Tough Cookie (12 page)

4. Who hit my van?

Treat every puzzle with questions and chocolate, was my motto. And it worked, usually. Despite the fact that I'd already indulged in three desserts tonight, I had to taste one of my cookies, right? I mm-mmed over the first bite, with its crunchy toasted nuts, tart sun-dried cherries, warm dark chocolate, and buttery, crisp cookie. I took another bite, and felt as if I must be going into a chocolate coma. So that was what I would call them: Chocolate Coma Cookies.

Hold on. Treat every puzzle with. . . I finished the cookie, licked my fingertips, emptied the steaming wild rice onto a: wide platter, and removed the second sheet of cookies to a rack. What had I heard earlier in the day? I stared at the blinking cursor.

Don't feel sorry for me. An inscrutable face. An acidic tone. I'm not sad. . . just puzzled. I typed:

5. What is bothering Rorry Bultock? Is she stilt grieving her husband's mysterious death? Or is she embarrassed to show up pregnant and unmarried, three years after her husband's death?

I frowned at the computer. Maybe Rorry had remarried, and I just hadn't heard about it. Hold on: There was one person who would know the answer to that question. Marla.

I checked my watch: eleven-fifteen. Long years of church work had taught me that if you had even one compulsive talker on a committee of overly nice folks, the meetings can extend ad nauseum. If Marla had come home and gone to bed, she would have turned off her ringer and directed calls into her machine. So I wouldn't wake her up if I called, I thought happily as I punched in her numbers.

"Goldy? What in the world are you doing up?" Marla had caller ID and loved to greet me with a breathless question.

"Cooking. How 'bout you?"

She groaned. "I can't drink because I'm on heart medication. But I keep thinking, if I had a drink and died, I'd never again have to listen to Karen Stephens talk for three hours without taking a breath." She groaned again. "It would be worth it."

"Listen, I saw Rorry Bullock today. Up at Killdeer."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I'd say she's about a week away from giving birth." I paused. "Did she remarry? Does she have a boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me she was pregnant?"

"Oh, that doggone prayer group and their insistence on secrecy," Marla groused. "Yes, she's pregnant, and we're praying for her because she doesn't have any more money now than she did when she and Nate were living in an apartment here in Aspen Meadow."

I asked tentatively, "And the father is . . . ?"

"Hah! Ask Rorry! She definitely has not remarried, I can tell you that. Anyway, I'm convinced she hasn't come back to visit St. Luke's because somebody would tell her she should get married before she has the baby."

"Oh, please!"

"When do you want to get together? We could ski during the week."

"I'll call you. First, though, I'll let you get some sleep. Your fatigue is making you into a cynic." I signed off and reread what I'd written in the computer. Satisfied that I had outlined the questions that had been troubling me, I wrapped the meat, packed up the cookies, and stored the cooled rice. It was nearly midnight. I could sleep for six hours, wake Arch to go see Todd, pack the Rover, and be on the road to Killdeer by seven. I crept upstairs and curled up next to Tom's warm, deliciously fleshy body. I heard a soft rustling sound and peered over his shoulder. A new torrent of flakes pattered against our windows. Lit by the street lamp, the blue spruce outside our window was swathed in snow. By morning, Aspen Meadow would be blanketed, and in one week we would have a white Christmas.

I snuggled closer to Tom. I had very little besides the revolver to put under the tree for him, I resolved to look for another gift in the Killdeer shops. A little shopping trip would cheer me up after I finished with Arthur. Of course, to get to Killdeer, I would first have to shovel out the Rover.

Make that, sleep for five hours.

When my alarm shrilled at five A.M., the darkness in the house seemed impenetrable. Out the window, the spruce had .vanished. How much more snow had fallen? I shivered and checked my new clock. It was one of those digital jobs with a battery that kicks in when the power goes off. Through my early morning daze, I realized that that was precisely what had happened. I shivered, then concluded that with no power, there were no streetlights, no nightlights or - more crucially - no heat. Unless it was an extended outage, the contents of my refrigerator and freezer should be fine. Still, I wondered if we could afford to move to Arizona.

"Don't go," Tom murmured.

"Don't the Rockies train near Phoenix?" I asked. "When does spring training start?"

"What?"

"I'm talking about the baseball team, Tom."

