Tough Cookie gbcm-9 Page 13

  Something more astonishing adorned the walls: at least a dozen collages by Boots Faraday. I tilted my head at one, a montage of tall grasses, bushes, and evergreen shrubs, all sprinkled with snow. I peered close and read the title: “Winter Garden.”

  From behind me, Arthur gushed, “Boots is one of my best customers.” I almost dropped my box in surprise. “It’s coming into her busy season,” Arthur continued airily, “Christmas and all. She’ll be ordering cases and cases of wine for the showings in her house. She sells tons of her work that way.”

  “More than in the local gallery?” I asked innocently. I’d had a feeling that saleslady wasn’t entirely forthright.

  “Oh, please. Those Killdeer Gallery people think ‘Western Art’ is anything with a pony in it. Come on out to the kitchen, please,” he entreated. “And in answer to your earlier question, no, I’m not doing well today.” I shot him a sympathetic glance. He looked piqued. “My first wine shipment was supposed to arrive and didn’t. I’m going to have to postpone the party until Monday, which makes me look terrible. I tossed all night, trying to think how to re-invite people. Haven’t had a thing to eat.”

  “Let’s go, then!” I said heartily. Postponement was no problem for me: My calendar was depressingly open. No matter what the problems were, if Arthur was hungry, he was mine.

  He pointed down the hall. I schlepped my box into a cheerful space with yellow walls, bright white tile counters, and a yellow-and-white floor of handmade tiles: hallmark of a noncook, because tiles spell major back pain. On the walls were bright tourist posters of France splashed with hues of lavender, yellow, and gray.

  Arthur slumped into a ladder-back chair at his tiled breakfast bar, where eight or so bottles of wine sported jaunty ribboned bows and handwritten cards screaming You’re Invited, Again! “I’ve got ten cases of wines sitting at Denver International Airport,” he complained glumly. He stared at the wine bottles and a handwritten list next to them.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Where at DIA?”

  “Customs,” he answered dolefully.

  “Got a medium-sized pan?”

  He gestured wearily to a bank of drawers. I located a saucepan and started cooking the oatmeal mixture I’d brought. I wanted to ask Arthur if he’d heard anything new about Doug Portman’s suspicious death. More importantly, I wanted to see his reaction to my question. I also wondered fleetingly how we were supposed to do an intake interview if Arthur needed to 1) have something to eat and 2) spring valuable cases of wine from Customs. I stirred the creamy oatmeal mixture when it started to bubble. I couldn’t ask him questions yet. I knew the dangers of trying to discuss business with, or elicit information from, a client with low blood sugar. I’d face crankiness, irrationality, and indecision. You don’t get to be a successful food person without taking instant stock of such things.

  Within five minutes the spicy orange-and-cinnamon oatmeal was hot and ready to be topped with a chunk of butter and spoonfuls of dark brown sugar. Arthur stirred in the melting pond of butter and sugar and hungrily scooped up enormous mouthfuls. It wouldn’t help him deal with a bureaucracy, but it would get him through the next couple of hours. I sat down and pulled out my notebook.

  “Gosh, this is fabulous,” he commented. “You have to do this for our last show.” Did I detect color seeping into those cheeks, or was it wishful thinking on my part? He looked at me sheepishly, then scraped up the last of the cereal. “I realized in the middle of the night that I hadn’t been very nice to you after you had your car accident. I’m sorry. This day has been crazy trying to figure out how I’m going to change the buffet. Are you okay?”

  “I am, thanks. Actually, the car accident was the second terrible thing to happen to me yesterday. After our show, I … discovered the guy who’d been killed while skiing.” Arthur raised his eyes questioningly. I said, “The guy was someone I used to know.”

  Arthur jumped up to rinse his bowl. With his back to me, he said warily, “How did you know Doug Portman?”

  “Through my husband. Do you remember, he’s in law enforcement?”

  “Yes. Coffee?” he asked as he reached for a liter bottle of spring water.

  “Sure, thanks. Did you know Portman?”

