Tough Cookie

“Nothing yet. If Gilkey gave Portman money in exchange for an early release, we can’t find any record of it. We talked to Jack, and to Eileen, very informally, and both say Portman really liked Jack, and that there was no money involved. We checked out Jack’s alibi for the times of both Portman’s death and the break-in. There’s one person who remembers being with him for most of the lunch prep. Four people were with him while they were cooking the meal itself. By the time Jack got off work, Portman’s place had been burgled. The receptionist at Portman’s condo complex said a man in a uniform came in around noon, showed ID, claimed he was there to check the security system. She didn’t see him come out, so she figures he was the one who broke into Portman’s place. Eileen says she was skiing most of the day. But she was alone, no witnesses.”

“So her alibi isn’t airtight,” I said reluctantly. “What about Arthur Wakefield?”

Tom shook his head. “Swears he was skiing alone. No alibi for the time of Portman’s death, no alibi for the time of the burglary.”

I thought for a minute. “Could Doug have kept another office, apartment, or house, where he might have hidden records of bribes? A lot of folks have condos in Killdeer as second homes.”

“Not that we’ve been able to determine. He only listed the Killdeer condo with the parole board for an address. Now here’s something puzzling: Portman hadn’t quit the parole board, but it looks as if he was leaving or moving, because most of his belongings were in boxes. His military memorabilia were carefully packed in about forty or so boxes marked Store. Whether that meant put these in storage or

sell these at a store, we have no idea. We’re still looking into it.” I nodded, mystified. Tom glanced at his first sheet, then paused. Finally he asked, “Goldy, how many antiques dealers did you contact about selling the Tenth Mountain Division skis?”

“I called a guy in Lodo, a couple on South Broadway, and a woman in Vail. Not one of them was willing to give us more than five thousand dollars, and then they wanted to take a commission on top of that. Wholesale, they called it. But everyone said the skis were worth at least ten thousand. So I figured we—I—ought to be able to sell them on my own.”

“So you offered them to Portman. Because you knew from your dating days that he had an interest in that kind of thing.”

I nodded, but, watching the expression on Tom’s face, felt increasingly uneasy.

He went on: “But you didn’t want to tell me that Portman was our buyer, because you’d dated him before we met, right? And you felt funny about that, contacting an old boyfriend, even though he wasn’t a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t feel funny, I felt foolish.” When Tom said nothing, I mumbled, “Yes, something along those lines.”

“So you struck a deal with Portman for the skis.”

“He was willing to pay eight thousand—”

“Which was close to the amount of cash they found on him, and scattered on the slopes.”

“Tom! Why is that a problem?”

Tom pressed his lips together and stared at the swirling, silent action on the television. “You were selling valuable skis to a parole board member with no intermediary. Meanwhile, your ex-husband is in jail, facing parole in the not-too-distant future. Think about that. You were selling skis to a man who might be in a position to do you a favor down the road, by

denying your ex-husband parole.”

“At the time, I didn’t even know Doug was on the parole board!” I protested.

“Someone might say you were trying to influence him.”

“I was trying to pay for new drains—”

He held up his hand. “Miss G. Your plan to sell the skis to the parole board member included your agreeing to charge him less than the full market value of ten thousand dollars for them. You were doing him the favor of selling him a valuable item for two thousand dollars under market price.” His green eyes, full of pain, studied me solemnly. “How do you think that makes you look?”

“I don’t care, because what you’re saying is ridiculous!” I cried hotly. “You can’t honestly think that I would do such a thing!”

Tom did not reply. Unable to bear the look on his face, I glanced at the television. Kansas City jumped offsides but the penalty wasn’t called.

“Miss G.,” he said. “You didn’t warn me, but now I’m warning you. You better pray that the Sheriff’s department figures out who killed Doug Portman. And why.” He sighed. “Your home kitchen’s closed for repairs. Now you’re involved in what could be interpreted as shady dealings. The press gets hold of this, it might get so slanted against you, your client base could dry up. Permanently. And if you’re prosecuted for this—” He broke off abruptly.

“The district attorney is not going to prosecute me for trying to influence Doug Portman, is he?” I demanded. “That’s absurd!”