Tough Cookie

by Diane Mott Davidson

  As I scooped the chocolate-cherry-nut-studded batter onto cookie sheets, I recalled reading many an article about high-country drivers fleeing scenes of weather-related accidents. Sticking around on a snowy, slick roadside in poor visibility could be more hazardous than taking off. At least, that’s what hit-and-run drivers claimed after a snowstorm, if they were apprehended—a rare occurrence.

  The thermometer beeped. I removed the sizzling pork, checked the timer on the luxuriantly scented wild rice, and slapped in the first cookie sheet. A wave of fatigue swept over me. It was past eleven. I had to finish the cookies and let the meat and rice cool. Then I could go to bed.

  But something kept nagging at me—something besides the death of Doug Portman, besides the threatening poison patches, besides even the accident. What was it? I sifted through my emotions. What was I feeling? Numb.

  Snowboarders’ Pork Tenderloin

  2½ pounds pork tenderloin (2 tenderloins)

  ½ cup Dijon-style mustard

  1 tablespoon pressed garlic (4 large or 6 small cloves)

  ¼ cup best-quality dry red wine

  ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

  1 tablespoon dried thyme, crushed

  ½ bay leaf

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  ½ teaspoon granulated sugar

  Trim fat and “silver skin” from tenderloins. Rinse, pat dry, and set aside. Place all the other ingredients in a glass pan and whisk together well. Place tenderloins in the pan, turn them to cover with the marinade, cover the pan with plastic wrap, and place in the refrigerator for 6 hours, or overnight.

  Thirty minutes before you plan to roast the pork, remove the tenderloins from the refrigerator to come to room temperature.

  Preheat the oven to 400°F. Use a roasting pan with a rack; line the bottom of the pan with foil and place the tenderloins on the rack. Roast the tenderloins until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the center registers 140°F—about 20 to 25 minutes. Do not overcook the pork: the center should still be pink when served. Remove from the oven and slice.

  Makes 10 servings

  Chocolate Coma Cookies

  1 cup blanched slivered almonds

  4 ounces bittersweet chocolate (2⅓ 1.5-ounce bars of Godiva Dark or 1½ 3-ounce bars of Lindt bittersweet chocolate)

  1 cup dried tart cherries

  12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips (1 regular-size bag)

  2 cups rolled oats

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  1 cup packed dark brown sugar

  1 cup granulated sugar eggs

  2 eggs

  1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter two cookie sheets.

  In a nonstick pan, toast the almonds over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, for about 5 to 10 minutes, until they have just begun to turn brown and emit a nutty aroma. Turn out onto a plate to cool. Chop the chocolate bars into small chunks, no larger than large chocolate chips, and set aside.

  In a large bowl, combine the cherries, chocolate chips, and oats, and set aside.

  Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and set aside.

  In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter until creamy. Add sugars and beat until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla. Beat the mixture until well combined, about a minute. Add the dry ingredients to the mixture and beat at low speed until well combined, less than a minute. Add chocolate chips, chopped chocolate, cherries, and nuts. Using a sturdy wooden spoon, mix well by hand, until all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated. Using a 1-tablespoon scoop, measure out cookies onto sheets, leaving two inches between cookies (about a dozen per sheet). Bake 12 to 14 minutes, or until the cookies have set and are slightly flattened and light brown. Cool on sheets 2 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool completely.

  Makes 6 dozen cookies

  I turned on the oven light. The cookie spheres were softening, the batter bubbling to a golden brown. I closed the recipe file on my computer and opened a new one, labeling it only “Unfortunate Friday.” Then I sat and frowned at the empty screen until the timer beeped.

  I removed the baking sheets. Tiny lakes of melted chocolate winked inside the crisp, golden cookies. While they were cooling I put in another sheet, then checked the rice: about fifteen more minutes.

  Back at the computer, I typed:

  1. What intersection of Tom and parole board member Doug Portman would lead to a death threat on Portman? Was the death threat even linked to DP’s skiing accident? Does it have something to do with Barton Reed?

