Tough Cookie

died, the police are asking me a bunch of questions. Believe me, you don’t want to be the one the cops are questioning, when it’s a suspicious death.”

“Really.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “once I figured out you were the artist who was hanging work yesterday morning, I was wondering if you saw anything … you know, strange. With Doug, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied immediately, then looked away, out the window.

“No, you didn’t? Did you see Doug at all? Was he talking to anybody during the show? Did he seem upset? Sick? Can’t you tell me anything?”

She swiveled to face me. “I read that article on you, you know. The one in the Killdeer Courier that Arthur placed to publicize your cooking show.”

“An article? Actually, publicity for the show is Arthur’s department—”

“You should have read the article,” she interrupted me sharply. “It said you were a caterer, and that you were starting in the personal chef business.” I shook my head and opened my eyes wide, as in So? “And that’s not all. Let’s see—‘Goldy Schulz is also known for occasionally, and unofficially, helping her husband—a homicide investigator—solve crimes. So if she cozies up to you for a chat, you might want to call your lawyer.’”

“Is that why you think I did Arthur’s wine delivery for him? To cozy up to you?”

“Isn’t it? Everyone knows I was no friend of Doug Portman. Doug Portman was a rotten judge of art who thought he was very smart. His ignorance hurt people. Including me. So what’s the real point of you asking me about Doug Portman at the bistro?”

“Whoa. Listen. I do love your work. I do want to know how you got started. And it would be helpful if you could tell me if you saw anything suspicious on Friday. That’s it. You don’t want to talk, just say so.”

She snorted impatiently. “I’ll let you know if I mind talking. Regarding your first question. I tried to make a living as a painter of large abstract oils. Critics, including Doug Portman, loved them. I didn’t sell a single one.”

“That’s too bad—”

She lowered her voice and held up an imaginary magazine. “ ‘Ms. Faraday’s groundbreaking canvases depict violence with passion, color, and ontology.’”

“Doug said that?”

“Are you kidding? Doug Portman wouldn’t have known the difference between ‘ontology’ and ‘on-line trading.’ Those lines were from some Denver critic. Anyway, I needed to pay the rent, so I tried my hand at making collages. Some critics dismissed them as ‘craftwork.’ Most ignored them. Unfortunately, our one local critic, Doug Portman, hated them because they were small and intimate, not grand or grandiose.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her smile was a thin slash. “Don’t be. I sold every one of those first collages. I even enjoyed ignoring Doug when he referred to my work as”—here she lowered her voice again—“ ‘saccharine and domestic.’ I formed the Killdeer Artists’ Association, so the artists in town could network to make money instead of being jealous and competitive. Eventually, a few magazine writers did pieces on my work, and I received a stream of orders. Now I have a tidy little business, and I don’t give a hoot about passion and ontology.” She speared a piece of chicken. “Ready for the answer to Question Two? No, I didn’t see anything Friday morning.”

Watch it, I warned myself. I stalled by taking a sip of water. Actually, I had thought of a couple more questions, on the subject of Nate Bullock and his pregnant widow. If Boots Faraday felt so close to Nate that she came to the annual fund-raiser held in his name, maybe she knew what was going on with my old friend Rorry.

“I admire your spunk,” I commented with a smile, then pretended to ponder a bit. “The Bullocks used to live in Aspen Meadow, where I’m from. You mentioned an artists’ association. Is that how you got to know Nate?”

“Yes, I met Nate through KAA.” Her answer was curt, as if she were suddenly under legal cross-examination. “He was a good cameraman, but public television doesn’t pay that much. He joined the artists’ association when he was trying to make some extra money. Then he died.”

“Nate wanted to make extra money? Doing what?”

Her face turned rigid. “I really can’t say.”

“But … he’s been dead for three years. Look, Boots, Rorry was my friend. A long time ago, we taught Sunday school together. She seemed so terribly unhappy yesterday—”

Boots snarled: “Don’t get me started on Rorry,” then seemed to regret it. After a moment, she continued in a steadier voice: “I’ll tell you why Nate wanted extra money. When you taught Sunday school with Rorry, was she complaining about wanting to have children, but not being able to afford it?”

I thought back. Had she? I only remembered her wistful admiration for Arch, then a toddler. “No … but that was years ago. I’d love to get in touch with her again—”

“She works for Killdeer Corp. I think she’s still in the same trailer where she and Nate lived. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Was Nate trying to make that extra money when he died?”

Boots glanced out at the gondola whizzing along, high above the beautiful, treacherous mountain. “I told you: I can’t say exactly. He had some film ideas, he had his PBS work. That’s what I know.”

I got the distinct feeling that that was not all she knew. But I said only, “Rorry is pregnant now. Do you know if she’s seeing someone?”

“Man, you don’t quit, do you? I don’t know anything about Rorry Bullock’s social life. She doesn’t confide in me.” She took a bite of salad and regarded me warily over her fork. “The gallery called and told me you were in this morning. You turned your nose up at their show and went straight to my stuff. Now all of a sudden you’re my biggest fan, pumping me with questions about my career, Doug Portman, and Nate and Rorry Bullock. Why?”

The waitress reappeared. I ordered a double espresso and a brownie with vanilla ice cream. Boots declined anything.

“I just wanted to find out more about Doug Portman. That’s all. Asking about Rorry popped into my head when you mentioned Nate. Honest.”

“And why do you want to know about Portman?”

I sighed. “I told you that already. If you don’t want to believe me, don’t.”

Again she tilted her chin back in appraisal. “How do you take to criticism? I find myself wondering what you thought of the first two sentences under your photo in the Killdeer paper? ‘Some call her the corpulent Queen of Cream. But this caterer is one tough cookie’?”

I shook my head. The Killdeer paper was not part of my regular reading material, I was happy to say. Which was probably a good thing, since discussing it filled Boots’s voice with vitriol. How she must have hated Doug Portman, with his uncomplimentary critiques. I replied tentatively, “I’d say I’m a tad shy of corpulent—”

“I know why you wanted to have lunch with me,” Boots interrupted. “You don’t care about my work. Or the artists’ association. And you certainly don’t give a damn about Nate Bullock. You think I killed that son-of-a-bitch know-nothing wannabe critic, Doug Portman.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I wish I had. Am I a suspect?”

“No, you’re paranoid. I’m higher up on the list of suspects than you are.”

“Were you there when he died, Goldy?”

“No.”

“Then why is the sheriff’s department asking you about his so-called suspicious death?” She grinned maliciously. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking a question or two.”

“My ex-husband is in jail. Doug was a member of the state parole board. I was skiing with him. It looks peculiar.”

My dessert arrived and we fell silent. When the waitress left, Boots demanded, “Why do the cops even think it’s a suspicious death in the first place?”

I sipped my espresso. I couldn’t tell her about the medical patches and the threat, couldn’t tell her about the mysterious closure of the run, or the blood all over the snow. “I don’t know exactly.”