Tough Cookie gbcm-9

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Did you check the facts of his case?”

  There was a pause. “Gee, thanks, friend.” But Eileen’s voice had hardened again. “I’ve already told you: Jack didn’t kill Fiona. Somebody else did. I think that son of hers murdered her, hoping to get her money. Or maybe he hired someone to kill her. He just didn’t know she’d already rewritten her will so that either the money went to Jack, or it went to PBS. Now he’s asking the probate court to set aside the will. And Arthur wants to look like such a good little boy to the probate court. He loves PBS, that’s why he works for them for practically nothing. He wouldn’t mind if the money went to public broadcasting, but really, it’s his. Please, spare me!”

  “Eileen—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Goldy! Do you really believe I’d be living with a killer? Would I make my own son vulnerable?”

  “If you’d just—”

  “I believe Jack. He did not kill his first wife. He’s a good man trying hard to rebuild his life. I even offered him money for lawyers to appeal his conviction. He said no. He said, ‘That’s not the way to be healed.’”

  I shook my head and turned my attention to the television, where I watched the Broncos execute a successful down-and-in pattern. I asked, “Are you planning on marrying him?” I wanted to add, Since he seems to prefer older, wealthy women, but thought better of it.

  Eileen snorted. “Goldy! For heaven’s sake!” She raised her voice a notch. “Listen to me. Here’s how nice Jack is.” On the screen, the Broncos punted, and the illuminated billboard at Mile-High exploded with the words Defense! Defense! “Jack doesn’t have any money. He wants Fiona’s money to go to charity. Even Doug Portman was convinced of Jack’s goodness, that’s why he let him out of prison. Jack is a good man. That’s what petty, greedy, deceptive Arthur Wakefield really can’t stand.”

  “Okay, I just wanted to hear what you were thinking about this…. You know, we always talk about everything—”

  “I’m sorry, Goldy. I don’t want to fight with you. I just … was so unhappy until Jack came along. At least you didn’t say that Jack’s with me because of my money, and that if I didn’t have any, he’d find somebody half my age.”

  “You are smart, funny, and beautiful. What more could a man want?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Look, if Jack were after my money, don’t you think he would have asked me to marry him by now? And if he really intended to harm Fiona for her money, don’t you think he would have taken out a fat insurance policy on her or something?” She sighed. “Not to worry, my dear friend. How’s the planning going for your last show?”

  I laughed and admitted the planning so far was zilch. We decided on times this week when our sons could work together to finish up their science projects before Christmas break. Hopefully, neither would burn the house down in the process. We hung up smiling. Thank God. Old friendships are too important to lose … especially over vague rumors and unsubstantiated suspicions. Speaking of old friendships—

  I called Information, got Rorry Bullock’s number, and punched buttons. Rorry sounded very surprised to hear from me.

  I said, “We prayed for you in church today. You’re having trouble with your pregnancy?”

  “Still in Med Wives one-oh-one, eh, Goldy?” she shot back. “It’s just a little separation of the placenta. I’ll be fine.”

  “And they said something had happened to your car?”

  “Borrowed and trashed. This trailer park is the worst place for security in all of Killdeer, and we don’t have anything like what’s in the rich folks’ houses!”

  I murmured my sympathy, and offered to bring her some casseroles the next day. Once again, food worked its magic. Rorry softened instantly and said she’d love them. After I left the dinners, she added, would I mind driving her to work at the Killdeer warehouse? I’d passed the warehouse, one of the dark-painted service barns owned by the Killdeer Corporation, when I’d been looking for Arthur’s condo. No problem, I’d be glad to take her to work. When I got off the phone, I realized I’d forgotten to ask her what precisely had happened to her car. I did not call her back because at that moment, Tom walked through the door.

  It was the end of the third quarter; the Broncos were leading ten to zip. To my surprise, Tom shuffled heavily into the room and glanced at the score without much interest.

  “Tom?”

  He sat on the couch and set three sheets of paper on the coffee table. Then he turned and took my hands.

  “Tom? What is it?” His expression frightened me.

