Tough Cookie (33 page)

"Oh, yes, your show," said Cinda.

Doggone it. "See you later," I gushed as I pushed past Cinda to lead Rorry out. "Thanks for letting us use your tape player."

"Well?" Ryan stage-whispered as we made our way to the exit. "Did you see what you need?"

I was acutely aware of Cinda's rigid form behind us, her ears tuned to our every word. "Not yet," I replied loudly. "Maybe the tape's too screwed up."

Anything to stall for time.

The sun was struggling through parting clouds as Rorry and I crunched through the new snow to the car. Her questions spilled out. You see who the snowboarder was' No. Was Nate really filming a sports video? Yes. How did the avalanche start? Not sure, I replied tersely. Probably from the construction noise that day. She paused, then asked in a low, husky voice, Did you see him die? No, I replied honestly. I really need to look at it again, I added grimly, and have the police analyze it.

When I dropped her at the warehouse, I asked her once more if she was doing okay. It had been a successful trip, but arduous. Yes, yes, she assured me quickly, just fine. She handed me a spare key to her trailer and said a co-worker would be bringing her home about midnight. Then she disappeared behind the large warehouse doors. It was hard to tell if she was satisfied with my answers about the tape. Probably not, I reckoned, since half of them were lies.

As I drove away, I tried to figure out the best way to get to the bistro, where the show would be filmed. The new, unplowed snow was too deep to try to get up the back road in the Rover. I wasn't going to ski down. So I had to take the gondola both ways. But how would I avoid Cinda's, with its panoramic view of the path to the gondola?

I decided to park in the Elk Ridge lot. Then I could walk back through the trees to the creek, find the first way across, and head straight to Big Map. I had on thick waterproof leggings and good boots, and could probably move pretty fast. But Cinda was younger and much stronger than I was. Bad knees or no, I didn't want to tangle with her.

I glanced at the camera case on the passenger seat beside me. What should I do with the cassette? Would it be safer with me or safer in the car? In the past week, it seemed as if everyone I'd come to know in Killdeer had had their place or their automobile broken into. I couldn't risk leaving the tape in the Rover: I stuffed it into a small opaque plastic bag inside my cooking-equipment bag.

The parking lot was three-quarters full of cars and emptying quickly. Folks had had enough of skiing. They wanted to beat Denver's Christmas time rush-hour traffic. I remembered Tom's warning not to be alone. To get up to the bistro for the final episode of Cooking at the Top, I would have to take the least public route possible, The trailhead, filmed as Nate's establishing shot, offered food for thought. In the film, these signs appeared without posted warnings. Now, the arrows to Elk Ridge and Elk Valley were covered with a sign stating Closed for Winter-No Entry. Beyond the trailhead, a formidable wooden barrier stretched from one sheer rock outcropping to another. But there was something else that offered possibilities. . . .

A bright orange sign posted beside the trailhead screamed Construction Workers Only!!! and marked the beginning of what must be, under the plowed snow, a dirt road. Did the construction road wind around to the gondola? Was I willing to chance it? From the Rover, I could see the plowed road was not without security: tall poles abutted huge snowdrifts on both sides. Bands of padlocked horizontal chains attached to each pole were undoubtedly designed to ensure no scofflaw skier or boarder squeezed through to get to the ridge. But whatever project manager had overseen the installation of the poles into dirt bases - rather than wide, deep, cement bases - must have been from a warmer climate. Our state's heavy snowfall guaranteed that any mailbox, road sign, or metal pole pushed into shallow dirt was going to heave out sooner or later, as the ground froze, thawed, and refroze. In this case, the heaving had happened sooner, and one of the poles now leaned precariously into the road. This left a gap that I bet was big enough for a short, only-slightly-pudgy caterer to squeeze through.

I shouldered my bag resolutely, hopped out of the Rover, locked it, glanced all around, and made for the construction road. After squeezing between the pole and drift, I trotted along the packed, snowpacked road. Thank God I wouldn't be skiing down tonight, and was therefore free of skis, heavy ski boots, and poles. Then I made a surprising and unhappy discovery. The road meandered up twenty yards and then forked. Did the left side go over to the gondola? Was I willing to find out? I didn't have time.

The right side of the fork swung up and joined, or rather, became the path that led to Elk Ridge and Elk Valley. The path, formerly a narrow hiking trail, had been widened to accommodate two vehicles. I couldn't imagine how the nature-loving summer hikers were going to react to this transformation, but it wasn't going to be pretty. By the time the Sierra Club could drag Killdeer into court early in the summer, the lifts and runs would be built. No wonder Killdeer had undertaken the challenging winter construction schedule.

