Tough Cookie

“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.

“I hear you’re still trying to figure things out up in Killdeer,” came the raspy voice of Reggie Dawson.

I exploded. Enough was enough. “Who are you? You’re not a journalist. I checked. What do you want?”

“If you don’t want your son hurt, you better start skiing at Vail, caterer. Quit being such a busybody.”

“You leave my family alone!” I hollered, but whoever it was had hung up. I pressed buttons to trap the caller’s number, and prayed that the telephone company’s central computer had indeed registered the call. Then I called Tom’s voice-mail and told him there had been another threatening call, and could the department please try to trace it, again?

Thoroughly unnerved, I called Elk Park Prep. Yes, I was assured, Arch Korman and Todd Druckman were fine. No intruder could get into that school, the receptionist told me, what with all the metal detectors and video cameras that had been installed over the summer. But hearing the anxiety in my voice, she put me on hold and went to check on Arch’s exact location. When she returned, she said Arch and Todd were just going into English class. Oh, yes, I replied, as relief washed over me. The Spenser report was due in fifteen minutes. I thanked the receptionist and hung up.

The comforting, homey scent of baking bread wafted through the kitchen. Outside, snow fell. I told myself I’d done everything I could to figure out who “Reggie Dawson” was. Arch was safe, and Tom would find the threatening caller. And nail him.

I fixed myself a cup of espresso laced with cream and ordered myself to think positively. At nine-forty-five, I sent good vibes to the boys as they faced the class to perform. I tried to send a telepathic message to Arch to look only at kids he knew would not laugh when he began. I visualized him standing confidently and speaking clearly…. Whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found … Wait a minute. “Found if sought,” I said aloud, and stared out at the falling snow.

Numerous times, I’d heard an avalanche described as a “killer tide.” A tidal wave of snow that comes down the mountain.

I thought of Arch’s physics experiment. Most of the frosting had spattered on the cookie sheet. But a very few drops, in places only one, had spattered far away. This was what had happened in the hospital waiting room, when Diego had been hit in the eye by a very errant chunk of dried frosting. That’s quantum mechanics. Or quantum physics, if you prefer.

He was filming a sports-genre video, Boots had said.

His camera was stolen along with the TV, Rorry had insisted. But the TV had been the only item recovered.

Whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought…. In the killer tide of an avalanche, maybe some things—one item in particular—had followed the patterns observed by quantum physicists and spattered far away.

I chugged the last of the espresso and dialed the main number for Killdeer. After an eternity of punching numbers for menu options, I was finally connected with a woman in Killdeer Security.

“I’m calling about a missing item,” I began.

“Let me get into my program for the Lost and Found,” she said pleasantly. Computer buttons clicked. “How long ago was the item lost?”

“Three years.”

She gurgled with laughter. “We only keep items sixty days, ma’am. Then they get sold at a police auction or sent to a shelter in Minturn. Sorry.”

“Wait a sec,” I replied. “Let me think. Look, I have another question. What happens to all the stuff that gets rolled up into an avalanche? You know, besides sticks, rocks, and trees? Say a person goes down and you find his body without his skis. Do you ever find the skis? In the spring, maybe?”