  “Someone broke into Portman’s condo the day he died. He’d lived alone since Elva divorced him, so it was definitely his stuff somebody was after.” Tom sighed. “If anything’s missing, we have no way of knowing. We seized all the files that were there, and we’ve ordered his bank records. We’re trying to fit up a series of deposits with his parole recommendations, but so far we haven’t figured out if he was up to anything.”

  “Do you think he might have been taking bribes, then?”

  Tom nodded. “Portman was under investigation. A number of prisoners in Cañon City and at the Furman County Jail have told investigators how he asked them for money. He always did it when the stenographer wasn’t there. He always wanted the money to be brought to him personally by a relative or friend. And judging by the stuff in that condo, the guy was loaded. Even with his side business of dealing in military collectibles, and the bit he got from being a critic, there’s little chance you could live the way he did on sixty thou a year from the parole board.”

  “So he didn’t get a big divorce settlement from Elva?”

  “Not according to our court records. They didn’t have a prenuptial agreement. She sold her gallery and kept the proceeds. She’s on record as saying she hoped he’d have to go digging ditches. Plus, he gave up the forensic accounting when he got the parole board job.”

  “What about Jack Gilkey?” I asked. “Did you find any connection between Doug and Jack?”

  “Nothing yet. If Gilkey gave Portman money in exchange for an early release, we can’t find any record of it. We talked to Jack, and to Eileen, very informally, and both say Portman really liked Jack, and that there was no money involved. We checked out Jack’s alibi for the times of both Portman’s death and the break-in. There’s one person who remembers being with him for most of the lunch prep. Four people were with him while they were cooking the meal itself. By the time Jack got off work, Portman’s place had been burgled. The receptionist at Portman’s condo complex said a man in a uniform came in around noon, showed ID, claimed he was there to check the security system. She didn’t see him come out, so she figures he was the one who broke into Portman’s place. Eileen says she was skiing most of the day. But she was alone, no witnesses.”

  “So her alibi isn’t airtight,” I said reluctantly. “What about Arthur Wakefield?”

  Tom shook his head. “Swears he was skiing alone. No alibi for the time of Portman’s death, no alibi for the time of the burglary.”

  I thought for a minute. “Could Doug have kept another office, apartment, or house, where he might have hidden records of bribes? A lot of folks have condos in Killdeer as second homes.”

  “Not that we’ve been able to determine. He only listed the Killdeer condo with the parole board for an address. Now here’s something puzzling: Portman hadn’t quit the parole board, but it looks as if he was leaving or moving, because most of his belongings were in boxes. His military memorabilia were carefully packed in about forty or so boxes marked Store. Whether that meant put these in storage or sell these at a store, we have no idea. We’re still looking into it.” I nodded, mystified. Tom glanced at his first sheet, then paused. Finally he asked, “Goldy, how many antiques dealers did you contact about selling the Tenth Mountain Division skis?”

  “I called a guy in Lodo, a couple on South Broadway, and a woman in Vail. Not one of them was willing to give us more than five thousand dollars, and then they wanted to take a commission on top of that.
Wholesale, they called it. But everyone said the skis were worth at least ten thousand. So I figured we—I—ought to be able to sell them on my own.”

  “So you offered them to Portman. Because you knew from your dating days that he had an interest in that kind of thing.”

  I nodded, but, watching the expression on Tom’s face, felt increasingly uneasy.

  He went on: “But you didn’t want to tell me that Portman was our buyer, because you’d dated him before we met, right? And you felt funny about that, contacting an old boyfriend, even though he wasn’t a boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t feel funny, I felt foolish.” When Tom said nothing, I mumbled, “Yes, something along those lines.”

  “So you struck a deal with Portman for the skis.”

  “He was willing to pay eight thousand—”

  “Which was close to the amount of cash they found on him, and scattered on the slopes.”

  “Tom! Why is that a problem?”

  Tom pressed his lips together and stared at the swirling, silent action on the television. “You were selling valuable skis to a parole board member with no intermediary. Meanwhile, your ex-husband is in jail, facing parole in the not-too-distant future. Think about that. You were selling skis to a man who might be in a position to do you a favor down the road, by denying your ex-husband parole.”

  “At the time, I didn’t even know Doug was on the parole board!” I protested.

