Tough Cookie

“Barton Reed,” replied Tom promptly. He was heating water for a chafing dish. “I know, I looked him up today. I arrested him for fraud a while back. And by the way, John Richard has written to the board asking for an early parole date. But it’ll be at least a month before they even consider letting him out.”

I sighed. “So do you think Barton Reed might have killed Portman?”

“We’re a long way from knowing that, Miss G.”

I set the table, lightly dressed a salad of romaine and Bibb lettuces, and set out slices of a five-grain homemade bread Julian had left for us.

“I do have a question for you, though,” Tom said after further thought. “Seems Ms. Faraday, too, read that article in her paper about your more-or-less successful career as an amateur sleuth.”

“Don’t get me started on that. Publicity, as I told Ms. Faraday, is strictly Arthur’s department.”

Tom stirred my orzo. “Uh-huh. But a lot of people did read the article. Maybe one person who read it decided to rear-end your van. Maybe they were worried you’d go nosing into Doug Portman’s death.” I sighed. “Just a theory,” Tom added. “Speaking of Portman, we got a preliminary drug screen back on him. He had touched the patches, but they’d already been used, so there was just a trace of opioid in his system. Not enough to kill him. No, that particular job was left to whoever smashed him in the head with a big rock found tossed off the run. He was hit repeatedly, apparently. Rock had stuff on it that you don’t want to hear about while we’re fixing dinner. One thing it didn’t have on it were fingerprints, sorry to say.”

“So it was murder, then?”

“It was murder, definitely,” Tom said grimly. “They think somebody knew he took that run and was waiting for him. Saw him go by and quickly put up the poles and ropes closing the run. Then skied down and did him in.”

I hadn’t liked Doug Portman, but I suddenly felt heavy with sadness. Tom gave me a long hug.

He poured the steaming queso dip into the chafing dish and lit the Sterno underneath. I’d given him the chafing dish for Father’s Day. Tom had done more positive things for Arch in two short years than The Jerk had done in the preceding twelve. So he’d deserved a Father’s Day gift.

“Snow, snow, snow!” cried Marla as she came in and threw off another full-length coat, one she’d assured me was fake fur, although I had my doubts. Underneath, she wore a Christmasy crimson dress streaming with sewn-on ruby-colored beads. “Where’s that son of yours? I brought him some Christmas candy, that ribbon stuff. Tell him I want to know what kind of candy his girlfriend likes, too. I’m putting in another big order next week. Yum! I swear it always smells great in this house!”

I decided against telling her that the subject of a gift for Arch’s girlfriend was a sore one, and called him. He clomped down the stairs and accepted Marla’s gift of candy with guarded enthusiasm. When she bustled over to open the Gewürztraminer, he squinted skeptically at the thick, brightly colored candy ribbons, unsure whether the confection was too babyish to consume in public. I ignored him and broiled the halibut steaks. Before long we were digging chips into Tom’s hot dip and agreeing that halibut was perfect with a spicy orzo dish. Funny how—when you’re not being filmed—cooking is much easier.

“How many more shows?” Marla asked, as if reading my mind.

“One, right before Christmas.”

“I heard about yesterday. Portman’s suspicious accident was on the news,” she commented matter-of-factly. “I’m sure Elva the ex-wife didn’t do it, though. She’s found a new boyfriend and they’re in New Zealand. He’s real cute, she sent me a picture.” She looked at me ruefully. “Is there anything good about your work in Killdeer?”

“Free skiing,” Arch and I said in unison, and we all laughed.

“I know it’s heresy, and I do ski, but I’m not sure it’s all the fun it’s cracked up to be.” Marla shook her head as she accepted a second heaping plate of pasta from Tom. “I mean, it’s expensive, you get cold, you fall. I say, why not go straight to the après-ski food, wine, and hot tub, and skip the stuff on the slopes?” Arch rolled his eyes. Marla went on: “About the fund-raiser. You did a great job, Goldy. It wasn’t your fault the mixer blew up on you. I mean, I called in a pledge, and it wasn’t even because I felt sorry about Nate Bullock. I couldn’t bear that show, High Country Hallmarks. The only hallmark the high country has gotten in the last decade is Neiman-Marcus.”

I smiled.