Tough Cookie

hoisting up either vehicle until the morning.” He paused. “Did you see any vehicle, any person you recognized, anywhere on the road from Killdeer to the Eisenhower Tunnel?” Officer Vance demanded.

“No. Sorry.”

“Did you witness any aggressive driving prior to your being hit?” Again, I shook my head. Officer Vance sighed. “This could have been a drunk. It could have been someone ticked off with the van driver, which would explain why the van was long gone by the time we got there.” When I stared at him in baffled disbelief, he picked up the pad, placed a card with his name and number on the table, and thanked me for my time. And if I remembered anything else … I nodded mutely and thanked him for coming. Tom showed him to the door.

“Do you think someone was trying to hit me?” I asked Tom, when he returned to the kitchen and poured milk and sugar into some cooked rice. “What are you doing?”

“Making a treat. I know you’re bullheaded enough to try to cook tonight, and you can’t do it on aspirin and an almost-empty stomach.”

I sighed. “You didn’t answer my question about the car accident.”

He nodded and stirred the cooking mixture, which gave off a rich, homey scent. “I don’t know. Hitting a van behind someone else’s van isn’t a very reliable way to kill someone on the road. Still, driving Julian’s Rover is a good idea,” he added thoughtfully. “As far as the roads go, the storm was breaking when Arch and I came through. No matter what, I feel more comfortable with you behind the wheel of a four-wheel drive. And speaking of the Rover, did you know General Farquhar had all the windows tinted very dark and bulletproofed?” I rolled my eyes at the mention of the super-paranoid military man, Julian’s benefactor. Tom searched for a set of custard cups, then went back to stirring. “I want you to keep the cellular with you all the time. Watch who’s around. Have somebody with you if you can. Just as a precaution, especially over in Killdeer, okay?”

“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?”