Tough Cookie

I removed a pork tenderloin I’d started marinating the day before. Professional culinary literature urges the prospective personal chef to bring the first meal—a marvelous dinner using your best recipes—gratis. This is to show your client what a good and generous person you are. Arthur, if he’d been noticing, might already think I was a good and generous person. On the other hand, he probably thought I was a klutz. Still, that assessment could change once he ate his deliciously tender, herb-spiced, free pork dinner.

“Tell me about the parole board,” I urged Tom, to distract myself from fretting about Arthur.

He sighed and continued to chop. “There you go again. Worrying.”

I tapped buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the chocolate cookie recipe I was working on. “Come on,” I said, trying my best to sound reasonable. “I just want to know how the board operates. And I’m interested in your theory as to the reason Doug Portman had an anonymously written card containing a threat, and maybe some poison, too, and why he wanted to give it specifically to you.”

Tom sliced the chocolate into dark, fragrant chunks. “First things first. There are six members on the state parole board, all appointed by the governor. Statutorily, two of them have to have a law-enforcement background. Portman didn’t have a law-enforcement background, but I know he watched the newspapers. All the parole board members do. Every day, they’re scared some felon they let out on parole might have committed a big crime. The board members really don’t want that kind of thing coming back to haunt them. So.” He pushed away the chopped chunks from the first chocolate bar and started on the second. “I think Portman got that card from someone I put behind bars, and he let out. But why would someone he let out come back and threaten him?”

I printed out the cookie recipe. “Maybe it’s someone he denied parole to, who’s finally out now. The name Barton Reed doesn’t ring a bell? The guy at Cinda’s?”

He shook his head. “I’d have to see a picture.” He finished chopping the chocolate with a flourish, then rinsed his knife in the bathroom. When he came back, he gave me a long, gentle hug.

“You don’t have to figure this out, Goldy,” he murmured in my ear. “We should have the crime lab results back by Tuesday. Why not let go of this until then?”

“Whatever you say,” I replied in a low voice. We both knew I never gave anything a rest, but dear Tom chose not to point this out at that moment. He merely mumbled something unintelligible, hugged me tight, and said he was going upstairs to check on the boys. I promised him I’d join him in a bit.

In truth, there was only one thing I could do to start cracking a case: Cook.

CHAPTER 8

I pressed the tenderloin through the plastic wrap. Before roasting, it had to reach room temperature, so the inside could cook along with the outside. I stabbed the pork with the sharp end of my digital readout thermometer, a help if you want to serve succulent, juicy meat but have a client who is trichinosis-phobic, then preheated the oven. I didn’t want to take a guess as to the types of phobias Arthur held dear, but judging from our chats, fears about food were a distinct possibility.

Once the meat was in the oven, I set the beater to cream the butter for the cookies. Then I pulled out a bowl of wild rice that had soaked overnight. After one of our shows, Arthur had confessed he had wines to introduce to his best clients, and needed to do it at an in-home party, rather than in a bustling restaurant. He disliked cooking, even though he was pretty good at it. Could I help him?

Yes. And I would feed him in the bargain. I was taking a cereal concoction, the pork tenderloin, wild rice steamed in homemade beef stock, and a large salad of arugula and steamed asparagus. All free, to show my goodwill.

Within ten minutes the kitchen was filled with the enticing fragrance of herb-flavored roast pork. I started the rice cooking in the homemade beef stock and turned my attention to the library-reception cookie recipe. As I carefully mixed dry ingredients into the creamy, bronze dough, my injured arm began to ache. My mind’s eye raced backward to the van plummeting down the snowy slope. Really, it was a miracle I’d survived.

I mixed the chopped chocolate, dried cherries, chocolate chips, and nuts into the batter. A van behind me … Yes, I vaguely remembered now, it had been one of those shuttle vehicles that ran between the ski resorts and Denver International Airport. But another vehicle close behind the van? I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember. Nothing came.