Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

Boots seemed enigmatic, almost on her guard. Maybe it was because she was famous and met adoring fans all the time. I gabbled on, pretending not to notice. By the time we were taking dainty bites of crisp romaine lettuce sprinkled with hot grilled chicken, freshly grated Parmesan, and butter-sautéed croutons, every innocuous subject had been exhausted.

I moved my plate aside. Now or never . How to broach the subject of Doug Portman without seeming nosy? On the other hand, I’d probably already hit the top of the Intrusivity Chart by crashing her lunch.

“The collage I bought was ‘Spring Detritus,’ ” I began. “And I’ve seen your work all over. Being in a small town like Killdeer, was it hard to establish an art-making career?”

Her deep laugh was rich and seductive, and made me smile. Then she narrowed those startling blue eyes. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”

My smile melted. “Excuse me?”

The eyes once again turned chilly. “What’s this about, really?”

I fiddled with the side of the plate. Uh-oh . “What is what about?”

“Just tell me what you really want to know. Aside from”—she raised her voice to mimic my question—“if it was hard to establish an art-making career?” Her eyes mocked me.

“Uh, I’m just a caterer who bought one of your—”

“Cut the crap.”

“I—”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I am doing a personal-chef gig for Arthur Wakefield, and he did ask me to bring you the wine. I bought one of your pieces and I do want to know about your career. And”—I took a fortifying breath—“since you’re a local artist, then you must know, have known, Doug Portman. The local art critic.”

She tilted back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You want to know if I knew Doug Portman? Why?”

“I … was supposed to meet him after the show yesterday,” I confessed. “As you no doubt have heard, he was killed skiing down from the bistro before we could meet.” Time to tell the truth. “The Sheriff’s department is classifying his accident as a suspicious death. That’s why they had to close the mountain for so long this morning.” Boots lifted her eyebrows. “As I’m the only one who seems to know why he was carrying a lot of cash when he died, the police are asking me a bunch of questions. Believe me, you don’t want to be the one the cops are questioning, when it’s a suspicious death.”

“Really.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “once I figured out you were the artist who was hanging work yesterday morning, I was wondering if you saw anything … you know, strange. With Doug, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied immediately, then looked away, out the window.

“No, you didn’t? Did you see Doug at all? Was he talking to anybody during the show? Did he seem upset? Sick? Can’t you tell me anything?”

She swiveled to face me. “I read that article on you, you know. The one in the Killdeer Courier that Arthur placed to publicize your cooking show.”

“An article? Actually, publicity for the show is Arthur’s department—”

“You should have read the article,” she interrupted me sharply. “It said you were a caterer, and that you were starting in the personal chef business.” I shook my head and opened my eyes wide, as in So ? “And that’s not all. Let’s see—‘Goldy Schulz is also known for occasionally, and unofficially, helping her husband—a homicide investigator—solve crimes. So if she cozies up to you for a chat, you might want to call your lawyer.’”

“Is that why you think I did Arthur’s wine delivery for him? To cozy up to you?”

“Isn’t it? Everyone knows I was no friend of Doug Portman. Doug Portman was a rotten judge of art who thought he was very smart. His ignorance hurt people. Including me. So what’s the real point of you asking me about Doug Portman at the bistro?”

“Whoa. Listen. I do love your work. I do want to know how you got started. And it would be helpful if you could tell me if you saw anything suspicious on Friday. That’s it. You don’t want to talk, just say so.”

She snorted impatiently. “I’ll let you know if I mind talking. Regarding your first question. I tried to make a living as a painter of large abstract oils. Critics , including Doug Portman, loved them. I didn’t sell a single one.”

“That’s too bad—”

She lowered her voice and held up an imaginary magazine. “ ‘Ms. Faraday’s groundbreaking canvases depict violence with passion, color, and ontology.’”

“Doug said that?”

“Are you kidding? Doug Portman wouldn’t have known the difference between ‘ontology’ and ‘on-line trading.’ Those lines were from some Denver critic. Anyway, I needed to pay the rent, so I tried my hand at making collages. Some critics dismissed them as ‘craftwork.’ Most ignored them. Unfortunately, our one local critic, Doug Portman, hated them because they were small and intimate, not grand or grandiose .”

“I’m sorry.”

Her smile was a thin slash. “Don’t be. I sold every one of those first collages. I even enjoyed ignoring Doug when he referred to my work as”—here she lowered her voice again—“ ‘saccharine and domestic.’ I formed the Killdeer Artists’ Association, so the artists in town could network to make money instead of being jealous and competitive. Eventually, a few magazine writers did pieces on my work, and I received a stream of orders. Now I have a tidy little business, and I don’t give a hoot about passion and ontology.” She speared a piece of chicken. “Ready for the answer to Question Two? No, I didn’t see anything Friday morning.”

Watch it , I warned myself. I stalled by taking a sip of water. Actually, I had thought of a couple more questions, on the subject of Nate Bullock and his pregnant widow. If Boots Faraday felt so close to Nate that she came to the annual fund-raiser held in his name, maybe she knew what was going on with my old friend Rorry.

“I admire your spunk,” I commented with a smile, then pretended to ponder a bit. “The Bullocks used to live in Aspen Meadow, where I’m from. You mentioned an artists’ association. Is that how you got to know Nate?”

“Yes, I met Nate through KAA.” Her answer was curt, as if she were suddenly under legal cross-examination. “He was a good cameraman, but public television doesn’t pay that much. He joined the artists’ association when he was trying to make some extra money. Then he died.”

“Nate wanted to make extra money? Doing what?”

Her face turned rigid. “I really can’t say.”

“But … he’s been dead for three years. Look, Boots, Rorry was my friend. A long time ago, we taught Sunday school together. She seemed so terribly unhappy yesterday—”

Boots snarled: “Don’t get me started on Rorry,” then seemed to regret it. After a moment, she continued in a steadier voice: “I’ll tell you why Nate wanted extra money. When you taught Sunday school with Rorry, was she complaining about wanting to have children, but not being able to afford it?”

I thought back. Had she? I only remembered her wistful admiration for Arch, then a toddler. “No … but that was years ago. I’d love to get in touch with her again—”

“She works for Killdeer Corp. I think she’s still in the same trailer where she and Nate lived. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Was Nate trying to make that extra money when he died?”

Boots glanced out at the gondola whizzing along, high above the beautiful, treacherous mountain. “I told you: I can’t say exactly. He had some film ideas, he had his PBS work. That’s what I know.”