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  PRAISE FOR

  TOUGH COOKIE

  “Chef Goldy Schultz’s life is a medley of murder, mayhem and melted chocolate. Tantalizing …highly readable fare.”

  —New York Post

  “There’s a dollop of dead people inexplicably killed, a sprinkling of ski-country lore and a generous portion of recipes that will send you to the kitchen before you’ve stuck around to find out who did what to whom and why.”

  —The Denver Post

  “You’ll love adding all of Ms. Davidson’s books to your kitchen bookshelves.”

  —Rockwall (TX) Success

  “This is one culinary mystery that ages well. Diane Mott Davidson has always had the perfect recipe for mystery and mayhem, and this one is no exception. The plot is as cleverly laid out as are the mouth-watering recipes. The twists and turns are as subtle as Goldy’s secret ingredients—just when you’ve got it, you don’t. Tough Cookie is one great read.”

  —Mystery News

  “Charming… Besides the food, Davidson’s strong points are her appealing characters and the vivid depiction of the Colorado high country.”

  —Booklist

  “If you like to cook, scan the recipes; if you prefer to savor mysteries, skip the food; either way, you can’t lose.”

  —Sunday Morning Sentinel

  “A most delicious crime caper.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A writer whose story lines give readers something to sink their teeth into. Readers get all the usual Goldy goodies they’ve come to expect: humor, excitement, mystery and delicious recipes.”

  —The Oregonian

  “The mystery rocks along, combining the best of the traditional cozy with a dollop of suspense and romance. It’s an entertaining culinary mystery with a satisfying ending.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “Tough Cookie covers blackmail, art, gourmet cooking, prison reform issues, jealousy, grief and a television cooking show…. It’s as fast moving as a downhill slalom, swooshing from one subject to the next.”

  —The Baton Rouge Magazine

  More Five-Star Praise for the Nationally Bestselling Mysteries of Diane Mott Davidson

  “The Julia Child of mystery writers.”

  —Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph

  “Mouthwatering.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Delicious … sure to satisfy!”

  —Sue Grafton

  “If devouring Diane Mott Davidson’s newest whodunit in a single sitting is any reliable indicator, then this was a delicious hit.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “You don’t have to be a cook or a mystery fan to love Diane Mott Davidson’s books. But if you’re either—or both—her tempting recipes and elaborate plots add up to a literary feast!”

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Mixes recipes and mayhem to perfection.”

  —The Sunday Denver Post

  “Davidson is one of the few authors who have been able to seamlessly stir in culinary scenes without losing the focus of the mystery…. [She] has made the culinary mystery more than just a passing phase.”

  —Sun-Sentinel, Fort Lauderdale

  “Goldy and her collection of friends and family continue to mix up dandy mysteries and add tempting recipes to the readers’ cookbooks at the same time.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  Also by

  Diane Mott Davidson

  Dying for Chocolate

  The Cereal Murders

  The Last Suppers

  Killer Pancake

  The Main Corpse

  The Grilling Season

  Prime Cut

  Tough Cookie

  Sticks & Scones

  Chopping Spree

  To Triena Harper

  Chief Deputy Coroner, Jefferson County, Colorado

  who serves the citizens

  of our state with dedication, hard work,

  and compassion.

  Thank you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of the following people: Jim, J.Z., Joe Davidson; Jeff and Rosa Davidson; Kate Miciak, a brilliant editor; Sandra Dijkstra, the most energetic agent in the business; Susan Corcoran, a phenomenal publicist, and Jessica Bellucci, also fabulous in that department; Lee Karr and the group that assembles at her home; my sister Lucy Mott Faison, for testing and retesting the recipes at low altitude; John William Schenk, JKS, and Karen Johnson, Ravens Catering, for their unceasing willingness to answer questions; Monica Koziol, the Front Range Chef, for her help, guidance, and support in teaching the author how a personal chef operates; the extraordinarily knowledgeable and helpful Wayne Belding and Jeff Mathews of the Boulder Wine Merchant, for sharing their expertise; Katherine Goodwin Saideman, for her close readings of the manuscript; Emyl Jenkins; Commander Debra Grainger, Arvada Police Department; Richard Staller, D.O.; Triena Harper, chief deputy coroner, and Jon Cline, coroner’s investigator, Jefferson County; John Lauck, Criminal Investigator, District Attorney’s Office, First Judicial District of Colorado; Linda Gustafson, Vail; Greg Morrison, Chief of Police, Vail; Allan Stanley, member, Colorado State Parole Board; Carol Devine Rusley; Julie Wallin Kaewert; Kevin Devine, Lake Tahoe Ski Patrol Avalanche Control; Nicole Mains, personal trainer, Boulder Country Club; Jim Gray and Shirley Carnahan, Boulder Renaissance Consort; Elaine Mongeau, King Soopers Pharmacy, Evergreen; Janine Jones, Chris Wyant, and Mark Kimball, The Alpenglow Stube, Keystone Resort; Nate Klatt and Tiffany Tyson, public relations, and Sally Reed, floor director, KRMA-TV, Denver; Jim Buchanan; Keith Abbott; Bob Egizi, security manager, Vail Associates; Suzanne Jarvis, Village Security, Beaver Creek Resort; Tim Batdorff, Toscanini, Beaver Creek; Alan Henceroth, mountain manager, and Jim Gentling, Arapahoe Basin Ski Area; Meg Kendal, Denver-Evergreen Ob-Gyn; Russell Wiltse, Department of Film Studies, University of Colorado, Boulder; and as always, for his knowledge, patience, and suggestions, Sergeant Richard Millsapps of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Golden, Colorado.

