Tough Cookie

by Diane Mott Davidson

  With little success, Arch again tried to hide a smile. “All right.” To Tom and me he announced, “I’ll bring Todd something, too.”

  As soon as they left the waiting room, I ran Marla’s theory about the accident by Tom.

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Did you think Barton was aiming for Jack?” I mumbled that I did not know enough about the dynamics of snowboarding. Tom drew his cellular out of his pocket and punched buttons. Jail, he mouthed to me. While he was on hold, a large Hispanic family entered the waiting room. All looked desperately nervous and worried. I counted the number of kids and adults and matched it to the available seats—an old caterer’s habit—and realized not all of them would be able to sit down while awaiting the fate of their loved one, because Todd and Arch had left their books, schoolbags, coats, and other paraphernalia all over the place.

  Since Tom was still on the phone, I moved the boys’ stuff. Whether the two of them would do any school-work while we were here was extremely doubtful. When I tried to lug the huge load over to our couch, the cursed quantum mechanics spattered-cookie-sheet experiment crashed from a bag, spewing thousands of bits of dried frosting all over the waiting-room carpet. A stray chunk pelted the eye of a twentyish male member of the Spanish-speaking family, and he cried out. I snagged some tissues and hurried over to his side, mumbling one of the few Spanish phrases I knew: “Lo siento, lo siento.” I’m sorry. He grinned and wiped his eye. My Spanish was very rusty, but it seemed the rest of his family was reprimanding him for overreacting, clucking to each other that Diego was such a crybaby. I told him again that I was sorry, and Diego announced in perfect English: “No problem. I was just surprised.”

  Oh-kay. I returned to where the cookie sheet was perched beneath a mountain of school equipment. When I tried to extract it, Arch’s Spenser book toppled from his bag, pulverizing several hundred of the hardened icing pieces. I stomped to Tom’s side and savagely threw the remaining books and bags onto the couch. Except for Diego, the Hispanic family watched open-mouthed, certain, I was sure, that I had a relative in emergency psychiatric care.

  Amused and still on hold on the telephone, Tom gave a silent clap to my temperamental performance until he finally reached the person he was seeking. He asked about the location and duration of incarceration for Jack Gilkey and Barton Reed. He drew out his spiral notebook and jotted down something, thanked the person providing the information, then disconnected.

  “Four years ago,” Tom told me in a low voice, “Cañon City was already running well over capacity. That’s when Reed began serving his fraud conviction. Because there was no room for him at the state prison, he was incarcerated at the Furman County Jail. And you already know that when Gilkey was found guilty of criminally negligent homicide two years ago, he was also sent to the county jail. They were in the same section, on the same floor, as John Richard Korman.” He flipped his notebook closed. “So you have to figure Gilkey hadn’t just heard a story about Reed being denied parole. He knew the story because they knew each other. When Jack was granted parole, I bet it didn’t go over too well with the former champion snowboarder.”

  “Darn it,” I grumped, as frustrated by this information as I was with the schoolbook mess. “If only the Furman County cops could get evidence to see if Portman was dirty. The guy must have kept records. Well, maybe not. But if Barton Reed had some information about Jack Gilkey, or Doug Portman, that we could get out of him, it sure would answer a lot of questions.” And deal with the early-morning innuendoes from Reggie Dawson, I added silently.

  Tom raised his bushy eyebrows. “Our guys are going through forty-six boxes of military memorabilia, Miss G. Lotta stuff in there, lotta places to hide things like files or computer disks.”

  “I know, I know. But the more I try to figure out what happened with Doug Portman, the more questions come up. What’s the truth about the death of Fiona Wakefield?” I looked out the waiting-room window. Dark, silver-edged clouds did not spell anything but more snow. “Who triggered the avalanche that killed Nate? Or was it even triggered by a person? If it was, where is that person? Why did Barton Reed try to kill somebody today? And exactly whom did he try to kill? Doggone it!”

  Tom shook his head. “I forgot to tell you, that collage lady called you today. Boots Faraday. Wants to see you the next time you come to Killdeer. You’re supposed to give her a call.”

