Tough Cookie

eagerly informed Tom she’d be at our house at three o’clock, and did I need a bottle of cognac, prescription tranquilizers, or chocolate cookies and freshly ground espresso beans? Whatever you think, Tom told her, with a rich chuckle. That meant she’d show up with all of it.

Blisteringly cold sheets of snowflakes assaulted us on the way to my van. Words were blown out of our mouths into the swirling snow. When we finally found my vehicle, we moved Tom’s skis out onto the snow-covered lot and searched in vain for my tire chains. I hadn’t used them for three winters, and they weren’t wedged into any of the van’s crevices. We put Tom’s precious skis and my battered ones back in and flung my equipment behind the front seat. Then Tom hugged me hard and murmured into my ear that he’d be home as soon as possible.

“Take it slow and you’ll be fine,” he assured me. “I’ll call you. And Miss G.—until then, please try to stay out of trouble.”

There’s nothing like a Colorado winter to give you respect for nature’s harsher side, I reflected as I piloted the van up the interstate’s long climb to the Continental Divide. Vehicles of all varieties—with Nebraska, Illinois, Texas, and yes, Colorado license plates—littered the snowbanked shoulder of the ascent. Drivers struggling to dig out and chain up soon became caked with snow. They looked like miniature Abominable Snowmen.

In one place the guardrail was out. I shuddered to think of the thousand-foot plummet someone must have taken. Further along the shoulder, a man scooted beneath his station wagon. His prone body brought back an unwanted vision of Doug Portman’s sprawled corpse. My van slid sideways. I grasped the wheel more firmly.

It was hard to concentrate on driving. First I focused on the aborted sale to Portman. Tom had said, You know what that’s going to mean, don’t you? Within the next day or two, I could surely expect a slew of unwanted, potentially embarrassing questions. Why had you planned a private rendezvous with a parole board member? Why did you keep this meeting a secret from your husband? What connection did you have with the large sum of cash the dead man was carrying?

How, I thought, do I get myself in these messes?

The taillights in front of me blinked scarlet in the blinding snow. I braked. My defroster whined as it la- bored—with little success—to keep my windshield clear.

The memory of the puzzlement in my husband’s eyes made my heart ache. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had betrayed Tom, even if it was with that infamous cheapskate, Doug Portman, who’d died with cash pouring out of his bloody jacket.

I pressed carefully on the accelerator. Why had I ever gone out with Doug Portman? At one time, he’d saved Arch and me thousands of dollars. Would that come out, too? I groaned.

It had all started so simply. After I’d finally kicked The Jerk out, I’d hired Doug Portman. I was trying to take care of Arch, but making ends meet was a challenge. At the time I had no moneymaking job, only an apprenticeship in the Denver kitchen of a restaurant belonging to my late friend Andre Hibbard. When I’d needed money for groceries, for Arch’s clothes or shoes, or to send Arch on a school field trip, John Richard had repeatedly pleaded poverty. This was a joke, but no matter how my lawyer tried to pry bucks out of the soon-to-be-ex, all we’d get were lies, delays, and more obfuscation. Finally, my lawyer had recommended I hire a forensic accountant to track down John Richard’s true income and assets. When I called Doug Portman, he informed me he was an artist, and just did the accounting on the side. I’d told him he could illustrate his reports, as long as his work got me a good divorce settlement and decent child support.

He’d guffawed, that unforgettable, gasping hyena laugh that I’d quickly come to hate.

I shook off this thought and glanced outside. The snow had become a whiteout. I thought I must be near the Eisenhower Tunnel, but it was almost impossible to tell. I slowed the van to a crawl. When the whirlwind briefly thinned, a pickup truck in front of me slewed right, then left. I stopped and waited until the truck was underway again. When I touched the accelerator, my tires spun on the ice. Holding my breath, I backed up slightly, turned the wheel, and accelerated gently. To my immense relief, my van started forward again.

