Tough Cookie

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.

Marla exclaimed, “Now I’m putting it all together! Fiona used to tell me about your work. These days, Goldy keeps me up to date. I just didn’t connect the two.”

Arthur lifted his glass. “To the memory of my mother Fiona,” he intoned.

Marla snagged her water glass. The three of us clinked glasses solemnly. The wine was very good. Arthur used words like fruity, perfect for a picnic

. After a few swigs, even Arthur’s ability to irritate me faded. I had a sudden warm vision of the three of us enjoying a wine-tasting tour of France. Another sip or two, and I was thinking maybe I could beat Marla if we took that advanced run again!

“How well did you know Mother?” Arthur asked Marla.

“Not that well,” Marla replied. “I remember how proud of you she was. Fiona used to say there were only a handful of people in the world who were able to make the kind of wine-tasting distinctions her son could.”

Arthur blushed. Why had I never thought of laying a little flirtatious flattery on my wine-importing floor director? No question about it, Marla was in her element. Flirting with Arthur was her way of playing bodyguard.

I smiled a little too broadly and a headache loomed from nowhere. Unfortunately, no basket of bread and plate of butter pats graced our table. I’d skied four runs and chugged a glass and a half of red wine on an empty stomach. Tipsiness, apparently, was one of the consequences of stupidity.

Which brought me to the question of exactly how much wine Fiona had drunk just before she died three years ago. I wondered what the chances were that Arthur would share that information with me.

“Ah, Arthur,” I asked, forcing myself to focus on the business at hand, “didn’t you want to talk to me about this week’s show? We wouldn’t want to repeat what happened last time, when there was so much disorganization, and then Doug Portman—”

“We can’t tape on Friday, which is Christmas Eve.” He stopped to pour himself more wine. I covered my glass with my hand.

“Not tape Christmas Eve,” I repeated. “Good idea. So—?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” replied Arthur. He tore his eyes away from Marla. “Taping will be at four. Arrive by three-thirty. Can you manage it? Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you how well my wine-tasting went.” He dipped into his backpack again and handed me an envelope. “This is your check.”

I thanked him and zipped the check into my ski jacket pocket. “So, tomorrow,” I prompted him, “what will we be doing?”

“We don’t want to guilt-trip folks to buy turkeys at the last minute. Could you do a very simple holiday breakfast? No eggs to coddle, no casserole to bake. An easy bread recipe, if that would work. And your wonderful oatmeal. Then you can wiggle your hips over a big bowl of sliced fruit and some hot, sizzling Canadian bacon. Voilà! Merry Christmas.”

“No problem,” I replied, despite the fact that no easy bread recipe leapt to mind. But I had learned not to voice worries to Arthur. I looked around again for our waitress, so I could beg for a bread basket. She was nowhere in sight. My eyes caught a glimpse of someone else, though, and my skin pricked with gooseflesh.

Barton Reed sat hunched at a table next to a window. He was staring out at the gondola, the ski racks, and the folks making their way to the bistro. Just the way he had at Cinda’s Cinnamon Stop, he was clutching something in his hand and seemed to be looking for someone—someone in particular. When he turned to scan the restaurant, I ducked.