Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons orange zest, minced

1 cup best-quality bitter orange marmalade (recommended brand: Harry and David Wild & Rare Bitter Orange Marmalade)

Preheat the oven to 350°F (High altitude: 375?).

In a large mixer bowl, beat the butter with 1½ cups of the sugar until well combined. Add the eggs one at a time and beat well. Add buttermilk and mix thoroughly.

In another bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. The batter will be stiff. Stir in the zest and marmalade. Using a ⅓-cup measure, divide the batter among 28 muffin cups that have been fitted with paper liners. Using the last ¼ cup of sugar, sprinkle a teaspoon or so over each muffin.

Bake 15 to 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean.

Makes 28 muffins

“Now, most reasonable people would take their complaint to small-claims court. Not our Ms. Faraday. She drove her Chevy Suburban smack into the guy’s truck. Broke both his legs, which put a stop to his snowboarding that winter. At first, she claimed she didn’t know who the fellow was she’d hit. But since his truck was custom-painted with the words Killdeer Boards , nobody believed that . She spent ten days in the clink. The rest was a suspended sentence.”

“Hmm.” I showered orzo into the boiling water and set the timer. “Did she have any parole-type run-ins with Doug Portman?”

Tom shook his head. “But he was the art critic, and at least half a dozen people have told us she hated his guts because he didn’t review her work favorably. She even tried to get him fired from the Killdeer paper, but they ignored her, probably because they weren’t paying him very much to write his columns.”

“I didn’t interrogate her. For the record.”

“No, I know,” Tom said with a broad smile. “You were probably just being your usual nosy self. Figured that as soon as I got word of the complaint.” He stirred the bubbling cheese concoction; my stomach growled.

“Boots Faraday wasn’t the only one I was nosy with today.” I told him about Jack Gilkey being out on parole for his role in Arthur’s mother’s death and Arthur’s taking very public exception to Jack’s release.

“Let me guess who granted Gilkey parole,” mused Tom.

“Yep. And guess who Portman did not grant parole to.”

“Barton Reed,” replied Tom promptly. He was heating water for a chafing dish. “I know, I looked him up today. I arrested him for fraud a while back. And by the way, John Richard has written to the board asking for an early parole date. But it’ll be at least a month before they even consider letting him out.”

I sighed. “So do you think Barton Reed might have killed Portman?”

“We’re a long way from knowing that, Miss G.”

I set the table, lightly dressed a salad of romaine and Bibb lettuces, and set out slices of a five-grain homemade bread Julian had left for us.

“I do have a question for you, though,” Tom said after further thought. “Seems Ms. Faraday, too, read that article in her paper about your more-or-less successful career as an amateur sleuth.”

“Don’t get me started on that . Publicity, as I told Ms. Faraday, is strictly Arthur’s department.”

Tom stirred my orzo. “Uh-huh. But a lot of people did read the article. Maybe one person who read it decided to rear-end your van. Maybe they were worried you’d go nosing into Doug Portman’s death.” I sighed. “Just a theory,” Tom added. “Speaking of Portman, we got a preliminary drug screen back on him. He had touched the patches, but they’d already been used, so there was just a trace of opioid in his system. Not enough to kill him. No, that particular job was left to whoever smashed him in the head with a big rock found tossed off the run. He was hit repeatedly, apparently. Rock had stuff on it that you don’t want to hear about while we’re fixing dinner. One thing it didn’t have on it were fingerprints, sorry to say.”

“So it was murder, then?”

“It was murder, definitely,” Tom said grimly. “They think somebody knew he took that run and was waiting for him. Saw him go by and quickly put up the poles and ropes closing the run. Then skied down and did him in.”

I hadn’t liked Doug Portman, but I suddenly felt heavy with sadness. Tom gave me a long hug.

He poured the steaming queso dip into the chafing dish and lit the Sterno underneath. I’d given him the chafing dish for Father’s Day. Tom had done more positive things for Arch in two short years than The Jerk had done in the preceding twelve. So he’d deserved a Father’s Day gift.

“Snow, snow, snow!” cried Marla as she came in and threw off another full-length coat, one she’d assured me was fake fur, although I had my doubts. Underneath, she wore a Christmasy crimson dress streaming with sewn-on ruby-colored beads. “Where’s that son of yours? I brought him some Christmas candy, that ribbon stuff. Tell him I want to know what kind of candy his girlfriend likes, too. I’m putting in another big order next week. Yum! I swear it always smells great in this house!”

I decided against telling her that the subject of a gift for Arch’s girlfriend was a sore one, and called him. He clomped down the stairs and accepted Marla’s gift of candy with guarded enthusiasm. When she bustled over to open the Gewürztraminer, he squinted skeptically at the thick, brightly colored candy ribbons, unsure whether the confection was too babyish to consume in public. I ignored him and broiled the halibut steaks. Before long we were digging chips into Tom’s hot dip and agreeing that halibut was perfect with a spicy orzo dish. Funny how—when you’re not being filmed—cooking is much easier.

“How many more shows?” Marla asked, as if reading my mind.

“One, right before Christmas.”

“I heard about yesterday. Portman’s suspicious accident was on the news,” she commented matter-of-factly. “I’m sure Elva the ex-wife didn’t do it, though. She’s found a new boyfriend and they’re in New Zealand. He’s real cute, she sent me a picture.” She looked at me ruefully. “Is there anything good about your work in Killdeer?”

“Free skiing,” Arch and I said in unison, and we all laughed.

“I know it’s heresy, and I do ski, but I’m not sure it’s all the fun it’s cracked up to be.” Marla shook her head as she accepted a second heaping plate of pasta from Tom. “I mean, it’s expensive, you get cold, you fall. I say, why not go straight to the après-ski food, wine, and hot tub, and skip the stuff on the slopes?” Arch rolled his eyes. Marla went on: “About the fund-raiser. You did a great job, Goldy. It wasn’t your fault the mixer blew up on you. I mean, I called in a pledge, and it wasn’t even because I felt sorry about Nate Bullock. I couldn’t bear that show, High Country Hallmarks . The only hallmark the high country has gotten in the last decade is Neiman-Marcus.”

I smiled.

Marla munched salad and considered. “I do feel sorry for Rorry Bullock, I suppose. You know, when you work in Killdeer, you can’t afford to have decent housing. It’s like Aspen that way. The rich folks have driven the cost of housing out of sight—I hear some workers have to live in tipis in the woods all winter. Can you imagine that? Rorry lives in a trailer park, but it’s not much more secure than a tipi. St. Luke’s is raising money to help her buy a new car. Can you believe somebody borrowed her car without even asking? Banged it into something and then just left it parked by her trailer! What a drag!”