Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we,” I commented as we headed for the building marked Base Security—Patrol Office and pushed through to the Lost and Found. Rorry, again distinctly uncomfortable, insisted she had to sit down.

“Are you all right?” I asked desperately.

“Yes, it’s just that damn woman,” Rorry replied as she lowered herself into a padded chair. “She gives me indigestion.”

“Item?” inquired the patrolman behind the desk. It was Hoskins! These people must run on a six-day rotation, I thought. My helper from the day of Doug Portman’s accident asked if I was doing all right, and if my son was okay. I told him we were both fine, but that my friend and I desperately needed help finding something. Hoskins said seriously, “And the item is …”

“A camera case.” Rorry reached up to slap her ID onto the counter. “Initials N.B . It’s in the safe, we called.”

Hoskins tapped keys on his computer, disappeared, then returned with a dirty, crumpled case made of heavy-duty gray fabric, frayed in places. When Rorry saw it, she cried out in surprise and alarm, and began to weep. Damn, had I done the wrong thing? She held out her hands and I gave the case to her. She hugged it to her huge belly, rocking back and forth and sobbing as if her heart were broken.

“Rorry,” I said softly as I knelt down beside her chair. “I’m sorry. What can I—”

“You want me to get a paramedic in here?” Hoskins asked me. “She doesn’t seem well.”

“She’s not going into labor. Could you please just get her a glass of water?”

“Take the camera,” Rorry moaned when Hoskins had left. “See if the cassette’s in there, watch it somewhere, and then let’s get out of here. I can’t take any more in one day. Please, Goldy.”

When Patrolman Hoskins returned with water for Rorry, I asked if there was a VCR in another office where I could watch something quickly. He shook his head, then asked dubiously, “Are you sure your friend is going to be all right?”

“Yes, I think so. This camera belonged to her dead husband, and … It’s a long story.”

“You need a VCR?”

“Yeah.”

Hoskins lifted his chin at the wide front window. “Cinda’s got a couple of VCRs at her place. Why don’t you try her?”

Of course. I thanked him and went back to Rorry. I unzipped the case and checked the camera, which was spotted with rust. The word Sony was still visible. I rezipped the bag, patted Rorry’s shoulder, and murmured that I would be right back.

The snow seemed to be letting up a bit as I made my way to the Cinnamon Stop. The café was still hopping with business, though, and a video showing a freestyle snowboarding competition was drawing ooh s and aah s from the enthralled crowd. I shouted my request to Cinda, who was steaming milk for a latté. Did she have an extra machine in the back where I could watch a film?

She gave me a puzzled look, then cried “Sure!” and muttered something to the waiter I recognized as Ryan. He pointed to a door and I waded through the boisterous crowd to join him.

“You need help with a video?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, my friend’s pregnant and about to pop. My Lamaze teacher gave me a childbirth video,” I improvised blithely, “and I need to see if it’s in good enough shape to show.”

Ryan shrugged, as if my lie were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, which it probably was. He turned on the VCR while I struggled to open the camera, first with my fingernails, then with a pair of scissors from Cinda’s desk. When the latch finally gave, the shears snapped. Ryan took the cassette and showed me how to operate Cinda’s VCR.

Fast-forwarded, Nate Bullock’s tape was spotty with visual static. When the film opened with the first shot, the snow-capped rustic sign for Elk Valley and Elk Ridge, I grabbed the remote control from Ryan and hit “Stop.”

Ryan turned to me. “Lamaze at a ski resort? What is this, ‘Cliffhanger Childbirth’?”

I opened the office door to usher him out. “It’s women’s stuff. Not a place you want to go, Ryan.”

He muttered something like You can say that again and zipped out. Worried about Rorry in the present, and what this video was going to show me about the past, I took a nervous breath. Then I hit the Play button.

Nate Bullock’s garbled-but-familiar PBS voice gave me a jolt. I couldn’t make out a word of what he was saying. From the tone of it, it sounded like an introduction. After the shot of the sign, his next shot was of the path beyond it. Next the camera panned to his companion, whom I couldn’t quite make out. Rorry was right about one thing: She was a female. The woman had a snowboard slung under her arm. Nate went from a long shot to a close-up.

I cried out: A conservative form-fitting navy-blue ski suit, no psychedelic outfits. A short cap of brown hair, no spill of pink curls. No jewelry. But her athleticism, her pretty face with its freckle-sprayed pixie nose, her bright, lopsided smile: All these were unmistakable.

Cinda Caldwell.

Barton Reed’s words in the hospital echoed in my brain: Said she was hurt, but that was crap. Just chickened out . Of course, Cinda was the most famous female snowboarder in Killdeer. Young, pretty, and as adept at snowboarding as anyone. She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened .

No, it never happened, I thought as I watched. Nate expertly clicked off the camera and then resumed taping from the valley. Cinda was far above, on the right edge of Elk Ridge. Nate zoomed in on her doing a smooth right to left, then left to right maneuver on the steep white slope. Cinda’s flowing movements were as effortless and breathtaking as big-wave surfing.

Nate’s garbled voice came on again; the tape clicked off. The next time Cinda appeared she was up higher, near the top edge of the steep, forest-lined bowl that Arthur had pointed out to Marla and me the day before. Nate zoomed in. Poised unafraid at the edge of the bowl, Cinda’s face was happy but determined. Then her concentration broke. She stared, puzzled, into the distance. A look of horror spread over her face, and she gestured to the camera.

“Over there,” I could lip-read her saying. She pointed and mouthed the words again. Nate lowered the camera. You could hear him yelling. Then the camera rose and panned vertiginously. I blinked and realized I was looking through treetops at Bighorn Overlook. In the distance, Cinda screamed. Her voice sounded as if she were underwater.

A small noise made me jump. The office door had opened. Cinda, her flaming pink hair backlit by the café’s bright lamps, stood rigidly in the oblong of light. She stared at the initials on the camera case in my hands, then lifted her eyes to meet mine.

She said, “What are you going to do with that? Get me killed, too?”

CHAPTER 21

No,” I said immediately. “At least, I’m trying not to. Is this film why you quit snowboarding? You were afraid?”

“Yes. Still am. Not to mention feeling guilty about Nate.”

I took a deep breath. “And do you feel afraid because you saw who pushed Fiona Wakefield over the cliff?”

She sighed. “Yes. But all I saw was people struggling on Bighorn Overlook. Does the tape show what happened?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

Cinda closed the door, muffling the noise of the café behind her. “What are you planning on doing?”

I shrugged and glanced at my watch. Desperate as I was to see the rest of the tape, my fear of interruption and my desire to protect evidence, not to mention my need to do the last PBS program, dictated that I not view any more of the tape just then. I needed to find out what Cinda knew, and then I needed to split. Fast. “I haven’t got immediate plans,” I answered noncommitally.