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.
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