  His face when he turned back to me was even more flushed. I was sure it wasn’t owing to the oatmeal. “I guess you could say I knew him. You know, he lived here in town. But listen,” he said with sudden energy, “you didn’t tell me how you’re doing.” He stopped the coffee-making and beamed at me. “That’s what I really want to know. Can’t have my star in pain for our last show.”

  I sighed. “My arm’s a bit banged up. The van’s totally trashed. But I’m borrowing a vehicle, and I’m still alive, so I’m very thankful.”

  “Well, then. So am I.” He returned to his coffee preparation. First he fastidiously poured the bottled water into an espresso-machine tank. When he opened an airtight crock, it went pow! and I jumped. Arthur giggled as he ladled out coffee beans. Next he pressed a button on his grinder, which growled like a motorcycle. He then dosed, tapped, and revved up the coffee machine. Half a minute later, he placed two tiny cups of hot, dark, foamy espresso onto the tiled bar. I took a sip, pronounced it marvelous, and refrained from any mention of how it was certainly the most noisily-produced cup of coffee I’d ever imbibed.

  “Okay,” I began, with a glance at the kitchen clock, then at my notebook. “When do you have to leave for the airport?”

  “Five minutes.” His eyes immediately turned anxious. “I’m not going to be able to discuss the food for the wine-tasting today. It’s just …” He slurped his espresso, then squealed when he, too, glanced at the clock. “I also need to … darn it!”

  “Need to what? Why don’t you let me help out?” I offered. “There is that personal in ‘personal chef.’”

  “I need to deliver these wines with the new invites. I don’t suppose you … never mind. Let me go get the buffet wine list. Then I really have to leave. We can finish planning on the phone.”

  As soon as he whisked out of his kitchen, I put the foodstuffs into his barren refrigerator. It looked as if Arthur never ate properly. I washed our coffee cups and laid out instructions for reheating the pork dinner. I also glanced at the list of folks to receive the new bottles-with-invitations. It included the name Boots Faraday. Hmm. I’d just finished setting Arthur’s dinner table—for one—when he returned. He’d slicked down his hair and wore a black turtleneck, black pants, and black sport coat. He handed me a piece of paper scribbled with foods and names of wines. Then his eyes shot to the beribboned bottles of wine. Indecision tightened his face. One of the best ways to get what you want out of people, I’d discovered, is to apply light pressure when they’re in a hurry. I gave him a bright smile.

  “Look, Arthur, can I do anything else for you? Since we’re not going over the menu, I have until two. Why not let me help you?”

  “I have to deliver these wines to people coming to the buffet.”

  “Let’s see.” I set aside the wines sheet and frowned at the list of guests. “Boots Faraday,” I mused aloud.

  “Boots is very well known in the Killdeer arts community.”

  “Sure, I know.” That’s why I wanted to weasel my way into her affections, I added mentally, because she was so well known with the local artsy-craftsy crowd. She might know more about Doug Portman than I’d ever learn from Arthur. I also wanted to find out what she was doing at the bistro the day of Doug’s death. “Boots Faraday,” I repeated pleasantly, as if the artist and I were big buds. “I bought one of her works for my husband for Christmas. I saw her up at the bistro before we started our show on Friday. I just didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

  “Ah,” he said, visibly relaxing. “So you know Boots, then.”

  “Not intimately—”

  He waved this away. “All right, you know Mountain Man Wines in town?” I murmured that I would find it. “They’ll do these deliveries. Have them send me a bill.”

/>   I nodded and asked, “How about the one for Boots? Can I take it to her?”

  He shrugged. “She usually has lunch at the Gorge-at-the-Gondola Café, know it?”

  “I can find it. Happy to be your wine courier, Arthur.”

  “Great. Here’s the guest list and a general list of food for the buffet, then. Remember …” He blushed. “I … want the guests to think I did most of the cooking myself. So whatever you choose to prepare, make it something that I can very obviously be finishing when they get here.” I shot him a serious look. “I just need them to think I’m a great cook, that’s all. I’ll say you helped me, don’t worry.”

  “No problem, Arthur. I’ll even write out the directions on a tiny piece of paper and you can eat that when your doorbell rings.”