He groaned, turned over, and pulled me in for a gentle hug that melted my body's residual stiffness from the accident. "End of February. You want to worry about sports, the Broncos are playing Kansas City tomorrow."

"I won’t to have an excuse to go to Arizona, and following our baseball team's spring training might be the excuse I'm looking for. At the moment, though, I have to pack up for my personal chef job."

"Not yet," he murmured into my ear. He moved his hands along my lower back. "You're freezing, for heaven's sake. Let me warm you up."

After carefully moving my sore arm, I yielded happily. What was there to worry about? The food was done, and if the Rover was four-wheel drive, why bother to dig it out? Besides, I thought as I kissed Tom's inviting mouth and rolled in closer to him, this was our favorite thing to do together, right?

Twenty minutes later, I felt much warmed and much revived. After a quick shower - there was still hot water in our tank, thank God - I toweled my wiry-wet blond curls. Maybe the ghostly effect of the two candles I'd lit in the bathroom - our flashlights had vanished sometime during the kitchen remodeling - made me appreciate all we had. Just think, I reflected as I buttoned my catering uniform, the medieval monks had it worse than this. True, they washed and dressed by cold candlelight in the morning's wee hours, but without hot water or hotter sex, how good could they have felt when their day began?

To my surprise, Arch woke and slid from his bed without complaint. He wasn't cold, because he'd slept in his ski clothes. That was one way around a power outage.

I handed him a candle for the bathroom and then made my way downstairs. From their lair off the dining room, Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat began to stir. In addition to the drains, one issue that had sent the county health inspector into the ozone layer had been our family's ownership of a dog and a cat. Per code, Tom had dutifully partitioned off a separate space in our dining room. Within this designated pet area, Tom had built a canine-feline exit to the out-of-doors. Our dining room looked like someone had stuck a large closet in it, but that was all right. Think of a pet store next to a caterer's, I'd said to the inspector, when I called to tell him of the change. He'd snorted and hung up on me.

Now Jake the bloodhound was eager to go out and bay at the darkness, but there was no way I was letting him loose this early. Scout the cat opened a sleepy eye, rose, sashayed to the bottom windowpane abutting our front door, and cast a disparaging look at the cold, dark snow. He moved off to his food bowl and meowed loudly. There was no telling Scout it was too early for anything.

While dripping copious amounts of hot candle wax on my right hand, I managed to spoon out cat food for His Majesty. Tom pounded down the stairs. He was carrying another candle along with boots, mittens, and a heavy jacket. He was going to start a fire and clear Julian's car of snow, he announced. While I held my candle up to the dark depths of the still-cool walk-in, Tom, whistling happily, wadded newspapers, snapped kindling, and piled up logs in the living room fireplace. By the time I had the food loaded in a Styrofoam box, my dear sweet husband had a blaze crackling. I came out to warm my numb hands and saw that he'd also filled his antique black kettle with water and hung it on the post he'd installed in the hearth while he was redoing our kitchen. Steam spiraled from the kettle.

"Listen," he told me, "I have a meeting this morning I can't skip. But if you can be back by four, I'll drive Arch back down to see his dad."

For heaven's sake. I had forgotten it was Saturday, Arch's regular jail-visit day. Taking Arch to see The Jerk always put me into a rotten mood, so whenever someone else offered to escort Arch on this dreaded mission, I jumped at the offer.

"Thanks, Tom. That'll really help."

He nodded and shuffled outside with Arch. Moments later, a sudden blaze of headlights lit the driveway and the Rover engine roared to life. Inside, a stiff wind howled down the flue. I could just make out Tom and Arch whisking what looked like ten inches of powder off the Rover. I strained to hear a faraway rumble that signaled the approach of a county snowplow.

"Ready to roll?" Tom, covered with snow, was half-way in the front door. "Got a box ready?"

"Yes, but I'll carry it out, thanks."

"Not with that arm, you won't." He stomped into the house, yanked off his boots and tossed them onto the mat, and sock-footed his way to the kitchen. Who was I to argue with a cop, especially one who was much bigger than I was?

Fifteen minutes later Arch and I sat in the Rover, travel mugs of creamy chocolate steaming between us. Tom's makeshift version, composed of kettle-dipped water, cocoa, sugar, powdered creamer, and milk, was actually quite luscious, like a hot chocolate gelato. Of course, as my mammoth fourth-grade teacher had told us, Hunger makes the best sauce. That teacher ought to know, my mother had commented drily.

