Tough Cookie

“I told him I didn’t kill my wife, that the evidence was all circumstantial and conflicting, that I’d given up drinking. I had an excellent record of good behavior and no prior convictions.” Jack paused. “I added that I’d give him free gourmet-cooked meals for life if he’d take my word for it.” He smiled sourly. “Laugh? I mean, that guy split a gut. He said, ‘What’re you, a comedian?’ Then he flipped through my record and said, ‘G’won, get outta here. I never believe a crook, but I’m believing you. I read about you messing up? I’ll visit the prison and kill ya myself.’”

Eileen expelled a nervous gust of air and shook her head. “Jack’s doing great. He has a steady job at the bistro. Everybody loves him. Except Arthur, of course. Arthur wants the bistro to stock his wines, so he sucks up to me. Then he’s spiteful behind Jack’s back.”

I frowned. “Is that why he was adamant that Jack not do the cooking show?”

Eileen sighed. “Arthur and Jack can’t tolerate each other. Jack wanted to keep a low profile, and I knew you needed business.…”

The way she said it, I sounded like a taxi driver whose cab everyone shunned. I turned to Jack. “What’s it like working with Arthur in the bistro?”

“We hardly ever see each other, and when we do, we see who can ignore the other most effectively. You notice I’m usually not even there for the Friday show. When he comes in for lunch or dinner, I’m either in the kitchen or I’m off.”

I nodded and thought for a minute. “What about those other convicts you just mentioned? The Porsche guy was refused parole by Doug Portman, but what about the one who said you had to offer Doug a big or unusual bribe?”

Jack shrugged. “Portman turned him down for parole. But then the con got cancer, so he just got out. Mad as hell at Portman, of course. The guy doesn’t just have revenge in his mind, he’s got it in his heart.”

“Cancer?” I thought of the transdermal patches in the anonymous card found in Portman’s car. Thanks for nothing, Asshole! You’re dead!!! If these patches contained a high-potency painkiller such as those prescribed by oncologists, what were the chances that touching them would kill you? On the other hand, if you had such an advanced state of cancer that you had to have a transdermal patch filled with a powerful narcotic, would you be able to ski down a black run and murder a guy who’d denied you parole?

More questions for Tom.

I asked, “What’s the name of the convict who had cancer?”

“Barton Reed. The guy used to be a church acolyte, but he went bad. He believes the cancer is God’s punishment for his crimes.”

Well, well. Remembering everything Tom had told me about investigations, I didn’t let on that I recognized Reed’s name. As I drank more coffee, Eileen slipped off her bright pink robe and threw it on a maple wheat-back chair. Underneath she wore a sheer, low-cut top swirled with gold and silver, along with matching billowing sheer pants. She scanned the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator door, and retrieved a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. The bottle’s tilted cork indicated it had already been opened. She expertly poured both the juice and the champagne into a clean crystal flute to make a mimosa.

Then I noticed four orange-specked champagne flutes on the sideboard. If Jack had truly given up drinking, there was no way I was letting Eileen drive Arch anywhere.

Jack read my mind. “Uh,” he interjected as he sought my eyes, “I’ll be taking Eileen and the boys to Vail.”

I watched him as he filled a china plate with golden orange muffins. The man was truly a fabulous cook. The time Eileen and Jack had invited Arch and me to spend the night, Jack had prepared a spectacular dinner in which he’d grilled chicken, flipped sautéing asparagus, made hollandaise, and pulled out a spectacular baked Alaska faster than you could say culinary school.

I bit into a proffered muffin—it was tender, buttery, and moist with orange. “Very good,” I said to Jack. “Do you share recipes?”

“Sure,” he said proudly. He riffled through a card box and handed me a printed card: Marmalade Mogul Muffins, he called them.

“I’ll make them for clients as soon as I’m reopened,” I promised. “And I’ll give you all the credit.”

“Thanks,” he said happily, and beamed at Eileen, who took a slug of the mimosa.