Tough Cookie (26 page)

Tom returned. The dishes were soaking in the tub. Arch announced that they were ready to begin.

"Book Five, Canto Two, Stanza Thirty-nine," Todd began stiffly as he faced the convection oven. He cleared his throat twice, then woodenly recited:

"Of things unseen how canst thou deem aright, Then answered the righteous Artegall, Since thou misdeem'st so much of things in sight? What though the sea with waves continual Do eat the earth, it is no more at all. . . . "

He turned and nodded uncomfortably at Arch. I held my breath and glanced at Tom. Should we be encouraging and clap at this point? Tom gave a tiny warning shake of the head. Arch stood facing the stove and began:

"Nor is the earth the less, or loseth ought, For whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto another brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought."

"Excellent, Arch! Todd, wow! Fantastic!" Tom and I gushed, clapping wildly.

Todd reached up to scratch his fuzzy scalp, then remembered not to. Instead, he nabbed the Rockies baseball cap he usually wore, but had politely removed for dinner. "Thanks, Mrs. Schulz. My mom liked it, too. She said I didn't need to work with Arch tonight, but I told her I did." I suddenly remembered Arch's remark - made when Jack had fixed us dinner at Eileen's condo - that Todd spent tons of time at our house because he didn't like Jack Gilkey. How would Todd fare if Eileen married Jack? If they did tie the knot, I only hoped poor little Todd would do better than Arthur Wakefield had.

The boys clattered off, promising to practice in front of each other. Tom disappeared, then reappeared carrying clean dishes, which he dried and clanked back onto shelves. Then he pulled out invoices to check that he'd received all the plumbing supplies he'd ordered. I stared at our shiny silver-and-white marble counters, darkly glowing cherry cabinets, and butter-golden oak floors. I had no more professional cooking to do until this week's final PBS show.

I sighed. When I had a big event to prepare for, I always complained. Without work, I ached for it.

I quickly fixed myself a cup of cocoa. Unfortunately, the hot, creamy chocolate drink did not stave off the sudden pangs of emptiness. No work felt like no life. Whenever I was up to my elbows in coulibiac and flourless chocolate cake, I fantasized about the crocheting I would one day do, the beaches Tom and I would one day stroll. But here I was, as free as I had ever wanted to be, and my big worry was whether eight-thirty was too early to go to bed.

Outside, snow had begun to fall. I gathered my ski equipment, packed it into the Rover, and said goodnight to Tom. The boys - who had traded Elizabethan poetry for rock music - thanked me for dinner, swore they had their verses nailed, and promised to go to bed soon. I took a long, hot shower and fell into bed.

But slumber eluded me. "Hours crept by as I stared at the snowflakes swirling around our street lamp. The pounding music stopped. Tom slid into bed. I did fall asleep at some point, because when the telephone jangled through my consciousness, it sounded very far away.

I blinked at the clock: The business line was ringing? At six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning? Somebody must want a catered holiday dinner wicked bad.

Tom groaned. "Want me to get it? It's probably the department - "

"They never call on this line." I fumbled for the receiver and mumbled my business greeting.

"Goldy Schulz of Goldilocks' Catering? This is Reggie Dawson of the Furman County Register." The voice was high and brittle, almost a falsetto. Reggie Dawson? I was not a regular reader of the Register, so the name rang no bells. The paper paid poorly, and staff turnover was high, I knew. Every now and then, I did an extremely low-budget going-away party for one of the reporters who'd been let go.

"You have regular business hours, Mr. Dawson?" I hissed. "Could you call me back? I'm not catering any business coffees or lunches at the moment - "

"The way I heard it, Mrs. Schulz, you might be out of the catering business entirely."

Now he had my attention. I wished desperately we had caller ID on our phones. "What are you saying?"

"Four days ago, Douglas Portman died while skiing at Killdeer. You discovered his body, and you had prior ties to Portman."

"So?"

"We've received information that you were renewing a romantic relationship with Portman. Can you confirm or deny this?"