  His smile was mirthless. “Good thing I’ve been working with you all this time. I’m used to your sense of humor.” I repressed a sigh and thought, Ditto, brother. I tucked both lists into my notebook. “With any luck,” he added wearily, “I’ll have the wines this afternoon. We can discuss the dishes themselves tomorrow. That won’t be too late, will it?”

  “Of course not.” Never tell clients the problems they’re causing you, even if you long to strangle them for their sudden changes of plans. As he packed up the wine-invitations, I said, “There’s dinner in the refrigerator for you, Arthur. Gift from me. Instructions are on the counter.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He spoke with more fatigue than gratitude. He glanced at the paper on the counter, then gave me a curious look. “That’s what you did while I was changing? Wrote out all those instructions?”

  “Well, yes—” What did you think I was going to do, just sit here?

  “Hmm,” was his only comment as his eyes flicked around his kitchen. I had the distinct feeling that he suspected I’d stolen something while he was out of the room. Without saying more, he picked up the box of bottles and led me toward the front door. In the hallway, he clumsily turned to check that a door beside the kitchen entry was locked. Then he glanced at one of the figurines on the hall table.

  It was a Dresden shepherdess, I noted. Gee Arthur, I thought, why not hoist a neon sign saying Valuables Here! Why else would he lock a door inside his house? What did Arthur have that was so valuable?

  Wines? Duh, Mom.

  I carefully reversed the Rover down the snowy driveway, then waited as Arthur’s garage door slid open and he backed out. No Subaru for him, but a huge, shiny, black Escalade, the Cadillac of four-wheel-drives. He’d decorated the grille with a bushy green Christmas wreath. His vanity plate read: VinGeek. Either he’d inherited a bundle or the wine business was great. But if either possibility were true, why would you work as a PBS floor director? Arthur was an enigma, I decided, as I drove into Killdeer to find the Gorge-at-the-Gondola Café.

  I knew her as soon as I stepped into the restaurant: the golden mane of hair, the strong-featured, slender face. Boots Faraday even looked artistic. With her head tilted, she’d fixed her gaze out the window. She wasn’t expecting me, so I watched her while coming up with my lines of introduction.

  A sudden crash made her turn. Next to her table, a chubby, tow-headed toddler had tripped over his ski boots and toppled to the floor. He was crying with fear. Without missing a beat, Boots leaned over and scooped the boy up. In one fluid movement, she lifted him, boots and all, to his mother. When the mother declined to take him—he had to weigh over fifty pounds in those boots—Boots playfully threw the child up into the air and caught him. Both of them squealed with laughter.

  So: artistic-looking, and strong as an ox. Her angular, British-film-star face was complemented by a long, lithe, muscular body. Unfortunately, as soon as she had the delighted boy righted on his boots, she straightened and caught sight of me. If you could chill someone with a look, I’d say I’d just been flash-frozen.

  I gripped her wine bottle and made my way resolutely across the crowded room. If what Tom had said the previous day was true, my own motives for meeting with Doug Portman could be called into question. I really needed to chat with Boots, to find out what she’d seen the previous morning, and, if I was lucky, what she knew. But did she know who I was? Why had I received that icy look? Boots Faraday did not exactly look thrilled at the prospect of chatting with me. My heart sank.

  “You’re the artist, right?” I blurted out when I arrived at her table. “Boots Faraday, the collage person? This wine and buffet invitation is for you. It’s from Arthur Wakefield, but he had to go to Denver. A little problem with Customs.”

  Intense blue eyes assessed me: Was I friend or foe?

  I introduced myself and said I was a caterer and personal chef, maybe she’d seen Cooking at the Top! She nodded slightly, and I plunged recklessly on: “I love your work. I’ve just bought one of your collages for my husband for Christmas. I’d love to hear a bit about how you create your collages. I’ll pay for my own meal, of course. Or, do you not like to eat with fans?”