  Greedily she ingorg’d without restraint, And knew not eating Death.

  —JOHN MILTON, PARADISE LOST,

  BOOK IX, 791–792

  NATE BULLOCK MEMORIAL FUND-RAISER

  FRONT RANGE PUBLIC BROADCASTING SYSTEM

  “Cooking at the Top!”

  FILMING FROM

  THE SUMMIT BISTRO

  Killdeer Ski Resort, Killdeer, Colorado

  December the Seventeenth

  Mexican Egg Rolls with Spicy Guacomole Dipping Sauce/

  1996 Cline Ancient Vine Zinfandel

  ♦

  Chèvre, Teardrop Tomatoes, and Poached Asparagus on

  a bed of Frisée; Shallot Vinaigrette Sancerre

  ♦

  Chesapeake Crab Cakes with Sauce Gribiche/

  1997 Les Monts Damnés Sancerre Sauvignon Blanc—Chavignol

  ♦

  Crisp Italian Breadsticks

  ♦

  Ice-Capped Gingersnaps/

  1983 Château Suduiraut Sauternes

  CHAPTER 1

  Show business and death don’t mix. Unfortunately, I discovered this while hosting a TV cooking show.

  Up to then, I’d enjoyed being a TV chef. The job didn’t pay well, but this was PBS. Arthur Wakefield, the floor director, had crisply informed me that most chefs made nothing for guest visits, much less five thousand clams for six shows. He could have added: And what’s more, those chefs’ kitchens haven’t been closed by the county health inspector! But Arthur said nothing along those lines. Like most folks, he was unaware that my in-home commercial catering kitchen had been red-tagged, that is, closed until further notice.

  So: Bad pay notwithstanding, I was lucky to have the
TV job. Actually, I was lucky to have any food work at all. And I certainly didn’t want more than our family and a few friends to know why.

  I could not tell my upscale clients—those who’d made Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! the premier food-service business of Aspen Meadow, Colorado—that our plumbing wasn’t up to code. And of course, I could never let it be known that my dear husband Tom was ransacking the house for valuables to sell off, so we could buy fancy drains and thereby get my business reopened. No plumbing? No drains? It sounded nasty. Sordid, even.

  In September, things had gone badly. The county health inspector, giggling from the shock engendered by his surprise visit, closed me down. The bustle in our kitchen immediately subsided. Calls for catering gigs stopped. Suppliers sent letters asking if I wanted to keep my accounts current. Yes, yes, I always replied cheerfully, I’m looking forward to reopening soon! Soon. Ha!

  Without my business, an enterprise I’d lovingly built up for almost a decade, I entered a spiritual fog as thick as the gray autumnal mist snaking between the Colorado mountains. I gave up yoga. Drank herb tea while reading back issues of Gourmet. Spent days gazing out the new windows in our beautifully-remodeled-but-noncom-pliant kitchen. And repeatedly told Tom how gorgeous the kitchen looked, even if I couldn’t work in it.…

  Truly, the place did look great. So what if it didn’t meet new county regulations mandating that every commercial kitchen sink have backflow protection? Months earlier, Tom had rescued the remodeling job after a dishonest contractor had made our lives hell. During time away from his work as a Homicide Investigator for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department, he’d put in marble counters, cherry cabinets, expensive windows, a solid oak floor. And the wrong drains.

  To fix the problem, Tom was now tearing out the guts of three new sinks and prying up the floor beneath. He insisted we should heal our temporary cash-flow problem by selling a pair of historic skis he’d bought years before in an odd lot of military memorabilia. In October, I’d started calling antiques dealers while wondering how, during a prolonged closure, I could keep my hand in the food business.

  There’d been no takers for the skis. How else to get money? I’d wracked my brain for other ways to work as a cook: Volunteer at a school cafeteria? Roll a burrito stand up and down Aspen Meadow’s Main Street?

  Eventually, it had been my old friend Eileen Druckman who’d come through with a job. Loaded with money and divorced less than two years, Eileen had just bought the Summit Bistro at Colorado’s posh Killdeer Ski Resort. Eileen—fortyish, pretty, and blond, with cornflower blue eyes and a full, trembling mouth that had just begun to smile again—had hired a good-looking young chef named Jack Gilkey, whose food was legend in Killdeer. To Eileen’s delight, she and Jack had quickly become an item personally as well as professionally. When I told Eileen my business woes, she and Jack had kindly offered me the position of co-chef at the bistro. But I couldn’t work restaurant hours—seven in the morning to midnight—fifty miles from home. Restaurant workers, I’d noticed, had a high mortality rate, no home life, or both.

