Tough Cookie

Back at the computer, I typed:1. What intersection of Tom and parole board member Doug Portman would lead to a death threat on Portman? Was the death threat even linked to DP’s skiing accident? Does it have something to do with Barton Reed?2. Why was Hot-Rodder closed? Who closed it? Did Portman ski down the run, knowing it was off-limits? Or was the run closed after he was on it? Who knew he had $8,000 cash on him? Was his death a bungled robbery? Why would it be bungled? How did Portman die, exactly?3. What was Doug Portman’s background in Killdeer? Who were his friends and neighbors? More importantly, who were his enemies?4. Who hit my van?

Treat every puzzle with questions and chocolate, was my motto. And it worked, usually. Despite the fact that I’d already indulged in three desserts tonight, I had to taste one of my cookies, right? I mm-mmed over the first bite, with its crunchy toasted nuts, tart sun-dried cherries, warm dark chocolate, and buttery, crisp cookie. I took another bite, and felt as if I must be going into a chocolate coma. So that was what I would call them: Chocolate Coma Cookies.

Hold on. Treat every puzzle with … I finished the cookie, licked my fingertips, emptied the steaming wild rice onto a wide platter, and removed the second sheet of cookies to a rack. What had I heard earlier in the day? I stared at the blinking cursor.

Don’t feel sorry for me. An inscrutable face. An acidic tone. I’m not sad … just puzzled. I typed:5. What is bothering Rorry Bullock? Is she still grieving her husband’s mysterious death? Or is she embarrassed to show up pregnant and unmarried, three years after her husband’s death?

I frowned at the computer. Maybe Rorry had remarried, and I just hadn’t heard about it. Hold on: There was one person who would know the answer to that question. Marla.

I checked my watch: eleven-fifteen. Long years of church work had taught me that if you had even one compulsive talker on a committee of overly nice folks, the meetings can extend ad nauseum. If Marla had come home and gone to bed, she would have turned off her ringer and directed calls into her machine. So I wouldn’t wake her up if I called, I thought happily as I punched in her numbers.

“Goldy? What in the world are you doing up?” Marla had caller ID and loved to greet me with a breathless question.

“Cooking. How’bout you?”

She groaned. “I can’t drink because I’m on heart medication. But I keep thinking, if I had a drink and died, I’d never again have to listen to Karen Stephens talk for three hours without taking a breath.” She groaned again. “It would be worth it.”

“Listen, I saw Rorry Bullock today. Up at Killdeer.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d say she’s about a week away from giving birth.” I paused. “Did she remarry? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you tell me she was pregnant?”

“Oh, that doggone prayer group and their insistence on secrecy,” Marla groused. “Yes, she’s pregnant, and we’re praying for her because she doesn’t have any more money now than she did when she and Nate were living in an apartment here in Aspen Meadow.”

I asked tentatively, “And the father is … ?”

“Hah! Ask Rorry! She definitely has not remarried, I can tell you that. Anyway, I’m convinced she hasn’t come back to visit St. Luke’s because somebody would tell her she should get married before she has the baby.”

“Oh, please!”

“When do you want to get together? We could ski during the week.”

“I’ll call you. First, though, I’ll let you get some sleep. Your fatigue is making you into a cynic.”