Tough Cookie

“I see.…”

“Your son told us your husband is a police officer.” Magill again.

“Yes, that’s correct. He’s on his way.”

“This is not an official questioning, Mrs. Schulz. But we need your help. The sheriff’s department and ski patrol will conduct an official interrogation as soon as a deputy arrives. The ski resort just needs to know if you witnessed the accident.”

“Why does the ski resort need to know that?”

Magill cleared his throat. “In a case like this, with a prominent Killdeer citizen killed, we’re probably going to be facing litigation of some kind. We need to know precisely what happened.”

“Mmm.” I probably should have drunk some coffee, but I held back. Accepting a drink from Magill felt as if I were conceding points to a man I did not know well enough to trust. Plus, I’d been at enough crime scenes to know that we should wait before I started answering questions. Not that this was a crime scene, but … Tom, I felt confidently, would want me to wait for a Sheriff’s deputy to arrive.

“Mr. Magill,” I said finally, “have you contacted Mrs. Portman?” I stared at the paper-covered bulletin board and tried to conjure up a mental picture of Doug’s wife. I’d met Elva Portman at a crowded law enforcement cookout several years ago, and had had a chance to talk to her for a few moments at a gallery opening I’d catered in Killdeer. She was sophisticated and wealthy, with glossy dark hair and porcelain skin, a young Rose Kennedy. Loved paintings with bold brushstrokes. Couldn’t eat bell peppers.

Again I got Magill’s flat eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the squeaky suit in the chair. “Elva and Doug Portman have been divorced for a couple of years. Elva lives in Italy now. So, you knew Portman, but haven’t been in touch with him for a while? Patrolman Hoskins said you were skiing together?”

I looked up at the water-stained ceiling. This guy does not need to know my story. I hadn’t even told Tom I was selling his skis to Portman. I was suddenly conscious of how badly Portman’s death might play out in the media. Prominent citizen dies on way to rendezvous with cop’s wife. I wished desperately I’d never contacted him about the damn skis.

Magill inhaled noisily through his teeth, a gesture of impatience. “Patrolman Hoskins told me that you claimed to be acquainted with Portman. But your son said he didn’t know him—”

“My son? My son?” I snapped to attention, enraged. “You should know you can’t question a minor without a parent present!”

Magill’s suit squeaked as he leaned forward. “I’m not here to hurt you, Mrs. Schulz. I know you’re a caterer, I know you do the TV cooking show.” He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then asked in a perplexed tone, “Does your reluctance to talk to us mean you’re here in some official capacity for your husband?”

“In some official capacity for my husband?” I echoed, bewildered. I remembered Doug Portman’s words: I’ve got something for Tom in my car. I’d thought it was a book about the 10_th Mountain Division, or a magazine on military memorabilia. But what would make Magill think I was here in an official capacity? He knew I did the show. I wish Magill also realized that I’d endured a snowstorm, a TV show that had to rank high in the annals of disastrous live performances, and a lethal accident. That was enough for one morning, thanks. This security guy’s unofficial and inept interrogation had not impressed me favorably. Where were the police?

At that moment, as if in answer to a prayer, a short, dark, mustachioed man in a green sheriff’s department uniform walked into the cramped office.

“Mrs. Schulz, forgive me for taking so long,” said the deputy, whose name tag announced he was Sergeant Bancock. “I happened to be near the Eisenhower Tunnel when the call came, so I got here as fast as I could.” He nodded to Magill and then dismissed him with an impassive, “I’ll call you. Hoskins, you stay.”

Magill, angry to be banished, banged the door shut with a little more energy than required. Pulling out a notebook, Sergeant Bancock sat down and began to ask me a routine set of questions: my name and address, what I was doing at Killdeer, and so on. Like Magill, he asked me to describe my day. This time, I did. I had just come to the part where I looked over the slope at the run below, when my husband strode in. Thank God.

Tom, a handsome, bearlike man with gentle green eyes and thick, sandy-brown hair, didn’t need to announce that he was in charge. He just was. I felt thankful for it, and for him.

Bancock stood and shook Tom’s hand. “Schulz. We’re just getting going here.”

“This is Ski Patrolman Hoskins,” I said, getting to my feet. Tom nodded at Hoskins, hugged me, then searched my face.

“You all right, Miss G.? Want to go outside for a bit?”

“Thanks,” I whispered. “I just want to get this over with. Is—”

“Arch has gone back to the Druckmans’ condo,” Tom reassured me, anticipating my question. “He’s spending another night. I’ll take you home, if you want. We can leave the van here.”

I had to bite my lip not to exclaim: “Oh, yes, take me home, please!” Instead, I told him I was fine. Tom smiled tenderly at me, tilted his head at Ski Patrolman Hoskins, and sat down beside me. Sergeant Bancock smoothed out a fresh page in his notebook.

“Not much longer, Mrs. Schulz,” he said. “Of course, the coroner may have more questions for you later. You want to talk more to Killdeer Security, that’s up to you.” Bancock reviewed his notes. “You told Patrolman Hoskins that you were meeting Douglas Portman later this morning. Is that correct?”

I gave Tom an apologetic look. If he saw I was sorry—deeply sorry—that I hadn’t told him who the buyer of his skis was, maybe he’d forgive me.

But Tom did not look angry. Instead, he looked dumbfounded. “Meeting Doug Portman? You were selling Portman my skis?”

“I knew Doug collected stuff, and—”

“How did you know Portman?” Bancock interrupted sharply, with a warning look at Tom.

“Sergeant Bancock, Tom and I have been married not quite two years. Before that, I was a single mother. Every now and then I would go out. On a date. I spent a couple of evenings with Doug Portman, enough to know he collected military memorabilia. And I knew he’d become involved in politics. Something in law enforcement, right? I saw him every now and then at the picnics.” I paused. Bancock, Hoskins, and Tom all waited, too. “When I went out with Portman, he was a forensic accountant. I’d hired him regarding divorce proceedings from my first husband. I hadn’t really talked to him for years,” I went on. “I knew he’d married, now apparently divorced. When Tom said he wanted to sell some World War Two skis, I called Doug. We agreed to meet this morning after I did my cooking show.”

Bancock made another notation in his notebook, then leaned forward, his expression impenetrable. “And did you?”

“Yes. He came to the bistro, where I was doing the show. Afterward, it was snowing hard. We agreed to ski down and meet at Big Map.” I faltered. “That’s how I knew what he was wearing … the black suit and cowboy hat. That’s how I recognized him on the slope, when he’d … fallen.”

Bancock stopped scribbling. “Did you see him drink any alcoholic beverages?”

“No,” I replied without hesitation. “Nor did I see him eat anything.”

“Did he complain of headache, nausea, chest pain, anything like that?”

“Nope.”

Hoskins interjected, “But … did he seem drunk?” When I shook my head, he continued: “Did he seem tired?” No. “Have you skied with him before?”

“Never.”

Bancock was writing again. “Had he skied any runs prior to coming to the bistro?”

I thought back to the morning. Had Doug been pink-faced, sweaty, breathing hard? Had he seemed tired? “Don’t think so. Why?”

“Was Hot-Rodder one of the runs you were supposed to go down together?”

“Yes. But it was closed.”

“It was closed,” Bancock repeated crisply. “Bamboo poles with ropes and red flags were pulled across the top. But we can’t find anyone on the ski patrol who shut the run.”