Far below, out the window, I could just make out where Hot-Rodder intersected the catwalk. Hot-Rodder Run. Four days ago, Doug Portman, a not-unanimously-popular local art critic and chief of the state parole board, had died there. Portman’s death had also been shrouded in bizarre circumstances, not least of which was that someone had left him a death threat on a greeting card.
Portman must have felt law enforcement closing in on his profitable scam. Doug Portman had planned a Mexican escape—when someone closed a ski run and killed him.
Other strange occurrences might or might not be related to these three deaths, I reflected as we rolled up the last segment of snowy slope. Right after Portman was killed, someone had stolen and then returned Rorry Bullock’s Subaru. Her car might have been the one used in an attempt to dump me over a cliff. Why use Rorry’s car? What was the connection?
One ex-convict, cancer patient Barton Reed, had been denied parole by Portman, and had been mouthing public threats against him. Another ex-con, Jack Gilkey, had been terrified of what Portman’s death could imply for his future. Arthur Wakefield, son of one of the earlier victims, was enraged with Portman for letting Jack Gilkey out on parole, and was working with all his might to get his mother’s will set aside. Arthur had also been tracking Portman’s movements, and had broken into Portman’s condo to snag his mail, which included the ticket to Mexico.
The gondola car slammed open. I waited until the happy visitors had exited before I hopped out, retrieved my skis, and crunched onto the apron of snowpack surrounding the gondola structure. I stabbed my poles into the hard white surface and slotted my boots into my bindings. Let it go for now, I ordered myself. All around, enthusiastic skiers called to each other and sped off down the runs. I might not have a clue about what was going on in the Portman murder investigation, what had happened to Nate Bullock in Elk Valley, or how Fiona Wakefield had died. But I was here for the day. Inside a hooded charcoal-gray ski suit from the Aspen Meadow Secondhand Store, nobody would recognize me. It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was going to give myself the gift of having fun skiing, by golly! Sheesh.
Monday’s storm had blown eastward. Blinding sunshine flashed from between swift-scudding wisps of cloud. Whenever the sun shone, the snow turned to glitter. A gust of mountain air made my skin tingle. I took off on a blue run and felt the heady rush of sudden descent. Down right, down left, down, down, down … the skis obeyed, effortlessly whispering back, swish bend swish bend. Soon I was flying. In the best skiing, the body, mind, and skis are one. If your mind wanders, so do the skis, and your body pays.
“Hey, girlfriend! Not so fast!”
The call came from behind me. I hockey-stopped, throwing a four-foot-high wave of snow onto the yellow boundary cord, by the sign for Jitterbug Run.
“Goldy, for crying out loud!” squealed the voice. “I don’t want to hit you!”
Marla skied up beside me. I laughed and gave her a clumsy hug.
“So you’re going to be my bodyguard for the day. Is skiing a good pastime for heart-attack patients?”
“My cardiologist swears exercise is good for me.”
“And downhill skiing is okay?”
“It’s better than skateboarding, which I told him was my first choice.” Marla’s chosen attire for the slopes this morning was an ultraglamorous one-piece purple ski suit twinkling with shiny yellow squares. With this she wore a bright purple-and-yellow ski hat, streamlined yellow goggles, custom-made boots, and what looked like a new pair of skis.
I asked, “How’d you know where to find me?”
“I remembered the runs we took last year. Plus, Tom said you’d be dressed like a piece of granite.” She grinned. “So when is this dangerous lunch? I’m starving. Oh, and I called Eileen. After lunch, she’s going to tag along with us on her snowboard. We’re supposed to meet her at two at the bistro.”
Oh, brother. “Is Jack coming with her?”
Marla wrinkled her nose as she readjusted her goggles. “Not sure. I hope not. I don’t want some hotshot skier making me feel old.”
“Let’s go then, ancient one.”
We flowed into a rhythm of long slaloms. Marla really was a marvelous skier. She held herself confidently, maneuvering with adept turns and aggressive grace over the bumps. Her chief objections to the sport were the cold and the crowds. As neither was a problem this day, we could swoosh past each other, laugh, and feel the exhilaration of blue skies, smooth slopes, and speed. Finally we pulled up by a black square denoting an advanced run.
“Race ya,” she squealed.
“No way.”
“One, two, three, go!”
And we were off. Two minutes later we collapsed at the bottom. Marla had beaten me handily. We giggled all the way down the catwalk to the gondola.
On the way back up, we had a car to ourselves, and I quickly filled her in on what I’d learned about the Bullocks: the artificial insemination, Rorry’s suspicions about Nate’s infidelity. Marla looked dubious. As far as she knew, Nate Bullock had not been having an affair. Then again, they had not moved in the same circles.
“So pregnant Rorry is the one I’m supposed to be protecting you from today?” she demanded. “That’s why Tom called and asked me to keep you secure?”
I laughed. Since we were lunching with Arthur, I couldn’t tell her about my surreptitious foray into his wine cellar, and risk she’d make a verbal slip. “Tom just worries about me since the van accident. Plus, Arthur makes both of us a little nervous.”
“I will protect you!” Marla vowed as she took off down the slope.
We skied three more fast runs before heading for the Summit Bistro. I’d forewarned Marla that Arthur wasn’t expecting her, in case he was less than charming. But when we stomped through the wooden doors, Arthur, leaning against a stucco wall by the ski boot check, grinned broadly.
“Do you enjoy wine?” he asked Marla solicitously after I’d introduced them.
“I used to, but it doesn’t go with my heart medication,” she replied with a twinkly smile. “But if you recommend a particular vintage, I’ll order a case for my cardiologist.”
“Let’s go, then,” Arthur said as he whisked us toward the table he’d chosen. To Marla, he murmured, “Remind me if there’s a retail wine merchant in Aspen Meadow.…”
When our waitress appeared, Marla ordered shrimp brochettes with no oil and no butter. Arthur said he’d have the same, but with the fats. He cheerfully pulled a large silver flask from his pack while I ordered vegetarian chili in a bread bowl. For someone commemorating the anniversary of a tragic death, I thought he seemed awfully chipper.
“Arthur,” I began, “I know this day is significant for you, I mean with your mother—”
“Wait a minute, I know you!” Marla cried. Folks at neighboring tables glanced our way. Marla, unfazed, continued: “Your mother was Fiona Wakefield. Fiona and I used the same hair colorist in Denver.”
Arthur unscrewed the flask. “How long ago was this?” he asked evenly.
“Four years.” Marla reflected momentarily, then plunged on. “So you’re the one who works with Goldy on the PBS show?”
Arthur nodded and poured equal amounts of red wine into the bowls of two wineglasses on the table. “A robust Côtes du Rhône,” he intoned reverently, placing a glass in front of me. Well, I guess this was going to be one of those rare times when I had wine with lunch. Anything for the client, as they say.