  “Someone might say you were trying to influence him.”

  “I was trying to pay for new drains—”

  He held up his hand. “Miss G. Your plan to sell the skis to the parole board member included your agreeing to charge him less than the full market value of ten thousand dollars for them. You were doing him the favor of selling him a valuable item for two thousand dollars under market price.” His green eyes, full of pain, studied me solemnly. “How do you think that makes you look?”

  “I don’t care, because what you’re saying is ridiculous!” I cried hotly. “You can’t honestly think that I would do such a thing!”

  Tom did not reply. Unable to bear the look on his face, I glanced at the television. Kansas City jumped offsides but the penalty wasn’t called.

  “Miss G.,” he said. “You didn’t warn me, but now I’m warning you. You better pray that the Sheriff’s department figures out who killed Doug Portman. And why.” He sighed. “Your home kitchen’s closed for repairs. Now you’re involved in what could be interpreted as shady dealings. The press gets hold of this, it might get so slanted against you, your client base could dry up. Permanently. And if you’re prosecuted for this—” He broke off abruptly.

  “The district attorney is not going to prosecute me for trying to influence Doug Portman, is he?” I demanded. “That’s absurd!”

  The phone rang. Tom rose to answer it. “You never actually completed the sale to Doug, so it’s doubtful you’ll have to face prosecution,” he answered slowly. Then he hesitated; the phone bleated. “But, Goldy—it does look very bad.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Tom was sitting at the table, scribbling in his trusty spiral notebook, phone tucked under his ear, when I entered the kitchen. The game was in overtime, the score tied. I didn’t care. I was angry my kitchen was closed, furious my van had been destroyed, and remorseful that I hadn’t been brave enough to tell Tom who was buying his skis. And why was all this happening? Because, years ago, I’d dated Doug Portman. And then, unabashed, I’d offered to do business with him. I’d figured, he’s the perfect buyer for the skis. I’d thought, This money will solve all our problems, and quick. Sure.

  I looked around the kitchen. Action is better than inaction. Or something like that. I carefully moved Arch’s still-wet, splatter-frosted cookie sheet onto another counter, then stared at my old recipe card box. Tom continued to talk on the telephone.

  I flipped through the box of stained recipe cards, my old standby before the kitchen computer. What dishes would comfort and nourish Rorry Bullock when she came home from the hospital with her newborn? Two reliable casseroles beckoned from a time before I entered the catering business: lasagne and Swedish meatballs. On one of the walk-in’s side shelves, I miraculously located fresh oregano, basil, and thyme. Serving meatballs and lasagne could jeopardize my upscale reputation, I reflected while removing ground beef, ricotta, Fontina, whipping cream, eggs, and mozzarella from the walk-in. Rorry wouldn’t tell on me, would she?

  “Okay, got it. Yeah, sure, send it now. Thanks.” Tom hung up. “We know what opioid was on the patches. A drug called Duragesic.”

  “Oh, brother.” Duragesic was a very powerful painkiller, administered through transdermal patches. The potency of the drug diminished over a period of time, at which point a cancer patient or other chronically ill-and-in-pain patient put on another patch.

  “You use or even touch more than one Duragesic patch at a time, you’re probably going to die,” Tom added grimly. “But there wasn’t enough on those particular patches to kill anybody.”

  “So why would you threaten a law enforcement person, in this case the head of the parole board, with something that wouldn’t work?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you thought it would work. Maybe you just wanted to scare the guy to death.” He slid his finger down the list of names he’d written in his notebook. “Eleven people I’ve arrested over the last four years have treated their cancer pain with Duragesic. Five of them were denied parole by Doug Portman. One’s in remission in Lamar, one’s a roofer in Pueblo, one’s in a Colorado Springs hospital on life support. One guy died. The last one, man of thirty, was paroled last June by someone else. He’d been denied twice by Portman. But Barton Reed violated his parole three weeks later by assaulting a big guy wearing a Red Wings jersey. He swore the Detroit fan taunted him. But Reed still went back to jail for another six months anyway.” Tom shook his head. “He’s been out for a couple of weeks.”

