Tough Cookie

would I cook, much less be a chef?

Jack shook his head. “Forget stepdad. We weren’t even friends. Arthur showed up at my parole hearing, claimed he hadn’t been able to sleep since his mother died, that he brooded about her death all the time, and so on, which wasn’t true, if you judged by the fact that he never even came to our wedding, or called Fiona more than three times in the year before she died—”

“Oh, Goldy, I hate to bother you with our problems,” Eileen interrupted in a rush. “It’s just that we’ve been so upset … Look at this.” She handed me a photocopied clipping from a Denver newspaper. “It’s long. You can skip to the end if you want.”

But I never skip to the end. I’d signed too many contracts to know the perils of that particular shortcut. I took a fortifying sip of coffee and began reading a letter to the editor that was headlined:Kangaroo Court or Porkers’ Parole?When rough justice for rough crimes prevailed in the Australian outback, an out-of-doors court often had to be convened. Kangaroos sometimes hopped up to watch the trial. The big marsupials would sit on their haunches and silently observe the proceedings like solemn jurors. Hence the term “kangaroo court.”Although the criminal court system in Colorado may be slow and inefficient, families of crime victims CANNOT rest easily once the perpetrator of a crime has been placed behind bars. You think a three-year sentence may be light for the person who has killed your loved one. You think: At least it’s a sentence. But it isn’t.The kangaroos have left. The pigs are on their way. If the killer of your loved one plays the parole board right, he could be out on the streets in a mere six months to a year. Surely the parole board is smarter than that, you think? Don’t count on it.Are you aware that in Colorado, a criminal has to meet with only one member of the parole board when his case is reviewed? Do you know that only that one member, who may be a newspaper critic who’s donated heavily to the governor’s campaign, makes a recommendation to the full board? And that the board, never having met with the criminal, or even read his file, follows the one member’s recommendation ninety percent of the time?Speak out, Colorado! Let’s change the parole system. And while we’re at it, let’s make sure none of our current piglet parole board members are succumbing to the temptations that might be offered by rich criminals. Better yet, let’s eliminate those parole board members altogether.

The letter was signed, Arthur Digby Wakefield.

This was a morning of surprises. I took another sip of coffee to steady myself. You didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that Arthur Wakefield was dealing with a truckload of unresolved anger.

“May I keep this?” I asked. “To show to my husband?”

Jack nodded. His beautiful eyes bored into me. “Do you know what he means by ‘succumbing to the temptations offered by rich criminals’?”

“No,” I replied. “Do you?”

His pained face relaxed slightly. “Almost all the convicts had heard the stories about Portman. When Portman worked with me, he just heard what I had to say and decided to let me out. He even had a stenographer there. But what if a convict met with Doug Portman without the stenographer?”

I shook my head. Again I saw Doug Portman’s bloodstained cash billowing out over Killdeer Mountain. I asked, “Do you know anyone who actually bribed Doug? Or tried to?”

Jack took a bite of cake and chewed it thoughtfully. “One guy, in for armed robbery, offered Portman a used Porsche that he’d kept hidden from the cops. That guy swore Portman just blew him off, pretended he didn’t even know what he was talking about.” Jack pressed his lips together, then went on: “ ’Nother guy, said he knew Portman already had a Porsche, and that you had to offer him something bigger, or fancier, or funnier in that first meeting. Otherwise, he’d cross you off the list of people he’d allow to bribe him.”

“Did you offer him anything?” I asked neutrally.

“I told him I didn’t kill my wife, that the evidence was all circumstantial and conflicting, that I’d given up drinking. I had an excellent record of good behavior and no prior convictions.” Jack paused. “I added that I’d give him free gourmet-cooked meals for life if he’d take my word for it.” He smiled sourly. “Laugh? I mean, that guy split a gut. He said, ‘What’re you, a comedian?’ Then he flipped through my record and said, ‘G’won, get outta here. I never believe a crook, but I’m believing you. I read about you messing up? I’ll visit the prison and kill ya myself.’”

Eileen expelled a nervous gust of air and shook her head. “Jack’s doing great. He has a steady job at the bistro. Everybody loves him. Except Arthur, of course. Arthur wants the bistro to stock his wines, so he sucks up to me. Then he’s spiteful behind Jack’s back.”

I frowned. “Is that why he was adamant that Jack not do the cooking show?”

Eileen sighed. “Arthur and Jack can’t tolerate each other. Jack wanted to keep a low profile, and I knew you needed business.…”

The way she said it, I sounded like a taxi driver whose cab everyone shunned. I turned to Jack. “What’s it like working with Arthur in the bistro?”

“We hardly ever see each other, and when we do, we see who can ignore the other most effectively. You notice I’m usually not even there for the Friday show. When he comes in for lunch or dinner, I’m either in the kitchen or I’m off.”

I nodded and thought for a minute. “What about those other convicts you just mentioned? The Porsche guy was refused parole by Doug Portman, but what about the one who said you had to offer Doug a big or unusual bribe?”

Jack shrugged. “Portman turned him down for parole. But then the con got cancer, so he just got out. Mad as hell at Portman, of course. The guy doesn’t just have revenge in his mind, he’s got it in his heart.”

“Cancer?” I thought of the transdermal patches in the anonymous card found in Portman’s car. Thanks for nothing, Asshole! You’re dead!!! If these patches contained a high-potency painkiller such as those prescribed by oncologists, what were the chances that touching them would kill you? On the other hand, if you had such an advanced state of cancer that you had to have a transdermal patch filled with a powerful narcotic, would you be able to ski down a black run and murder a guy who’d denied you parole?

More questions for Tom.

I asked, “What’s the name of the convict who had cancer?”

“Barton Reed. The guy used to be a church acolyte, but he went bad. He believes the cancer is God’s punishment for his crimes.”

Well, well. Remembering everything Tom had told me about investigations, I didn’t let on that I recognized Reed’s name. As I drank more coffee, Eileen slipped off her bright pink robe and threw it on a maple wheat-back chair. Underneath she wore a sheer, low-cut top swirled with gold and silver, along with matching billowing sheer pants. She scanned the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator door, and retrieved a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. The bottle’s tilted cork indicated it had already been opened. She expertly poured both the juice and the champagne into a clean crystal flute to make a mimosa.

Then I noticed four orange-specked champagne flutes on the sideboard. If Jack had truly given up drinking, there was no way I was letting Eileen drive Arch anywhere.

Jack read my mind. “Uh,” he interjected as he sought my eyes, “I’ll be taking Eileen and the boys to Vail.”

I watched him as he filled a china plate with golden orange muffins. The man was truly a fabulous cook. The time Eileen and Jack had invited Arch and me to spend the night, Jack had prepared a spectacular dinner in which he’d grilled chicken, flipped sauteing asparagus, made hollandaise, and pulled out a spectacular baked Alaska faster than you could say culinary school.

I bit into a proffered muffin—it was tender, buttery, and moist with orange. “Very good,” I said to Jack. “Do you share recipes?”

“Sure,” he said proudly. He riffled through a card box and handed me a printed card: Marmalade Mogul Muffins, he called them.

“I’ll make them for clients as soon as I’m reopened,” I promised. “And I’ll give you all the credit.”

“Thanks,” he said happily, and beamed at Eileen, who took a slug of the mimosa.

It worried me to see Eileen drinking again. I wondered how Jack felt about having first an older wife, then an older girlfriend, who overindulged in alcohol. Fiona I didn’t know about, but Eileen never used to drink more than a glass of wine in an evening. Then, she’d caught her husband—the very successful president of a pharmaceutical supply company—mainlining heroin with his girlfriend in the Druckmans’ home library. Eileen had started buying