Tough Cookie

He grinned. “Later. Call Marla—”

At that moment Arch screamed from upstairs that he wanted to know who had ruined his experiment! I called back that I had, because he’d left it where someone could trip over it in the hallway. I was rewarded with a slammed door. I sighed. Well, we could all make up at dinner. Hopefully, Tom’s queso dip would smooth over my son’s mood.

“Call Marla,” Tom said calmly, “then I’ll tell you about this artist who filed a complaint against you today.”

“Who did what?”

But Tom was ripping open a bag of chips. I phoned Marla, who declared she was famished, thank you very much, and what kind of wine should she bring to go with the halibut? Not that she could drink any, but maybe Tom and I would, she said. I racked my noggin for a stored tidbit of oenophilic advice from Arthur Wakefield, and told her a full-bodied, spicy white. Marla promised she’d be over in twenty minutes, armed with the vino.

Tom asked: “Miss G., did you pretend to be an undercover cop, and have lunch with a woman named Boots Faraday so you could grill her on the Portman case?”

“Oh, sure, Tom.” The oven timer beeped. I gently levered the crispy cookies onto waiting racks, then put in the muffin cups. “I invited Boots Faraday to lunch and said, ‘I’m an undercover policewoman. Don’t tell anybody. I do have a bunch of questions for you, though. Don’t tell anybody that, either.’”

Tom asked, “Want to make a pasta dish to go with the halibut?”

I nodded, angrily chopped garlic and onion, and tossed them into a pan shimmering with heated olive oil. “I did not pretend to be anything with that woman.” I didn’t want to tell Tom about the collage I’d bought him, because now I was wondering if the gallery had a return-for-cash policy.

“Watch yourself, because that woman has served time for assault.”

“You’re kidding.” I set water on to boil for orzo pasta. Then I chopped a few ounces of smoked ham and a couple of tomatoes, and stirred them along with some whole-grain mustard, Madeira, white wine, marjoram, and oregano into the headily fragrant, sizzling garlic mixture. A spicy pasta dish would go wonderfully with the halibut. When the sauce was simmering, I asked, “Boots Faraday assaulted somebody?”

“Seems she did a series of artworks for a client. Man owned a snowboard store, he used a snowboard as a down payment on half a dozen collages featuring snowboarders. When Ms. Faraday finished them, the guy said he’d changed his mind. He didn’t want the collages anymore, but he told her to go ahead and keep the board. She could even hang the collages in Killdeer restaurants, he added happily.”

“For heaven’s sake.”

Chile Con Queso Dip

1 pound lean ground beef

12 ounces English-Cheddar flavor Velveeta, or regular Velveeta

? cup medium picante sauce (or ? recipe of the tomato, onion, and chili sauce from Sonora Chicken Strudel, well drained)

Corn chips and crudites

In a wide frying pan, saute the ground beef over medium-high heat, until brown but not overcooked. While the meat is cooking, cut the Velveeta into 1-inch cubes. When the beef has browned, add the Velveeta cubes, turn the heat to medium-low, and stir until the Velveeta has melted. Turn the heat to low and add picante sauce or the Mexican strudel sauce. Heat just until bubbly and serve with chips and/ or crudites.

Marmalade Mogul Muffins

? pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter

1? cups sugar, divided

4 large eggs

2 cups buttermilk

4? cups all-purpose flour (High altitude: add ? cup)

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons baking powder

? teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons orange zest, minced

1 cup best-quality bitter orange marmalade (recommended brand: Harry and David Wild & Rare Bitter Orange Marmalade)

Preheat the oven to 350°F (High altitude: 375?).

In a large mixer bowl, beat the butter with 1? cups of the sugar until well combined. Add the eggs one at a time and beat well. Add buttermilk and mix thoroughly.

In another bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. The batter will be stiff. Stir in the zest and marmalade. Using a ?-cup measure, divide the batter among 28 muffin cups that have been fitted with paper liners. Using the last ? cup of sugar, sprinkle a teaspoon or so over each muffin.

Bake 15 to 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean.

Makes 28 muffins

“Now, most reasonable people would take their complaint to small-claims court. Not our Ms. Faraday. She drove her Chevy Suburban smack into the guy’s truck. Broke both his legs, which put a stop to his snowboarding that winter. At first, she claimed she didn’t know who the fellow was she’d hit. But since his truck was custom- painted with the words Killdeer Boards, nobody believed that. She spent ten days in the clink. The rest was a suspended sentence.”

“Hmm.” I showered orzo into the boiling water and set the timer. “Did she have any parole-type run-ins with Doug Portman?”

Tom shook his head. “But he was the art critic, and at least half a dozen people have told us she hated his guts because he didn’t review her work favorably. She even tried to get him fired from the Killdeer paper, but they ignored her, probably because they weren’t paying him very much to write his columns.”

“I didn’t interrogate her. For the record.”

“No, I know,” Tom said with a broad smile. “You were probably just being your usual nosy self. Figured that as soon as I got word of the complaint.” He stirred the bubbling cheese concoction; my stomach growled.

“Boots Faraday wasn’t the only one I was nosy with today.” I told him about Jack Gilkey being out on parole for his role in Arthur’s mother’s death and Arthur’s taking very public exception to Jack’s release.

“Let me guess who granted Gilkey parole,” mused Tom.

“Yep. And guess who Portman did not grant parole to.”

“Barton Reed,” replied Tom promptly. He was heating water for a chafing dish. “I know, I looked him up today. I arrested him for fraud a while back. And by the way, John Richard has written to the board asking for an early parole date. But it’ll be at least a month before they even consider letting him out.”

I sighed. “So do you think Barton Reed might have killed Portman?”

“We’re a long way from knowing that, Miss G.”

I set the table, lightly dressed a salad of romaine and Bibb lettuces, and set out slices of a five-grain homemade bread Julian had left for us.

“I do have a question for you, though,” Tom said after further thought. “Seems Ms. Faraday, too, read that article in her paper about your more-or-less successful career as an amateur sleuth.”

“Don’t get me started on that. Publicity, as I told Ms. Faraday, is strictly Arthur’s department.”

Tom stirred my orzo. “Uh-huh. But a lot of people did read the article. Maybe one person who read it decided to rear-end your van. Maybe they were worried you’d go nosing into Doug Portman’s death.” I sighed. “Just a theory,” Tom added. “Speaking of Portman, we got a preliminary drug screen back on him. He had touched the