Tough Cookie (21 page)

He went on: "But you didn't want to tell me that Portman was our buyer, because you'd dated him before we met, right? And you felt funny about that, contacting an old boyfriend, even though he wasn't a boyfriend."

"I didn't feel funny, I felt foolish." When Tom said nothing, I mumbled, "Yes, something along those lines."

"So you struck a deal with Portman for the skis."

"He was willing to pay eight thousand - "

"Which was close to the amount of cash they found on him, and scattered on the slopes."

"Tom! Why is that a problem?"

Tom pressed his lips together and stared at the swirling, silent action on the television. "You were selling valuable skis to a parole board member with no intermediary. Meanwhile, your ex-husband is in jail, facing parole in the not-too-distant future. Think about that. You were selling skis to a man who might be in a position to do you a favor down the road, by denying your ex-husband parole."

"At the time, I didn't even know Doug was on the parole board!" I protested.

"Someone might say you were trying to influence him”

"I was trying to pay for new drains - "

He held up his hand. "Miss G. Your plan to sell the skis to the parole board member included your agreeing to charge him less than the full market value of ten thousand dollars for them. You were doing him the favor of selling him a valuable item for two thousand dollars under market price." His green eyes, full of pain, studied me solemnly. "How do you think that makes you look?"

"I don't care, because what you're saying is ridiculous!" I cried hotly. "You can't honestly think that I would do such a thing!"

Tom did not reply. Unable to bear the look on his face, I glanced at the television. Kansas City jumped offsides but the penalty wasn't called.

"Miss G.," he said. "You didn't warn me, but now I'm warning you. You better pray that the sheriff's department figures out who killed Doug Portman. And why." He sighed. "Your home kitchen's closed for repairs. Now you're involved in what could be interpreted as shady dealings. The press gets hold of this, it might get so slanted against you, your client base could dry up. Permanently. And if you're prosecuted for this - " He broke off abruptly.

"The district attorney is not going to prosecute me for trying to influence Doug Portman, is he?" I demanded. "That's absurd!"

The phone rang. Tom rose to answer it. "You never actually completed the sale to Doug, so it's doubtful you'll have to face prosecution," he answered slowly. Then he hesitated; the phone bleated. "But, Goldy - it does look very bad."

-14- Tom was sitting at the table, scribbling in his trusty spiral notebook, phone tucked under his ear, when I entered the kitchen. The game was in overtime, the score tied. I didn't care. I was angry my kitchen was closed, furious my van had been destroyed, and remorseful that I hadn't been brave enough to tell Tom who was buying his skis. And why was all this happening? Because, years ago, I'd dated Doug Portman. And then, unabashed, I'd offered to do business with him. I'd figured, he's the perfect buyer for the skis. I'd thought, This money will solve all our problems, and quick. Sure.

I looked around the kitchen. Action is better than inaction. Or something like that. I carefully moved Arch's still-wet, splatter-frosted cookie sheet onto another counter, then stared at my old recipe card box. Tom continued to talk on the telephone.

I flipped through the box of stained recipe cards, my old standby before the kitchen computer. What dishes would comfort and nourish Rorry Bullock when she came home from the hospital with her newborn? Two reliable casseroles beckoned from a time before I entered the catering business: lasagne and Swedish meatballs. On one of the walk-in's side shelves, I miraculously located fresh oregano, basil, and thyme. Serving meatballs and lasagne could jeopardize my upscale reputation, I reflected while removing ground beef, ricotta, Fontina, whipping cream, eggs, and mozzarella from the walk-in. Rorry wouldn't tell on me, would she?

"Okay, got it. Yeah, sure, send it now. Thanks." Tom hung up. "We know what opioid was on the patches. A drug called Duragesic."

"Oh, brother." Duragesic was a very powerful pain-killer, administered through transdermal patches. The potency of the drug diminished over a period of time, at which point a cancer patient or other chronically ill-and-in-pain patient put on another patch.

"You use or even touch more than one Duragesic patch at a time, you're probably going to die," Tom added grimly. "But there wasn't enough on those particular patches to kill anybody."

"So why would you threaten a law enforcement person, in this case the head of the parole board, with something that wouldn't work?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe you thought it would work. Maybe you just wanted to scare the guy to death." He slid his finger down the list of names he'd written in his notebook. "Eleven people I've arrested over the last four years have treated their cancer pain with Duragesic. Five of them were denied parole by Doug Portman. One's in remission in Lamar, one's a roofer in Pueblo, one's in a Colorado Springs hospital on life support. One guy died. The last one, man of thirty, was paroled last June by someone else. He'd been denied twice by Portman. But Barton Reed violated his parole three weeks later by assaulting a big guy wearing a Red Wings jersey. He swore the Detroit fan taunted him. But Reed still went back to jail for another six fmonths anyway." Tom shook his head. "He's been out for a couple of weeks."

