Tough Cookie (11 page)

"First of all, Tom, I can't even entertain the idea that that accident was a deliberate hit-and-run. The interstate was very icy. I could barely see the truck in front of me. And I think I'd have noticed somebody tailing me all the way from Killdeer. I mean, I'm grateful to be alive, but trying to execute the kind of move we're talking about, under those conditions, could be suicide."

"Miss G. Please. It's not difficult to take precautions."

"Sure, yeah, okay, I'll be careful." What did I have to lose? I already had a messed-up TV career, a ton of debt, no business, a wrecked van, and two mysteriously dead men: a parole-board member and a truck driver. Speaking of which. "Look, I need to call Arthur. The doctor said I could drive if my arm wasn't bothering me. So I'd still like to meet with Arthur tomorrow to arrange my personal-chef work for his party."

"I knew it," Tom said resignedly. To demonstrate my resilience, I got up, zipped over to my kitchen computer, booted it, and searched for my notes on the assignment.

Tom shook his head. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

But I was already dialing. Arthur answered on the first ring.

"Thank God you called, Goldy." His tone was laced with mournful drama, as usual. "In the morning, I need you to be here by ten. I'll explain how I want things to go, and show you the layout of the kitchen before you start work. I've got dozens of callings to make about my wines - "

"Wait a sec," I interrupted as politely as I could. "Please, Arthur. I'm not sure I'll be able to be there by ten. There will be the ski traffic, and I have things to pack up, and I've got vehicle problems, because unfortunately I was in a car accident today - "

"But it's stopped snowing. You were in a car accident? For heaven's sake! There was an accident on the mountain today, guy was killed going down a closed black run. The Forest Service is closing Killdeer Mountain for a few hours in the morning to help the sheriff's department investigate it. That won't stop the ski traffic, unfortunately," he said mournfully. "A day for accidents. What a shame."

"Yes, indeed." I tried to make my tone noncommittal. "Maybe we can make our plans now, and you could just leave the key for me." I took a deep breath and waited for an explosion. I wasn't really expecting sympathy. I picked up the aspirin bottle and shook out a couple more. In Med Wives 101, we'd often told each other you could take up to six at a time. This was not advisable, medically speaking, but then again, being the wife of a medical student wasn't exactly advisable, either.

"I can't do that," Arthur replied, exasperated. "I live at 602 Elk Path in West Killdeer. Be here at ten. I want. . . I want the dishes you prepare to be almost done. Then I'll put on the finishing touches so my guests will think I slaved for hours."

"Ah, well, I've never - " I began, but he was gone. I hung up the phone and frowned. Most of my clients start out anxious, I reassured myself. Once I serve them food, they're content. Only Arthur didn't want me to serve the food. He didn't even want me to finish cooking it. Ah, sufficient unto the day was the catering thereof. Or something like that.

With a flourish, Tom handed me a custard cup brimming with warm rice pudding. He'd sprinkled the pudding with cinnamon and garnished the top with a massive dollop of whipped cream. The cream melted slightly and slid sideways on the warm pudding. I took a bite: the dessert was dreamily thick, like a homey, melt-in-your-mouth porridge from heaven.

"Incredible," I said, and took another greedy bite. "I'm getting better already."

"That's why I made it," Tom said triumphantly. "Think the boys would want some?"

We listened. The faint thump of rock music reverberating through the ceiling was a sure sign the boys weren't listening to Tudor-style lute music.

"Better leave them alone," I replied. "After all, rice pudding is also great chilled."

Tom smiled appreciatively and dug into his own custard cup. "Julian seems good," he commented. "Tired, though."

"I'm worried about him."

"Miss G., you worry about everything. He loves being back in Colorado and he loves the film class, he told me so himself. Maybe he'll make how-to-cook-vegetarian videos after he graduates."

I smiled and scraped the bottom of the pudding cup. "Thanks for the treat. Can you possibly help me with the cooking I need to do for the rest of the weekend?"

"Cooking with you is only my second favorite thing we do together."

