Tough Cookie

“Thank you. Sorry I didn’t call you back about that. Field greens would be marvelous. No vinegar in the dressing, remember.” He gestured at the row of bottles. “Unfortunately, I have only the single bottle of Sancerre for you to make an oil-and-wine vinaigrette.” He sighed and flipped through his Day-Timer. “I’m up to fourteen people, by the way. Two of my customers just returned from Mexico and they want to come. That’s no problem, is it?”

Rule of catering: Never panic in front of the client. Especially on the day of the event. “Um, fourteen people,” I said, stalling. I’d planned on four main dishes—crab, sole, pork, and chicken. Unless we had massive food allergies, that was no problem. “That’s fine,” I replied cheerfully. “And the clients are … ?”

“In the trade. I’ve got two wholesalers coming,” Arthur ticked off on his manicured fingernails, “plus nine of the best customers west of the Divide. And of course, three retailers, who will fill the orders for the customers. Two of the retailers own wine shops, and the third is a restaurateur, not, I might add, your friend Eileen or her dreadful chef.”

“Jack Gilkey,” I supplied gently, and Arthur grimaced. “I was wondering if you’d be in the mood to talk about him—”

He turned away and opened the refrigerator. “Sorry, but I thought you said we needed to talk about the food. Ah, here we go. Two pork tenderloins.” Pulling out a shrink-wrapped packet and a box of phyllo dough, he placed both on the counter, then frowned at the wine bottles as if they were chess pieces. Finally he pulled one forward. “Here’s the Châteauneuf du Pape—”

“Wait. If you’re finishing the dishes later—”

“I already told you that,” he said crossly.

“Phyllo goes back in to chill.”

He sighed hugely, stuffed the slender box on a refrigerator shelf, then energetically twisted the cork out of the red wine. He bonged the bottle onto the counter. “For the pork marinade. It’s a big red from the southern Rhône, just the ticket for a rich meat dish.”

“Okeydoke. Please, Arthur, Jack Gilkey is living with one of my closest friends. I really need to talk to you about him.”

Arthur whirled away from the refrigerator. “So, was Boots right? All you want to do is interrogate

people?” he snarled.

“Arthur, calm down. You and I are friends. Somebody sent me books and articles anonymously. To the Aspen Meadow Library. Was it you? The articles were all about your mother’s death.”

Arthur snorted and turned back dismissively to his refrigerator. “You think I have time to do that kind of thing? If I want you to read something, I’ll give it to you, Goldy.” He pulled out a butcher-paper-wrapped package and slapped it on the counter next to the pork. “This is your sole.”

“Arthur, we work together. Please talk to me.”

He whirled, his face furious. “Jack Gilkey is a gold digger. He married my mother for her money. He was twenty years younger than she was, handsome, attentive, quite the flirt. He systematically got her to cut me out of her will, set up a minuscule trust for me, and made himself the beneficiary. My mother must have felt slightly guilty about all this, so if Jack predeceased her, the money would go to public television, since I’d learned to read watching The Electric Company.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t find out any of this until after her death, I’m sorry to say. Only none of Jack Gilkey’s planning and organization worked, because he was a

bit too obvious. I’m just glad a jury could see through his story. End of subject.”

“Do you think he bribed Doug Portman to get out of prison early?”

Arthur laughed. “I’m sure he did.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

Arthur put his hands on his hips. “Well, crime-solver, whose dear old friend has scads of money, where do you think?” The phone rang and he grabbed for it. I could tell from the expression the news was not good: the cases of Sancerre still had not arrived.

Eileen

had given Jack money to bribe Portman? I didn’t believe it. I washed my hands and pulled out the covered container with the stewed chicken. I separated succulent chunks and strands of chicken and studied the French posters on the walls.

When Arthur hung up, I said, “Look, Arthur, let’s forget about Jack Gilkey for the moment. Doug Portman’s death puts me in a compromising position. I was about to sell him some valuable skis, at less than their market value. He was a parole-board member, and now it looks as if I was trying to buy a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“A favor as in please keep my ex-husband behind bars. All I was trying to do was get a quick sale for the skis. But it still looks very bad.”

Arthur’s dark eyes twinkled. “And you without a wholesale license.”

“Don’t joke.”