Well! I'd watched a press conference or two in my day. "Deny," I said fiercely.

"Were you rendezvousing with Portman because you wanted him to do something for you?"

"Like what?" My mind was reeling, and I was shivering in the early morning cold. Could there be an easy way to end this conversation? Was it better to talk to an obnoxious journalist, or cut him off? The wife of homicide investigator Thomas Schulz, local caterer Goldy Schulz, I imagined reading, whose abusive ex-husband, John Richard Korman, is serving time for assault, refused to answer questions regarding her secret relationship with parole-board chief Douglas Portman. . . .

Reggie Dawson persisted: "Did you bribe Portman to ensure that your ex-husband would stay incarcerated?"

"No. Of course not. Look, could you call me back - "

"Was that the favor he was going to do for you?"

"There was no favor - "

"Does your current husband, top cop Tom Schulz, know about your extramarital involvement?"

"There is no, there was no, extramarital - "

"Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?"

I didn't answer right away, because I was not going to be interrupted again. To my surprise, this time the reporter waited for me to reply. Finally, into the lengthening silence, I said firmly, "I was skiing with Doug Portman. Period."

"So now you're trying to cover up your relationship with Doug Portman?"

My mind flitted to the undervaluation of the skis. "There is absolutely nothing to cover up."

"Were you doing some kind of deal with Portman so you could bailout your failing business?"

"Now, listen here, Mr. Dawson, there is no failing business. I have a TV job in Killdeer - "

"Mrs. Schulz! Given what you've experienced in Killdeer, don't you think it's dangerous to be snooping around while your son snowboards alone?"

Icy fear washed through me. My mouth opened; no sound came out. Wording of state laws covering implied threats and explicit threats swam up from my unconsciousness.

I said, "Listen, you, you - "

But the line was dead.

Now sleep was officially impossible. Fingers shaking, I flipped through the phone book: no Reggie or R. Dawson or Dausson or anything close to it in the entire Denver metropolitan area, including all of Furman County. Tom brought me a pen and clean pad of paper. He urged me to write down every word of the conversation. While I did this, he called the department to see if they could expedite ID on the call. They promised to try.

Tom fixed me coffee, then started frying bacon for the boys. A lump had formed in my throat. I couldn't even swallow coffee. Once the boys were digging into bacon and toast, Tom clasped my hands in his.

"Miss G. Do you want the boys to stay home while I finish the plumbing?"

The boys squealed in protest. There was nothing to do at home, and today they were supposed to get their classroom ready for the Christmas party! I said if Tom felt they would be safe, they should go to school. Tom called the department again and was assured a deputy could be sent to the school to protect some kids who'd been threatened. In response to the proliferation of high school shootings, Elk Park Prep parents had insisted on the erection of a new security gate attached to the electrified fence, and the round-the-clock presence of armed guard in the school. Tom would also alert guard to the possibility of danger, and instruct him call the sheriffs department at the first sign of suspicious activity. Okay?

"Yes. Thanks." Even to my ears, my voice sounded full of doubt. Just before eight, Tom and the boys took off through a drapery of snowflakes. As soon as they pulled out, I called the food editor of the Furman County Register. There was no Reggie Dawson working there. Dawson could be doing something freelance, my friend added. But she doubted it.

So did I, I thought as I put on several compact disc of Christmas carols and gathered all the presents I still needed to wrap. Still, it was hard to stop thinking about the events in Killdeer. Who was my early morning caller? Why was he asking questions about my relationship with Doug Portman? Had he truly been threatening Arch? Or had I just misunderstood?

I unfurled foil paper and shiny ribbon, and began snipping, folding, and tying. Did Arthur Wakefield know that his attempt to publicize my presence at Cooking at the Top! in the Killdeer paper had backfired so miserably? On the other hand, could it have been Arthur on the phone? If what Rorry had said about the rumor mill in Killdeer was true, then anyone could know by now that my business was in jeopardy; that Arch snowboarded in Killdeer; that my ex-husband was in jail.

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.

-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 anyone 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.