Tough Cookie

“Okay, okay, triple shot, thanks,” I called back dutifully. “And I’d love a cinnamon roll.” I congratulated myself on being too early to appear at the bistro. What else could I do while I waited for Arthur’s crew to finish setting up, but indulge in free treats at Cinda’s?

I stuck my head into the warmth of her shop. The Cinnamon Stop boasted a short counter and eight round wooden tables plastered with snowboard stickers. A higgledy-piggledy assortment of plastic and wooden chairs bunched around and between the tables. The huge screen that showed snowboarding videos during working hours was dark. Cinda, who had gained unexpected renown as one of the first female snowboarders in the state, whisked back and forth in her minuscule working space. She wore a bright yellow turtleneck and purple ski pants. A fluorescent purple-and-yellow headband held her tangle of pink hair in place. On the wall behind her, a poster of a snowboarder catching air vied with old-fashioned Christmas bulb lights strung around a fluorescent Burton snowboard. The board hung at an angle beside a row of Cinda’s freestyle trophies. “Almost there!” she promised me. She was so upbeat, you’d never know she’d blown out her knees several years ago on the Killdeer half-pipe—that long, snow-covered half-cylinder favored by boarders—and hadn’t touched a board since.

“Drink.” Cinda thrust a paper cup of steaming dark liquid at me, then a paper plate topped with a twirled roll glazed with cinnamon sugar. “Listen, before I get into the serious stuff, I have to ask you something.” Her brown eyes, set in an elfin, freckled face, sparkled. “Do I hafta use Grand Marnier in your chocolate truffles? I’ve got some bargain brandy left over and was hoping I could substitute.” She gave me an open-mouthed smile.

I took a healthful swig of caffeine and wondered if you could chug an espresso, slam down a roll, lie politely, and still get the heartwarming effects of caffeine and sugar. Probably not. “The truffles will turn out better if you use high-quality liqueur. Cognac yes, brandy no.”

She surprised me by leaning in close. She smelled like vanilla. “How about this question, then. Didn’t I read in the paper that you’re married to a cop? He works for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department?”

“Yes. He does.” Crime alert. Regardless of what the thermometer said, my mind was not so frozen that it didn’t recognize the coffee, the roll, and the truffle question as an introduction to something else altogether. I gave her an innocent look. “You need help?”

She fiddled with the psychedelic headband. “It’s probably nothing. But a guy came into the shop a few nights ago, plastered, wanting coffee. My waiter, Davey, gave him some Kona. I used to know the drunk guy. Name’s Barton Reed. He was a snowboarder until he got into some kind of trouble and had to go away for a while. He’s a big-bruiser type with about twenty earrings in each ear, all little crosses and saints’ medals. Not that he’s religious—I heard he gave up that a long time ago. Anyway, Barton boasted that he’d gotten hold of a poison that could kill you if you just touched it.”

I pondered the espresso in my cup before answering: “Did he say he was going to use it?”

“He said he’d put patches of the poison in a letter, if you can believe that. You open the letter, you’re dead.”

“Did he show the letter to Davey?”

She paused and looked cautiously around the empty shop. “No. Here’s the bad part, Goldy. Barton said he was going to deliver this poison-in-a-letter soon. To a cop.”

My skin prickled. I heard my tone sharpen as questions tumbled out. “Do you know where this Barton guy lives? Did you report what he said?” She shook her head. “How about the cop? Did you get his name?”

Cinda picked up a rag and wiped the counter beside my half-full coffee cup. “Nah, I figured it was a hoax. So did Davey. Plus, who’m I going to report it to? Ski patrol? Forest Service? I couldn’t imagine the Sheriff’s department traveling way over here, to the edge of the county, to hear about some drunk who claims he’s going to send a poisoned Christmas card to a cop.” She shrugged. “So I figured if you came by for coffee today, I’d tell you about it. See what you thought.”

It was getting on to seven o’clock. Still, this was very worrisome and I had to call Tom. Unfortunately, I’d left my cell phone in the van. I asked Cinda for her phone; she hoisted one to the counter. Quickly, I pressed the button for a Denver line and dialed first our home number, then our business line. Tom must have left early: Both calls netted answering machines. I pressed buttons for his Sheriff’s department line and left a voice-mail asking Tom to call Cinda Caldwell about a threat to a policeman. Hanging up, I rummaged through my backpack full of culinary tools, pulled out my dog-eared wallet, and extracted one of Tom’s cards. “Call this number in thirty minutes, Cinda. Tell Tom everything you told me. Thirty minutes. Promise?”