Tough Cookie

He sipped his wine. “Because a love for public television was something my mother and I shared. Yes, I want the money. But I can’t turn my back on something that was dear to my mother and me. You know? Her favorite show was Nate’s High Country Hallmarks. And they died the same day.”

I set the wine down, murmured sympathetically, and wondered if I could ask Arthur to fix me one of his perfect espressos. My brain was starting to spin, after only three sips of wine. Unfortunately, the phone rang again. Arthur refilled his glass as more disastrous news was delivered: the cases of Sancerre, including the one intended for tonight’s party, had been left on the loading dock of a warehouse in Glenwood Springs. The only way they could be in Killdeer that night was if Arthur drove over and picked them up. He banged down the phone.

“I have to go,” he said frantically.

“I’ll be done in a couple of hours. I can lock up for you,” I assured him. Arthur groaned and patted the Pepto-pocket. “I do it all the time for absentee clients, Arthur. And I’m bonded.”

He frowned at the food on the counter. “Well … all right. I know how to heat up the pork, but what about the rest of it?”

“I’ll write it all out for you.”

His face relaxed. “Thanks, Goldy.” His face tightened again. “Just do the food. I’ll get out the other wines when I come home.”

“Okay, but you’ll never be back before five, and you should chill the whites for—”

“No, thanks,” he said abruptly as he opened drawers and scanned the kitchen counters. “Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for what you’re doing. Looks like my checkbook’s in the car. Can I pay you Wednesday? In fact, can I take you to lunch at the bistro? Wednesday is Gilkey’s day off. We can talk about the last show. Save Thursday, please. I want you to make that oatmeal you gave me, maybe a bread.…”

“Sounds great.”

“Afterward, we could ski together, if you want.”

I laughed. “Sure. But I’m strictly a slow-going blue-run skier. And I rarely have wine with lunch.”

His puzzled look said Are you joking? But he merely mumbled, “See you at the bistro Wednesday at noon,” grabbed his keys, checked the locked door in the hallway, glanced at the Dresden shepherdess figurine on his front table, and took off.

I studied the three “sample” bottles on the counter. Why did he have a fit when I offered to get out the rest of the wines? As his Escalade roared down the driveway, I began mixing the crab cake ingredients, thinking hard. Arthur probably didn’t want me fetching the wines because wine geeks are notoriously secretive about their cellars. I rolled the crab cakes in crumbs and slid them into the refrigerator next to the strudel, then peeked out the front window. The Escalade was nowhere in sight.

The door in the hallway was indeed locked. I hesitated. If I snooped around, but didn’t steal anything, could I lose my bonding? If I snooped around, and Arthur came back and caught me, would he break a wine bottle over my head? Would it be full or empty?

I won’t steal a thing

, I promised myself. If he comes back, I’ll just say I was looking for the wines. To try to help him out, I’ll tell him. What I wouldn’t tell him was that his locked door and furtive ways had me convinced he was trying to hide something besides chardonnay. And that always provokes me to find out if I’m right.

First I checked his leather jacket for the key. His “lost” checkbook was sticking out of one of the pockets. I remembered his visual check of the Dresden shepherdess on the table. I lifted the delicate china piece and found a small brass key beneath it. When I unlocked the door, it opened onto a carpeted staircase.

I tiptoed down, holding my breath, and found myself in a long hallway lined with color photographs. This lower level held two guest rooms, a bathroom, and another closed door. The wine cellar?

Someone desperate for information, valuables, or something had broken into Doug Portman’s apartment the day he died. The sheriff’s department had discovered no evidence linking Portman to alleged under-the-table payments, although they had yet to search through his sealed boxes of military memorabilia. If an uncategorized piece of art or an antique weapon had been within reach of the burglar, it could have been stolen. If there had been files or papers in the condo, they could have been removed. Most significantly, if there had been any immediately recognizable clue as to what Doug Portman was up to, it had vanished. Who needed something belonging to Doug Portman? Needed it badly enough to burglarize a dead man’s home? If you had nineteen million dollars riding on finding evidence of Portman’s wrongdoing, wouldn’t you rush to go through the place? And if you’d killed him, wouldn’t you know you had only a few hours’ jump on the cops?

I gulped. How well did I really know Arthur? He had been friendly when he wasn’t nerve-wracked, which was most of the time. Did I really think he was capable of killing someone? Hard to tell.