So I had a problem: It was ten to three, and I needed to get to the bistro by three-thirty. Since the dirt construction road did not lead to the gondola, I needed to go through town. Damn.

I scuttled back to the parking lot and the main road. The Victorian-style boutiques in Killdeer were mobbed with last-minute Christmas shoppers. I melted into the frantic crowd. Shielded by the mob, I stayed as far away from the Cinnamon Stop's windows as possible. Eventually I was chugging up the mountain in a gondola car next to a skier complaining about the snowstorm and how long it had taken to blow through. Across from us, three teenagers, more philosophical about the weather, were singing carols in harmony. While the wind still gusted fitfully, the snow had thinned to flurries. The sky rolled with new dark clouds that parted and thinned in the west. By morning, with any luck, it would be clear, and they would have plowed the interstate back to Aspen Meadow.

Once off the gondola, I surveyed the bistro. Smoke curled out of the two chimneys. Late-day skiers straggled out to catch one last run. Stay with someone, Tom had warned: It would not be smart to take the hidden cassette directly into the restaurant. I could be mugged or pick pocketed by "Reggie Dawson" or any other unsavory character, and lose the evidence forever. Reflecting, I gnawed the inside of my cheek and then set off for the lower entrance, the one that led to the bistro's storage areas. At this time of the day, workers should be down there sorting and packing the day's trash into canisters. They wouldn't mind a servant coming through the servants' entrance, would they?

The two lower-level barn-type doors were partially open. My entry with my toolbag raised the eyebrows of the pair of grizzled, hulking workers. Both were so swaddled in scarves, hats, heavy gloves, layers of sweatshirts, and what looked like padded dungarees, that they were unrecognizable.

"I'm one of the cooks," I explained to one as I squeezed past the first stinking canister. He nodded apathetically and turned back to his work, while I scuttled along the tunnellike, neon-lit hallway. It was dank and cold. I was surprised at how depressingly subterranean the concrete basement was, at how tired and raggedly clad the workers had been. The bistro's storage area was as unglamorous a workplace as the bare trailer park was a living area. As I bustled into a freezer-lined room and tucked the cassette between boxes of frozen chocolate cakes, I wondered if the rich folks who played on the manicured slopes outside had any idea of the economic underside of their vacations. The workers labor all day and night, dress and eat poorly, and are crammed into freezing trailers at the edge of town. Not something for the resort owners to be proud of.

I rushed up the steps and, panting, came through the uncrowded kitchen, where the six-person evening staff was bemoaning the fact that one of the two walk-in refrigerators was out of order. It would take twice as long to prep for the evening meal, they complained, as they set about cutting leeks, carrots, onions, and celery into julienne. I set my bag down and asked one of the cooks if Jack Gilkey was here. No, Jack had gone to Denver to see Mrs. Druckman in the hospital. The food for the show lay prepped on a sideboard, the cook added. He pointed to a counter. The other cooks began to snigger, and I thought I caught one of them saying, "At least he isn't here to take the credit for our work, the way he usually does."

I slipped into my jacket and uniform for the show, then inspected Jack's - or his subordinates' - impressively organized foodstuffs, all labeled: a loaf of Julian's crusty golden-brown five-grain bread sat next to the yeast, molasses, and other ingredients. The cereal and its ingredients were similarly laid out. Beside these was a platter lined with grilled Canadian bacon and plump sausage links. At the end of the counter, a crystal plate was adorned with concentric circles of fresh sliced ruby red strawberries, golden pineapple, and emerald green kiwi, all dotted with fat blueberries and raspberries. My stomach reflected on the long-ago peanut butter and: jelly, and sent up a distress signal. Later, I promised myself.

Jack had left me a note: Goldy - I'll give Eileen your love. Break a leg! J. I guessed I was one of the people Jack looked up to. Or was hoping to get something from, as Rorry claimed? I wouldn't mind working with him one bit, if I could be sure he was a good guy.

Hopefully, Nate's video would tell all.

I scurried out to the hot line with the first batch of ingredients. Would the bistro audience be disappointed to be receiving only oatmeal, bread, Canadian bacon, and fruit for their nine bucks? I didn't know. Boots Faraday, now apparently a regular at the show, was seated serenely by the fireplace. So, unfortunately, was Cinda Caldwell. My heart lurched.

