Tough Cookie

hands and pulled out the covered container with the stewed chicken. I separated succulent chunks and strands of chicken and studied the French posters on the walls.

When Arthur hung up, I said, “Look, Arthur, let’s forget about Jack Gilkey for the moment. Doug Portman’s death puts me in a compromising position. I was about to sell him some valuable skis, at less than their market value. He was a parole-board member, and now it looks as if I was trying to buy a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“A favor as in please keep my ex-husband behind bars. All I was trying to do was get a quick sale for the skis. But it still looks very bad.”

Arthur’s dark eyes twinkled. “And you without a wholesale license.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I didn’t send you any articles, Goldy. But Doug Portman was on the take. Guess what Portman said to me?” His tone turned vicious; his black eyes narrowed. “That he’d keep Gilkey behind bars, but it would cost me twenty thousand dollars a year. Problem was, my mother’s millions were going to Sesame Street, and I couldn’t spare an extra twenty thou a year.”

“The trust-fund background was in the articles left for me,” I told him. “The article also said that you were challenging the will, claiming Jack had unduly influenced your mother.”

“He did. He turned my mother against me, discouraged her from seeing me, changed their phone number every week, fired the family lawyer, you name it. He thought he could kill her and inherit, so no one would be the wiser. He just didn’t figure he’d get caught. Mother allowed him to swindle her because she wanted that handsome snake-oil salesman to love her.”

I folded sour cream, grated cheddar, and spicy picante sauce into the chicken. “Kill and inherit? Kill is a strong word.”

Arthur seemed intent upon assembling wineglasses on the tiled counter next to the array of bottles. “I don’t use the word lightly. I wish to God the prosecutor could have proved premeditation on Jack’s part, but she couldn’t. I’ll guarantee you this, though: Gilkey will marry Eileen Druckman for her money. You’d better watch out for your friend.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”

Arthur sighed. “I sure do wish I’d taped Portman’s call to me about paying him to keep Gilkey behind bars. Now he’s dead. So it’s up to me to prove Portman was taking bribes. Then my claim to have the will set aside is infinitely strengthened. Gilkey will be proven once and for all to be a bounder, and I’ll be able to—” He abruptly stopped talking. His eyes rested on the poster on his wall.

“Be able to what?” I kept my tone lighthearted as I began to measure out the marinade ingredients. “Travel to France? Go live in Tuscany? My fantasy is to eat my way through Italy on a six-month walking tour. The exercise works off the meals.”

After a moment, Arthur said softly, “My dream is right there.” He gestured toward the travel poster, the lavender-surrounded village with its high church steeple.

“To go to France? To live there?”

“Not just France, Goldy, but a particular place.” He stared lovingly at the poster. “I’m going to buy a vineyard in the town of Bandol, in Provence. Here, let me have you taste something.” He reached for a corkscrew, then disappeared to another part of the house. When he returned five minutes later, he carried a bottle of red wine. “I just want you to try this.”

“Arthur, please. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Just a sip.” He uncorked the bottle and poured a half-inch in each of two wineglasses. I sighed. Two rules of catering were in conflict: Do not drink alcohol on a job, especially in the morning and The more you need the client, the crazier the client will act. Arthur dramatically proffered me a glass; we toasted each other silently; I took a sip. It was delicious. Even I knew enough about wine to call this red hearty, spicy, and just the ticket for getting your morning off to a great start.

“That’s my future you’re drinking,” he told me, very seriously. “My wasted future,” he added glumly.

“Why ‘wasted’?”

Arthur cocked his head. “What do you taste in the wine? What spices?”

“I’m not that good at—”

“I will tell you what you’re tasting.” He clattered his glass onto the counter. “You smell lavender. You taste rosemary. Basil. Bay leaf. You taste Bandol.” He gestured at the poster. “A corner of it, anyway.” His voice cracked. “Bandol is a lovely Provencal village, where I could have bought an operating vineyard for two million dollars. I keep that picture here to remind me what Jack Gilkey stole from me. I could be growing my grapes and relaxing each evening with my view of the sea. But Jack Gilkey ruined that. And your buddy Doug Portman let that killer out of prison.”

“Doug Portman was not my buddy.” And the sheriff’s department also thinks he was taking bribes, I added mentally. But I did not know how much of what Arthur was telling me was true, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Yes, yes. It doesn’t matter now, does it?” He felt in his pocket for his Pepto and pulled it out. He did not drink any of it, thank goodness. After staring at it for a moment, he stuffed it back into his other pocket.

I had one more question for Arthur. “If you’re trying to deprive public broadcasting of your mother’s fortune, why do you work for them?”

He sipped his wine. “Because a love for public television was something my mother and I shared. Yes, I want the money. But I can’t turn my back on something that was dear to my mother and me. You know? Her favorite show was Nate’s High Country Hallmarks. And they died the same day.”

I set the wine down, murmured sympathetically, and wondered if I could ask Arthur to fix me one of his perfect espressos. My brain was starting to spin, after only three sips of wine. Unfortunately, the phone rang again. Arthur refilled his glass as more disastrous news was delivered: the cases of Sancerre, including the one intended for tonight’s party, had been left on the loading dock of a warehouse in Glenwood Springs. The only way they could be in Killdeer that night was if Arthur drove over and picked them up. He banged down the phone.

“I have to go,” he said frantically.

“I’ll be done in a couple of hours. I can lock up for you,” I assured him. Arthur groaned and patted the Pepto-pocket. “I do it all the time for absentee clients, Arthur. And I’m bonded.”

He frowned at the food on the counter. “Well … all right. I know how to heat up the pork, but what about the rest of it?”

“I’ll write it all out for you.”

His face relaxed. “Thanks, Goldy.” His face tightened again. “Just do the food. I’ll get out the other wines when I come home.”

“Okay, but you’ll never be back before five, and you should chill the whites for—”

“No, thanks,” he said abruptly as he opened drawers and scanned the kitchen counters. “Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for what you’re doing. Looks like my checkbook’s in the car. Can I pay you Wednesday? In fact, can I take you to lunch at the bistro? Wednesday is Gilkey’s day off. We can talk about the last show. Save Thursday, please. I want you to make that oatmeal you gave me, maybe a bread.…”

“Sounds great.”

“Afterward, we could ski together, if you want.”

I laughed. “Sure. But I’m strictly a slow-going blue-run skier. And I rarely have wine with lunch.”

His puzzled look said Are you joking? But he merely mumbled, “See you at the bistro Wednesday at noon,” grabbed his keys, checked the locked door in the hallway, glanced at the Dresden shepherdess figurine on his front table, and took off.

I studied the three “sample” bottles on the counter. Why did he have a fit when I offered to get out the rest of the wines? As his Escalade roared down the driveway, I began mixing the crab cake ingredients, thinking hard. Arthur probably didn’t want me fetching the wines because wine geeks are notoriously secretive about their cellars. I rolled the crab cakes in crumbs and slid them into the refrigerator next to the strudel, then peeked out the front window. The Escalade was nowhere in sight.