all right. But I will be soon. Thanks for asking.” I wiggled my unfeeling fingers, rubbed my rapidly-blackening elbow, then tried and failed to move my neck from side to side. If I hadn’t broken anything, how come everything hurt so much? Tom came over and gave me a healing kiss.
Just before eight o’clock, a state patrolman knocked on our door. Into our kitchen Tom ushered a tall, corpulent man with black hair so short and thin it looked like someone had ground pepper over his scalp. His name was Vance, and he wanted me to write down all I remembered about the accident. I scribbled what I remembered of the blur of events: cars skidding every which way, my inability to see what happened, being hit from behind, skidding, being smacked again and again and again. I’d hit another vehicle, crashed through the guardrail, and sailed down the hill. I begged for information about the truck’s driver. The cop announced glumly that he’d died. My heart ached.
Officer Vance read what I’d written, put down the pad, and tapped the tabletop. “Tell me again what happened on the way up to the tunnel. Before the accident.”
Patiently, I tried to visualize, then articulate, the happenings of those few minutes. The snow had been falling in sheets. Visibility had been wretched. What vehicles I could see were sliding haplessly on the ice. Then something had hit my van. All around me, cars were honking, thudding, spinning out of control. I’d careened down the hill, crashed into the truck, sunk into deep snow. I’d truly believed, I told the officer, that I was going to be buried alive in the white stuff.
As I related my story, neither Tom nor Officer Vance interrupted me. When I’d concluded, Officer Vance mused, “As far as you could see, then, there was a white pickup truck about ten yards in front of you. There was also a vehicle behind you.”
“And one behind that, and one behind that.” I waved my hand in a gesture of ad infinitum. The movement made my elbow howl with pain. “The noise of the crash was like books falling on your head. Thud, thud, thud, thud.”
“But you couldn’t see the cars behind you very well,” the policeman asked, “because of the poor visibility, right? Are you sure you didn’t hear that thud, thud, thud, and then your mind just supplied the image of books falling?”
I frowned and thought back. I knew this cop was trying to get at something. There had been a vehicle directly behind me. And yes, one behind that. That was all I could remember seeing. When I announced this, Tom pursed his lips. Officer Vance didn’t blink.
“Right,” Vance murmured. When Tom sat down at my side, Officer Vance slid the salt, pepper, and three unused serving spoons into a line. His thick, carrot-like fingers moved the salt cellar. “This is the white pickup.” Then the peppermill: “This is you.” The first spoon: “This is the guy behind you, another van.” The second spoon: “Then there’s another vehicle behind that van.” He placed the last spoon in place. “Then here’s somebody quite a bit farther back.”
I concentrated on the objects, then moved the first two slightly to give the right scale of distances. But I had not seen a fourth vehicle, somebody quite a bit farther back. It had been snowing too hard.
Vance pointed to the last spoon. “The driver of this car farther back, a woman from Idaho Springs, was in a Subaru station wagon. Only she didn’t skid into anybody. She was right behind another Subaru wagon, and the two of them were ten car-lengths behind you. Just before the accident, she swears that other wagon sped up wildly and rammed into the van behind you.” Officer Vance moved the next-to-last serving spoon up toward the first spoon. “Then she heard the noise of cars colliding. She braked, and skidded. Ahead of her, the other Subaru sped up and rammed the van twice more. The snow made it hard for her to see exactly what had happened. In a fraction of a second, she saw the truck, and then your van, go over the cliff edge.” He sighed. “By the time we got there, what with the snow and all the cars going by on the way to the tunnel, there weren’t any skid marks left. Apart from what this woman said, we don’t have a trace of the two vehicles behind you.”
“I don’t remember the cars behind me. Van, one or two Subarus, nothing.”
Vance shrugged. “You were hit, you hit a truck.”
“But … because of the snowfall, I didn’t see the truck. At least, I didn’t see it go over.”
“The guardrail was busted in two places,” he told me, “but aside from that, we don’t have much physical evidence. The van behind you took off,”—he raised his shrewd, assessing eyes to mine—“and we can’t find this Subaru the woman saw.”
“So … are you telling me this accident was a planned hit-and-run?” I was incredulous. “That someone deliberately rammed the van behind me? Rammed it three times? Why would anyone do anything that insane?”
Officer Vance held up his hands. “That’s what I was hoping you could help me with.”
Tom reached over and gently clasped my fingers. “You witnessed a ski accident in the morning—”
“I didn’t witness it,” I protested. “I just … saw a guy lying on the slope. He died in the ambulance.”