I set a pot of water on to boil for the pasta. "How's his health?"

"He's in remission now. Last May, while he was still in jail, he was in so much pain he was on . . . Duragesic." Tom's fax rang. A moment later the machine spat out a high-quality photocopied photograph. Barton Reed, wide-faced and menacing, a dozen crosses and oval-shaped earrings strung along the edge of each ear, leered off the faxed page. The photocopy undeniably captured the likeness of the man I remembered seeing last summer at Aspen Meadow Health Foods, the man I'd dubbed the Earring King. Last June, he'd been putting together an herbal remedy for his illness. When Cinda had talked to me about him on Friday, he'd been putting together something altogether different: a threatening card with death as its message. What had Jack Gilkey said? Reed has revenge in his heart.

I poured green-gold olive oil into a sauté pan. When the heat made the oil glisten, I tossed in chopped onions and crushed garlic cloves. They sizzled, turning the air mouthwateringly pungent. "So. . . what was Reed's original offense?"

Tom cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. "Did you know our friend Barton was a hot snowboarder for a lot of years? Don't get me wrong, that wasn't what got him into trouble. He toured the freestyle circuit here and abroad. That takes money - for travel, lodging, entry fees, you name it. In winter, he based himself in Killdeer. In summer, he would search Aspen Meadow and the other wealthy areas of Furman County for elderly women in the last stages of cancer."

I added the ground beef to the pan and soon the scrumptious aroma of beef sautéing in garlic and onion filled the kitchen. I was beginning to feel a little better, perhaps because I was cooking. Or maybe it was because we were talking about somebody else's problems. I said, "Rich, elderly women with cancer? Why target them?"

Tom perused my Swedish meatballs recipe card, washed his hands, and whisked together eggs and cream. "To steal from them. He'd tell these women's families that he knew a doctor down in Mexico, an American genius with a pedigree as long as a prosthetic leg. Reed's very convincing line was that Doctor Genius had given up on the FDA ever approving his cancer-healing miracle drug. Why wouldn't they approve? these people would ask. Because the AMA didn't want their oncologists to go out of business, Reed claimed."

"For heaven's sake." "At Doctor Genius's luxurious healing spa in Oaxaca, Barton assured his clients, their terminal relatives could be healed. They'd be back home in six months. He showed pictures, offered testimonials, the whole bit. He had a background as a lay preacher, and was very convincing. Each family handed over sixty thousand dollars - ten thousand a month for the first six months. They'd send Granny off with Reed, and that was that. They got glowing reports from Doctor Genius, from Reed, even from a purported resident chaplain. But never heard a word from their beloved grandmothers."

"Which should have been their first clue."

Tom nodded. "Finally, one relative went down to find out what was going on. The women were being kept in dreadful conditions in a sub-par nursing facility. No phone, no medical treatment, no chaplain. And needless to say, no genius doctor. Barton Reed had to hang up his snowboard so he could be incarcerated for three long years." He paused. "Where's the allspice?" I handed it to him. "Here's the irony," he continued thoughtfully. "After less than six months behind bars, Barton Reed was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Parole board member Doug Portman had no sympathy."

"Or Barton Reed had no cash to fan the flames of Doug Portman's sympathy," I commented sourly.

Tom whirled cornflakes in the blender; he added them, along with dried minced onions, to the egg mixture. "Our guys are picking up Reed now for questioning. Miss G. - I want you to stay away from Reed. The man is fueled by rage." Tom seasoned the crumb mixture and stirred it into his bowl of fresh ground beef. His large, capable hands formed scrumptious-looking meatballs. He placed them in rows on a jelly-roll pan and popped the pan into the oven. I stirred tomatoes, red wine, and herbs into the sauté pan for the double batch of lasagne sauce. While it was coming to a simmer, I browned two packages of chicken thighs in olive oil and set them to stew with onions, carrots, and bay leaf. These would form the base for the Sonora Chicken Strudel to be served at Arthur's buffet the next day. Soon the old-fashioned scents of stewing chicken and spicy tomato sauce were wafting through our kitchen. Heavenly.

