Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

Bancock stopped scribbling. “Did you see him drink any alcoholic beverages?”

“No,” I replied without hesitation. “Nor did I see him eat anything.”

“Did he complain of headache, nausea, chest pain, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

Hoskins interjected, “But … did he seem drunk?” When I shook my head, he continued: “Did he seem tired?” No. “Have you skied with him before?”

“Never.”

Bancock was writing again. “Had he skied any runs prior to coming to the bistro?”

I thought back to the morning. Had Doug been pink-faced, sweaty, breathing hard? Had he seemed tired? “Don’t think so. Why?”

“Was Hot-Rodder one of the runs you were supposed to go down together?”

“Yes. But it was closed.”

“It was closed,” Bancock repeated crisply. “Bamboo poles with ropes and red flags were pulled across the top. But we can’t find anyone on the ski patrol who shut the run.”

Patrolman Hoskins glanced at Bancock; Bancock nodded at Hoskins to go ahead. “How about his equipment?” Hoskins asked me. “Did you see anything wrong with his skis or boots? Maybe his poles or bindings? Did he complain of anything not working, being loose?”

When I shook my head again, Bancock took up the questioning. “All right. Now, please describe once again everything that happened once you left the bistro. We need to know every detail you can remember.”

This I did, including seeing Doug disappear into the snowfall, my own slower skiing as I followed, getting caught up with the crowd trying to catch money. Suddenly remembering the wad in my pocket, I pulled out the bloody bills and placed them in a paper bag offered by Hoskins. Then I recounted how I’d looked for the source of the cash and seen Doug on the run below…. Total time elapsed from the bistro to the death scene: about twenty-five minutes, I concluded.

“Please describe the exact appearance of the victim,” Bancock said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone.

This I did: ski suit, hat, skis off and broken, one pole down the slope. Doug, covered with snow, sprawled motionless, looking as if he’d taken a spectacular fall and landed like a grotesque rag doll. The blood. I shuddered.

“And what did you think when you first saw him, Mrs. Schulz?”

“That he’d hit his head.”

“The money,” said Bancock thoughtfully, tapping his notebook. “Did you request he pay you in cash, instead of by check?”

“He said he was paying cash, and I didn’t ask why. Eight thousand dollars.” I thought again of the blizzard of falling currency on the mountainside, and swallowed.

Tom rolled his eyes and Bancock snorted.

The latter went on, “Did anyone else but you know he had the money for the skis on him?”

“I don’t have a clue.” How much of that scattered eight thousand would the authorities ever recover? I shot another apologetic look at Tom. My husband’s face was blank. I said, “What’s going on here?” An awful suspicion dawned on me. I turned to Tom. “Did you know Doug Portman in some official capacity? What did he do exactly?”

Tom exhaled before replying. “He was in corrections. And yes, I knew him in an official capacity.” He checked Hoskins’ face, which revealed nothing, then Bancock’s. The sergeant nodded.

“Doug Portman was the chairman of the state parole board,” Tom told me. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” Why would I? Belatedly, I remembered Cinda Caldwell, and her customer who’d mouthed threats about poisoning a cop. Did a parole board chief qualify as a cop? “Wait, there’s something else—” I told them of this morning’s interchange with Cinda. “Tom, didn’t you get the message I left?” He shook his head and said he hadn’t yet retrieved his messages. Bancock wrote down the name of Cinda’s café. He asked Patrolman Hoskins if he had any further questions; Hoskins replied in the negative. The young deputy reviewed his notes, then asked for our phone numbers. While Tom recited them, I walked to the outer office to check on the snow. It was still coming down hard.

Does your husband know I’m meeting you?

I’ve got something for Tom in my car… .

Doggone. I dashed back to the office. “Sergeant Bancock. There is something else I forgot to tell you. This morning, just before we left the bistro? Doug told me he had something for Tom.”

Bancock gave me a curious look, then transferred the curiosity to Tom. “Had something for your husband?” he asked me. “What?”

“I have no idea. He mentioned it was in his car.”

“Know what kind of vehicle he was driving?” Bancock asked.

I did not. Hoskins and Bancock went out to phone Portman’s office, in search of a description. Tom asked, “Have you received any mail from the Department of Corrections lately?”

“No. Why?”

“The DOC sends out notices to a convict’s victims and relatives of victims, before the convict comes up for parole. The board holds a hearing before parole is granted, so the victims can give their opinion on the guy getting out. Or not getting out.” He shook his head. “If the DOC sent you a notice about John Richard, it might mean trouble for you. You see that, don’t you?”

“Why? What trouble? What does this have to do with The Jerk? Look, Tom, all I did was go out with Doug Portman, eight years ago. Today I was just going to sell him some skis. Which one of those is a crime? What could that have to do with my ex-husband?”

Tom gnawed the inside of his cheek. “John Richard has been in the Furman County Jail for how long, four months?”

Blood rose to my cheeks. No. Not parole for The Jerk. Not yet. Please . I counted back. In September, John Richard had finally been convicted of assault—not of me, but of another woman. With the state penitentiary operating at double capacity, he was currently serving his two-year sentence in the Furman County Jail. “Almost four months.” I searched Tom’s face. “That’s got to be too early for parole.”

“Sorry, Miss G. I haven’t memorized all the statutes.”

“He couldn’t be. Anyway, Tom, no matter what’s going on with John Richard, Doug Portman died while skiing . This can’t have anything to do with John Richard. End of story.”

But I knew all too well that wasn’t quite the end of the story. Why would Doug insist on buying Tom’s skis with cash instead of a check? Wasn’t that foolhardy? And speaking of foolhardy, if the run was closed, why was Doug Portman on it? People who died skiing usually suffered heart attacks. Or they collided with an obstacle and died of internal injuries. If Doug suffered an internal injury, there was an awful lot of his blood on the slope.

I knew, too, that a suspicious death raises questions first about the person who discovers the body. Say a woman finds the body of a parole board member. Say she has an abusive ex-husband, now in jail. The ex-husband is no threat, until he comes up for parole . If he’s granted parole, what happens if the formerly abused wife takes exception to the decision of the parole board?

My body felt numb. This time, however, it wasn’t from the cold.

CHAPTER 6

Hoskins and Bancock reappeared to say they had a description of Portman’s BMW and were going to search for it. When the door closed behind them, Tom scraped a chair over, clasped my elbow, and spoke in a gentle voice.

“Look. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“They were your skis. I should have told you—”

“Goldy, please. There’s a lot going on here that’s out of whack.”

“No kidding.” I finally took a sip of my coffee. It was cold.