  2. Why was Hot-Rodder closed? Who closed it? Did Portman ski down the run, knowing it was off-limits? Or was the run closed after he was on it? Who knew he had $8,000 cash on him? Was his death a bungled robbery? Why would it be bungled? How did Portman die, exactly?

  3. What was Doug Portman’s background in Killdeer? Who were his friends and neighbors? More importantly, who were his enemies?

  4. Who hit my van?

  Treat every puzzle with questions and chocolate, was my motto. And it worked, usually. Despite the fact that I’d already indulged in three desserts tonight, I had to taste one of my cookies, right? I mm-mmed over the first bite, with its crunchy toasted nuts, tart sun-dried cherries, warm dark chocolate, and buttery, crisp cookie. I took another bite, and felt as if I must be going into a chocolate coma. So that was what I would call them: Chocolate Coma Cookies.

  Hold on. Treat every puzzle with … I finished the cookie, licked my fingertips, emptied the steaming wild rice onto a wide platter, and removed the second sheet of cookies to a rack. What had I heard earlier in the day? I stared at the blinking cursor.

  Don’t feel sorry for me. An inscrutable face. An acidic tone. I’m not sad … just puzzled. I typed:

  5. What is bothering Rorry Bullock? Is she still grieving her husband’s mysterious death? Or is she embarrassed to show up pregnant and unmarried, three years after her husband’s death?

  I frowned at the computer. Maybe Rorry had remarried, and I just hadn’t heard about it. Hold on: There was one person who would know the answer to that question. Marla.

  I checked my watch: eleven-fifteen. Long years of church work had taught me that if you had even one compulsive talker on a committee of overly nice folks, the meetings can extend ad nauseum. If Marla had come home and gone to bed, she would have turned off her ringer and directed calls into her machine. So I wouldn’t wake her up if I called, I thought happily as I punched in her numbers.

  “Goldy? What in the world are you doing up?” Marla had caller ID and loved to greet me with a breathless question.

  “Cooking. How’bout you?”

  She groaned. “I can’t drink because I’m on heart medication. But I keep thinking, if I had a drink and died, I’d never again have to listen to Karen Stephens talk for three hours without taking a breath.” She groaned again. “It would be worth it.”

  “Listen, I saw Rorry Bullock today. Up at Killdeer.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d say she’s about a week away from giving birth.” I paused. “Did she remarry? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant?”

  “Oh, that doggone prayer group and their insistence on secrecy,” Marla groused. “Yes, she’s pregnant, and we’re praying for her because she doesn’t have any more money now than she did when she and Nate were living in an apartment here in Aspen Meadow.”

  I asked tentatively, “And the father is … ?”

  “Hah! Ask Rorry! She definitely has not remarried, I can tell you that. Anyway, I’m convinced she hasn’t come back to visit St. Luke’s because somebody would tell her she should get married before she has the baby.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “When do you want to ge
t together? We could ski during the week.”

  “I’ll call you. First, though, I’ll let you get some sleep. Your fatigue is making you into a cynic.”

  I signed off and reread what I’d written in the computer. Satisfied that I had outlined the questions that had been troubling me, I wrapped the meat, packed up the cookies, and stored the cooled rice. It was nearly midnight. I could sleep for six hours, wake Arch to go see Todd, pack the Rover, and be on the road to Killdeer by seven. I crept upstairs and curled up next to Tom’s warm, deliciously fleshy body. I heard a soft rustling sound and peered over his shoulder. A new torrent of flakes pattered against our windows. Lit by the street lamp, the blue spruce outside our window was swathed in snow. By morning, Aspen Meadow would be blanketed, and in one week we would have a white Christmas.

  I snuggled closer to Tom. I had very little besides the revolver to put under the tree for him. I resolved to look for another gift in the Killdeer shops. A little shopping trip would cheer me up after I finished with Arthur. Of course, to get to Killdeer, I would first have to shovel out the Rover.

