Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

Thanks for nothing, Asshole! You’re dead!!! There was no signature.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, mystified. “Was this card in an envelope? Was it addressed to someone?”

“It was in an envelope, an opened one, but there was no one’s name on it,” Tom said grimly. “This may be related to your coffee lady Cinda’s story. Maybe this is the threat the guy was bragging about making. Threaten a cop? Threaten a parole board member? Anyway, I have to stay here and talk to these people. Then I’m going to take this card down to the crime lab.” He shook his head. “If that blue jelly contains, say, anthrax, we could be dealing with something nasty. I’ve already called over to the coroner about getting the crime lab to run a couple of different drug screens on Doug Portman.”

“So you think he …” I couldn’t finish my thought.

“Might have been poisoned? Might have been close to dead before he hit that last mogul? Don’t know.”

My skin crawled. “Tom. Please tell me you didn’t touch those patches.”

“Nah. Sniffed ’em, though.” Everyone laughed except me.

Irritably, I said, “Cinda told me that her waiter, Davey, talked to Barton Reed, the guy who was making the threats. Last night.”

Tom riffled through the chaos on the ski patrol desk and unearthed a blank piece of paper. “Could you draw me a map to get to Cinda’s place?”

It was while I was doing this that Hoskins and Bancock appeared at my side and announced I was free to go. They might be calling me later, they said again. As I handed Tom my crudely drawn map, Marla phoned. She eagerly informed Tom she’d be at our house at three o’clock, and did I need a bottle of cognac, prescription tranquilizers, or chocolate cookies and freshly ground espresso beans? Whatever you think , Tom told her, with a rich chuckle. That meant she’d show up with all of it.

Blisteringly cold sheets of snowflakes assaulted us on the way to my van. Words were blown out of our mouths into the swirling snow. When we finally found my vehicle, we moved Tom’s skis out onto the snow-covered lot and searched in vain for my tire chains. I hadn’t used them for three winters, and they weren’t wedged into any of the van’s crevices. We put Tom’s precious skis and my battered ones back in and flung my equipment behind the front seat. Then Tom hugged me hard and murmured into my ear that he’d be home as soon as possible.

“Take it slow and you’ll be fine,” he assured me. “I’ll call you. And Miss G.—until then, please try to stay out of trouble.”

There’s nothing like a Colorado winter to give you respect for nature’s harsher side, I reflected as I piloted the van up the interstate’s long climb to the Continental Divide. Vehicles of all varieties—with Nebraska, Illinois, Texas, and yes, Colorado license plates—littered the snowbanked shoulder of the ascent. Drivers struggling to dig out and chain up soon became caked with snow. They looked like miniature Abominable Snowmen.

In one place the guardrail was out. I shuddered to think of the thousand-foot plummet someone must have taken. Further along the shoulder, a man scooted beneath his station wagon. His prone body brought back an unwanted vision of Doug Portman’s sprawled corpse. My van slid sideways. I grasped the wheel more firmly.

It was hard to concentrate on driving. First I focused on the aborted sale to Portman. Tom had said, You know what that’s going to mean, don’t you? Within the next day or two, I could surely expect a slew of unwanted, potentially embarrassing questions. Why had you planned a private rendezvous with a parole board member? Why did you keep this meeting a secret from your husband? What connection did you have with the large sum of cash the dead man was carrying?

How, I thought, do I get myself in these messes?

The taillights in front of me blinked scarlet in the blinding snow. I braked. My defroster whined as it la-bored—with little success—to keep my windshield clear.

The memory of the puzzlement in my husband’s eyes made my heart ache. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had betrayed Tom, even if it was with that infamous cheapskate, Doug Portman, who’d died with cash pouring out of his bloody jacket.

I pressed carefully on the accelerator. Why had I ever gone out with Doug Portman? At one time, he’d saved Arch and me thousands of dollars. Would that come out, too? I groaned.

It had all started so simply. After I’d finally kicked The Jerk out, I’d hired Doug Portman. I was trying to take care of Arch, but making ends meet was a challenge. At the time I had no moneymaking job, only an apprenticeship in the Denver kitchen of a restaurant belonging to my late friend André Hibbard. When I’d needed money for groceries, for Arch’s clothes or shoes, or to send Arch on a school field trip, John Richard had repeatedly pleaded poverty. This was a joke, but no matter how my lawyer tried to pry bucks out of the soon-to-be-ex, all we’d get were lies, delays, and more obfuscation. Finally, my lawyer had recommended I hire a forensic accountant to track down John Richard’s true income and assets. When I called Doug Portman, he informed me he was an artist, and just did the accounting on the side. I’d told him he could illustrate his reports, as long as his work got me a good divorce settlement and decent child support.

He’d guffawed, that unforgettable, gasping hyena laugh that I’d quickly come to hate.

I shook off this thought and glanced outside. The snow had become a whiteout. I thought I must be near the Eisenhower Tunnel, but it was almost impossible to tell. I slowed the van to a crawl. When the whirlwind briefly thinned, a pickup truck in front of me slewed right, then left. I stopped and waited until the truck was underway again. When I touched the accelerator, my tires spun on the ice. Holding my breath, I backed up slightly, turned the wheel, and accelerated gently. To my immense relief, my van started forward again.

I sighed and thought back. Doug Portman had updated me weekly on the progress of his investigation. John Richard, who’d been having an affair with a woman in the St. Luke’s choir, had enriched Miss Vocal Cords’ bank account by a hundred thousand dollars. He’d also put his Keystone ski resort condo in his father’s name. Doug had tossed a file on my kitchen table that proved John Richard had paid taxes on a sum several hundred thousand dollars more than what he’d told my lawyer he’d earned. Forensics is the study of evidence , Doug had announced pompously, and I am a master of it . He’d chortled. Now you can prove how much this loser doesn’t care what happens to you and your son. Want to go eat Chinese?

Silly me. I’d said yes. At least somebody cares about me, I’d thought. When we went to dinner, Doug brought his portfolio: color photographs of his paintings. Over wontons and mu shu pork I commented politely on pictures of large, nonfigurative canvases which seemed to feature dull blotches of drab color. He declared his artwork was going to make him rich. It had been a reasonably painless evening that turned sour when the check came and Doug announced, Your half comes to fifteen bucks . Had I not cooed enough over his artwork? Surely he knew how broke I was? Did he treat all his female clients this way? Nobody, it seemed, wanted to treat me to anything.

The next time Doug presented me with a dismal report on John Richard’s assets, he’d followed it with, In the mood for some Italian? After a momento of hesitation while I calculated my cupboard contents, I offered to prepare fettucine Alfredo. He wolfed it down, even asked for the recipe. Over coffee, I was politely enthusiastic as he showed me another fat portfolio, this of his representational paintings. All depicted historical weapons: the repeating rifle, the Colt .45, the bayonet. He said he was hoping to get a New York show for these works. Collectors would pay thousands for each painting! I murmured compliments.