Tough Cookie

patches, but they’d already been used, so there was just a trace of opioid in his system. Not enough to kill him. No, that particular job was left to whoever smashed him in the head with a big rock found tossed off the run. He was hit repeatedly, apparently. Rock had stuff on it that you don’t want to hear about while we’re fixing dinner. One thing it didn’t have on it were fingerprints, sorry to say.”

“So it was murder, then?”

“It was murder, definitely,” Tom said grimly. “They think somebody knew he took that run and was waiting for him. Saw him go by and quickly put up the poles and ropes closing the run. Then skied down and did him in.”

I hadn’t liked Doug Portman, but I suddenly felt heavy with sadness. Tom gave me a long hug.

He poured the steaming queso dip into the chafing dish and lit the Sterno underneath. I’d given him the chafing dish for Father’s Day. Tom had done more positive things for Arch in two short years than The Jerk had done in the preceding twelve. So he’d deserved a Father’s Day gift.

“Snow, snow, snow!” cried Marla as she came in and threw off another full-length coat, one she’d assured me was fake fur, although I had my doubts. Underneath, she wore a Christmasy crimson dress streaming with sewn-on ruby-colored beads. “Where’s that son of yours? I brought him some Christmas candy, that ribbon stuff. Tell him I want to know what kind of candy his girlfriend likes, too. I’m putting in another big order next week. Yum! I swear it always smells great in this house!”

I decided against telling her that the subject of a gift for Arch’s girlfriend was a sore one, and called him. He clomped down the stairs and accepted Marla’s gift of candy with guarded enthusiasm. When she bustled over to open the Gewurztraminer, he squinted skeptically at the thick, brightly colored candy ribbons, unsure whether the confection was too babyish to consume in public. I ignored him and broiled the halibut steaks. Before long we were digging chips into Tom’s hot dip and agreeing that halibut was perfect with a spicy orzo dish. Funny how—when you’re not being filmed—cooking is much easier.

“How many more shows?” Marla asked, as if reading my mind.

“One, right before Christmas.”

“I heard about yesterday. Portman’s suspicious accident was on the news,” she commented matter-of-factly. “I’m sure Elva the ex-wife didn’t do it, though. She’s found a new boyfriend and they’re in New Zealand. He’s real cute, she sent me a picture.” She looked at me ruefully. “Is there anything good about your work in Killdeer?”

“Free skiing,” Arch and I said in unison, and we all laughed.

“I know it’s heresy, and I do ski, but I’m not sure it’s all the fun it’s cracked up to be.” Marla shook her head as she accepted a second heaping plate of pasta from Tom. “I mean, it’s expensive, you get cold, you fall. I say, why not go straight to the apres-ski food, wine, and hot tub, and skip the stuff on the slopes?” Arch rolled his eyes. Marla went on: “About the fund-raiser. You did a great job, Goldy. It wasn’t your fault the mixer blew up on you. I mean, I called in a pledge, and it wasn’t even because I felt sorry about Nate Bullock. I couldn’t bear that show, High Country Hallmarks. The only hallmark the high country has gotten in the last decade is Neiman-Marcus.”

I smiled.

Marla munched salad and considered. “I do feel sorry for Rorry Bullock, I suppose. You know, when you work in Killdeer, you can’t afford to have decent housing. It’s like Aspen that way. The rich folks have driven the cost of housing out of sight—I hear some workers have to live in tipis in the woods all winter. Can you imagine that? Rorry lives in a trailer park, but it’s not much more secure than a tipi. St. Luke’s is raising money to help her buy a new car. Can you believe somebody borrowed her car without even asking? Banged it into something and then just left it parked by her trailer! What a drag!”

“That’s terrible!” I exclaimed, and thought of my own accident. “When did it happen?”

Marla shrugged. “Not sure when. Recently, though. I’m glad the church is going to help her buy another one.”

Tom said, “How’d you hear all this?”

“She’s on the prayer list, but the money request isn’t confidential,” Marla replied as she licked the last of her salad dressing from her fork. “Thank goodness! I’m so tired of keeping secrets!”

I couldn’t help laughing; neither could Tom. Arch grinned, too, perhaps remembering how Rorry had showered him with hugs when he was little. He announced to us all that he was going to do another physics experiment. He shyly added that he was sorry he’d left his stuff in the hall. Then, to my astonishment, he opened his bag of ribbon candy to share with everyone.

CHAPTER 13

The next morning, I stood in my beautiful-but-drainless kitchen and admired the heaping platters of library reception cookies and muffins. Even when things aren’t going very well, I consoled myself, it’s best to bake. I fixed myself an espresso and filled small vases with cheery sprigs of holly and ivy for the library tables. Tom came in, kissed me, then whipped together a golden German pancake that puffed so hugely even Arch smiled. By seven- thirty, I had everything packed into the Rover and we were ready to roll.

As the Rover chugged behind Tom’s Chrysler, snow-flakes swirled down from an ominous charcoal sky. Despite the fact that we were heading for the much-complained-about early Sunday service at St. Luke’s, Arch seemed less sullen than usual. That might mean Lettie was coming to the service. Then again, maybe it was the pancake.

Marla waved to us from a pew near the front. As we slid in next to her, I shot her a look of surprise. She usually did not get up to attend this service. Maybe her prayer-chain duties demanded she haul herself out of bed at dawn so as not to miss any rumors. Marla hated to think people were having crises without her knowledge.

I focused on the liturgy. At least, I tried to. An unidentified worry gnawed at me. I’d always told the Sunday schoolers to hand their problems over to the Almighty. Now I tried to take my own advice.

When we reached the beginning of the intercessory prayers, one of the ushers handed the priest a note. This practice of passing forward written prayers had been presented as a way to bring us together. It smacked a bit of TV-evangelist-land, but never mind. The priest solemnly intoned that we needed to pray for a former parishioner who was struggling with a pregnancy. This far-flung member of our parish family, he added, had also had her car stolen and vandalized.

“You see,” Marla leaned over to whisper. “I told you.”

Rorry. Questions about her behavior were what bothered me. And now this. When, I wondered, when was her car stolen and smashed? I would call her as soon as I finished at the library, and make that formal offer to bring casseroles to freeze until her baby arrived. Maybe she’d open up and tell me why she was in such a snarly mood at the fund-raiser in honor of her dead husband. Maybe she’d also share what had happened to her vehicle, so close to the time when mine had been struck.

The service ended. I hugged Arch. Tom kissed my cheek. Arch had spent Saturday snowboarding and visiting his father at the Furman County Jail, only to come home to a wrecked science project. So this afternoon, he was starting over on the project and memorizing the lines from Spenser he was supposed to recite in English class this week. Tom would take him home, before going down to the department for a few hours. He wanted to check up on the information I’d given him. Marla asked what type of goodies I would be serving at the library. I told her they were delicious, guaranteed to please, and plentiful. What more could a caterer give? She said she’d be first in line. I took off.

Our small-town library, with its brick walls, steeply pitched copper roof, and two peaked reading towers, was an enchanting spot. I was alone in this opinion, though: Hundreds of letters to the local paper had protested the year-old structure as unmountainish. Unless public edifices looked like lodges, Rocky Mountain folks found them repulsive. Ever-resourceful Marla wrote in that we should call the place the “Chateau de Volumes.” No one took her up on it.

I squinted through the snowflakes and was surprised to see a very large banner hung across the library entrance. HOLIDAY RECEPTION—REFRESHMENTS! it screamed. Might as well have said FREE CHOW! On the other hand, the thickening snow might deter the hordes. Tom liked to tease that I was unhappy if there were too many folks, and miserable if there were too few. In other