Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

She was silent. My heart sank. She was going to refuse. “Okay,” she said, to my surprise. “When will you be here?”

I told her I should arrive around one, that we could go up together to the Killdeer Lost and Found at Ski Patrol Headquarters. I remembered the state of her car, and promised I’d take her to work, too.

“You’re doing the PBS show at four?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s been rescheduled because of Christmas Eve. I don’t have to be there until three-thirty.”

“Why don’t you just spend the night here afterward? Then you won’t be driving back to Aspen Meadow so late. You could look at the tape, then take me to work for the four-to-twelve shift. I’ve got someone who’ll bring me home. You could do your show, and come over afterward. You’ll have the place to yourself until I get off at midnight.” She paused. “Unless you don’t want to stay in my ratty trailer, of course.”

I swallowed, thinking of “Reggie Dawson.” I didn’t care about staying in a trailer, but I was worried about Arch. And then of course, there was all the preparation I had to do at home tomorrow, Christmas Eve. But I was worried that Rorry needed company, especially right before the holiday. If Tom would agree to be with Arch around the clock, then I would stay with Rorry. I could leave before dawn tomorrow morning and arrive home early enough to thaw the turkey and find the stockings we always hang by the fireplace. “Sure, I’d love to stay with you. Thanks. See you at one, then.”

I left a message on Arthur’s answering machine detailing the exact menu graphic and food preparation I needed for our last show. Very easy , I assured him, in conclusion. See you at three-thirty .

It was going to be a full day. No time for lunch, anyway, so I made two peanut-butter-and-cherry-preserves sandwiches for Rorry and me. If the baby loved lasagne, he was going to flip for PB&J. While I was wrapping them in wax paper, I put in a call to Tom. Would he have arrived at the sheriff’s department by now? Did he have a meeting? Miraculously, he picked up.

“Hey, Miss G., I was just about to call you. Don’t panic. First of all, I left the boys off and they’re fine. I called Lutheran, too. Eileen’s doing better. They’ve moved her into her own room. She’s resting comfortably, as they say. The nurse told me Jack finally left the hospital and went back to Killdeer,” he added, “so he’s not sleeping on the waiting room sofa anymore. And those anonymous phone calls: Made from a pay phone in Killdeer, our guys tell me.”

Doggone it. I told him of my plan to do the show and spend the night at Rorry’s. Considering the weather, Tom replied, that was probably a great idea. And yes, he would pick up Arch and stick to him like epoxy until I came home.

I also told Tom of my find—make that potential find—at the Killdeer Lost and Found. He tapped the receiver, a click click click sound that did not betoken approval.

“What’s the matter with that?” I demanded. “I’ll bring the camera, the case, and whatever’s in it straight back to you.”

“I’m trying to figure out if this film could be considered evidence. If it is, you should be leaving it alone.”

“If it’s evidence of malfeasance , if it’s anything , you’ll have it first thing tomorrow. But I’m the one who has articles left anonymously, I’m the one getting threatening calls. I’ve got a bigger stake in finding out what’s going on up there than you all.”

“I have a stake in protecting my wife. Doesn’t that count?”

“Look, Tom, all I’m doing is looking at something, if there is something. Then I do the show and come home first thing tomorrow morning.”

Worry threaded his voice. “Are you going to have somebody you trust with you today, all the time?”

“I’ll be with Rorry, then I’ll be onstage for PBS, then I drive back to Rorry’s. Then I drive home.”

“After the show, have somebody walk you to the Rover. Not that wine guy; he might have discovered you found the ticket he stole from Portman’s place. Call me the moment you get to Rorry’s. And lock all the doors.”

“Tom, it’s a trailer. There’s only one door. And it’s a ski town, not the inner city.”

“In the past week, Killdeer Ski Resort has had more unexplained accidents and deaths per capita than the worst ten-block stretch in Denver.”

I said, “Now there’s a happy statistic.”

CHAPTER 20

Gusts of wind whipped waves of snow on the windshield as I drove out of Aspen Meadow. Because of the poor visibility, I drove slowly up the interstate’s right lane. With its high center of gravity, the Rover rocked with each blast. On the ascent to the Eisenhower Tunnel, a whining eighteen-wheel rig loomed abruptly and my foot slammed the brake. The Rover skidded onto the shoulder—and stalled.

I restarted the car and contemplated what the wind and snow would mean for riding the Killdeer gondola. But as I emerged from the west side of the tunnel, the breeze softened. By the time I reached Killdeer, snow-flakes were swirling thickly but gently to the whitened earth.

Rorry was watching for me from her trailer’s bay window. She clambered down her steps and waddled through the snowfall to the Rover. She wore a fluffy-white-fur-lined pink maternity ski suit. She looked like the Easter bunny.

“I can’t wait to get this over with,” she said bitterly as she slammed the passenger door and settled into her seat.

“The pregnancy or getting the film?”

“Both.”

“Buck up. I brought you a sandwich.”

We munched our sandwiches and drank bottles of water as I drove cautiously toward the mountain base. Because snow was still falling fast, I splurged and parked at the close-in pay lot. It was the least I could do for Rorry, who made her unwieldy way through the street of shops, and stopped at Cinda’s to go to the bathroom.

A sudden storm will drive all but the most die-hard skiers home, or at the very least, into mountain-base cafés for tequila, steaming hot chocolate, or both. True to form, Cinda’s was mobbed with skiers slamming down drinks while watching one of Warren Miller’s extreme skiing videos. Knowing what I now knew about Nate’s last tape, I averted my eyes. Cinda, whose hair held some of the hues of Rorry’s ski suit, offered us free Viennese coffee with a shot of rum.

“Or rum flavoring,” she told Rorry. “Might be better for the baby.” Rorry declined. I promised Cinda that I would have a celebratory Bacardi-coffee, heavy on the Bacardi, when I finished my last show that afternoon. She told me to break a leg.

Rorry and I had our season tickets scanned and clambered onto the gondola. As we ascended, the wind picked up dramatically, thrashing the snowfall sideways like thick confetti. Our gondola car quivered and swayed. When the wind abated slightly, a few skiers and boarders were visible battling their way down the runs. Between the runs, clusters of whitened pines nodded and bent in the wind.

Rorry’s face was pinched, the circles under her eyes dark and deep. She squirmed on the cold metal seat. I remembered that last month of pregnancy all too well. You didn’t suffer just an occasional pain, but almost constant physical unease, whether you were walking, sitting, or sleeping. I couldn’t even imagine the discomfort of a jarring ride on a cable car.

When the gondola shuddered to a halt at the turnaround, Rorry groaned as she heaved herself up and out the clanging doors. I felt guilty about asking her to walk to the lodge to claim Nate’s camera, and was tempted to take her ID into the Lost and Found myself. Maybe I could bluff my way through. But before I could put the thought into words, she was barreling ahead of me and I had to plow through ten inches of fresh powder to catch up.