Tough Cookie

through the travel agent or some other source—and killed him? After the fact, why rob the condo? Could someone else have discovered Doug’s departure plans, and tried to stop him, permanently?

I shifted gears and headed toward the trailer park that perched on the outskirts of Killdeer. Maybe Rorry Bullock would enlighten me on some of these people. I would certainly welcome some illumination. The more I tried to figure out what was going on in this mountain town, the more muddled I became.

Actually, I decided when I once again lost my way on the too-quaint, too-curvy streets of Killdeer, what I really needed was caffeine. Cooking, wine-tasting, and snooping were too much to handle before eleven o’clock in the morning, even if you were the toughest cookie in the Rockies.

The sunshine and fresh snow had lured so many day-skiers that their cars filled the lots near the gondola. I backtracked to the Elk Ridge lot and walked to Cinda’s. It wasn’t a bad trek if you weren’t wearing ski boots. Twenty minutes later I was bellying up to the coffee bar and wondering if I didn’t deserve four shots instead of two. And how about a luscious cheese-filled croissant to go with it? After all, I hadn’t had any lunch.

Cinda, her cottony-pink hair held back with twisted rubber bands, opened her pale eyes wide when she spotted me. She beckoned with a ring-studded hand and then whispered ominously in my ear: “He’s here. The snowboarder. Barton Reed.”

“Here, now?” Then I added, “May I have a four-shot espresso and ricotta-stuffed croissant to clear my vision?”

Cinda said, “It’s the guy who made the threat, remember? My other waiter, Ryan, and I have just been talking about it. Barton Reed used to be big in the snowboard circuit, and he drove us all nuts with his temper. Then he went to jail on a fraud charge. Now he’s back, and the law enforcement guys found some threatening card he supposedly wrote. So I don’t want to have to deal with him.” She hustled off. Since it was late-morning coffee-and-hot-chocolate time, her shop was mobbed. She returned quickly, however, balancing a tray of goodies for me: a cup brimming with steaming, crema-topped espresso, a plate with a hot, flaky, ricotta-oozing croissant, and a jar of plum preserves. Zowie! I took a sip of the coffee and looked around the shop. I instantly recognized the chunky-faced profile and spill of earrings: Barton Reed.

“Did he say anything to you when he came in?” I whispered to Cinda.

“Yeah. The cops picked him up yesterday,” she replied sotto voce, “but then let him go. His fingerprints weren’t on the threatening card, and it wasn’t his handwriting. But it looked like his handwriting. Then he came in here and demanded to know if we’d told the cops he’d threatened some cop. We played dumb. A couple of other shopkeepers told me Barton’s been making threats all over town. So he can’t be sure who spilled the beans to the cops.”

“Why is he here now?”

“Says he’s looking for somebody. He’s clutching a cross. Maybe he’s waiting for a vampire.”

I started in on the flaky, hot croissant. It was superb. “You said he was waiting for somebody? Could he be waiting for Doug Portman? Does he know Portman is dead?”

“He didn’t say. But he must, everybody in town knows. I’m telling you, that guy’s lift doesn’t go to the peak.” She tapped her forehead meaningfully. As she did so, Reed shuffled to his feet and stomped toward the exit. At the door, he stopped and turned. He held Cinda and me briefly in a withering glare.

“Who could he be looking for?” I wondered in a low voice.

“I sure don’t know.” Cinda shook her pink-filament hair. “But it’s not likely he’ll be opening up his soul to any of our waiters again soon.”

I didn’t like the feeling this gave me. I thanked Cinda for the coffee, told her I’d see her later, and backed away from the bar. Before heading for the Rover, I made a visual check of the lift ticket windows, repair shop walk-up, and crowds going into and out of the Karaoke and Gorge-at-the-Gondola cafes. No Barton Reed. No, wait.

He was across the creek, standing in line for the gondola. With the crowd around him, I couldn’t see if he was carrying a snowboard. Had he spotted the person he’d been waiting for, or had he given up?

