Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“Still in Med Wives one-oh-one, eh, Goldy?” she shot back. “It’s just a little separation of the placenta. I’ll be fine.”

“And they said something had happened to your car?”

“Borrowed and trashed. This trailer park is the worst place for security in all of Killdeer, and we don’t have anything like what’s in the rich folks’ houses!”

I murmured my sympathy, and offered to bring her some casseroles the next day. Once again, food worked its magic. Rorry softened instantly and said she’d love them. After I left the dinners, she added, would I mind driving her to work at the Killdeer warehouse? I’d passed the warehouse, one of the dark-painted service barns owned by the Killdeer Corporation, when I’d been looking for Arthur’s condo. No problem, I’d be glad to take her to work. When I got off the phone, I realized I’d forgotten to ask her what precisely had happened to her car. I did not call her back because at that moment, Tom walked through the door.

It was the end of the third quarter; the Broncos were leading ten to zip. To my surprise, Tom shuffled heavily into the room and glanced at the score without much interest.

“Tom?”

He sat on the couch and set three sheets of paper on the coffee table. Then he turned and took my hands.

“Tom? What is it?” His expression frightened me.

“Someone broke into Portman’s condo the day he died. He’d lived alone since Elva divorced him, so it was definitely his stuff somebody was after.” Tom sighed. “If anything’s missing, we have no way of knowing. We seized all the files that were there, and we’ve ordered his bank records. We’re trying to fit up a series of deposits with his parole recommendations, but so far we haven’t figured out if he was up to anything.”

“Do you think he might have been taking bribes, then?”

Tom nodded. “Portman was under investigation. A number of prisoners in Cañon City and at the Furman County Jail have told investigators how he asked them for money. He always did it when the stenographer wasn’t there. He always wanted the money to be brought to him personally by a relative or friend. And judging by the stuff in that condo, the guy was loaded. Even with his side business of dealing in military collectibles, and the bit he got from being a critic, there’s little chance you could live the way he did on sixty thou a year from the parole board.”

“So he didn’t get a big divorce settlement from Elva?”

“Not according to our court records. They didn’t have a prenuptial agreement. She sold her gallery and kept the proceeds. She’s on record as saying she hoped he’d have to go digging ditches. Plus, he gave up the forensic accounting when he got the parole board job.”

“What about Jack Gilkey?” I asked. “Did you find any connection between Doug and Jack?”

“Nothing yet. If Gilkey gave Portman money in exchange for an early release, we can’t find any record of it. We talked to Jack, and to Eileen, very informally, and both say Portman really liked Jack, and that there was no money involved. We checked out Jack’s alibi for the times of both Portman’s death and the break-in. There’s one person who remembers being with him for most of the lunch prep . Four people were with him while they were cooking the meal itself. By the time Jack got off work, Portman’s place had been burgled. The receptionist at Portman’s condo complex said a man in a uniform came in around noon, showed ID, claimed he was there to check the security system. She didn’t see him come out, so she figures he was the one who broke into Portman’s place. Eileen says she was skiing most of the day. But she was alone, no witnesses.”

“So her alibi isn’t airtight,” I said reluctantly. “What about Arthur Wakefield?”

Tom shook his head. “Swears he was skiing alone. No alibi for the time of Portman’s death, no alibi for the time of the burglary.”

I thought for a minute. “Could Doug have kept another office, apartment, or house, where he might have hidden records of bribes? A lot of folks have condos in Killdeer as second homes.”

“Not that we’ve been able to determine. He only listed the Killdeer condo with the parole board for an address. Now here’s something puzzling: Portman hadn’t quit the parole board, but it looks as if he was leaving or moving, because most of his belongings were in boxes. His military memorabilia were carefully packed in about forty or so boxes marked Store . Whether that meant put these in storage or sell these at a store , we have no idea. We’re still looking into it.” I nodded, mystified. Tom glanced at his first sheet, then paused. Finally he asked, “Goldy, how many antiques dealers did you contact about selling the Tenth Mountain Division skis?”

“I called a guy in Lodo, a couple on South Broadway, and a woman in Vail. Not one of them was willing to give us more than five thousand dollars, and then they wanted to take a commission on top of that. Wholesale, they called it. But everyone said the skis were worth at least ten thousand. So I figured we —I— ought to be able to sell them on my own.”

“So you offered them to Portman. Because you knew from your dating days that he had an interest in that kind of thing.”

I nodded, but, watching the expression on Tom’s face, felt increasingly uneasy.

He went on: “But you didn’t want to tell me that Portman was our buyer, because you’d dated him before we met, right? And you felt funny about that, contacting an old boyfriend, even though he wasn’t a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t feel funny, I felt foolish.” When Tom said nothing, I mumbled, “Yes, something along those lines.”

“So you struck a deal with Portman for the skis.”

“He was willing to pay eight thousand—”

“Which was close to the amount of cash they found on him, and scattered on the slopes.”

“Tom! Why is that a problem?”

Tom pressed his lips together and stared at the swirling, silent action on the television. “You were selling valuable skis to a parole board member with no intermediary. Meanwhile, your ex-husband is in jail, facing parole in the not-too-distant future. Think about that. You were selling skis to a man who might be in a position to do you a favor down the road, by denying your ex-husband parole.”

“At the time, I didn’t even know Doug was on the parole board!” I protested.

“Someone might say you were trying to influence him.”

“I was trying to pay for new drains—”

He held up his hand. “Miss G. Your plan to sell the skis to the parole board member included your agreeing to charge him less than the full market value of ten thousand dollars for them. You were doing him the favor of selling him a valuable item for two thousand dollars under market price.” His green eyes, full of pain, studied me solemnly. “How do you think that makes you look?”

“I don’t care, because what you’re saying is ridiculous!” I cried hotly. “You can’t honestly think that I would do such a thing!”

Tom did not reply. Unable to bear the look on his face, I glanced at the television. Kansas City jumped offsides but the penalty wasn’t called.

“Miss G.,” he said. “You didn’t warn me , but now I’m warning you . You better pray that the Sheriff’s department figures out who killed Doug Portman. And why.” He sighed. “Your home kitchen’s closed for repairs. Now you’re involved in what could be interpreted as shady dealings. The press gets hold of this, it might get so slanted against you, your client base could dry up. Permanently. And if you’re prosecuted for this—” He broke off abruptly.