I laughed. From the walk-in, I drew out unsalted butter and eggs. Then I retrieved a bag of premium bittersweet chocolate chips and several bars of Godiva Dark from our pantry shelves. The library's Christmas Open House was in two days and I'd be away from my kitchen tomorrow. I asked Tom if he would chop the Godiva; he smiled and held out his hand.

I removed a pork tenderloin I'd started marinating the day before. Professional culinary literature urges the prospective personal chef to bring the first meal - a marvelous dinner using your best recipes - gratis. This is to show your client what a good and generous person you are. Arthur, if he'd been noticing, might already think I was a good and generous person. On the other hand, he probably thought I was a klutz. Still, that assessment could change once he ate his deliciously tender, herb-spiced, free pork dinner.

"Tell me about the parole board," I urged Tom, to distract myself from fretting about Arthur.

He sighed and continued to chop. "There you go again. Worrying."

I tapped buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the chocolate cookie recipe I was working on. "Come on," I said, trying my best to sound reasonable. "I just want to know how the board operates. And I'm interested in your theory as to the reason Doug Portman had an anonymously written card containing a threat, and maybe some poison, too, and why he wanted to give it specifically to you."

Tom sliced the chocolate into dark, fragrant chunks. "First things first. There are six members on the state parole board, all appointed by the governor. Statutorily, two of them have to have a law-enforcement background. Portman didn't have a law-enforcement background, but I know he watched the newspapers. All the parole board members do. Every day, they're scared some felon they let out on parole might have committed a big crime. The board members really don't want that kind of thing coming back to haunt them. So." He pushed away the chopped chunks from the first chocolate bar and started on the second. "I think Portman got that card from someone I put behind bars, and he let out. But why would someone he let out come back and threaten him?"

I printed out the cookie recipe. "Maybe it's someone he denied parole to, who's finally out now. The name Barton Reed doesn't ring a bell? The guy at Cinda's?"

He shook his head. "I'd have to see a picture." He finished chopping the chocolate with a flourish, then rinsed his knife in the bathroom. When he came back, he gave me a long, gentle hug.

"You don't have to figure this out, Goldy," he murmured in my ear. "We should have the crime lab results back by Tuesday. Why not let go of this until then?"

"Whatever you say," I replied in a low voice. We both knew I never gave anything a rest, but dear Tom chose not to point this out at that moment. He merely mumbled something unintelligible, hugged me tight, and said he was going upstairs to check on the boys. I promised him I'd join him in a bit.

In truth, there was only one thing I could do to start cracking a case: Cook.

-8- I pressed the tenderloin through the plastic wrap. Before roasting, it had to reach room temperature, so the inside could cook along with the outside. I stabbed the pork with the sharp end of my digital readout thermometer, a help if you want to serve succulent, juicy meat but have a client who is trichinosis-phobic, then preheated the oven. I didn't want to take a guess as to the types of phobias Arthur held dear, but judging from our chats, fears about food were a distinct possibility.

Once the meat was in the oven, I set the beater to cream the butter for the cookies. Then I pulled out a bowl of wild rice that had soaked overnight. After one of our shows, Arthur had confessed he had wines to introduce to his best clients, and needed to do it at an in-home party, rather than in a bustling restaurant. He disliked cooking, even though he was pretty good at it. Could I help him?

Yes. And I would feed him in the bargain. I was taking a cereal concoction, the pork tenderloin, wild rice steamed in homemade beef stock, and a large salad of arugula and steamed asparagus. All free, to show my goodwill.

Within ten minutes the kitchen was filled with the enticing fragrance of herb-flavored roast pork. I started the rice cooking in the homemade beef stock and turned my attention to the library-reception cookie recipe. As I carefully mixed dry ingredients into the creamy, bronze dough, my injured arm began to ache. My mind's eye raced backward to the van plummeting down the snowy slope. Really, it was a miracle I'd survived.

I mixed the chopped chocolate, dried cherries, chocolate chips, and nuts into the batter. A van behind me . . . Yes, I vaguely remembered now, it had been one of those shuttle vehicles that ran between the ski resorts and Denver International Airport. But another vehicle close behind the van? I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember. Nothing came.