  “Oh, peachy. I can’t wait.” I thought for a minute. “Have your guys talked to Barton Reed?”

  “Not sure.”

  “May I visit him? Am I allowed to?”

  Tom pursed his lips and considered. Finally he said, “You can visit him. But he’s got a badly broken leg, he’s lost some blood, and he’s in pretty bad shape. He’s immobilized and can’t hurt you. I don’t want you hurting him, though.” I gave him a sour look. “If Reed gets better, he may face criminal charges for assault,” he told me, then paused. “There’s a Jeffco deputy at his door. Room ten-nineteen. The deputy knows me, just tell him you’re my wife. The only person I’ve told him not to let in is Jack Gilkey.”

  I didn’t need prodding. Tom promised he’d take care of Arch and Marla, and especially Todd, when they returned.

  At the door of 1019, I identified myself to a young Jefferson County deputy and asked to see Barton Reed. The deputy inquired about ID, meticulously scrutinized my driver’s license, then told me to go on in. I knocked gently. From within came a groan.

  If Reed didn’t want company, I would leave immediately. Even aggressively snowboarding convicts deserved hospital privacy. I pushed open the surprisingly heavy metal door.

  A single small light illuminated the form in the bed. Barton Reed’s right leg was thickly bandaged and suspended. His head and left arm were also swathed in gauze. Flecks of dried blood clung to his forehead and cheek. All of his jewelry had been removed; tiny dark holes freckled his ears. The earrings lay in a dish on a metal bureau. On top was a silver cross on a tarnished chain.

  “Barton?” I whispered.

  He was breathing heavily. “Henh?”

  “Do you want me to leave? I’m just here to visit.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like, “Who you?”

  “Goldy Schulz,” I replied. I moved closer to the bed so he could see me. One of his eyelids was blackened, swollen shut. The other eye—clouded and blue— opened and regarded me blearily. I went on: “I first saw you last summer. At Aspen Meadow Health Foods. You were getting an herbal cancer treatment.” He shook his head, and I wondered how much painkiller they’d given him. “And I was at Killdeer today. I saw the accident.”

  His groan was deep and guttural. “You from … the church?”

  The question took me back. “The church?”

  His face was sheened with sweat. “I’m gonna die.”

  “Of course you’re not,” I said, panicked. “Let me call a doc—”

  “Nah.” The sole blue eye assessed me. “Why’re you here?”

  “I just wanted to see you—”

  He sighed. “Is she dead?”

  I swallowed, then said, “Who?”

  “Lady I hit.” His bulging eye questioned me.

  The lady I hit? So he didn’t know Eileen Druckman? Had he not been aiming directly for her? “No. She’s hurt, but hanging in there.”

  “Is he … dead?”

  I hesitated again, torn between wanting to get information and trying to be pastoral to a man who believed he was dying. “Who?”

  “Kee-rist! You an owl or somethin’?” This question sent him into a fit of spasmodic coughing.

  “Gilkey?” I said when his paroxyms abated. “Were you aiming for Jack Gilkey?”

  Reed started coughing again. “Is he dead?” he repeated hoarsely.

  “Do you mean Jack Gilkey? No, he’s not dead. Do you mean Doug Portman? Yes. Did you hit him, too, the way you hit that lady?”

  “I’m dying,” Barton Reed repeated dully. “There’s no hope.”

  “There’s alw
ays hope.”

  He turned his head away.

  Since he didn’t seem to want to talk about Jack Gilkey or Doug Portman, I said brightly, “You’re quite a snowboarder. Maybe when you get better—”

  “She wouldn’t do the half-pipe with me anymore. Said she was hurt but that was … crap. Just chickened out.”

  I knew better than to say Who? a third time. I decided to try the Rogerian technique, one of the few remembered remnants from a mostly-useless psych degree. The famous shrink Carl Rogers had maintained that you should always repeat what the patient says. See where it leads. I repeated dutifully, “She said she was hurt.”

  “She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened.”

  “It never happened.”

  “Is there an echo in here?” Barton turned from the window and batted his good eye at me. A puzzled look came over his face. “Is he dead? I gotta know.”

