Tough Cookie gbcm-9

by Diane Mott Davidson

  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 b
ottles 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.