As I scooped the chocolate-cherry-nut-studded batter onto cookie sheets, I recalled reading many an article about high-country drivers fleeing scenes of weather-related accidents. Sticking around on a snowy, slick roadside in poor visibility could be more hazardous than taking off. At least, that's what hit-and-run drivers claimed after a snowstorm, if they were apprehended - a rare occurrence.

The thermometer beeped. I removed the sizzling pork, checked the timer on the luxuriantly scented wild rice, and slapped in the first cookie sheet. A wave of fatigue swept over me. It was past eleven. I had to finish the cookies and let the meat and rice cool. Then I could go to bed.

But something kept nagging at me - something besides the death of Doug Portman, besides the threatening poison patches, besides even the accident. What was it? I sifted through my emotions. What was I feeling? Numb.

Snowboarders' Pork Tenderloin

2 1/2 pounds pork tenderloin (2 tenderloins) 1/2 CUp Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon pressed garlic (4 large or 6 small cloves)

1/4 cup best-quality dry red wine 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil 1 tablespoon dried thyme, crushed 1/2 bay leaf 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1/2 teaspoon granulated sugar

Trim fat and "silver skin" from tenderloins. Rinse, pat dry, and set aside. Place all the other ingredients in a glass pan and whisk together well. Place tenderloins in the pan, turn them to cover with the marinade, cover the pan with plastic wrap, and place in the refrigerator for 6 hours, or overnight.

Thirty minutes before you plan to roast the pork, remove the tenderloins from the refrigerator to come to room temperature.

Preheat the oven to 400 F. Use a roasting pan with a rack; line the bottom of the pan with foil and place the tenderloins on the rack. Roast the tenderloins until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the center registers 140"F - about 20 to 25 minutes. Do not overcook the pork: the center should still be pink when served. Remove from the oven and slice.

Makes 10 servings

Chocolate Coma Cookies

1 cup blanched slivered almonds 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate (2 1/3 1.5-ounce bars of Godiva Dark or 1 1/2 3-ounce bars of Lindt bittersweet chocolate) 1 cup dried tart cherries 12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips (1 regular-size bag) 2 cups rolled oats 2 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda l/2 teaspoon salt 1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened 1 cup packed dark brown sugar 1 cup granulated sugar 2 eggs 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Butter two cookie sheets.

In a nonstick pan, toast the almonds over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, for about 5 to 10 minutes, until they have just begun to turn brown and emit a nutty aroma. Turn out onto a plate to cool. Chop the chocolate bars into small chunks, no larger than large chocolate chips, and set aside.

In a large bowl, combine the cherries, chocolate chips, and oats, and set aside.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter until creamy. Add sugars and beat until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla. Beat the mixture until well combined, about a minute. Add the dry ingredients to the mixture and beat at low speed until well combined, less than a minute. Add chocolate chips, chopped chocolate, cherries, and nuts. Using a sturdy wooden spoon, mix well by hand, until all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated. Using a 1-tablespoon scoop, measure out cookies onto sheets, leaving two inches between cookies (about a dozen per sheet). Bake 12 to 14 minutes, or until the cookies have set and are slightly flattened and light brown. Cool on sheets 2 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool completely.

Makes 6 dozen cookies

I turned on the oven light. The cookie spheres were softening, the batter bubbling to a golden brown. I closed the recipe file on my computer and opened a new one, labeling it only "Unfortunate Friday." Then I sat and frowned at the empty screen until the timer beeped.

I removed the baking sheets. Tiny lakes of melted chocolate winked inside the crisp, golden cookies. While they were cooling I put in another sheet, then checked the rice: about fifteen more minutes.

Back at the computer, I typed:

1. What intersection of Tom and parole board member Doug Portman would lead to a death threat on Portman? Was the death threat even linked to DP's skiing accident? Does it have something to do with Barton Reed?

2. Why was Hot-Rodder closed? Who closed it? Did Portman ski down the run, knowing it was off-limits? Or was the run closed after he was on it? Who knew he had $8,000 cash on him? Was his death a bungled robbery? Why would it be bungled? How did Portman die, exactly?

3. What was Doug Portman's background in Killdeer? Who were his friends and neighbors? More importantly, who were his enemies?