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 around. 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
1½ cups chopped onions
⅛ teaspoon cumin
2 cups cooked, shredded chicken
1¼ cups grated Cheddar cheese
1 cup lowfat or regular sour cream
1 teaspoon salt
½ pound phyllo dough (approximately), thawed
¼ 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 9x13-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 Rover, 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.
Soon I had packed the stewed chicken along with the other ingredients for the strudel. Next to them, I placed the marinade components and miscellaneous items for the fish and crab dishes. Amazing how much you can accomplish when you’re enjoying what you’re doing.
Promptly at seven, Lettie’s father pulled up in his black Jeep. Lettie, a leggy fourteen-year-old with blond French braids, a sweet, lovely face, and perfect teeth, strode up our sidewalk. She wore a white blouse, red plaid kilt, black leather car coat, and ankle-high black boots. The picture of a teenage model—which she was.
“Hey, Mrs. Schulz!” she said brightly when I opened the front door. I had yet to discover how the old Southern version of hello had migrated westward, but never mind.
“Hey,” I replied congenially. “Come in.”
Lettie stepped across the threshold, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “It always smells so great in here!”
“Can I offer you a cookie? Some juice? It’s all ready—”
“That sounds—”
“Hey,” came Arch’s growled greeting from the top of the stairs.
Lettie sparkled. “Good morning, Arch.”
“How about a snack?” I ventured.
“We need to go, Mom,” Arch answered sternly. Today he wore baggy khaki pants, an oversized green sport shirt, and a sleek black vest. He’d combed his dark brown hair back with mousse; it stood in short spikes. If I hugged him a bit carelessly, my cheek would be speared. Not that I would be so thoughtless as to hug him this morning. Rule #32 when dealing with a teenage son: Never touch the coiffure.
I hustled back to the kitchen, tucked two tiny boxes of apple juice and four bagged cookies into Arch’s backpack, then handed him the pack in the foyer. I mumbled, “Treats inside.” Arch glared and shook his head: Stop talking, Mom. Lettie waved gracefully as she bounced down the sidewalk. Arch did not look back.
I rechecked the foodstuffs going to Arthur’s place, kissed Tom twice, and set out. After I crossed the Divide, the sky lightened. Approaching Killdeer, smoke from wood-fires hovered in the valley and turned the air pleasantly acrid. By nine I was pulling into the Elk Ridge Nature Trail parking lot. It was chock-full of brightly clad day-skiers. They were pulling out their skis and poles, calling to each other as steam issued from their mouths, and jouncing along merrily in their ski boots toward the bus stop.
As I wended the Rover through the lot to get to the turnoff to Arthur’s, I passed the glistening humps of snow that marked the base of the Elk Ridge trail. I felt a twinge of jealousy for the skiers. The mid-December day seemed made for skiing: the sun glittered off pristine slopes, the sky extended endlessly in a cloudless periwinkle dome, a light breeze carried fresh, sweet air off the peaks, and five inches of new powder topped an eighty-five-inch base. What more could you want?
Let’s see, I answered myself playfully
as I pulled into Arthur’s driveway. How about a friendlier relationship with my son? But I doubted that was really possible with a fourteen-year-old boy. Well, what else would I like? How about a new van, and my business restored? And oh, yes, to find out what had happened to Doug Portman, and why someone had left me a pile of articles about two other Killdeer deaths from three years ago.
The doorbell bing-bonged into the depths of Arthur’s condo. I realized I was going alone into the house of a man I worked with, but didn’t know very much about. Remembering Tom’s admonition I put down the box I was carrying—causing my injured arm to yelp with pain—and pulled the cellular phone out of my pocket. I dialed my husband’s sheriff’s department answering machine and announced to the tape that I was at the doorstep of Arthur Wakefield’s place. It wasn’t exactly protection, but it was something. Arthur pulled the door open. As usual, he was clutching a pink bottle of antacid.
“Come in, come in,” he said.
“Good morning, Arthur! I was just letting my husband the cop know where I was.”
He shot me a curious look, noticed the box at my feet, struggled to get the Pepto into his pocket, then took the carton. “I’m in a phone battle with a supplier. Might have to go over to Vail to look for some cases of the sauvignon blanc.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. Being a wine importer did not sound like a whole lot of fun.
“You can set up in the kitchen. Need me to carry in any more boxes?”
“That’s okay, Arthur, I can handle it.” Thankfully, the phone rang. Arthur dumped the box into my hands and rushed to take his call.
In the barely-used-but-beautiful yellow-and-white kitchen, it was slow going finding the utensil drawers, cupboard for baking sheets, and bowl and cutting board cabinets. At least Arthur had made a neat design of the buffet schedule, with meticulous notes beside each entrée concerning its placement. Now I just had to teach him how to finish the dishes themselves.
“I heard you had some trouble with Boots Faraday,” Arthur said grimly as he rushed into the kitchen and slammed the portable phone onto the tile counter.
What had Boots Faraday done after we’d met? Spent the rest of the afternoon calling people to complain about me? “I delivered your wine and stayed for lunch. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to like me very much. And by the way, you didn’t tell me you ran an article that described me as a crime-solver, for goodness’ sake.”
“Sorry, sorry, that’s show biz. Hype. Look, I’ll talk to Boots. The Bullock thing is extremely sensitive to her. Rorry is convinced to this day that Boots was having an affair with Nate. I’m sure they weren’t. Boots was just trying to help Nate with some business venture. But Rorry was so jealous that Nate got paranoid. Boots started calling him from pay phones and using coded messages, and that just made matters worse. She’ll come to her senses, don’t worry. I’ll get her to apologize—”
“Please forget it, Arthur.” I hesitated. “What business venture was Boots helping Nate with?”
