Tough Cookie

Beat butter until creamy. Add brown sugar and eggs and beat until well combined, then add molasses and vinegar and beat thoroughly. Sift together all the dry ingredients and add-gradually to butter mixture. Using a 1½-tablespoon scoop, space cookies out 2 inches apart on sheets. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, until cookies have puffed and flattened and appear slightly dry. Allow to cool on sheet 1 minute, then transfer to racks and allow to cool completely.

Frosting:

1½ cups confectioners’ sugar

2 tablespoons whipping cream

2 tablespoons milk

¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

In a shallow bowl, mix all ingredients well with a whisk. Holding the cooled cookies upside down by the edges, dip the tops into the icing. Allow to cool, icing side up, on racks until the icing hardens. Store between layers of wax paper in an airtight container.

Makes 5 dozen cookies

I wondered if Arthur had opened the bottle of dessert wine, and if he’d let me chug it after the show.

Muttering, I scooped the fragrant dough into Ping-Pong-ball-size spheres. The phone volunteers raised eyebrows at each other: Some caterer! I slapped the uncooked cookies into what Arch called the “pretend” oven and struggled to compose a last enthusiastic pitch about new equipment for PBS.

Two lights above the phone bank flashed as the ringing halfheartedly resumed. I rinsed my hands and wiped them on the towel. Volunteers murmured to the donors. How much longer? My watch was obscured by gingersnap batter. I plunged back into my monologue, urging viewers to tuck crab-cake sandwiches into their packs before a full day of skiing.

Camera One swept a wide-angle panorama of the hot line burgeoning with the completed, cooked dishes. Then the cameraman focused on the volunteers manning the phones, which had once again, drat them, gone dead. Arthur, pale with panic, shifted to a visual with the phone number viewers could call. He then ran a prepared tape of avalanche-avoidance safety tips. Shun steep, leeward slopes. Listen for broadcast warnings of avalanche danger. If you’re caught in unstable snow, grab a tree and hold on. And never, ever ski out of bounds.

Too bad Arthur hadn’t run safety tips for cooking live. I felt acutely, painfully embarrassed. You don’t know a thing, Goldy. No kidding.

I looked for Rorry Bullock.

She was gone.

CHAPTER 4

As the credits rolled, I scanned the interior of the bistro. Arthur was talking urgently into his headset. Jack was handing Eileen a champagne glass filled with orange juice. Or perhaps it was part orange juice, part champagne. Eileen cupped the glass in her hands and beamed Jack a grateful smile. No one was hustling up to offer congratulations or tell me how much money we’d made. True, the show had been flawed by the cookie fiasco, and had lacked the public support of the pregnant widow. But there should have been some good news. Wasn’t that what public broadcasting was all about?

Unfortunately, the only news coming my way was in the shape of pudgy, self-aggrandizing Doug Portman. His pate shone in the bright lights as he waved and shouldered toward the set through the dispersing crowd of spectators. I swallowed. How did you greet someone you’d had three dates with, eight years before?

“Hey, Goldy?” Doug bellowed. “You forgot my ticket!”

“Sorry, I—”

“Ready to rock?” he hollered. “It’s really coming down out there!” People stared at him.

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” I yanked off my microphone and surveyed the mess on the hot line counter. Fortunately, the bistro staff cleaned up after each show.

“Arch and Todd decided to take a group snowboarding lesson,” said Eileen, suddenly at my shoulder. “Want a mimosa before you take off? Jack made them.”

“No, thanks, I’ve got some business to conduct. Need to be sober. Are you skiing down?” Eileen replied that she was staying to talk to the PBS people.

The kitchen was jammed with folks, so I couldn’t change there. I nabbed my clothes and Eileen and I walked together down the hallway to the bistro’s ladies’ room. While I was taking off my chef duds and slipping back into my ski clothes, Eileen sighed. “Sorry about the butter,” she said ruefully. “It was almost frozen in the walk-in. Our microwave isn’t working, and I was afraid to smash it to soften it, ’cuz that would have looked bad.”

“Not to worry. Is Jack skiing down now? He was awfully nice, and I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his help.”

“He has to do lunch prep, sorry.” She looked at me solicitously. “Goldy, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, and thanks.” We left the ladies’, then paused outside the Lost and Found and glanced outside. The sky had turned a bright nickel. Swirling snow powdered Widowmaker Run. With a pang, I thought of poor Rorry.