I sighed and thought back. Doug Portman had updated me weekly on the progress of his investigation. John Richard, who’d been having an affair with a woman in the St. Luke’s choir, had enriched Miss Vocal Cords’ bank account by a hundred thousand dollars. He’d also put his Keystone ski resort condo in his father’s name. Doug had tossed a file on my kitchen table that proved John Richard had paid taxes on a sum several hundred thousand dollars more than what he’d told my lawyer he’d earned. Forensics is the study of evidence, Doug had announced pompously, and I am a master of it. He’d chortled. Now you can prove how much this loser doesn’t care what happens to you and your son. Want to go eat Chinese?

Silly me. I’d said yes. At least somebody cares about me, I’d thought. When we went to dinner, Doug brought his portfolio: color photographs of his paintings. Over wontons and mu shu pork I commented politely on pictures of large, nonfigurative canvases which seemed to feature dull blotches of drab color. He declared his artwork was going to make him rich. It had been a reasonably painless evening that turned sour when the check came and Doug announced, Your half comes to fifteen bucks. Had I not cooed enough over his artwork? Surely he knew how broke I was? Did he treat all his female clients this way? Nobody, it seemed, wanted to treat me to anything.

The next time Doug presented me with a dismal report on John Richard’s assets, he’d followed it with, In the mood for some Italian? After a momento of hesitation while I calculated my cupboard contents, I offered to prepare fettucine Alfredo. He wolfed it down, even asked for the recipe. Over coffee, I was politely enthusiastic as he showed me another fat portfolio, this of his representational paintings. All depicted historical weapons: the repeating rifle, the Colt .45, the bayonet. He said he was hoping to get a New York show for these works. Collectors would pay thousands for each painting! I murmured compliments.

The next week’s discouraging report on The Jerk must have engendered some guilt on Doug’s part. He pulled out tickets to a Denver showing of military memorabilia. Arch and Doug and I strolled past exhibits of samurai swords, bloodstained maps of battlegrounds, state-of-the-art grenade launchers. I found it boring; six-year-old Arch had been in heaven. Doug sprang for vendor hot dogs outside Currigan Hall. He liberally squirted on ketchup and rattled on about his volunteer work at nearby Capitol Hill. It seemed Doug was campaigning for a friend who was running for the state senate. I dislike guns, I dislike hot dogs, and I find the state senate boring. Arch sagely assessed my mood while pasting mustard on his wiener; on the way home, he asked if the end of my relationship with Doug Portman was in sight.

Through the spinning flakes ahead, the tube of the Eisenhower Tunnel finally yawned. In the lane next to the van, another driver went too fast and careened off the median before straightening out.

When Doug had slapped his final report on my kitchen table, he’d assessed my rack of pots and pans and demanded, “What’s cooking?” I’d smiled. I’d announced that nothing was on the menu but a trip to my lawyer. This had marked the end of my nonromance with Doug Portman, forensic accountant, artist, and bore. I’d received the house, a sixty-thousand-dollar divorce settlement, and a sizable adjustment in child support. Doug, with his ego, paintings, and plans, had been a man on the way up—and out of my life.

On my final approach to the tunnel, I tried to remember what Marla had told me about what had happened to Doug. He had married Elva, just the kind of wealthy woman he needed. He’d given up accounting and moved to Killdeer, where he’d become involved in Elva’s art gallery in addition to his own increasingly political commitments. His candidate had been elected; Doug himself had become involved in building high-end condos while writing about the arts for a regional newspaper. Someone must have told me he came to Sheriff’s department functions because he was connected to corrections. What I’d never guessed was that his political benefactor had made him chief of the state parole board.

If I was going to avoid even more suspicions about what was going on with my business and my life, I was going to need to find out more, I determined as I squashed down on the accelerator. And not only was I going to find out all about Doug Portman, I was going to find out the exact status of John Richard’s stint behind bars.

Without warning, the van lurched forward. Wild honking burst from all quarters. A car had hit me from behind. I yelped as another hard thud shook the van and my teeth. More cars honked, but in the suddenly thicker snowfall I couldn’t see the vehicles around me. My van slid across the left lane, where the bumper hit the divider with such force my neck snapped forward. I spun the steering wheel, but balding tires on ice have a life of their own. Another sickening thud sounded against my rear bumper.

It was a pileup, I realized helplessly. I was the second domino, behind the pickup truck. But where was the