Arthur shrugged. “Come on, Goldy. It’s all I can do to keep the wine business straight.”
And speaking of business, I was desperate to ask Arthur about his love/hate connection with PBS. But I figured that his TV work, along with his vintages and his complaints to the probate court, was what kept him on antacids. “All right, then,” I said pleasantly, “We’ve got a lot of cooking to do here. Should we start? Please? How about with the salad? I made one of mixed field greens. Didn’t dress it, though.”
“Thank you. Sorry I didn’t call you back about that. Field greens would be marvelous. No vinegar in the dressing, remember.” He gestured at the row of bottles. “Unfortunately, I have only the single bottle of Sancerre for you to make an oil-and-wine vinaigrette.” He sighed and flipped through his Day-Timer. “I’m up to fourteen people, by the way. Two of my customers just returned from Mexico and they want to come. That’s no problem, is it?”
Rule of catering: Never panic in front of the client. Especially on the day of the event. “Um, fourteen people,” I said, stalling. I’d planned on four main dishes—crab, sole, pork, and chicken. Unless we had massive food allergies, that was no problem. “That’s fine,” I replied cheerfully. “And the clients are … ?”
“In the trade. I’ve got two wholesalers coming,” Arthur ticked off on his manicured fingernails, “plus nine of the best customers west of the Divide. And of course, three retailers, who will fill the orders for the customers. Two of the retailers own wine shops, and the third is a restaurateur, not, I might add, your friend Eileen or her dreadful chef.”
“Jack Gilkey,” I supplied gently, and Arthur grimaced. “I was wondering if you’d be in the mood to talk about him—”
He turned away and opened the refrigerator. “Sorry, but I thought you said we needed to talk about the food. Ah, here we go. Two pork tenderloins.” Pulling out a shrink-wrapped packet and a box of phyllo dough, he placed both on the counter, then frowned at the wine bottles as if they were chess pieces. Finally he pulled one forward. “Here’s the Châteauneuf du Pape—”
“Wait. If you’re finishing the dishes later—”
“I already told you that,” he said crossly.
“Phyllo goes back in to chill.”
He sighed hugely, stuffed the slender box on a refrigerator shelf, then energetically twisted the cork out of the red wine. He bonged the bottle onto the counter. “For the pork marinade. It’s a big red from the southern Rhône, just the ticket for a rich meat dish.”
“Okeydoke. Please, Arthur, Jack Gilkey is living with one of my closest friends. I really need to talk to you about him.”
Arthur whirled away from the refrigerator. “So, was Boots right? All you want to do is interrogate people?” he snarled.
“Arthur, calm down. You and I are friends. Somebody sent me books and articles anonymously. To the Aspen Meadow Library. Was it you? The articles were all about your mother’s death.”
Arthur snorted and turned back dismissively to his refrigerator. “You think I have time to do that kind of thing? If I want you to read something, I’ll give it to you, Goldy.” He pulled out a butcher-paper-wrapped package and slapped it on the counter next to the pork. “This is your sole.”
“Arthur, we work together. Please talk to me.”
He whirled, his face furious. “Jack Gilkey is a gold digger. He married my mother for her money. He was twenty years younger than she was, handsome, attentive, quite the flirt. He systematically got her to cut me out of her will, set up a minuscule trust for me, and made himself the beneficiary. My mother must have felt slightly guilty about all this, so if Jack predeceased her, the money would go to public television, since I’d learned to read watching The Electric Company.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t find out any of this until after her death, I’m sorry to say. Only none of Jack Gilkey’s planning and organization worked, because he was a bit too obvious. I’m just glad a jury could see through his story. End of subject.”
“Do you think he bribed Doug Portman to get out of prison early?”
Arthur laughed. “I’m sure he did.”
“Where’d he get the money?”
Arthur put his hands on his hips. “Well, crime-solver, whose dear old friend has scads of money, where do you think?” The phone rang and he grabbed for it. I could tell from the expression the news was not good: the cases of Sancerre still had not arrived.
Eileen had given Jack money to bribe Portman? I didn’t believe it. I washed my hands and pulled out the covered container with the stewed chicken. I separated succulent chunks and strands of chicken and studied the French posters on the walls.
When Arthur hung up, I said, “Look, Arthur, let’s forget about Jack Gilkey for the moment. Doug Portman’s death puts me in a compromising position. I was about to sell him some valuable skis, at less than their market value. He was a parole-board member, and now it looks as if I was trying to buy a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“A fav
or as in please keep my ex-husband behind bars. All I was trying to do was get a quick sale for the skis. But it still looks very bad.”
Arthur’s dark eyes twinkled. “And you without a wholesale license.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I didn’t send you any articles, Goldy. But Doug Portman was on the take. Guess what Portman said to me?” His tone turned vicious; his black eyes narrowed. “That he’d keep Gilkey behind bars, but it would cost me twenty thousand dollars a year. Problem was, my mother’s millions were going to Sesame Street, and I couldn’t spare an extra twenty thou a year.”
“The trust-fund background was in the articles left for me,” I told him. “The article also said that you were challenging the will, claiming Jack had unduly influenced your mother.”
“He did. He turned my mother against me, discouraged her from seeing me, changed their phone number every week, fired the family lawyer, you name it. He thought he could kill her and inherit, so no one would be the wiser. He just didn’t figure he’d get caught. Mother allowed him to swindle her because she wanted that handsome snake-oil salesman to love her.”
I folded sour cream, grated cheddar, and spicy picante sauce into the chicken. “Kill and inherit? Kill is a strong word.”
Tough Cookie Page 18
