Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

Finally, there was the UPS package, stamped with the return address of Copper Mountain Worldwide Travel. Inside was a ticket and a note. The ticket was a round-trip to Puerto Escondido with a departure date of the twentieth of December and an open return. The scrawled note from the travel agent said: Mr. Portman, This time of year, it’s much cheaper to buy a round-trip ticket. Thank you for your check .

Heart pounding, I stuffed the ticket and note back in the UPS packet, then folded the letters and tucked them back in their envelopes. I placed the pile on the stone shelves exactly as I’d found them and reattached the poster to the rock wall. Then I fled the dreary cellar, turning off the lights and relocking as I went.

Safely back in the kitchen, I poached the sole, braised the spinach, and made the easy sauce for the sole Florentine. I whisked together a wine-only vinaigrette. Then I wrote out all the directions for Arthur. He had to be very careful to brush each delicate sheet of phyllo dough with melted butter, I admonished, and stack the buttered sheets on top of the chicken to make a puffed, crispy strudel topping. I wrote out directions for reheating the crab cakes and sole and tossing the salad. Last, I locked the heavy front door, swung it closed behind me, and walked quickly to the Rover. My brain whirled with questions.

Doug Portman had been leaving Colorado, going one-way to a small town on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He’d used the travel agency of a nearby resort town. He had found himself a villa and business opportunities. He’d been packed. All this Arthur Wakefield had discovered when he’d broken into Doug’s condo the day he was murdered.

Arthur Wakefield was in the process of battling to have his mother’s will reversed. He desperately needed to prove Jack Gilkey had had undue influence over his mother before she died. Clearly, he believed that if he could prove Jack Gilkey had had undue influence over anybody , that would strengthen his case. If nineteen million clams were at stake, wouldn’t you want a strong case? So Arthur had broken into Portman’s condo to see what he could find.

Why would Doug Portman be leaving, anyway? Had he gotten wind of the investigation into his parole board activities and decided to take a powder? Was it possible that Arthur had discovered Doug’s travel arrangements—through the travel agent or some other source—and killed him? After the fact, why rob the condo? Could someone else have discovered Doug’s departure plans, and tried to stop him, permanently?

I shifted gears and headed toward the trailer park that perched on the outskirts of Killdeer. Maybe Rorry Bullock would enlighten me on some of these people. I would certainly welcome some illumination. The more I tried to figure out what was going on in this mountain town, the more muddled I became.

Actually, I decided when I once again lost my way on the too-quaint, too-curvy streets of Killdeer, what I really needed was caffeine. Cooking, wine-tasting, and snooping were too much to handle before eleven o’clock in the morning, even if you were the toughest cookie in the Rockies.

The sunshine and fresh snow had lured so many day-skiers that their cars filled the lots near the gondola. I backtracked to the Elk Ridge lot and walked to Cinda’s. It wasn’t a bad trek if you weren’t wearing ski boots. Twenty minutes later I was bellying up to the coffee bar and wondering if I didn’t deserve four shots instead of two. And how about a luscious cheese-filled croissant to go with it? After all, I hadn’t had any lunch.

Cinda, her cottony-pink hair held back with twisted rubber bands, opened her pale eyes wide when she spotted me. She beckoned with a ring-studded hand and then whispered ominously in my ear: “He’s here . The snowboarder. Barton Reed.”

“Here, now?” Then I added, “May I have a four-shot espresso and ricotta-stuffed croissant to clear my vision?”

Cinda said, “It’s the guy who made the threat, remember? My other waiter, Ryan, and I have just been talking about it. Barton Reed used to be big in the snowboard circuit, and he drove us all nuts with his temper. Then he went to jail on a fraud charge. Now he’s back, and the law enforcement guys found some threatening card he supposedly wrote. So I don’t want to have to deal with him.” She hustled off. Since it was late-morning coffee-and-hot-chocolate time, her shop was mobbed. She returned quickly, however, balancing a tray of goodies for me: a cup brimming with steaming, crema- topped espresso, a plate with a hot, flaky, ricotta-oozing croissant, and a jar of plum preserves. Zowie! I took a sip of the coffee and looked around the shop. I instantly recognized the chunky-faced profile and spill of earrings: Barton Reed.

“Did he say anything to you when he came in?” I whispered to Cinda.

“Yeah. The cops picked him up yesterday,” she replied sotto voce , “but then let him go. His fingerprints weren’t on the threatening card, and it wasn’t his handwriting. But it looked like his handwriting. Then he came in here and demanded to know if we’d told the cops he’d threatened some cop. We played dumb. A couple of other shopkeepers told me Barton’s been making threats all over town. So he can’t be sure who spilled the beans to the cops.”

“Why is he here now?”

“Says he’s looking for somebody. He’s clutching a cross. Maybe he’s waiting for a vampire.”

I started in on the flaky, hot croissant. It was superb. “You said he was waiting for somebody? Could he be waiting for Doug Portman? Does he know Portman is dead?”

“He didn’t say. But he must, everybody in town knows. I’m telling you, that guy’s lift doesn’t go to the peak.” She tapped her forehead meaningfully. As she did so, Reed shuffled to his feet and stomped toward the exit. At the door, he stopped and turned. He held Cinda and me briefly in a withering glare.

“Who could he be looking for?” I wondered in a low voice.

“I sure don’t know.” Cinda shook her pink-filament hair. “But it’s not likely he’ll be opening up his soul to any of our waiters again soon.”

I didn’t like the feeling this gave me. I thanked Cinda for the coffee, told her I’d see her later, and backed away from the bar. Before heading for the Rover, I made a visual check of the lift ticket windows, repair shop walk-up, and crowds going into and out of the Karaoke and Gorge-at-the-Gondola cafés. No Barton Reed. No, wait.

He was across the creek, standing in line for the gondola. With the crowd around him, I couldn’t see if he was carrying a snowboard. Had he spotted the person he’d been waiting for, or had he given up?

If the Sheriff’s department had released Barton Reed, there was nothing I could or should do. I asked for directions to Rorry’s trailer park at one of the lift ticket windows, then trekked back to the Rover.

The West Furman County Mobile Home Court—so named to distinguish it from any connection to the much-sought-after appellation Killdeer— was surrounded with a snow-laced five-foot-high chain-link fence. The fence was hung with fierce no-parking warnings, and the entry was flanked with signs informing the unwary that the motor court was for residents and their guests only; other vehicles would be towed and their owners fined. All the ski resorts had parking problems. No doubt some skiers thought nothing of leaving their vehicles here, in the low-rent district.

Where the rest of Killdeer featured picturesquely winding roads, the snow-covered-but-unplowed roads of the employees’ trailer park were laid out in ramrod-straight gridlines. I pulled in behind a red Subaru wagon. Hmm . Like its neighbors, the Bullock trailer stood perpendicular to the curb. Green and white siding peeled away from a sagging bay window; the trailer’s bottom rim was patched with rust. There were no signs of life.