Tough Cookie

“Elk Valley. Three years ago.”

Her voice stiffened. “I see.” After a pause, she went on: “Even though it’s an out-of-bounds area in the winter, Elk Valley is used in the summer as a nature trail. Each year before the trail is opened, our maintenance team cleans up the valley. The items they might have picked up would have come to Lost and Found. For sixty days. All items would have been logged in, and logged out to go to charity.” She added tentatively, “Unless the item happened to be very valuable. We keep jewelry in the safe for longer. Up to a year.”

“And your log goes back how long?”

“Five years.”

“Can you do a computer search,” I said, feeling my heart start to race, “for a certain log entry? I’m looking for a—” What was it Rorry had said? “A Sony, um, VX-One Thousand. A videocamera.” Quantum mechanics, I reminded myself. The camera might have been thrown anywhere. Might have been found anytime. “It might have been turned in at any point in the last three years. If it went to a shelter or police auction, I can try to track it down. I just need to know if you ever had it.”

She tapped buttons. “Okay … nothing from three years ago.” More clicking. “Nothing from last year.” She paused and tapped some more. “Hmm,” she said at length. “How about that.”

“What?”

“Our construction workers in the expansion area were cutting down trees this September. They found a camera inside its case under a pine tree and turned it in.”

“Is it a Sony—”

She wouldn’t let me finish. “So, it’s yours? Were you caught in that avalanche?”

“I, I—It’s not important after all this time, is it?”

“Yeah, it is. There are initials on the case. Can you identify them?”

My heart was pounding in my throat. “N.B.”

She said, “Yes. Is that you?”

“No. It was Nate Bullock’s camera. He was killed in the avalanche.”

“Okay,” she said blithely. “Bring ID to prove you’re a family member, and you can get it between nine and four any day of the week.” She hung up.

My skin was cold. Bring ID to prove you’re a family member. I tried to call Tom on his cellular but the mountains were obscuring the signal. Even if I could talk my way into claiming Nate’s camera, would it actually work after all this time? Wait: Julian’s film class. I reached for the phone.

“Hey!” Julian cried. “Twice in one morning. How’d the bread come out?”

I turned on the oven light and peered in at the risen, golden-brown loaves. “Almost done. And the scent is heavenly.”

“Great,” he said, pleased.

“Listen,” I said, “I have a video question for you.”

“Shoot,” he replied. Then he laughed. “Sorry. Film joke.”

“If cassettes have been in a camera, or in a case, outside, for three years, would they be usable?”

“Gosh, Goldy. First bread, now old cameras. The stuff you come up with.” He reflected for a few seconds. “Was the case protected?”

“Under a tree.”

“Wait, let me ask my roommate.” He left the line for a few minutes, then came back. “Okay. The film should be all right unless the camera’s rusted shut and moisture has gotten into the apparatus itself. Just the cold alone shouldn’t hurt it. In Colorado, some folks even keep their film cassettes out in their garages, to keep them fresher. But … why do you need to know this? Are you going to film your cooking show in the snow?”

“I’ll tell you Christmas Eve.”

He laughed again. “Whatever.”

I hung up and contemplated the problem in front of me. I desperately needed to prove I was a family member. I punched in the numbers to Rorry Bullock’s trailer. She picked up and dropped the phone. Then she declared in a gritty, sleep-saturated snarl: “Whoever you are, you better have a great reason for waking me up. Otherwise, I’m going to kill myself for forgetting to shut off my ringer.”

I identified myself and apologized. Working a double shift that included nighttime, of course she’d be upset to be roused.

“It’s okay,” she said grumpily. “Goldy. I’m glad you called. I broke off a chunk of the frozen lasagne and heated it in the microwave. Fantastic! The baby loved it so much he twirled around in utero. I thought I was going into labor.”

I laughed, then asked seriously, “Rorry, could I come over this afternoon? I might have some answers to your questions about Nate. But … I need you to claim his camera from Killdeer’s Lost and Found.”

“Someone found his camera? It’s in the Lost and Found after three years?”

“This fall, workers in the expansion area discovered it under a tree. They turned it in. Because it was valuable, it’s been in a safe there ever since.”

“I, I can’t.…”

“Please, Rorry.” I made my voice calm, comforting. “Please listen. You don’t have to do anything with the camera. But I need it, to see if there’s anything left of the tape Nate was making.” When she said nothing, I went on: “Four people have died after suffering accidents at that ski area. Nate, Fiona Wakefield, Doug Portman, and now a guy named Barton Reed—”

“The snowboarder? That guy who went to jail?”

“He died of a heart attack last night at Lutheran. After being in a terrible snowboarding accident.”

“But how can a tape that’s three years old … tell you anything?”

“I don’t know if it will,” I admitted. “But every time I try to figure out what’s going on, questions come up over what happened that day Nate died—”

“Have you found out who his girlfriend was?” she interrupted.

“No. Or if he even had one. But I did find out that he really was trying to make a sports video.”

“A sports video? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know exactly—”

“I’m not sure I want to see the film,” she interrupted me. “I mean, not if it can be viewed. Not with the baby so close. It’s like a snuff film. Of my dead husband. I can’t do it.”

“Rorry. Please. This is important. Because I knew that guy Doug Portman, because I was on my way to meet with him the day of Nate’s memorial, all kinds of nasty questions are coming up now about me. I may never get my business back if I can’t figure out what’s happened—what’s still going on up at Killdeer. Losing my business is not as bad as what you’ve gone through in losing Nate, but it hurts. And I, too, have a child to think of.” She groaned. I continued desperately, “Just claim the camera with me, will you? Please? I’ll do the rest. You don’t have to watch a thing.”

She was silent. My heart sank. She was going to refuse. “Okay,” she said, to my surprise. “When will you be here?”

I told her I should arrive around one, that we could go up together to the Killdeer Lost and Found at Ski Patrol Headquarters. I remembered the state of her car, and promised I’d take her to work, too.

“You’re doing the PBS show at four?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s been rescheduled because of Christmas Eve. I don’t have to be there until three-thirty.”

“Why don’t you just spend the night here afterward? Then you won’t be driving back to Aspen Meadow so late. You could look at the tape, then take me to work for the four-to-twelve shift. I’ve got someone who’ll bring me home. You could do your show, and come over afterward. You’ll have the place to yourself until I get off at midnight.” She paused. “Unless you don’t want to stay in my ratty trailer, of course.”

I swallowed, thinking of “Reggie Dawson.” I didn’t care about staying in a trailer, but I was worried about Arch. And then of course, there was all the preparation I had to do at home tomorrow, Christmas Eve. But I was worried that Rorry needed company, especially right before the holiday.