  Make that, sleep for five hours.

  When my alarm shrilled at five A.M., the darkness in the house seemed impenetrable. Out the window, the spruce had vanished. How much more snow had fallen? I shivered and checked my new clock. It was one of those digital jobs with a battery that kicks in when the power goes off. Through my early morning daze, I realized that that was precisely what had happened. I shivered, then concluded that with no power, there were no streetlights, no nightlights or—more crucially—no heat. Unless it was an extended outage, the contents of my refrigerator and freezer should be fine. Still, I wondered if we could afford to move to Arizona.

  “Don’t go,” Tom murmured.

  “Don’t the Rockies train near Phoenix?” I asked. “When does spring training start?”

  “What?”

  “I’m talking about the baseball team, Tom.”

  He groaned, turned over, and pulled me in for a gentle hug that melted my body’s residual stiffness from the accident. “End of February. You want to worry about sports, the Broncos are playing Kansas City tomorrow.”

  “I want to have an excuse to go to Arizona, and following our baseball team’s spring training might be the excuse I’m looking for. At the moment, though, I have to pack up for my personal chef job.”

  “Not yet,” he murmured into my ear. He moved his hands along my lower back. “You’re freezing, for heaven’s sake. Let me warm you up.”

  After carefully moving my sore arm, I yielded happily. What was there to worry about? The food was done, and if the Rover was four-wheel drive, why bother to dig it out? Besides, I thought as I kissed Tom’s inviting mouth and rolled in closer to him, this was our favorite thing to do together, right?

  Twenty minutes later, I felt much warmed and much revived. After a quick shower—there was still hot water in our tank, thank God—I toweled my wiry-wet blond curls. Maybe the ghostly effect of the two candles I’d lit in the bathroom—our flashlights had vanished sometime during the kitchen remodeling—made me appreciate all we had. Just think, I reflected as I buttoned my catering uniform, the medieval monks had it worse than this. True, they washed and dressed by cold candlelight in the morning’s wee hours, but without hot water or hotter sex, how good could they have felt when their day began?

  To my surprise, Arch woke and slid from his bed without complaint. He wasn’t cold, because he’d slept in his ski clothes. That was one way around a power outage.

  I handed him a candle for the bathroom and then made my way downstairs. From their lair off the dining room, Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat began to stir. In addition to the drains, one issue that had sent the county health inspector into the ozone layer had been our family’s ownership of a dog and a cat. Per code, Tom had dutifully partitioned off a separate space in our dining room. Within this designated pet area, Tom had built a canine-feline exit to the out-of-doors. Our dining room looked like someone had stuck a large closet in it, but that was all right. Think of a pet store next to a caterer’s, I’d said to the inspector, when I called to tell him of the change. He’d snorted and hung up on me.

  Now Jake the bloodhound was eager to go out and bay at the darkness, but there was no way I was letting him loose this early. Scout the cat opened a sleepy eye, rose, sashayed to the bottom windowpane abutting our front door, and cast a disparaging look at the cold, dark snow. He moved off to his food bowl and meowed loudly. There was no telling Scout it was too early for anything.

  While dripping copious amounts of hot candle wax on my right hand, I managed to spoon out cat food for His Majesty. Tom pounded down the stairs. He was carrying another candle along with boots, mittens, and a heavy jacket. He was going to start a fire and clear Julian’s car of snow, he announced. While I held my candle up to the dark depths of the still-cool walk-in, Tom, whistling happily, wadded newspapers, snapped kindling, and piled up logs in the living room fireplace. By the time I had the food loaded in a Styrofoam box, my dear sweet husband had a blaze crackling. I came out to warm my numb hands and saw that he’d also filled his antique black kettle with water and hung it on the post he’d installed in the hearth while he was redoing our kitchen. Steam spiraled from the kettle.

