Tough Cookie

“Meet me at Big Map at two, then, buddy!” I called up. A door slammed. At that point, I didn’t really care whether he’d heard me or not. Still, sour-cream coffee cake would do for my sudden need-to-kill-emotional-pain-with-calories.

Eileen, wearing what I now saw was a quilted pink satin robe, appeared from the living room.

“Goldy!” she exclaimed as she clasped me tight. “We’re so worried.” Her pressure on my banged-up arm made me howl with pain. Eileen pulled away. “Oh, my God, you’re hurt!”

“Just a little surface cut.” I had to get to Arthur’s, so I decided not to go into a detailed description of the van being hit.

“Eileen, why don’t you let Goldy relax?” Jack implored her with those eyes.

“I will, I will,” Eileen protested. “But I do need to talk to you.” She hesitated and stared at my arm. Sympathy and her own desires were clearly in conflict. “I need to ask you what we should do.” What to do? Hmm. I followed Eileen and Jack from the high-ceilinged foyer to their spacious kitchen featuring mauve, lilac, and lime green tiles. The decor was what a designer had thought was Southwestern; it reminded me of a giant Easter egg.

Jack poured boiling water over coffee grounds in a sterling-and-glass French press, then set the timer. On the wall hung a small but intriguing framed collage made up of a complex design of photos of skis, orange-tinged snow-covered slopes, and open-chair lifts. I stared at it while Jack poured me a cup of coffee and placed it next to a piece of coffee cake. I thanked him and took a bite. The delectably buttery cake was laced with tiny bits of fragrant vanilla bean and the solid crunch of toasted pecans.

“Mm-mm,” I murmured appreciatively, and took a sip of coffee. Marvelous.

“You’ve heard the mountain is closed because of the Sheriff’s department and Forest Service looking into Doug Portman’s death?” Eileen asked without preamble.

I nodded. “So are the boys just going to hang out here until Killdeer reopens?”

“No, I set them up with a snowboarding lesson in Vail,” Eileen announced. “Semiprivate, just the two of them. I’ll take them and pick them up.” I swallowed my coffee too quickly. Eileen read my thoughts and waved them away. “My treat. They’ll be done by noon. We’ll come back to Killdeer, give them some lunch, and Arch can still meet you at Big Map at two. They’re only supposed to close our slopes for a couple of hours. The bistro will stay open, people just have to go up and down on the gondola.”

I was suddenly worried for my old friend, tenderhearted, generous Eileen. Her problem must be serious if she wanted my advice, help, or whatever, in return for an expensive semiprivate snowboard lesson. I pushed away the half-eaten coffee cake and waited.

“We need to talk to you—” She stopped when Jack shook his head, clearly opposed to whatever she was about to share. “I need to talk to you, then,” she corrected. “What do the cops know about that ski accident yesterday? The one where Doug Portman died?”

Surprised by her question, I squinted at another collage. This one hung on the kitchen wall. I was pretty sure it was by the same artist who’d done the one above the breakfast bar. Photos of large and small teacups had been set at all angles. It also resembled some of the detailed collages I’d seen behind the watercolors in the Killdeer Art Gallery the day before. Eileen cleared her throat.

What do the cops know about the ski accident? Why do you ask, Eileen?

“I really don’t know,” I said lamely. “They don’t let me in on the status of—”

“Forget it,” Jack interjected, as he looked sadly at the half-finished cake.

Eileen waved her hand. “Listen, Goldy … Jack’s been out on parole for six months.” She leaned forward, her eyes pained and earnest. “Portman was his caseworker, and—”

“What?” I couldn’t compute what she was telling me, and looked from Eileen to Jack and back again. “You’re out on parole? For what?”

“I was convicted of criminally negligent homicide. But I wasn’t guilty of it,” Jack announced matter-of-factly. He poured himself more of the fragrant coffee. No one said anything for several long moments. Jack sighed. “I used to be married. My wife, Fiona, loved to ski as much as I did. Don’t think I’m arrogant, Goldy, I’m just a really good skier. Fiona was more like low-intermediate. One day, we both had too much to drink at lunch. She wanted us to race to an out-of-bounds area beside a black run. It has a great view, and she’d been there once with her son.” His voice had flattened, as if he were reciting his story under hypnosis.

“Jack, don’t make yourself do this,” Eileen implored.