Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

When the Rover crunched over the snowpack in our driveway, Arch and Todd were outside throwing snowballs at each other with the intensity of a full-scale military battle. I powered down the window and asked for a truce, just until I could get into the house. Arch galumphed to the car to ask if I remembered Todd was spending the night. Of course, I replied. They had to finish their stanza memorization of “The Faerie Queene,” Arch explained. Todd and Arch disliked memory work, so they were coaching each other. And, Arch added, Tom wanted to talk to me.

I jumped from the Rover. “He’s home?”

“Yeah. The kitchen drains were delivered and he’s putting them in.” My son turned and took huge footsteps through the deep snow to get back to packing snow-missiles.

“How’d the work with Lettie go?” I called after him.

“Fine!” he yelled before throwing a new white grenade. So much for sociable chitchat.

Tom was sprawled on his back on our kitchen floor. Strewn by his legs were two dozen plumbing tools and pieces of dismantled cherry cabinet. The top half of his torso disappeared beneath the sink.

I leaned down. “How’s it going, O multitalented mate?”

With a grunt, he slid out and heaved himself upright. His face and work clothes were filthy. Undaunted, he smiled hugely, white teeth in a portrait of grime.

“Your pipes and drains arrived.” He got to his feet. “I’m not assigned to any cases now, so I convinced the lieutenant to let me take two vacation days and put’em in.”

I hugged him, hard. “Thank you!” In my enthusiasm I backed over a wrench and almost crashed onto Arch’s second spatter-pattern experiment, the dried frosting on a cookie sheet. “But, why can’t we hire a plumber? There’s no reason you should have to—”

Tom winked, set me upright, then lowered himself again to the floor. “Don’t trust me, eh?” He slid back under the sink. His muffled voice said: “I’m doing it because I want to know exactly what kind of plumbing we have. I’ll be done in a few hours.”

“Tell me what your heart desires for dinner. Anything.”

“Ah, Miss G., I am very much in the mood for a curry. I bought some fat raw shrimp, peeled and deveined, in the hope that you would make just such an offer. But you’re going to have to do the sink work in the bathroom. Want me to come out and help?”

“Of course not. Shrimp curry it is. But listen, I’ve got something to tell you—”

“I want to hear it, but there’s something I forgot,” his hollow voice boomed. “You need to call your buddy the wine guy before six.”

Uh-oh . Had Arthur discovered the raid on his cellar? And what would my husband the cop think of my subterranean foray?

“Actually, Tom, Arthur Wakefield is who I need to talk to you about—”

“Call him first, okay? I promised you would.”

It was five-thirty. A long chat with Arthur would make preparing a curry dinner impossible. I washed my hands in the ground floor bathroom, then rinsed the shrimp and half a pound of fresh, plump mushrooms. After drying, trimming, and chopping the mushrooms, I minced shallots, onions, and garlic, swirled oil in a wide sauté pan, and tossed in all the vegetables. They sizzled and filled the room with a yummy scent. Once they were tender, I measured in curry powder and flour, stirred the pungent mixture for a couple of minutes, then removed it from the heat, crushed dried thyme over it, and poured in homemade chicken stock, cream, and dry white French vermouth. I suppressed a smile. Only a true wine geek would insist on pouring fifty-dollar-a-bottle Grand Cru chablis into curried shellfish. Still, by the time I added the shrimp, this thick, flavorful dish would be a suitable reward for Tom’s hard work.

He again reminded me to call Arthur; I promised him I would as soon as I started the raisin rice. In another skillet, I sprinkled rice into sputtering melted butter, stirred until the kernels were toasted golden brown, and dropped in a handful of moist raisins. Then I poured in more homemade chicken stock, lowered the heat, and gently placed a lid on top.

“Sure smells fantastic up there,” was Tom’s sub-sink comment.

“Thanks.” I punched in Arthur’s number, tucked the phone under my ear, and gathered my dishes to rinse in the bathroom. He answered on the first ring.

“My guests are due in ten minutes,” he said hurriedly. “I have my wines ready. Your wonderful food is heating. Thank you for everything,” he gushed.

“No problem, Arthur.” Compared to his attitude that afternoon, he sounded suspiciously mellow.

“I feel awful for not paying you. We’re still on for lunch Wednesday?”

I felt a frisson of unease. “You bet—”

“Wednesday will be three years since Mother’s funeral,” he interrupted dolefully. “I … I want to show you the spot,” he said quickly, then hung up.

Show me what spot on the anniversary of his mother’s funeral? The spot where she was buried? The place where she died? Now there was a cheerful incentive to join the man for lunch.

“Tom,” I called downward, “may I talk to you about this Killdeer mess?”

“Yes,” came his echoing-inside-the-pipe voice.

I started filling bowls with sour cream, chopped peanuts, chutney, coconut, pineapple chunks, chopped hard-cooked egg, and more raisins. “Doug Portman was about to leave for Puerto Escondido before he died. It’s a small town on the Pacific coast of Mexico. I, uh, I found his plane ticket hidden in Arthur Wakefield’s wine cellar. So I’m a tad concerned about having lunch with Arthur on Wednesday.”

“What?” Banging on metal was followed by a groan as Tom worked to extract himself again. By the time I’d finished setting the table, he was leaning on the marble counter and giving me a skeptical look. “What did you do, exactly?”

I checked the refrigerator for beer—our preferred drink with curry—and soft drinks for the boys. “Look, I know I wasn’t supposed to snoop around Arthur’s place, but the man is obsessed with the Portman case.”

“I know, I know, everybody in the Department of Corrections is sick of Arthur Wakefield and his letters about Portman. But you’re the one who decided to go through his stuff.”

“I didn’t steal anything.” Tom grunted and I went on: “Look, he’s got nineteen million dollars at stake. My best guess is, when you’re trying to get a will set aside because you think someone exerted undue influence over your rich mother, you try to make that influential someone look bad . Very bad. In this case, that person is Jack Gilkey, who was granted parole by Doug Portman. So you also want to find out everything negative you can about Doug Portman. If Arthur can prove Portman took a bribe to grant Gilkey parole, he’d be in better shape to have his mother’s second will overturned. Of course he’d steal Portman’s mail, if he thought it might help him find out exactly what Doug was up to. If you want to get a warrant,” I added hastily, “the ticket-issuers were Copper Mountain Worldwide Travel.”

“Oh, Miss G., why do you do this to me? Tickets don’t prove anything by themselves. You want to lose your bonding? Did you think about that?” But he was reaching for the phone.

“I didn’t take the ticket,” I repeated stubbornly.

Tom did not reply. He was using his answering-machine voice to ask Marla if she could meet me at eleven o’clock on Wednesday at Killdeer, to ski for a couple of hours and have lunch. He’d phone again later to confirm.

“What are you doing?” I demanded of him. “Marla hates skiing.”

Tom hung up and regarded me intensely. “Yeah, but she’s a good skier, I’ve seen her. I want her there.”