  “Listen,” he told me, “I have a meeting this morning I can’t skip. But if you can be back by four, I’ll drive Arch back down to see his dad.”

  For heaven’s sake. I had forgotten it was Saturday, Arch’s regular jail-visit day. Taking Arch to see The Jerk always put me into a rotten mood, so whenever someone else offered to escort Arch on this dreaded mission, I jumped at the offer.

  “Thanks, Tom. That’ll really help.”

  He nodded and shuffled outside with Arch. Moments later, a sudden blaze of headlights lit the driveway and the Rover engine roared to life. Inside, a stiff wind howled down the flue. I could just make out Tom and Arch whisking what looked like ten inches of powder off the Rover. I strained to hear a faraway rumble that signaled the approach of a county snowplow.

  “Ready to roll?” Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. “Got a box ready?”

  “Yes, but I’ll carry it out, thanks.”

  “Not with that arm, you won’t.” He stomped into the house, yanked off his boots and tossed them onto the mat, and sock-footed his way to the kitchen. Who was I to argue with a cop, especially one who was much bigger than I was?

  Fifteen minutes later Arch and I sat in the Rover, travel mugs of creamy chocolate steaming between us. Tom’s makeshift version, composed of kettle-dipped water, cocoa, sugar, powdered creamer, and milk, was actually quite luscious, like a hot chocolate gelato. Of course, as my mammoth fourth-grade teacher had told us, Hunger makes the best sauce. That teacher ought to know, my mother had commented drily.

  Main Street had not lost power, and the thermometer on the downtown branch of the Bank of Aspen Meadow read four degrees. Snow had filled the street’s gutters with two-foot drifts that had been wind-sculpted into sharp-edged peaks. Streams of Christmas lights whirled in the snow and battered the windows of Darlene’s Antiques & Collectibles and the Grizzly Bear Saloon. Seeing Aspen Meadow Arts and Crafts reminded me of the years when Arch and I had spent hours buying presents for his teachers. Arch had agonized over framed solitary gold-plated aspen leaves and pieces of bark painted with images of bull elk. When I’d asked him last week what cookies he thought I could make for his teachers this year, he’d curtly replied that The other kids aren’t bringing the teachers gifts. Now I glanced at the decorated windows, and ached for those old times with my son, before what the other kids are doing dominated our lives.

  “Arch,” I said tentatively as he sipped his cocoa, “does Lettie have pierced ears?”

  “Oh, no, Mom, don’t start. Do not buy Lettie anything.”

  “I just asked—”

  “Why do you want to know? Are you going to pierce them for her if she doesn’t?”

  “I just th
ought—”

  “That you’d buy something for her for Christmas. The way you always do.”

  “Arch! I have never bought a female friend of yours a single thing for Christmas!”

  “Remember those two Valentine’s Days, when you went out and bought big baskets of candy and stuffed animals for girls you thought I was going out with?”

  “But you were—”

  He turned to face me. “I was not going out with them,” he said fiercely. “I wanted to buy them bags of M&M’s. But oh, no, good old Mom had to buy the most expensive baskets possible.” His tone was scathing. “And then you were all upset when you found out I wasn’t going out with the girl you just bought all that stuff for. Mom, you can’t buy me a girlfriend.”

  I took a slug of cocoa and told myself to be patient. “I thought you told me Lettie was your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, and I wish I hadn’t told you anything.”

  “Arch!”

  “Don’t buy her anything!”

  “Don’t worry!” I shot back.

  Arch turned toward his window with much aggravated shuffling of his down jacket. Suddenly I deeply regretted offering to take him snowboarding this morning, especially since I had just remembered Arthur Wakefield informing me that the mountain would be closed for a few hours for the Forest Service investigation into Doug’s accident. I sighed and glanced at Arch. If he’d been so worried about me last night that he’d canceled his overnight with Todd, why wasn’t he being nice this morning? Ah, adolescence. In any event, if Lettie wanted little silver pine trees dangling from her earlobes, the girl was out of luck.