If the Sheriff’s department had released Barton Reed, there was nothing I could or should do. I asked for directions to Rorry’s trailer park at one of the lift ticket windows, then trekked back to the Rover.

The West Furman County Mobile Home Court—so named to distinguish it from any connection to the much- sought-after appellation Killdeer—was surrounded with a snow-laced five-foot-high chain- link fence. The fence was hung with fierce no-parking warnings, and the entry was flanked with signs informing the unwary that the motor court was for residents and their guests only; other vehicles would be towed and their owners fined. All the ski resorts had parking problems. No doubt some skiers thought nothing of leaving their vehicles here, in the low-rent district.

Where the rest of Killdeer featured picturesquely winding roads, the snow-covered-but-unplowed roads of the employees’ trailer park were laid out in ramrod-straight gridlines. I pulled in behind a red Subaru wagon. Hmm. Like its neighbors, the Bullock trailer stood perpendicular to the curb. Green and white siding peeled away from a sagging bay window; the trailer’s bottom rim was patched with rust. There were no signs of life.

I hopped out of the Rover and walked up to Rorry’s red car. The front bumper was crumpled, the right headlight gone. I fingered the cold metal of the impacted area. Rorry claimed somebody had stolen her Subaru, then smashed it up. I believed her. It hardly made sense that a pregnant woman would risk her unborn child to wreck a caterer’s van. I edged back over the thick ice to the Rover, loaded up the casseroles I’d made, then carefully made my way to a rickety wooden staircase that led to an unpainted aluminum door.

There was no doorbell, but the door opened the moment I started to shift the dishes around to find a way to knock.

“Bummer about the car, huh?” Rorry said wistfully. “It’s my fault, I guess. I shouldn’t have left the keys in it.” She wore a navy blue knitted maternity dress with thick cables and an uneven hem. Her skin was the color of mashed potatoes; her light brown eyes looked cloudy; her hair, blond and thin, curled softly around her face. She looked like an unhappy ingenue. If my arms had not been full of covered casseroles, I would have given her a hug. She pulled the door open as wide as it would go.

“Yeah, bummer,” I agreed, with a backward glance at the red Subaru. I decided not to mention what had happened to my van. When possible, I’d learned, do not upset a very pregnant woman.

“It’s the second time I’ve been a crime victim in this park,” Rorry said bitterly.

“The second time?” I prompted as I followed her to the tiny kitchenette.

Rorry opened the freezer section of a small refrigerator. “The first time was after Nate died. When I had to go down to see the coroner, some kid broke in and stole our TV and Nate’s videocamera. The cops caught him with the television, but he denied stealing the camera. The little creep.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I muttered as I tucked the casseroles into the only freezer space free of icy stalactites and stalagmites. Respect for personal property was a very low priority in Killdeer, it seemed. I shook my head, turned, and gave Rorry a long, tight hug. I told her I’d be right back.

“Do you still love coffee?” she asked when I returned with the box of baby blankets.

“More than ever.”

She pressed a button on an ancient drip machine to start a pot brewing. Rorry had always invited me in for a cup of coffee, even when she and Nate had lived in a tiny Aspen Meadow apartment. Back then, he’d had a little business making videos of recitals, high-school graduations, and weddings. Apparently he and Rorry had also badly wanted children, and now … On the counter, a torn herb-tea package and half-full glass mug of green liquid indicated the mother-to-be wasn’t indulging in caffeine these days. Next to them stood one of those porcelain coffee-bean containers and a grinder from an expensive mail-order coffee bean house. Low-income folks, I’d found, always bought a few food luxuries in case someone dropped in.

Rorry waved at her minuscule living area. “Please, sit down. And thanks for the casseroles and baby blankets.”

“No problem. It was fun putting it all together. And it’s nice to know someone can make use of Arch’s things.” I walked into the wood-paneled living area, where the linoleum of the kitchenette gave way to green shag