Tough Cookie (31 page)

"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 t 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 sheriffs 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."

-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, snowflakes 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 bottles 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 turn-around, 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.

A mob of skiers was clamoring to gain entry to the lodge. Rorry looked back at me in confusion. I pointed to the bistro. It would be inconvenient to go through the restaurant to the Lost and Found, but easier than trying, to push through the people-jam at the main doors.

The aromas inside the restaurant were tantalizing: Roasting beef melded with tarragon, rosemary, and the scent of baking bread. Several of the diners were dipping into steaming bowls of what looked like cream of asparagus soup topped with spicy grilled prawns. My peanut-butter-smeared psyche howled with pain. The first person I saw was Jack Gilkey. With his tall chef's hat set at a slightly rakish angle, his handsome face filmy with sweat, he was placing bowls of the delicious-looking soup on the hot line. A half-dozen servers jockeyed to be first to shout more orders at Jack and whisk away with their soup orders. Jack caught sight of me, then smiled broadly and gave a thumbs-up sign - referring to either Eileen's improved state or the state of his prepping for this afternoon's show - and went back to ladling out food.

"You're friends with the chef?" Rorry demanded under her breath.

"He's living with an old friend of mine, Eileen Druckman. She owns the bistro."

Rorry exhaled in disgust. "He's a jerk." We pushed through the side door and walked down the hall to the Lost and Found. "What makes you say that?"

"Jack Gilkey," Rorry responded hotly, "is like the teacher who's nice to the parents but treats the kids like dirt. When he thinks you have something he wants, or you're his superior, he's as sweet as chocolate pie. You work for him, you're dung. A couple of our guys who load the canisters won't come up here anymore, 'cuz Gilkey blamed them when he forgot to order all the ground beef for a day. He even tried to get them fired. Gilkey knows he needs to fax the right forms down to us at the warehouse, but when he screws up, he's always looking for somebody to blame." Her voice was tight with anger.

In the Lost and Found, we were greeted by none other than Joe Magill, the brusque Killdeer Security fellow who'd asked me so many questions after the death of Doug Portman. Rorry dug into the Easter-bunny ski suit for her wallet while Magill asked what we needed. I gestured to the Lost and Found sign and said I had called about a camera and case, initials N.R. on the case. Magill tapped suspiciously on his computer, scowled at the screen, and tapped some more. He was about to say something when Jack Gilkey poked his head in the door. He was holding a plate laden with a grilled filet mignon, Duchess potatoes drizzled with melted butter, bright green edible-pod peas, and a small salade composée of marinated cherry tomatoes and baby corn. Agh!

"Here's your lunch, Joe," he said to Magill.

"You're the man," Magill replied, taking the plate, "you're too much!" He frowned at us. If you two would just leave, his expression clearly said, I could eat.

Jack turned to me. "You've heard the good news about Eileen?" When I nodded, he said, "I'm going down to see her tonight. Want to come?"

"Can't, sorry. I have to do the show, and then - "

"Okay, that's something else I need to talk to you about," he interrupted. "I've got your five-grain-bread dough rising, plus a loaf baking now. The cereal's in a green plastic bowl in the refrig." He made a face. "Arthur Wakefield brought the menu up. He's having lunch here with one of his wine customers."

I thanked him and he retreated quickly. Sure enough, he had not said a word to Rorry, or even taken any notice of her. She raised a telltale eyebrow at me: You see? Dung.

"Ladies," Joe Magill said with a tinge of impatience, "I'm not seeing your camera case in our inventory."

"That's impossible! I called Killdeer Security just this morning. They said it was here!"

"Said it was here," Magill replied with exaggerated politeness, "or said it was in the Lost and Found safe at the base?"

"Oh, phooey," muttered Rorry, as she turned away. I was so angry that the Killdeer Security woman had not told me this on the phone that I said nothing. If you bite off a bureaucrat's head, what do you get? Three more bureaucrats.

The main entrance was still crammed with skiers. The impossibility of fighting through them meant that Rorry and I had to retrace our steps. Unfortunately, it was my bad luck to run into Arthur Wakefield as I pushed open the door to the bistro. And I do mean run into.

Arthur sprawled backward, but managed to tuck his silver wine flask under his arm. My first paranoid thought was that he must have been watching me through the door's glass square. He just hadn't retreated quickly enough when I'd pushed through the entrance. He righted himself with dignity, then begged us to come over to his table for a minute. More bad luck: Arthur was having lunch with Boots Faraday. Boots smiled at me and nodded awkwardly at Rorry, who'd stiffened instantly at the sight of her.

"So, what are you two doing up here? Scoping out the last show? Having lunch?" Arthur, seemingly oblivious to the female hostility, asked his questions as he wiggled up next to us, unscrewed the flask, and poured white wine into two glasses. I looked longingly at their plates of baby-vegetable strudel napped with a creamy sauce, probably bearnaise. Arthur leaned in close to my shoulder, sniffed, and cried triumphantly. "I smell peanut butter!" He looked at both of us expectantly. "How about some ten-year-old Grand Cru chablis, then?"