Main Street had not lost power, and the thermometer on the downtown branch of the Bank of Aspen Meadow read four degrees. Snow had filled the street's gutters with two-foot drifts that had been wind-sculpted into sharp-edged peaks. Streams of Christmas lights whirled in the snow and battered the windows of Darlene's Antiques & Collectibles and the Grizzly Bear Saloon. Seeing Aspen Meadow Arts and Crafts reminded me of the years when Arch and I had spent hours buying presents for his teachers. Arch had agonized over framed solitary gold-plated aspen leaves and pieces of bark painted with images of bull elk. When I'd asked him last week what cookies he thought I could make for his teachers this year, he'd curtly replied that The other kids aren't bringing the teachers gifts. Now I glanced at the decorated windows, and ached for those old times with my son, before what the other kids are doing dominated our lives.

"Arch," I said tentatively as he sipped his cocoa, "does Lettie have pierced ears?"

"Oh, no, Mom, don't start. Do not buy Lettie anything."

"I just asked - "

"Why do you want to know? Are you going to pierce them for her if she doesn't?"

"I just thought - "

"That you'd buy something for her for Christmas. The way you always do."

"Arch! I have never bought a female friend of yours a single thing for Christmas!"

"Remember those two Valentine's Days, when you went out and bought big baskets of candy and stuffed animals for girls you thought I was going out with?"

"But you were - "

He turned to face me. "I was not going out with them," he said fiercely. "I wanted to buy them bags of M&M's. But oh, no, good old Mom had to buy the most expensive baskets possible." His tone was scathing. "And then you were all upset when you found out I wasn't going out with the girl you just bought all that stuff for. Mom, you can't buy me a girlfriend."

I took a slug of cocoa and told myself to be patient. "I thought you told me Lettie was your girlfriend."

"Yeah, and I wish I hadn't told you anything."

"Arch!"

"Don't buy her anything!"

"Don't worry!" I shot back.

Arch turned toward his window with much aggravated shuffling of his down jacket. Suddenly I deeply regretted offering to take him snowboarding this morning, especially since I had just remembered Arthur Wakefield informing me that the mountain would be closed for a few hours for the Forest Service investigation into Doug's accident. I sighed and glanced at Arch. If he'd been so worried about me last night that he'd canceled his overnight with Todd, why wasn't he being nice this morning? Ah, adolescence. In any event, if Lettie wanted little silver pine trees dangling from her earlobes, the girl was out of luck.

We passed the lake, and I tried to put Lettie out of my head. Streetlights ringing the snow-covered sweep of ice revealed a lone fisherman with a lamp attached to his cap. I could not imagine how cold he was. No fish could taste that good.

I snuggled into my warm leather seat. The gorgeous Rover boasted every possible amenity, and gave a smooth ride, to boot. Julian had been wonderful to loan it to me. When it struck me that Julian could find out what Lettie wanted for Christmas, I instantly banished the thought. Perhaps I was trying to buy a Christmas present, a girlfriend, and happiness for my son.

No more.

-9- By the time I gingerly pulled the Rover onto the interstate, ski traffic was flowing steadily westward. Cars and trucks hummed through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Arch was asleep, or pretending to be. West of the Divide, the snow had finally stopped. A bank of thick white clouds clung to the far mountaintops. Above it, an azure-tinted sky promised sunshine. From the high drifts lining the roadway, wide swathes of snow blew across the lane dividers and obscured them. I was too timid to take my eyes off the road to see if there were any signs of my accident. The last thing I needed was to total another vehicle.

Tom had called the wrecker service that dealt with near-the-tunnel mishaps and asked them to tow my van to a secure storage lot in Dillon, near the tunnel. After I finished in Killdeer, I would pick up the historic skis on the way home. We wouldn't try to sell them again - of that I was absolutely certain.

When I made the turnoff for Killdeer, a red-tailed hawk swooped close to the Rover. I braked and Arch woke with a start. After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed to a herd of elk along a rocky stretch of road only sparsely covered with snow. Since he'd turned fourteen, he'd ceased giving direct apologies. He simply resumed speaking as if nothing had happened. While I found this disconcerting, at least it was better than silence. Eileen Druckman complained that Todd gave her the silent treatment on a daily basis.