Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

I hauled my box of goodies to the front door, balanced it on a silvery-gray railing, and rapped the gleaming knocker. I almost didn’t recognize Arthur when he opened the door. Gone were the black artiste clothes, the Pepto-Bismol bottle, the menacing body angle. The man actually looked happy to see me. His black hair was freshly washed and fluffed. Unfortunately, his cheeks were still gaunt and translucent, and his eyes retained their haunted look. Arthur may have been a bit happier, but the man was neither well rested nor relaxed. Maybe he’d been penning another tirade to the paper.

“Uh, Arthur?” I rebalanced my box. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” he rasped. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been … I mean, I just couldn’t wait for you to arrive.”

“Are you all right?” When he shook his head, I crossed the threshold and edged around an expensive-looking, intricately patterned wool Oriental. Another gift from Mom? I wondered. The formal living room, all mahogany furniture and light walls hung with Old-Master-style oil paintings, was strangely impersonal. In the hallway, porcelain figurines adorned a mahogany end table. Nowhere did photos or memorabilia give a clue as to Arthur’s background.

Something more astonishing adorned the walls: at least a dozen collages by Boots Faraday. I tilted my head at one, a montage of tall grasses, bushes, and evergreen shrubs, all sprinkled with snow. I peered close and read the title: “Winter Garden.”

From behind me, Arthur gushed, “Boots is one of my best customers.” I almost dropped my box in surprise. “It’s coming into her busy season,” Arthur continued airily, “Christmas and all. She’ll be ordering cases and cases of wine for the showings in her house. She sells tons of her work that way.”

“More than in the local gallery?” I asked innocently. I’d had a feeling that saleslady wasn’t entirely forthright.

“Oh, please. Those Killdeer Gallery people think ‘Western Art’ is anything with a pony in it. Come on out to the kitchen, please,” he entreated. “And in answer to your earlier question, no, I’m not doing well today.” I shot him a sympathetic glance. He looked piqued. “My first wine shipment was supposed to arrive and didn’t. I’m going to have to postpone the party until Monday, which makes me look terrible. I tossed all night, trying to think how to re-invite people. Haven’t had a thing to eat.”

“Let’s go, then!” I said heartily. Postponement was no problem for me: My calendar was depressingly open. No matter what the problems were, if Arthur was hungry, he was mine .

He pointed down the hall. I schlepped my box into a cheerful space with yellow walls, bright white tile counters, and a yellow-and-white floor of handmade tiles: hallmark of a noncook, because tiles spell major back pain. On the walls were bright tourist posters of France splashed with hues of lavender, yellow, and gray.

Arthur slumped into a ladder-back chair at his tiled breakfast bar, where eight or so bottles of wine sported jaunty ribboned bows and handwritten cards screaming You’re Invited, Again! “I’ve got ten cases of wines sitting at Denver International Airport,” he complained glumly. He stared at the wine bottles and a handwritten list next to them.

I raised my eyebrows. “Where at DIA?”

“Customs,” he answered dolefully.

“Got a medium-sized pan?”

He gestured wearily to a bank of drawers. I located a saucepan and started cooking the oatmeal mixture I’d brought. I wanted to ask Arthur if he’d heard anything new about Doug Portman’s suspicious death. More importantly, I wanted to see his reaction to my question. I also wondered fleetingly how we were supposed to do an intake interview if Arthur needed to 1) have something to eat and 2) spring valuable cases of wine from Customs. I stirred the creamy oatmeal mixture when it started to bubble. I couldn’t ask him questions yet. I knew the dangers of trying to discuss business with, or elicit information from, a client with low blood sugar. I’d face crankiness, irrationality, and indecision. You don’t get to be a successful food person without taking instant stock of such things.

Within five minutes the spicy orange-and-cinnamon oatmeal was hot and ready to be topped with a chunk of butter and spoonfuls of dark brown sugar. Arthur stirred in the melting pond of butter and sugar and hungrily scooped up enormous mouthfuls. It wouldn’t help him deal with a bureaucracy, but it would get him through the next couple of hours. I sat down and pulled out my notebook.

“Gosh, this is fabulous,” he commented. “You have to do this for our last show.” Did I detect color seeping into those cheeks, or was it wishful thinking on my part? He looked at me sheepishly, then scraped up the last of the cereal. “I realized in the middle of the night that I hadn’t been very nice to you after you had your car accident. I’m sorry. This day has been crazy trying to figure out how I’m going to change the buffet. Are you okay?”

“I am, thanks. Actually, the car accident was the second terrible thing to happen to me yesterday. After our show, I … discovered the guy who’d been killed while skiing.” Arthur raised his eyes questioningly. I said, “The guy was someone I used to know.”

Arthur jumped up to rinse his bowl. With his back to me, he said warily, “How did you know Doug Portman?”

“Through my husband. Do you remember, he’s in law enforcement?”

“Yes. Coffee?” he asked as he reached for a liter bottle of spring water.

“Sure, thanks. Did you know Portman?”

His face when he turned back to me was even more flushed. I was sure it wasn’t owing to the oatmeal. “I guess you could say I knew him. You know, he lived here in town. But listen,” he said with sudden energy, “you didn’t tell me how you’re doing.” He stopped the coffee-making and beamed at me. “That’s what I really want to know. Can’t have my star in pain for our last show.”

I sighed. “My arm’s a bit banged up. The van’s totally trashed. But I’m borrowing a vehicle, and I’m still alive, so I’m very thankful.”

“Well, then. So am I.” He returned to his coffee preparation. First he fastidiously poured the bottled water into an espresso-machine tank. When he opened an airtight crock, it went pow! and I jumped. Arthur giggled as he ladled out coffee beans. Next he pressed a button on his grinder, which growled like a motorcycle. He then dosed, tapped, and revved up the coffee machine. Half a minute later, he placed two tiny cups of hot, dark, foamy espresso onto the tiled bar. I took a sip, pronounced it marvelous, and refrained from any mention of how it was certainly the most noisily-produced cup of coffee I’d ever imbibed.

“Okay,” I began, with a glance at the kitchen clock, then at my notebook. “When do you have to leave for the airport?”

“Five minutes.” His eyes immediately turned anxious. “I’m not going to be able to discuss the food for the wine-tasting today. It’s just …” He slurped his espresso, then squealed when he, too, glanced at the clock. “I also need to … darn it!”

“Need to what? Why don’t you let me help out?” I offered. “There is that personal in ‘personal chef.’”

“I need to deliver these wines with the new invites. I don’t suppose you … never mind. Let me go get the buffet wine list. Then I really have to leave. We can finish planning on the phone.”

As soon as he whisked out of his kitchen, I put the foodstuffs into his barren refrigerator. It looked as if Arthur never ate properly. I washed our coffee cups and laid out instructions for reheating the pork dinner. I also glanced at the list of folks to receive the new bottles-with-invitations. It included the name Boots Faraday. Hmm . I’d just finished setting Arthur’s dinner table—for one—when he returned. He’d slicked down his hair and wore a black turtleneck, black pants, and black sport coat. He handed me a piece of paper scribbled with foods and names of wines. Then his eyes shot to the beribboned bottles of wine. Indecision tightened his face. One of the best ways to get what you want out of people, I’d discovered, is to apply light pressure when they’re in a hurry. I gave him a bright smile.