Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

Outside, the snowflakes whirled and thickened. My face was numb with cold. I briefly released my death-grip on the metal bars to tighten my hood. The time before Christmas should be full of laughter, parties, shopping, decorating, baking, family gatherings. So why was I dealing with the loss of my beloved business, a live television fund-raiser for a kind, outdoorsy fellow who’d died in an avalanche, and—as of twenty minutes ago—a crazy earring-studded guy sending poisoned love notes to a cop? Not to mention the sale of a valuable collectible item, more or less under the table, to a man I’d vowed never to see again?

But I was seeing him again. So much for never .

CHAPTER 3

The gondola inexplicably started again and I sighed with relief. At the top, I popped through the doors, shouldered my skis and pack, and headed onto the mountain’s flat peak. A bitter wind blew me into the snow before I could don my skis. I gasped as my body hit the hard-pack and pain exploded up my knees. Poor Cinda , I thought as a red-clad ski patrol member gently helped me up. When she wrecked her knees, had it hurt as much as this?

“You all right?” the tanned patrolwoman asked, her voice tight with concern. “Need help getting to the show?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I struggled to my feet, slung on the backpack, then conscientiously slotted my boots into my skis. Eventually, today’s show will be over , I consoled myself as I reached for my poles.

I skied cautiously to the racks by the Summit Bistro. The restaurant occupied the eastern third of an enormous blond-log edifice known as the Chapparal Lodge. Snuggled within a stand of pine trees, surrounded by a wide apron of log decking, the lodge housed the bistro, the kitchen, a cafeteria, and mountaintop ski patrol headquarters. The lower level contained a storage area, rest rooms, and pay phones. I racked my skis and reflected that until a few moments ago, I’d had no dealings with the patrol, who were summoned if you had a crisis on the slopes. Patrol members, expert skiers who wore red uniforms emblazoned with white crosses, brought injured skiers down on sleds, closed dangerous runs, and yanked lift tickets from reckless skiers and snowboarders. Apparently, they also felt they should pluck a mid-thirtyish woman to her feet when she did a face-plant in the snow.

I sighed and surveyed the sprawling lodge, where I now prayed someone had thought to start a coffeemaker.

The bistro’s heavy wooden door was locked. Banging on it hurt my frozen knuckles and produced no response. Blackout curtains covered the windows. The crew’s bustle inside must have muffled my knocking. Then again, maybe they hadn’t made it up the back road. This was not something I wanted to contemplate.

How was I supposed to get in? Eileen had told me that the rear part of the lodge’s basement contained the mammoth trash- and food-storage areas, plus railroad tracks leading to the gondola. The gondola’s cars were removed at night, so that a second crew could run canisters of trash down the mountain, and unpack the food supplies that ran back up. I moved along the decking and peered down: the TV van, complete with chained tires and a hood of snow, was parked by the rear entry. So the crew was here. This was good.

Melting snowflakes trickled down my cheeks and lips. It would take another ten minutes to struggle downhill to the lower entrance. I retraced my steps past the bistro door to the cafeteria entrance, yanked on all six doors, and finally found one open. Eureka .

The darkened cafeteria was empty. But at least I was inside the building. There were two ways of looking at Killdeer security, I thought as I readjusted my backpack and made my way to the kitchen entry. With all the locked doors, computerized scanning of lift tickets, and red flags screaming Danger! Run Closed! , you’d think Killdeer was an outpost of the Pentagon. On the other hand, in the last five weeks I had repeatedly seen boundary ropes down, run signs askew, office doors unlocked, and scofflaws ducking lift ticket scanners. Add to this: untended kitchens left open.

I pushed through the doors and looked around hopefully.

“Hello?” I called into the gloom. No answer. No Eileen Druckman and Jack Gilkey chopping egg roll ingredients. A single fluorescent bulb cast a pall over the cavernous space. Rows of steel counters lined with cutlery, pans, and bowls, alternated with shelves burgeoning with foodstuffs. My footsteps echoed and reechoed on the metal floor.

Through the kitchen’s swinging doors, noisy hustling and shouting was suddenly audible. I stripped off my snow-coated jacket and boots, opened my backpack, and slipped into the sneakers I wore for the show. Then I whipped past the walk-in refrigerators and deep sinks and pushed through more swinging doors to the restaurant.

The glare of TV lights blinded me. Mysteriously, the lights did not diminish the intimate feel of the dining room. Chandeliers elaborately twined with fake deer antlers, stucco walls stenciled with painted ivy, plush forest-green carpeting, a moss-rock fireplace with a glowing hearth—all these gave the bistro the air of a ritzy hideaway. Silk roses and unlit candles topped pristine white damask tablecloths. Along one wall, a blond woman was hanging an arrangement of artworks. Elegant Gourmet Restaurant at Eleven Thousand Feet Above Sea Level? No problem!

About five and a half feet in height, wearing his usual black shirt and ski pants, Arthur Wakefield tucked his clipboard and ever-present bottle of Pepto-Bismol under his arm and barreled in my direction, leaning forward at an acute angle. His taut, no-nonsense air made him look older than the twenty-nine I knew him to be. The director, Lina, a paraplegic woman who rarely left the production van, I had only met once. She gave her cues to the two cameramen and to Arthur via headsets. I had a full plate dealing with Arthur himself: He worried and complained enough for three people.

Clean-shaven down to the cleft in his dimpled chin, Arthur wore his ultracurly black hair combed forward, Roman-emperor-style. Dark circles under his eyes made me wonder about the hangover quotient. I braced to hear the latest crises.

“Here you are, then. Four minutes late.” He tsk ed, then added, “Rorry Bullock was supposed to be here at seven. Nobody’s seen her. Eileen Druckman should have arrived with her chef. So we’re in a bit of a pickle. A gherkin, maybe.”

“Just tell me what I need to know so I can get ready.” I hesitated. “No Rorry?” Again, I felt guilt. I should have called her, maybe offered her a ride.…

“Do you know her?”

“She and Nate used to live near us. Rorry and I taught church school together.” Glancing around at the chaos in the dining room, I had a sudden memory of the fun Rorry and I had had with our fourth-grade class, as we acted out the story of the Valley of Dry Bones. All of us had leaped wildly around the narthex floor once the boy playing Ezekiel prophesied.…

Arthur asked, “Did you know she was pregnant when the avalanche happened? They’d been trying for ages. Right after Nate died, she lost the baby.” He sighed, and I wondered if the miscarriage, with all its attendant physical and emotional pain, was the reason Rorry had not responded to my letter. Why hadn’t I followed up? “Everybody at the station loved Nate. And his shows were popular with the granola set.” Arthur searched his pockets fruitlessly for an antacid. “So every year we do a memorial fund-raiser for him. The Federal Communications Commission only lets us raise money on air for ourselves . Sad, because Rorry needs money.” He raised a black eyebrow at me. “I was hoping you, Goldy, could introduce Rorry. I wanted her to say a few words at the beginning of the show. She said no to me.”