“In the road accident,” Vance interjected, “we still don’t know the identity of the guy in the pickup. We only know he’s dead. Which makes the accident vehicular homicide.” I moaned. “With the storm so bad, they won’t be hoisting up either vehicle until the morning.” He paused. “Did you see any vehicle, any person you recognized, anywhere on the road from Killdeer to the Eisenhower Tunnel?” Officer Vance demanded.
“No. Sorry.”
“Did you witness any aggressive driving prior to your being hit?” Again, I shook my head. Officer Vance sighed. “This could have been a drunk. It could have been someone ticked off with the van driver, which would explain why the van was long gone by the time we got there.”
When I stared at him in baffled disbelief, he picked up the pad, placed a card with his name and number on the table, and thanked me for my time. And if I remembered anything else … I nodded mutely and thanked him for coming. Tom showed him to the door.
“Do you think someone was trying to hit me?” I asked Tom, when he returned to the kitchen and poured milk and sugar into some cooked rice. “What are you doing?”
“Making a treat. I know you’re bullheaded enough to try to cook tonight, and you can’t do it on aspirin and an almost-empty stomach.”
I sighed. “You didn’t answer my question about the car accident.”
He nodded and stirred the cooking mixture, which gave off a rich, homey scent. “I don’t know. Hitting a van behind someone else’s van isn’t a very reliable way to kill someone on the road. Still, driving Julian’s Rover is a good idea,” he added thoughtfully. “As far as the roads go, the storm was breaking when Arch and I came through. No matter what, I feel more comfortable with you behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive. And speaking of the Rover, did you know General Farquhar had all the windows tinted very dark and bulletproofed?” I rolled my eyes at the mention of the super-paranoid military man, Julian’s benefactor. Tom searched for a set of custard cups, then went back to stirring. “I want you to keep the cellular with you all the time. Watch who’s around. Have somebody with you if you can. Just as a precaution, especially over in Killdeer, okay?”
“First of all, Tom, I can’t even entertain the idea that that accident was a deliberate hit-and-run. The interstate was very icy. I could barely see the truck in front of me. And I think I’d have noticed somebody tailing me all the way from Killdeer. I mean, I’m grateful to be alive, but trying to execute the kind of move we’re talking about, under those conditions, could be suicide.”
“Miss G. Please. It’s not difficult to take precautions.”
“Sure, yeah, okay, I’ll be careful.” What did I have to lose? I already had a messed-up TV career, a ton of debt, no business, a wrecked van, and two mysteriously dead men: a parole-board member and a truck driver. Speaking of which. “Look, I need to call Arthur. The doctor said I could drive if my arm wasn’t bothering me. So I’d still like to meet with Arthur tomorrow to arrange my personal-chef work for his party.”
“I knew it,” Tom said resignedly.
To demonstrate my resilience, I got up, zipped over to my kitchen computer, booted it, and searched for my notes on the assignment.
Tom shook his head. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
But I was already dialing. Arthur answered on the first ring.
“Thank God you called, Goldy.” His tone was laced with mournful drama, as usual. “In the morning, I need you to be here by ten. I’ll explain how I want things to go, and show you the layout of the kitchen before you start work. I’ve got dozens of callings to make about my wines—”
“Wait a sec,” I interrupted as politely as I could. “Please, Arthur. I’m not sure I’ll be able to be there by ten. There will be the ski traffic, and I have things to pack up, and I’ve got vehicle problems, because unfortunately I was in a car accident today—”
“But it’s stopped snowing. You were in a car accident? For heaven’s sake! There was an accident on the mountain today, guy was killed going down a closed black run. The Forest Service is closing Killdeer Mountain for a few hours in the morning to help the Sheriff’s department investigate it. That won’t stop the ski traffic, unfortunately,” he said mournfully. “A day for accidents. What a shame.”
“Yes, indeed.” I tried to make my tone noncommittal. “Maybe we can make our plans now, and you could just leave the key for me.” I took a deep breath and waited for an explosion. I wasn’t really expecting sympathy. I picked up the aspirin bottle and shook out a couple more. In Med Wives 101, we’d often told each other you could take up to six at a time. This was not advisable, medically speaking, but then again, being the wife of a medical student wasn’t exactly advisable, either.
“I can’t do that,” Arthur replied, exasperated. “I live at 602 Elk Path in West Killdeer. Be here at ten. I want … I want the dishes you prepare to be almost done. Then I’ll put on the finishing touches so my guests will think I slaved for hours.”
“Ah, well, I’ve never—” I began, but he was gone.
I hung up the phone and frowned. Most of my clients start out anxious, I reassured myself. Once I serve them food, they’re content. Only Arthur didn’t want me to serve the food. He didn’t even want me to finish cooking it. Ah, sufficient unto the day was the catering thereof. Or something like that.
