Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

But I was already dialing. Arthur answered on the first ring.

“Thank God you called, Goldy.” His tone was laced with mournful drama, as usual. “In the morning, I need you to be here by ten. I’ll explain how I want things to go, and show you the layout of the kitchen before you start work. I’ve got dozens of callings to make about my wines—”

“Wait a sec,” I interrupted as politely as I could. “Please, Arthur. I’m not sure I’ll be able to be there by ten. There will be the ski traffic, and I have things to pack up, and I’ve got vehicle problems, because unfortunately I was in a car accident today—”

“But it’s stopped snowing. You were in a car accident? For heaven’s sake! There was an accident on the mountain today, guy was killed going down a closed black run. The Forest Service is closing Killdeer Mountain for a few hours in the morning to help the Sheriff’s department investigate it. That won’t stop the ski traffic, unfortunately,” he said mournfully. “A day for accidents. What a shame.”

“Yes, indeed.” I tried to make my tone noncommittal. “Maybe we can make our plans now, and you could just leave the key for me.” I took a deep breath and waited for an explosion. I wasn’t really expecting sympathy. I picked up the aspirin bottle and shook out a couple more. In Med Wives 101, we’d often told each other you could take up to six at a time. This was not advisable, medically speaking, but then again, being the wife of a medical student wasn’t exactly advisable, either.

“I can’t do that,” Arthur replied, exasperated. “I live at 602 Elk Path in West Killdeer. Be here at ten. I want … I want the dishes you prepare to be almost done. Then I’ll put on the finishing touches so my guests will think I slaved for hours.”

“Ah, well, I’ve never—” I began, but he was gone.

I hung up the phone and frowned. Most of my clients start out anxious, I reassured myself. Once I serve them food, they’re content. Only Arthur didn’t want me to serve the food. He didn’t even want me to finish cooking it. Ah, sufficient unto the day was the catering thereof. Or something like that.

With a flourish, Tom handed me a custard cup brimming with warm rice pudding. He’d sprinkled the pudding with cinnamon and garnished the top with a massive dollop of whipped cream. The cream melted slightly and slid sideways on the warm pudding. I took a bite: the dessert was dreamily thick, like a homey, melt-in-your-mouth porridge from heaven.

“Incredible,” I said, and took another greedy bite. “I’m getting better already.”

“That’s why I made it,” Tom said triumphantly. “Think the boys would want some?”

We listened. The faint thump of rock music reverberating through the ceiling was a sure sign the boys weren’t listening to Tudor-style lute music.

“Better leave them alone,” I replied. “After all, rice pudding is also great chilled.”

Tom smiled appreciatively and dug into his own custard cup. “Julian seems good,” he commented. “Tired, though.”

“I’m worried about him.”

“Miss G., you worry about everything. He loves being back in Colorado and he loves the film class, he told me so himself. Maybe he’ll make how-to-cook-vegetarian videos after he graduates.”

I smiled and scraped the bottom of the pudding cup. “Thanks for the treat. Can you possibly help me with the cooking I need to do for the rest of the weekend?”

“Cooking with you is only my second favorite thing we do together.”

I laughed. From the walk-in, I drew out unsalted butter and eggs. Then I retrieved a bag of premium bittersweet chocolate chips and several bars of Godiva Dark from our pantry shelves. The library’s Christmas Open House was in two days and I’d be away from my kitchen tomorrow. I asked Tom if he would chop the Godiva; he smiled and held out his hand.

I removed a pork tenderloin I’d started marinating the day before. Professional culinary literature urges the prospective personal chef to bring the first meal—a marvelous dinner using your best recipes —gratis . This is to show your client what a good and generous person you are. Arthur, if he’d been noticing, might already think I was a good and generous person. On the other hand, he probably thought I was a klutz. Still, that assessment could change once he ate his deliciously tender, herb-spiced, free pork dinner.

“Tell me about the parole board,” I urged Tom, to distract myself from fretting about Arthur.

He sighed and continued to chop. “There you go again. Worrying.”

I tapped buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the chocolate cookie recipe I was working on. “Come on,” I said, trying my best to sound reasonable. “I just want to know how the board operates. And I’m interested in your theory as to the reason Doug Portman had an anonymously written card containing a threat, and maybe some poison, too, and why he wanted to give it specifically to you.”

Tom sliced the chocolate into dark, fragrant chunks. “First things first. There are six members on the state parole board, all appointed by the governor. Statutorily, two of them have to have a law-enforcement background. Portman didn’t have a law-enforcement background, but I know he watched the newspapers. All the parole board members do. Every day, they’re scared some felon they let out on parole might have committed a big crime. The board members really don’t want that kind of thing coming back to haunt them. So.” He pushed away the chopped chunks from the first chocolate bar and started on the second. “I think Portman got that card from someone I put behind bars, and he let out. But why would someone he let out come back and threaten him ?”

I printed out the cookie recipe. “Maybe it’s someone he denied parole to, who’s finally out now. The name Barton Reed doesn’t ring a bell? The guy at Cinda’s?”

He shook his head. “I’d have to see a picture.” He finished chopping the chocolate with a flourish, then rinsed his knife in the bathroom. When he came back, he gave me a long, gentle hug.

“You don’t have to figure this out, Goldy,” he murmured in my ear. “We should have the crime lab results back by Tuesday. Why not let go of this until then?”

“Whatever you say,” I replied in a low voice. We both knew I never gave anything a rest, but dear Tom chose not to point this out at that moment. He merely mumbled something unintelligible, hugged me tight, and said he was going upstairs to check on the boys. I promised him I’d join him in a bit.

In truth, there was only one thing I could do to start cracking a case: Cook.

CHAPTER 8

I pressed the tenderloin through the plastic wrap. Before roasting, it had to reach room temperature, so the inside could cook along with the outside. I stabbed the pork with the sharp end of my digital readout thermometer, a help if you want to serve succulent, juicy meat but have a client who is trichinosis-phobic, then preheated the oven. I didn’t want to take a guess as to the types of phobias Arthur held dear, but judging from our chats, fears about food were a distinct possibility.

Once the meat was in the oven, I set the beater to cream the butter for the cookies. Then I pulled out a bowl of wild rice that had soaked overnight. After one of our shows, Arthur had confessed he had wines to introduce to his best clients, and needed to do it at an in-home party, rather than in a bustling restaurant. He disliked cooking, even though he was pretty good at it. Could I help him?

Yes. And I would feed him in the bargain. I was taking a cereal concoction, the pork tenderloin, wild rice steamed in homemade beef stock, and a large salad of arugula and steamed asparagus. All free, to show my goodwill.