Arthur strode toward me, clipboard in hand. He appraised me menacingly. I felt myself blushing. Finally he said, "I suppose you know the chef's gone to see the owner in the hospital." He made it sound as if I had put Eileen there.

"Not to worry, Arthur. Jack left everything done." Arthur narrowed his eyes skeptically, then handed me the visual they would post for the menu. There was the usual Front Range PBS logo, followed by:

Feel-Your-Oats Holiday Breakfast Celebration Platter of Strawberries, Kiwi, Pineapple, Raspberries, and Blueberries Skiers' Swiss Cereal Grilled Canadian Bacon Toasted Thick-Sliced Five-Grain Bread Butter, Jams Champagne, Coffee

Skiers' Swiss Cereal

1 cup rolled oats 1 teaspoon very finely chopped orange zest 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 2 tablespoons dried tart cherries 2 cups skim milk Brown or granulated sugar Cream, butter, or milk

The night before you plan to serve the dish, in a glass bowl, combine the oats, zest, cinnamon, and cherries. Stir well, then stir in the milk. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate. The next morning, place the mixture in a medium-sized saucepan and bring it to a simmer. Lower the heat and cook, stirring frequently, for 4 to 6 minutes, or until the oats are tender and the mixture is thick. Serve immediately, either as it is or with brown or granulated sugar, and cream, butter, or milk.

Makes 4 one-half cup servings

Julian's Five-Grain Bread

2 cups five-grain cereal (available either in the cereal or the health-food section of the grocery store) or rolled oats 2 1/3 cups water 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3/4 cup dark molasses 3/4 cup milk 1 teaspoon dark brown sugar 5 teaspoons (2 packages) active dry yeast 2 tablespoons bread-dough enhancer (optional) (recommended brand: Lora Brody's, available at Williams-Sonoma) 4 cups bread flour (or all-purpose flour), plus up to 1 cup more flour for kneading (if required) 2 cups whole wheat flour

Butter two 9 x 5-inch loaf pans. Place the cereal in a large bowl. Bring the water, butter, and molasses to a boil. Pour this mixture over the cereal and set aside to cool to 100 F. Heat milk and dark brown sugar to 100°F. Pour into a large bowl and stir in the yeast. Allow to proof, about 10 to 15 minutes. Mix the cooled grain mixture into the yeast mixture. Combine the optional bread dough enhancer with the first cup of bread flour and stir into the yeast mixture. Beat the other 3 cups of bread flour and the whole wheat flour into the mixture, beating well to combine. Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn dough to oil the top, cover with a clean kitchen towel, and let rise in a draft-free spot, at room temperature, until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. Add as much of the additional bread flour to the dough as needed to make a dough that is not too sticky to knead. Knead on a floured surface until the dough is smooth and satiny, about 10 minutes. Divide the dough into 2 pieces and place them into the pans. Cover with a towel and allow to rise until almost doubled. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until the loaves are deep brown and sound hollow when knocked. Remove the loaves from the pans and allow them to cool completely on racks.

Makes 2 loaves

"You have to put that it's Julian Teller's five-grain bread."

"This is public TV," Arthur replied stiffly. "No advertising." Before I could protest, he added: "Are you going to tell me what Rorry Bullock was really doing up here today?"

Startled, I answered, "She was seeing how the other half lives, Arthur." When he hrumphed, I tapped the menu. "Make it 'Julian's Five-Grain Bread,' and it won't be an advertisement because you're not using his last name. If you don't, I'm not going to talk about the champagne. It's too dry to serve with this sweet food, anyway."

Arthur's groan of protest attracted stares. Then he grunted assent and whisked morosely away. Fifteen minutes until showtime: I concentrated on transporting ingredients. The crowd grew more boisterous with each minute. A tech handed me the mike wire and I threaded it through my jacket. I'm almost done, I thought with an unexpected pang of regret. As challenging as Arthur and the whole TV gig had been, the thought of jumping into the abyss of no work after the New Year brought a lump to my throat.

And so I did the show. Without a single calamity or disaster. I realized I hadn't thought of a single sexy thing to say about the food except that molasses was reputed as an aphrodisiac, and oats were widely used in the diet of the British Isles, and didn't the Brits, after all, know lusty, ribsticking food? Finally, after nibbling on the bread, swishing my hips about, and taking an eye-rolling bite of the oatmeal, I beamed at the camera and crooned, "That's comfort food for you. And doesn't everyone want to be comforted and loved at this time of year?"