Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

There was a fractional hesitation in the patrolman’s shrewd eyes. Then he pivoted to Arch. “Young man, could you please proceed to the ski patrol office at the base?” he called. “Wait there. I’ll bring your mother down.”

Arch cast a worried glance in my direction. I nodded to him that it was all right. Only then, with a last concerned look, did he reluctantly move away.

“Are you injured? Can you tell me who you are?” demanded the ski patrolman.

I told him my name, what I’d seen on the lower run, then motioned to my former perch. As I traipsed up clumsily in my ski boots, the patrolman, a deft skier, quickly two-stepped to the spot. He peered over the edge of the precipice, whistled softly in surprise, then pulled out his walkie-talkie and spoke rapidly.

A moment later, he snapped his radio shut. “Mrs. Schulz, Goldy Schulz,” he said when I arrived at his side. My feet were so cold I couldn’t feel them. The patrolman touched my shoulder. “Did you see this man fall?” I shook my head. “Did you see someone hit him?” Again I indicated a negative. “There’s no one else on that run down there, Hot-Rodder.”

I swallowed. “It’s closed.”

“Have you talked to any other patrol members? When was the run closed?”

“I haven’t seen or talked to anybody.” My voice seemed to belong to someone else. “I have no idea when the run was closed.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About fifteen minutes. Listen, I’m freezing. I need to be with my son. And—” I hesitated, then added, “I should tell you, I … I know that guy down there. We … started off skiing together at the top, and I was supposed to meet him at the base, but he was skiing faster—”

“We’re getting help for him. What’s his name?” I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. “Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him.” Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. “Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It’s important.”

His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I’d first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug’s left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.

One of the patrolman’s questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?

Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman’s body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the … Move the … Easy… . With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But , my mind supplied, there’s so much blood … money everywhere… .

Who closed the run? When?

Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash?

I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol’s traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.

“Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?” The patrolman eyed me skeptically. “Do you need me to go with you?”

“Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for … medics or for … law enforcement?”

“They’re following procedure.” His calm blue eyes studied me. “Don’t worry about Mr. Portman, we’ve got the situation under control. Let’s go now, all right?” I nodded. He murmured into his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.

“Mom.” His voice was hoarse with anxiety. “Are you okay?”

“Call Tom,” I told him. “Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we’re okay but that it’s an emergency.”

Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.

“Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz,” said my escort.

I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he’d be back in a minute.

I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room. His hair had become matted on one side, wildly skewed on the other. His cheeks were bright red.

“I got Tom. I told him you were all right but you’d been in a ski accident. He wanted to know what happened, and I said maybe you could come talk.” He grimaced. “Those patrol guys by the phone said you couldn’t come out yet. Tom said, ‘Why not?’ I said I didn’t know, and Tom said he was leaving right away to come get you. He’ll be here in about an hour and a half.” My son pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked me over curiously. “Are you hurt?”

“No, hon. Thanks.”

“So what happened? Somebody with a bunch of money had an accident?”

“I think so.” I frowned. A needle of anxiety poked my chest … poor Arch. “Somebody was skiing and had a bad fall.”

He glanced at the front office, then turned back to whisper, “They’re really arguing about something out there. Gotta go.”

A moment later my silver-haired companion returned. He was accompanied by a taller, massively built, grim-faced fellow who was carrying a covered paper cup. The big guy—fortyish, thinning dark hair, lumpy face—wore a belted maroon ski suit with the Killdeer logo across the chest. He introduced himself as Joe Magill, from Killdeer Security, before placing the cup on the desk in front of me.

“Your son said you liked coffee, so we brought you some.”

“Thanks.” I looked at the drink but did not touch it.

Magill, who had an oddly diffident air about him, announced that he was in charge. He gestured at the silver-haired man, said I already knew Patrolman Ted Hoskins, and that he and Ted had a few questions, if I didn’t mind. I said nothing as the two men sat down. But I knew protocol: If there was any kind of investigation, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department was in charge. Their efforts would be aided by the Forest Service, which leased land to the ski resorts, and by the ski patrol, a group of trained volunteers. In terms of who was in charge , Killdeer Security was fourth down the list.

“Now, Mrs. Schulz,” Joe Magill began smoothly, “what we’d like you to do is talk to us about your day, beginning with when you got up this morning—”