I layered the cooked pasta, grated cheeses, and rich tomato sauce into two pans - one for us, one for Rorry Bullock - then set the table. When the lasagne was bubbling, I called Arch. He made one of his silent appearances in the kitchen and nodded approvingly at the pasta dish. When Tom cut into the lasagne, a lake of melted Fontina and mozzarella spurted out over the delicate layers of ricotta and tomato-beef sauce. Sauce and melted cheese oozed between the tender pasta. I savored each bite. Best of all was watching Tom and Arch help themselves to thirds.

When we were finished eating, Arch stood up from the table and hugged me. "Great dinner, Mom."

This sudden display of affectionate enthusiasm made me wary. "Thanks. . ."

"All right," Arch began, in a preamble-to-an-announcement tone. "Lettie's dad is driving the two of us to school early tomorrow, since we're writing up our theories on the physics project together. Her father is picking me up at seven A.M." He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a very serious look: "When Lettie arrives, Mom, please do not ask her what she wants for Christmas. Okay?"

"No problem," I replied. "If you want, I won't even let her in. Does she have a thick winter jacket? So she can wait for you outside?"

My son considered this question. "I don't know. But you can invite her into the kitchen."

Tom smiled at me and winked. I said, "So, if Lettie is coming inside, what would she like for breakfast?"

"Will you stop?" Arch implored. Now what did I do?

Monday morning dawned cold and dark. At six, I scooted across our chilly wood floor and checked the thermometer outside our bedroom window. It seemed stuck at seven degrees. With any luck, we'd make it into the low twenties by afternoon.

I moved through a slow yoga routine, showered, dressed, and went down to the dark kitchen. I fed and watered Jake and Scout, then convinced them to go outside and quickly return from the snow to their own space. Sitting at the oak table, I sipped a much-welcome cup of coffee and made a list of dishes to be prepared and packed up.

First I would make a salad, just in case Arthur wanted one. Then I'd be on my way to his place, to prepare the Sonora Chicken Strudel, plus the dish I was now dubbing Snowboarders' Pork Tenderloin, Chesapeake Crab Cakes, and Julia Child's Sole Florentine. Then I'd deliver the meatballs and lasagne to Rorry, pray for reconciliation, and hope for a nugget or two of information as well. I frowned at my list and wondered if I had any baby blankets, bibs, or other paraphernalia of Arch's still round. Rorry Bullock wasn't on the parole board; I could do her a favor without getting into trouble, couldn't I?

Sonora Chicken Strudel

2 tablespoons vegetable oil 3 cups seeded and chopped tomatoes 2 garlic cloves, pressed 8 ounces (2 small cans) chopped green chiles 1 1/2 cups chopped onions 1/8 teaspoon cumin 2 cups cooked, shredded chicken 1 1/4 cups grated Cheddar cheese 1 cup lowfat or regular sour cream 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 pound phyllo dough (approximately), thawed 1/4 pound (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted

In a wide frying pan, heat the oil over medium-low heat until it shimmers. Reduce heat to low and add tomatoes, garlic, chiles, onions, and cumin. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is thick, about 30 minutes. Set aside to cool slightly. Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter a 9 x 13-inch glass pan. In a large bowl, combine the chicken, Cheddar, sour cream, and salt. Stir in the tomato mixture. Pour this mixture into the pan. Working quickly with the phyllo, lay one sheet at a time over the chicken-tomato mixture and brush thinly but thoroughly with the melted butter. Continue until you are almost out of butter, then lay on a last piece of phyllo and brush it with the last of the melted butter. With a sharp knife, cut down through the layers of phyllo in 12 places to make 9 evenly spaced rectangular servings. Bake 20 to 30 minutes, or until filling is hot and phyllo is puffed and golden brown. Serve immediately.

Makes 9 large servings

I was still trying to remember where I'd stowed Arch's baby things while I creamed soft - not rock-hard - butter with brown sugar and mixed in apple cider vinegar, eggs - broken without mishap - and molasses, to make the snaps. Oh, yes: The blankets and clothes were in a box in the attic. I mixed flour and spices into the cookie dough, scooped balls of spicy dough onto a cookie sheet, and ran upstairs to find the box marked Baby Stuff. I raced down with it, placed it in the Range lover, then rushed back to retrieve the first cookie sheet. The snaps had flattened and crinkled on top. The gingery aroma in the kitchen absolutely demanded another cup of coffee and a taste-test of the soft, dark cookies. Mm-mm. They were really more of a molasses cookie than a gingersnap, but older clients always had to worry about denture problems, Arthur had informed me, and nothing should be too crunchy. I ate another cookie to confirm the texture was perfect. Whether I called them molasses cookies or gingersnaps, I definitely should have them for breakfast more often.