  Eileen, ever generous, had promptly pitched a cooking-show idea to the Front Range Public Broadcasting System. They’d said yes. I’d demurred. Eileen argued that my cooking on TV, at her bistro, would boost her business plus give her a huge tax write-off. Meanwhile, I could use my television exposure to publicize the new culinary venture I’d finally hit upon: becoming a personal chef. That particular avenue of food work requires no commercial kitchen; it only requires a wealthy client’s kitchen. Just the ticket.

  So I’d said yes to show business. The Killdeer Corporation had offered free season ski-lift passes to me as well as to my fourteen-year-old son, Arch. Shot through with new enthusiasm and hope, I couldn’t wait to cook and ski. I gave up herb tea for shots of espresso laced with whipping cream. In November, I plunged eagerly back into work.

  Every Friday morning, I would appear at Killdeer’s Summit Bistro to do my bit before the camera. At first I was nervous. And we did have a few mishaps. Thankfully, Cooking at the Top! was taped. Viewers never saw me slash my hand—actually, sever a minor artery—while boning a turkey during the first episode. The spray of blood onto the prep counter had been distinctly unappetizing. The following week, I produced a meringue so sweaty it needed antiperspirant. I also dropped two roasts—one of them stuffed—and splattered myself with a pitcher of Béarnaise. But with glitches edited out, even I had to admit the Saturday morning broadcasts looked pretty good.

  On the upside, I told jokes on-screen and mixed cream into smashed garlicky potatoes. I chatted about the rejuvenating properties of toasted, crunchy almonds while folding melted butter into almond cake batter. I gushed about the trials and joys of learning to ski as I chopped mountains of Godiva Bittersweet Chocolate. I swore to my viewers that my recipe made the darkest, most sinfully fudgy cookies on the slopes. I even assiduously followed Arthur’s tasting instructions: Take a bite. Moan. Move your hips and roll your eyes. Say M-m-mm, aaah, oooh! Yes! Yes! Watching the footage, Tom had quipped that the program should be called The Food-Sex Show.

  All in all, the first four weeks of taping went well. By Week Four, though, my personal-chef business still had not taken off. I only had one upcoming job. Arthur Wakefield himself had offered me a gig the following week: preparing food for a holiday in-home wine-tasting. Arthur supplemented his floor director income by working as a wine importer. He needed to showcase some new wines—and serve a gourmet meal—to high-end customers and retailers. So, even in the personal-chef department, things were looking up.

  Unfortunately, in Week Five, Cooking at the Top! hit a snag, one occasioned by a predictable Colorado crisis: blizzard.

  “Don’t get hysterical on me, Goldy!” Arthur wailed into the telephone December the sixteenth, the night before we were due to tape the fifth episode. I held the receiver away from my ear and pictured him: Short, slender, with a handsome face and a head covered with wiry black hair, Arthur was single and, with the income from two jobs, well-off. Unfortunately, no matter whether he was fretting about the show or his precious wines, he wore an air of gloom. Sporting a band-collared black shirt, black pants, and brown rubber-soled shoes, he strode everywhere hunched forward with apprehension. That guy is stuck in a Doppler shift, my son—currently studying ninth-grade physics—had commented. As Arthur quacked into the receiver that night, I imagined him tipping forward precipitously, straining to peer glumly out his condo window, anxiously assessing the thickening wash of snow.

  Without taking time to say hello, he’d launched into his late-night communication with a grim update on the severe winter storm bearing down on us. The weather service was predicting four feet of white stuff. Nevertheless—Arthur tensely informed me—despite problems with transportation and prepping, Front Range PBS had to shoot the show the next morning. I told him that it would take me an hour just to ready the ingredients on the menu. Arthur didn’t want to hear it.

  “Then leave an hour early so you can deal with the roads!” he snarled. So much for sympathy.

  I gripped the phone and glanced out the bay window Tom had installed during our remodeling. An old-fashioned street lamp illuminated fast-falling flakes swirling from a black sky. In the living room, wind whistled ominously down our fireplace flue. I sighed.

  “Sorry I snapped,” Arthur moaned. “I’ve got a blizzard and a crew in revolt. Plus, my boss says our show has to raise money. The annual fund-raiser got canceled, so we’re up.” He moaned again, pitifully. I registered the clink of a bottle tapping glass. “One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We have to do it.”

  I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn’t ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk our lives remembering someone who was already dead.

  “Killdeer’s been dumped big time,” Arthur reported dourly. “We’ve already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn’t open my door this morning.” He
stopped to drink something. “Are you getting any?”

  In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. “About a foot today,” I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six-month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer—all ski resorts west of the Divide.

  Arthur groaned. “The snowboarders and skiers? They’re ecstatic! They’ve got an eighty-inch base in December! How’m I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew’s having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast.” I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. “Know what that crew’s thinking, Goldy? I’ll tell you. They’re thinking Donner Pass.”