  In the face of my obnoxiousness, she stared down at her silverware and ran a long-fingered hand along the knife. Her face remained unreadable.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to lunch with a stranger,” I gushed. “People are always wanting me to talk about recipes. Frankly, I’d rather not talk than hear tales about substituting cooking sherry for Dry Sack—”

  She lifted her eyes at that, and smiled, Mona Lisa-ish. “You’re the one with the eggshells in the cookies.” Her voice was deep and pleasant. “I saw the show.” She paused. “The annual fund-raiser in memory of Nate Bullock is very dear to my heart.”

  I placed the wine on the table. “Oh, really? How come?”

  “Arthur probably told you Nate Bullock and I were good friends.”

  “That Arthur! No, he didn’t mention it.”

  Boots glanced out the window again. Was she looking for someone? “I thought my old friendship with Nate Bullock was the reason Arthur asked me to do some collages for the set.” She turned back and regarded me. Her formidable blue eyes were clouded, inscrutable. “You can sit down.”

  Her table afforded a panoramic view of the base of Killdeer Mountain. The investigators must have finished, for skiers and snowboarders now raced down the runs. When our waitress shuffled up, I ordered while Boots tucked the wine bottle into her large leather handbag. Boots said, “Ditto,” to a Chicken Caesar Salad. Not sure where to start with her, I launched us into an emotionally flat exchange of pleasantries about food, wine, and living in Killdeer.

  Boots seemed enigmatic, almost on her guard. Maybe it was because she was famous and met adoring fans all the time. I gabbled on, pretending not to notice. By the time we were taking dainty bites of crisp romaine lettuce sprinkled with hot grilled chicken, freshly grated Parmesan, and butter-sautéed croutons, every innocuous subject had been exhausted.

  I moved my plate aside. Now or never. How to broach the subject of Doug Portman without seeming nosy? On the other hand, I’d probably already hit the top of the Intrusivity Chart by crashing her lunch.

  “The collage I bought was ‘Spring Detritus,’ ” I began. “And I’ve seen your work all over. Being in a small town like Killdeer, was it hard to establish an art-making career?”

  Her deep laugh was rich and seductive, and made me smile. Then she narrowed those startling blue eyes. “You must think I’m pretty dumb.”

  My smile melted. “Excuse me?”

  The eyes once again turned chilly. “What’s this about, really?”

  I fiddled with the side of the plate. Uh-oh. “What is what about?”

  “Just tell me what you really want to know. Aside from”—she raised her voice to mimic my question—“if it was hard to establish an art-making career?” Her eyes mocked me.

  “Uh, I’m just a caterer who bought one of your—”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “I—”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Well, I am doing a personal-chef gig for Arthur Wakefield, and he did ask me to bring you the win
e. I bought one of your pieces and I do want to know about your career. And”—I took a fortifying breath—“since you’re a local artist, then you must know, have known, Doug Portman. The local art critic.”

  She tilted back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You want to know if I knew Doug Portman? Why?”

  “I … was supposed to meet him after the show yesterday,” I confessed. “As you no doubt have heard, he was killed skiing down from the bistro before we could meet.” Time to tell the truth. “The Sheriff’s department is classifying his accident as a suspicious death. That’s why they had to close the mountain for so long this morning.” Boots lifted her eyebrows. “As I’m the only one who seems to know why he was carrying a lot of cash when he died, the police are asking me a bunch of questions. Believe me, you don’t want to be the one the cops are questioning, when it’s a suspicious death.”

  “Really.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “once I figured out you were the artist who was hanging work yesterday morning, I was wondering if you saw anything … you know, strange. With Doug, I mean.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she replied immediately, then looked away, out the window.

  “No, you didn’t? Did you see Doug at all? Was he talking to anybody during the show? Did he seem upset? Sick? Can’t you tell me anything?”

  She swiveled to face me. “I read that article on you, you know. The one in the Killdeer Courier that Arthur placed to publicize your cooking show.”

  “An article? Actually, publicity for the show is Arthur’s department—”

  “You should have read the article,” she interrupted me sharply. “It said you were a caterer, and that you were starting in the personal chef business.” I shook my head and opened my eyes wide, as in So? “And that’s not all. Let’s see—‘Goldy Schulz is also known for occasionally, and unofficially, helping her husband—a homicide investigator—solve crimes. So if she cozies up to you for a chat, you might want to call your lawyer.’”