Tough Cookie

“Like what?” My mind was reeling, and I was shivering in the early morning cold. Could there be an easy way to end this conversation? Was it better to talk to an obnoxious journalist, or cut him off? The wife of homicide investigator Thomas Schulz, local caterer Goldy Schulz, I imagined reading, whose abusive ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, is serving time for assault, refused to answer questions regarding her secret relationship with parole-board chief Douglas Portman….

Reggie Dawson persisted: “Did you bribe Portman to ensure that your ex-husband would stay incarcerated?”

“No. Of course not. Look, could you call me back—”

“Was that the favor he was going to do for you?”

“There was no favor—”

“Does your current husband, top cop Tom Schulz, know about your extramarital involvement?”

“There is no, there was no, extramarital—”

“Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?”

I didn’t answer right away, because I was not going to be interrupted again. To my surprise, this time the reporter waited for me to reply. Finally, into the lengthening silence, I said firmly, “I was skiing with Doug Portman. Period.”

“So now you’re trying to cover up your relationship with Doug Portman?”

My mind flitted to the undervaluation of the skis. “There is absolutely nothing to cover up.”

“Were you doing some kind of deal with Portman so you could bail out your failing business?”

“Now, listen here, Mr. Dawson, there is no failing business. I have a TV job in Killdeer—”

“Mrs. Schulz! Given what you’ve experienced in Killdeer, don’t you think it’s dangerous to be snooping around while your son snowboards alone?”

Icy fear washed through me. My mouth opened; no sound came out. Wording of state laws covering implied threats and explicit threats swam up from my unconsciousness.

I said, “Listen, you, you—”

But the line was dead.

Now sleep was officially impossible. Fingers shaking, I flipped through the phone book: no Reggie or R. Dawson or Dausson or anything close to it in the entire Denver metropolitan area, including all of Furman County. Tom brought me a pen and clean pad of paper. He urged me to write down every word of the conversation. While I did this, he called the department to see if they could expedite ID on the call. They promised to try.

Tom fixed me coffee, then started frying bacon for the boys. A lump had formed in my throat. I couldn’t even swallow coffee. Once the boys were digging into bacon and toast, Tom clasped my hands in his.

“Miss G. Do you want the boys to stay home while I finish the plumbing?”

The boys squealed in protest. There was nothing to do at home, and today they were supposed to get their classroom ready for the Christmas party! I said if Tom felt they would be safe, they should go to school. Tom called the department again and was assured a deputy could be sent to the school to protect some kids who’d been threatened. In response to the proliferation of high school shootings, Elk Park Prep parents had insisted on the erection of a new security gate attached to the electrified fence, and the round-the-clock presence of an armed guard in the school. Tom would also alert the guard to the possibility of danger, and instruct him to call the sheriff’s department at the first sign of suspicious activity. Okay?

“Yes. Thanks.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded full of doubt. Just before eight, Tom and the boys took off through a drapery of snowflakes. As soon as they pulled out, I called the food editor of the Furman County Register. There was no Reggie Dawson working there. Dawson could be doing something freelance, my friend added. But she doubted it.

So did I, I thought as I put on several compact discs of Christmas carols and gathered all the presents I still needed to wrap. Still, it was hard to stop thinking about the events in Killdeer. Who was my early morning caller? Why was he asking questions about my relationship with Doug Portman? Had he truly been threatening Arch? Or had I just misunderstood?

I unfurled foil paper and shiny ribbon, and began snipping, folding, and tying. Did Arthur Wakefield know that his attempt to publicize my presence at Cooking at the Top! in the Killdeer paper had backfired so miserably? On the other hand, could it have been Arthur on the phone? If what Rorry had said about the rumor mill in Killdeer was true, then anyone could know by now that my business was in jeopardy; that Arch snowboarded in Killdeer; that my ex-husband was in jail.