Tough Cookie

“No problem, Arthur. I’ll even write out the directions on a tiny piece of paper and you can eat that when your doorbell rings.”

His smile was mirthless. “Good thing I’ve been working with you all this time. I’m used to your sense of humor.” I repressed a sigh and thought, Ditto, brother. I tucked both lists into my notebook. “With any luck,” he added wearily, “I’ll have the wines this afternoon. We can discuss the dishes themselves tomorrow. That won’t be too late, will it?”

“Of course not.” Never tell clients the problems they’re causing you, even if you long to strangle them for their sudden changes of plans. As he packed up the wine-invitations, I said, “There’s dinner in the refrigerator for you, Arthur. Gift from me. Instructions are on the counter.”

“Okay, thanks.” He spoke with more fatigue than gratitude. He glanced at the paper on the counter, then gave me a curious look. “That’s what you did while I was changing? Wrote out all those instructions?”

“Well, yes—” What did you think I was going to do, just sit here?

“Hmm,” was his only comment as his eyes flicked around his kitchen. I had the distinct feeling that he suspected I’d stolen something while he was out of the room. Without saying more, he picked up the box of bottles and led me toward the front door. In the hallway, he clumsily turned to check that a door beside the kitchen entry was locked. Then he glanced at one of the figurines on the hall table.

It was a Dresden shepherdess, I noted. Gee Arthur, I thought, why not hoist a neon sign saying Valuables Here! Why else would he lock a door inside his house? What did Arthur have that was so valuable?

Wines? Duh, Mom.

I carefully reversed the Rover down the snowy driveway, then waited as Arthur’s garage door slid open and he backed out. No Subaru for him, but a huge, shiny, black Escalade, the Cadillac of four-wheel-drives. He’d decorated the grille with a bushy green Christmas wreath. His vanity plate read: VinGeek. Either he’d inherited a bundle or the wine business was great. But if either possibility were true, why would you work as a PBS floor director? Arthur was an enigma, I decided, as I drove into Killdeer to find the Gorge-at-the- Gondola Cafe.

I knew her as soon as I stepped into the restaurant: the golden mane of hair, the strong-featured, slender face. Boots Faraday even looked artistic. With her head tilted, she’d fixed her gaze out the window. She wasn’t expecting me, so I watched her while coming up with my lines of introduction.

A sudden crash made her turn. Next to her table, a chubby, tow-headed toddler had tripped over his ski boots and toppled to the floor. He was crying with fear. Without missing a beat, Boots leaned over and scooped the boy up. In one fluid movement, she lifted him, boots and all, to his mother. When the mother declined to take him—he had to weigh over fifty pounds in those boots—Boots playfully threw the child up into the air and caught him. Both of them squealed with laughter.

So: artistic-looking, and strong as an ox. Her angular, British-film-star face was complemented by a long, lithe, muscular body. Unfortunately, as soon as she had the delighted boy righted on his boots, she straightened and caught sight of me. If you could chill someone with a look, I’d say I’d just been flash-frozen.

I gripped her wine bottle and made my way resolutely across the crowded room. If what Tom had said the previous day was true, my own motives for meeting with Doug Portman could be called into question. I really needed to chat with Boots, to find out what she’d seen the previous morning, and, if I was lucky, what she knew. But did she know who I was? Why had I received that icy look? Boots Faraday did not exactly look thrilled at the prospect of chatting with me. My heart sank.

“You’re the artist, right?” I blurted out when I arrived at her table. “Boots Faraday, the collage person? This wine and buffet invitation is for you. It’s from Arthur Wakefield, but he had to go to Denver. A little problem with Customs.”

Intense blue eyes assessed me: Was I friend or foe?

I introduced myself and said I was a caterer and personal chef, maybe she’d seen Cooking at the Top! She nodded slightly, and I plunged recklessly on: “I love your work. I’ve just bought one of your collages for my husband for Christmas. I’d love to hear a bit about how you create your collages. I’ll pay for my own meal, of course. Or, do you not like to eat with fans?”

In the face of my obnoxiousness, she stared down at her silverware and ran a long-fingered hand along the knife. Her face remained unreadable.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to lunch with a stranger,” I gushed. “People are always wanting me to talk about recipes. Frankly, I’d rather not talk than hear tales about substituting cooking sherry for Dry Sack—”

She lifted her eyes at that, and smiled, Mona Lisa-ish. “You’re the one with the eggshells in the cookies.” Her voice was deep and pleasant. “I saw the show.” She paused. “The annual fund-raiser in memory of Nate Bullock is very dear to my heart.”

I placed the wine on the table. “Oh, really? How come?”

“Arthur probably told you Nate Bullock and I were good friends.”

“That Arthur! No, he didn’t mention it.”

Boots glanced out the window again. Was she looking for someone? “I thought my old friendship with Nate Bullock was the reason Arthur asked me to do some collages for the set.” She turned back and regarded me. Her formidable blue eyes were clouded, inscrutable. “You can sit down.”

Her table afforded a panoramic view of the base of Killdeer Mountain. The investigators must have finished, for skiers and snowboarders now raced down the runs. When our waitress shuffled up, I ordered while Boots tucked the wine bottle into her large leather handbag. Boots said, “Ditto,” to a Chicken Caesar Salad. Not sure where to start with her, I launched us into an emotionally flat exchange of pleasantries about food, wine, and living in Killdeer.

Boots seemed enigmatic, almost on her guard. Maybe it was because she was famous and met adoring fans all the time. I gabbled on, pretending not to notice. By the time we were taking dainty bites of crisp romaine lettuce sprinkled with hot grilled chicken, freshly grated Parmesan, and butter-sauteed croutons, every innocuous subject had been exhausted.

I moved my plate aside. Now or never. How to broach the subject of Doug Portman without seeming nosy? On the other hand, I’d probably already hit the top of the Intrusivity Chart by crashing her lunch.

“The collage I bought was ‘Spring Detritus,’ ” I began. “And I’ve seen your work all over. Being in a small town like Killdeer, was it hard to establish an art-making career?”

Her deep laugh was rich and seductive, and made me smile. Then she narrowed those startling blue eyes. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”

My smile melted. “Excuse me?”

The eyes once again turned chilly. “What’s this about, really?”

I fiddled with the side of the plate. Uh-oh. “What is what about?”

“Just tell me what you really want to know. Aside from”—she raised her voice to mimic my question—“if it was hard to establish an art-making career?” Her eyes mocked me.

“Uh, I’m just a caterer who bought one of your—”

“Cut the crap.”

“I—”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I am doing a personal-chef gig for Arthur Wakefield, and he did ask me to bring you the wine. I bought one of your pieces and I do want to know about your career. And”—I took a fortifying breath—“since you’re a local artist, then you must know, have known, Doug Portman. The local art critic.”

She tilted back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You want to know if I knew Doug Portman? Why?”

“I … was supposed to meet him after the show yesterday,” I confessed. “As you no doubt have heard, he was killed skiing down from the bistro before we could meet.” Time to tell the truth. “The Sheriff’s department is classifying his accident as a suspicious death. That’s why they had to close the mountain for so long this morning.” Boots lifted her eyebrows. “As I’m the only one who seems to know why he was carrying a lot of cash when he