  I set a pot of water on to boil for the pasta. “How’s his health?”

  “He’s in remission now. Last May, while he was still in jail, he was in so much pain he was on … Duragesic.” Tom’s fax rang. A moment later the machine spat out a high-quality photocopied photograph. Barton Reed, wide-faced and menacing, a dozen crosses and oval-shaped earrings strung along the edge of each ear, leered off the faxed page. The photocopy undeniably captured the likeness of the man I remembered seeing last summer at Aspen Meadow Health Foods, the man I’d dubbed the Earring King. Last June, he’d been putting together an herbal remedy for his illness. When Cinda had talked to me about him on Friday, he’d been putting together something altogether different: a threatening card with death as its message. What had Jack Gilkey said? Reed has revenge in his heart.

  I poured green-gold olive oil into a sauté pan. When the heat made the oil glisten, I tossed in chopped onions and crushed garlic cloves. They sizzled, turning the air mouthwateringly pungent. “So … what was Reed’s original offense?”

  Tom cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. “Did you know our friend Barton was a hot snowboarder for a lot of years? Don’t get me wrong, that wasn’t what got him into trouble. He toured the freestyle circuit here and abroad. That takes money—for travel, lodging, entry fees, you name it. In winter, he based himself in Killdeer. In summer, he would search Aspen Meadow and the other wealthy areas of Furman County for elderly women in the last stages of cancer.”

  I added the ground beef to the pan and soon the scrumptious aroma of beef sautéing in garlic and onion filled the kitchen. I was beginning to feel a little better, perhaps because I was cooking. Or maybe it was because we were talking about somebody else’s problems. I said, “Rich, elderly women with cancer? Why target them?”

  Tom perused my Swedish meatballs recipe card, washed his hands, and whisked together eggs and cream. “To steal from them. He’d tell these women’s families that he knew a doctor down in Mexico, an American genius with a pedigree as long as a prosthetic leg. Reed’s very convincing line was that D
octor Genius had given up on the FDA ever approving his cancer-healing miracle drug. Why wouldn’t they approve? these people would ask. Because the AMA didn’t want their oncologists to go out of business, Reed claimed.”

  “For heaven’s sake.”

  “At Doctor Genius’s luxurious healing spa in Oaxaca, Barton assured his clients, their terminal relatives could be healed. They’d be back home in six months. He showed pictures, offered testimonials, the whole bit. He had a background as a lay preacher, and was very convincing. Each family handed over sixty thousand dollars—ten thousand a month for the first six months. They’d send Granny off with Reed, and that was that. They got glowing reports from Doctor Genius, from Reed, even from a purported resident chaplain. But never heard a word from their beloved grandmothers.”

  “Which should have been their first clue.”

  Tom nodded. “Finally, one relative went down to find out what was going on. The women were being kept in dreadful conditions in a sub-par nursing facility. No phone, no medical treatment, no chaplain. And needless to say, no genius doctor. Barton Reed had to hang up his snowboard so he could be incarcerated for three long years.” He paused. “Where’s the allspice?” I handed it to him. “Here’s the irony,” he continued thoughtfully. “After less than six months behind bars, Barton Reed was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Parole board member Doug Portman had no sympathy.”

  “Or Barton Reed had no cash to fan the flames of Doug Portman’s sympathy,” I commented sourly.

  Tom whirled cornflakes in the blender; he added them, along with dried minced onions, to the egg mixture. “Our guys are picking up Reed now for questioning. Miss G.—I want you to stay away from Reed. The man is fueled by rage.” Tom seasoned the crumb mixture and stirred it into his bowl of fresh ground beef. His large, capable hands formed scrumptious-looking meatballs. He placed them in rows on a jelly-roll pan and popped the pan into the oven. I stirred tomatoes, red wine, and herbs into the sauté pan for the double batch of lasagne sauce. While it was coming to a simmer, I browned two packages of chicken thighs in olive oil and set them to stew with onions, carrots, and bay leaf. These would form the base for the Sonora Chicken Strudel to be served at Arthur’s buffet the next day. Soon the old-fashioned scents of stewing chicken and spicy tomato sauce were wafting through our kitchen. Heavenly.