  I folded my hands and tried to think of what to say. Barton Reed was confused. He was convinced he was at death’s door. He craved information or absolution or something, and I just didn’t know how to provide it.

  He groaned. “You from the church?” he repeated.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then pray for me.”

  I took his bandaged hand in both of mine and clasped it. No matter what, give what you’ve got, Rorry and I always told our class. God can take a couple of sardines and five hard rolls and turn it into a feast, and God can help you pray with an incoherent criminal in physical and spiritual pain.

  “Our Father,” I began; he mouthed most of the prayer with me. When we finished, he was asleep, and I hadn’t learned who “he” was in his insistent question: Is he dead? I figured I could come back and visit him the next day, and hope he’d be more coherent.

  But it did not happen. The next morning, Tom and I received a call: Barton Reed had died of a heart attack at midnight.

  CHAPTER 19

  That morning, Thursday, after we got the call, I prayed for Barton Reed. Then I cleared my mind and did my yoga before pulling myself into the shower. I couldn’t focus. Again and again I saw Barton Reed, crouched, hell-bent, racing down the slope, sending Eileen sprawling. The previous night, I had not been allowed to see Eileen. The doctor told Todd his mother was doing so well she could probably be out of Intensive Care today. Todd, subdued and shaken, had come home with us. He’d spent the night in Arch’s room, in Julian’s old bed.

  Jack Gilkey, his eyes red and swollen, had informed us that he was spending the night at the hospital. He asked Tom to call the bistro so someone else could do the lunch shift the next day. Before we left Lutheran, the Hispanic family took notice of poor Jack. They told us the grandfather of their clan had been in a car accident, and they, too, would be spending the night in the waiting room. Diego offered Jack hot homemade tamales. The last I saw of Jack, he was holding a tamale in one hand and a Dos Equis in the other.

  Now, as I toweled off, I wondered how he was doing. Sleeping on a couch always seems convenient until you’ve done it for six or eight hours. I slipped into warm clothes and descended to the kitchen. Tom, who was poring over a plumbing manual, set it down to fix me a double espresso topped with a soft dollop of whipped cream. I sipped it and stared out the bay window in my no-longer-commercial kitchen. Too much had happened. Too many people had been hurt. No break, no light, appeared on the horizon. Outside, as if echoing my gloom, a steady snowfall that had begun during the night showed no sign of letting up.

  “I’m taking the boys to school,” Tom announced. “They want breakfast at McDonald’s first. Can I bring you something?”

  “No, thanks. Are they sure they want to eat out? I have to put together breakfast dishes for today’s show, and I can offer them something good in about half an hour.…”

  Tom touched my shoulder. “Todd says he doesn’t want to sit around. He’s asked the doctor to call him at school if there is an emergency.” He smiled mischievously. “And both boys are desperate to get their Spenser presentation over with so they can have their Christmas party. Nothing like the lure of Christmas cookies.”

  “Oh, Lord!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to make anything—”

  Tom picked up a foil-covered platter from the marble counter and crinkled up a corner. Underneath the silvery wrapping lay dozens of crisp brown Chocolate Coma Cookies, each one studded with dried tart cherries, toasted almonds, and dark chocolate chips.

  “What in the—?”

  “Miss G., you wanted your recipe tested, didn’t you? After I finished putting in the drains—”

  “Tom! You’re done?”

  “ ‘O, ye of little faith,’ ” he began as the boys catapulted into the kitchen howling that they’d fed the animals, could they please go get some breakfast burritos? Todd and Arch both seemed better, each buoyed by the other’s presence, each enthusiastic about the prospect of their upcoming holiday party. They did not want to discuss Eileen’s condition, but only asked me to send them good vibes for their presentation. I promised I would.

  Tom set two cookies on a small china plate and left it by my espresso. The crunch of almonds, tang of cherries, and rich, luscious chocolate woke me right up. I decided to call the upcoming day’s TV menu “Feel-Your-Oats Holiday Breakfast.” Rashers of crisp Canadian bacon, a bowl of icy vanilla yogurt, and a mountain of fresh fruit would go perfectly with the two starchy dishes I’d decided to prepare—spicy Swiss oatmeal and homemade bread. By seven-thirty, I had called early-rising Julian. He was flattered to fax me his new five-grain bread recipe. I thanked him, then proofed yeast while measuring out the cereal. A fresh, dimple-skinned orange, a new jar of Indonesian cinnamon, and more tart cherries beckoned to go into the oats.

