Tough Cookie

I introduced myself and said I was a caterer and personal chef, maybe she’d seen Cooking at the Top! She nodded slightly, and I plunged recklessly on: “I love your work. I’ve just bought one of your collages for my husband for Christmas. I’d love to hear a bit about how you create your collages. I’ll pay for my own meal, of course. Or, do you not like to eat with fans?”

In the face of my obnoxiousness, she stared down at her silverware and ran a long-fingered hand along the knife. Her face remained unreadable.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to lunch with a stranger,” I gushed. “People are always wanting me to talk about recipes. Frankly, I’d rather not talk than hear tales about substituting cooking sherry for Dry Sack—”

She lifted her eyes at that, and smiled, Mona Lisa-ish. “You’re the one with the eggshells in the cookies.” Her voice was deep and pleasant. “I saw the show.” She paused. “The annual fund-raiser in memory of Nate Bullock is very dear to my heart.”

I placed the wine on the table. “Oh, really? How come?”

“Arthur probably told you Nate Bullock and I were good friends.”

“That Arthur! No, he didn’t mention it.”

Boots glanced out the window again. Was she looking for someone? “I thought my old friendship with Nate Bullock was the reason Arthur asked me to do some collages for the set.” She turned back and regarded me. Her formidable blue eyes were clouded, inscrutable. “You can sit down.”

Her table afforded a panoramic view of the base of Killdeer Mountain. The investigators must have finished, for skiers and snowboarders now raced down the runs. When our waitress shuffled up, I ordered while Boots tucked the wine bottle into her large leather handbag. Boots said, “Ditto,” to a Chicken Caesar Salad. Not sure where to start with her, I launched us into an emotionally flat exchange of pleasantries about food, wine, and living in Killdeer.

Boots seemed enigmatic, almost on her guard. Maybe it was because she was famous and met adoring fans all the time. I gabbled on, pretending not to notice. By the time we were taking dainty bites of crisp romaine lettuce sprinkled with hot grilled chicken, freshly grated Parmesan, and butter-sautéed croutons, every innocuous subject had been exhausted.

I moved my plate aside. Now or never. How to broach the subject of Doug Portman without seeming nosy? On the other hand, I’d probably already hit the top of the Intrusivity Chart by crashing her lunch.

“The collage I bought was ‘Spring Detritus,’ ” I began. “And I’ve seen your work all over. Being in a small town like Killdeer, was it hard to establish an art-making career?”

Her deep laugh was rich and seductive, and made me smile. Then she narrowed those startling blue eyes. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”

My smile melted. “Excuse me?”

The eyes once again turned chilly. “What’s this about, really?”

I fiddled with the side of the plate. Uh-oh. “What is what about?”

“Just tell me what you really want to know. Aside from”—she raised her voice to mimic my question—“if it was hard to establish an art-making career?” Her eyes mocked me.

“Uh, I’m just a caterer who bought one of your—”

“Cut the crap.”

“I—”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I am doing a personal-chef gig for Arthur Wakefield, and he did ask me to bring you the wine. I bought one of your pieces and I do want to know about your career. And”—I took a fortifying breath—“since you’re a local artist, then you must know, have known, Doug Portman. The local art critic.”

She tilted back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You want to know if I knew Doug Portman? Why?”

“I … was supposed to meet him after the show yesterday,” I confessed. “As you no doubt have heard, he was killed skiing down from the bistro before we could meet.” Time to tell the truth. “The Sheriff’s department is classifying his accident as a suspicious death. That’s why they had to close the mountain for so long this morning.” Boots lifted her eyebrows. “As I’m the only one who seems to know why he was carrying a lot of cash when he died, the police are asking me a bunch of questions. Believe me, you don’t want to be the one the cops are questioning, when it’s a suspicious death.”

“Really.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “once I figured out you were the artist who was hanging work yesterday morning, I was wondering if you saw anything … you know, strange. With Doug, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied immediately, then looked away, out the window.

“No, you didn’t? Did you see Doug at all? Was he talking to anybody during the show? Did he seem upset? Sick? Can’t you tell me anything?”

She swiveled to face me. “I read that article on you, you know. The one in the Killdeer Courier that Arthur placed to publicize your cooking show.”

“An article? Actually, publicity for the show is Arthur’s department—”