With a flourish, Tom handed me a custard cup brimming with warm rice pudding. He’d sprinkled the pudding with cinnamon and garnished the top with a massive dollop of whipped cream. The cream melted slightly and slid sideways on the warm pudding. I took a bite: the dessert was dreamily thick, like a homey, melt-in-your-mouth porridge from heaven.
“Incredible,” I said, and took another greedy bite. “I’m getting better already.”
“That’s why I made it,” Tom said triumphantly. “Think the boys would want some?”
We listened. The faint thump of rock music reverberating through the ceiling was a sure sign the boys weren’t listening to Tudor-style lute music.
“Better leave them alone,” I replied. “After all, rice pudding is also great chilled.”
Tom smiled appreciatively and dug into his own custard cup. “Julian seems good,” he commented. “Tired, though.”
“I’m worried about him.”
“Miss G., you worry about everything. He loves being back in Colorado and he loves the film class, he told me so himself. Maybe he’ll make how-to-cook-vegetarian videos after he graduates.”
I smiled and scraped the bottom of the pudding cup. “Thanks for the treat. Can you possibly help me with the cooking I need to do for the rest of the weekend?”
“Cooking with you is only my second favorite thing we do together.”
I laughed. From the walk-in, I drew out unsalted butter and eggs. Then I retrieved a bag of premium bittersweet chocolate chips and several bars of Godiva Dark from our pantry shelves. The library’s Christmas Open House was in two days and I’d be away from my kitchen tomorrow. I asked Tom if he would chop the Godiva; he smiled and held out his hand.
I removed a pork tenderloin I’d started marinating the day before. Professional culinary literature urges the prospective personal chef to bring the first meal—a marvelous dinner using your best recipes—gratis. This is to show your client what a good and generous person you are. Arthur, if he’d been noticing, might already think I was a good and generous person. On the other hand, he probably thought I was a klutz. Still, that assessment could change once he ate his deliciously tender, herb-spiced, free pork dinner.
“Tell me about the parole board,” I urged Tom, to distract myself from fretting about Arthur.
He sighed and continued to chop. “There you go again. Worrying.”
I tapped buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the chocolate cookie recipe I was working on. “Come on,” I said, trying my best to sound reasonable. “I just want to know how the board operates. And I’m interested in your theory as to the reason Doug Portman had an anonymously written card containing a threat, and maybe some poison, too, and why he wanted to give it specifically to you.”
Tom sliced the chocolate into dark, fragrant chunks. “First things first. There are six members on the state parole board, all appointed by the governor. Statutorily, two of them have to have a law-enforcement background. Portman didn’t have a law-enforcement background, but I know he watched the newspapers. All the parole board members do. Every day, they’re scared some felon they let out on parole might have committed a big crime. The board members really don’t want that kind of thing coming back to haunt them. So.” He pushed away the chopped chunks from the first chocolate bar and started on the second. “I think Portman got that card from someone I put behind bars, and he let ou
t. But why would someone he let out come back and threaten him?”
I printed out the cookie recipe. “Maybe it’s someone he denied parole to, who’s finally out now. The name Barton Reed doesn’t ring a bell? The guy at Cinda’s?”
He shook his head. “I’d have to see a picture.” He finished chopping the chocolate with a flourish, then rinsed his knife in the bathroom. When he came back, he gave me a long, gentle hug.
“You don’t have to figure this out, Goldy,” he murmured in my ear. “We should have the crime lab results back by Tuesday. Why not let go of this until then?”
“Whatever you say,” I replied in a low voice. We both knew I never gave anything a rest, but dear Tom chose not to point this out at that moment. He merely mumbled something unintelligible, hugged me tight, and said he was going upstairs to check on the boys. I promised him I’d join him in a bit.
In truth, there was only one thing I could do to start cracking a case: Cook.
CHAPTER 8
I pressed the tenderloin through the plastic wrap. Before roasting, it had to reach room temperature, so the inside could cook along with the outside. I stabbed the pork with the sharp end of my digital readout thermometer, a help if you want to serve succulent, juicy meat but have a client who is trichinosis-phobic, then preheated the oven. I didn’t want to take a guess as to the types of phobias Arthur held dear, but judging from our chats, fears about food were a distinct possibility.
Once the meat was in the oven, I set the beater to cream the butter for the cookies. Then I pulled out a bowl of wild rice that had soaked overnight. After one of our shows, Arthur had confessed he had wines to introduce to his best clients, and needed to do it at an in-home party, rather than in a bustling restaurant. He disliked cooking, even though he was pretty good at it. Could I help him?
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