  By nine-fifteen, I was actually humming to myself, a sure sign the culinary work had once again helped me get life back into perspective. I realized the time set for Arch and Todd’s presentation was only half an hour away. I checked that the bread dough had risen properly and sent the boys a silent prayer of encouragement.

  The phone rang. Concerned that it might be the hospital calling about Eileen, I picked up rather than letting the machine answer. It was not the hospital. It was Boots Faraday.

  “Look, Goldy,” she said without preamble, “Arthur Wakefield insists I owe you an apology.”

  “What?”

  “Arthur’s an old friend, and he didn’t mean any harm by running that article about you.” She paused, struggling, I supposed, to adopt an unfamiliar apologetic tone. “I … I heard about your friend Eileen Druckman, and that awful Barton Reed, and that you were there when it happened. I realized that you really are in the middle of a mess.”

  “Yes, it’s bad,” I admitted. But why call me? Unless, of course, she wanted to confess that Doug Portman’s mean critique of her work had driven her to kill him six days ago.

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you,” Boots went on. “I … I … don’t know whether it’s relevant. But … I’ve decided to tell you anyway—It doesn’t matter anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I do know what Nate was doing the day he died. It wasn’t tracking lynx. That was just the standard story he told me to put out if he ever got caught.”

  “Got caught doing what?”

  “Filming in Killdeer’s out-of-bounds area. He … didn’t think he’d get killed, of course.” She sighed. “He was trying to make money, before his baby arrived. He … was making a sports-genre video.”

  “A what?”

  “An outdoor sports film, haven’t you ever seen them? You can catch them on the sports channels. The most popular around here are the extreme snowboarding videos. They show boarders leaping and spinning and jumping off ledges and generally risking death for a ride.”

  “Okay, yes,” I said, remembering the big screen at Cinda’s. “But … what kind of money could you hope to make from one of those?”

  She laughed at my naïveté. “Big money. The good ones sell for fifty to a hundred thousand. For the great ones, you can
make two hundred fifty thousand to half a million.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. Nate had talked to a distributor who was a friend of mine, a collage client. The distributor wanted to see a rough cut of whatever extreme snowboarding film he could do. But Nate didn’t want to get Rorry’s hopes up, so he begged me not to tell anybody.”

  “Was Barton Reed the snowboarder who was with him?”

  “I … don’t know.”

  “Were you the boarder?”

  She groaned. “Of course not. I don’t engage in risky behavior. By the way, that includes sleeping with married men, in case Rorry has been filling you in on her paranoid baloney.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Listen,” she said brusquely, “I’ve been trying to protect Nate’s good-granola-guy reputation for three years. Don’t you think died tracking lynx sounds better than died making money? But I wanted you to know the truth. I don’t know if it will relate to any of your problems.”

  Or your problems, I thought, such as my wondering if you triggered the avalanche, and that’s why you’ve been lying for three years. After a moment, I asked, “Did Nate or Rorry know Doug Portman?”

  “Nate knew about Portman through the artists’ association. I’m not sure whether Rorry knew Portman or not. I just wanted you to know the truth about Nate. Because Arthur asked me to talk to you,” she added stiffly. “And he’s a good friend.”

  “Thanks, Boots.” I didn’t say, Is it the truth? Or, Is Arthur more than a friend to you, by any chance? I said only, “You … don’t know anything more about Doug Portman, do you?”

  “Only that he wouldn’t have known a decent piece of artwork if he’d run into it.” She banged the phone down before I could comment.

  I slid the bread into the oven, set the timer, and simmered some of the cinnamon-orange oatmeal mixture to test it. I took a bite of the creamy concoction with its moist tart cherries. Heavenly. I was about to spoon up some more when the phone rang again. Boots, I figured, remembering more truth.