Read Online Tough Cookie by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Cooking, Colorado, Caterers and Catering, Bear; Goldy (Fictitious Character), Women in the Food Industry, Ski Resorts
Ads: Link
We . . . started off skiing together at the top, and I was supposed to meet him at the base, but he was skiing faster - "
"We're getting help for him. What's his name?" I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. "Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him." Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. "Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It's important."
His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I'd first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug's left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.
One of the patrolman's questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?
Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman's body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the . . . Move the. . . Easy. . . . With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But, my mind supplied, there's so much blood. . . money everywhere. . . .
Who closed the run? When?
Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash? I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol's traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.
"Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?" The patrolman eyed me skeptically. "Do you need me to go with you?"
"Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for. . . medics or for. . . law enforcement?"
"They're following procedure." His calm blue eyes studied me. "Don't worry about Mr. Portman, we've got the situation under control. Let's go now, all right?" I nodded. He murmured into his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.
"Mom." His voice was hoarse with anxiety. "Are you okay?"
"Call Tom," I told him. "Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we're okay but that it's an emergency."
Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.
"Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz," said my escort. I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he'd be back in a minute.
I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room.
"We're getting help for him. What's his name?" I told him, and the patrolman nodded grimly. "Mrs. Schulz. I need you to look over the side again, please. I need you to tell me if this is exactly the way the man appeared when you first saw him." Snowmobiles were roaring up the lower part of Hot-Rodder. "Please, look one time. Try to remember exactly what you saw. It's important."
His voice faded away as I leaned over the edge of the run. I could not imagine what kind of terrible spill Doug Portman had taken. His large body was sprawled crazily, like a bulky scarecrow blown off its support. He lay half on his back, half on his side. Snowflakes had not yet completely covered his face, but heavy clumps of ice and snow virtually obscured his shiny black jacket and pants. Below him on the slope, his skis lay twenty feet apart. One of his poles had landed clear across the run. What looked like his goggles stuck crazily from the top of a mogul. Odd. Two things had indeed changed since I'd first seen him. More money littered the slope. And by Doug's left shoulder, the ugly blotch of blood had widened. I pointed out these details to the patrolman.
One of the patrolman's questions buzzed in my brain: When was the run closed? I stared down at the lower slope of Hot-Rodder, its moguls lined up in icy rows. Had Doug Portman ducked the rope that closed the run? How fast had he been going? What kind of maneuver had he been trying to make?
Three snowmobiles arrived at Doug Portman's body. Shouted orders carried up through the snowfall. Get out the . . . Move the. . . Easy. . . . With great ease and speed, the rescue team hustled around in the snow and prepared the sled. But, my mind supplied, there's so much blood. . . money everywhere. . . .
Who closed the run? When?
Had anyone known Doug was carrying so much cash? I stared down mutely at the patrol members moving a floppy, unconscious Doug onto the sled. Maybe my experience living with a homicide investigator made me too paranoid. Still, I wondered, what if Doug had been hit? If he had been hit, intentionally or no, all the patrol's traipsing around on the mountainside would make it impossible to tell exactly what had happened.
"Can you ski to the bottom, Mrs. Schulz?" The patrolman eyed me skeptically. "Do you need me to go with you?"
"Wait a sec. Doug Portman, the man in the snow. Why are they transporting him down the hill? I mean, without waiting for. . . medics or for. . . law enforcement?"
"They're following procedure." His calm blue eyes studied me. "Don't worry about Mr. Portman, we've got the situation under control. Let's go now, all right?" I nodded. He murmured into his walkie-talkie, moved with enviable agility back to the right side of Jitterbug, and waited patiently while I stomped over to my skis and painstakingly snapped them back on. Ten minutes later, chilled but in one piece, we arrived at the ski patrol office at the base, a small log building with green trim located next to the rental shop. Arch, watching out the large window, instantly opened the door.
"Mom." His voice was hoarse with anxiety. "Are you okay?"
"Call Tom," I told him. "Please, hon, ask Tom to come to Killdeer. Can you manage that? Tell him we're okay but that it's an emergency."
Arch nodded and made for the bank of phones on the countertop of the bustling office. A wall of detailed maps, complete with colored pins, gave the place the appearance of a battle-control center. A group of patrol members standing in one corner eyed me before going back to their conversation.
"Into the far room, Mrs. Schulz," said my escort. I followed my silver-haired companion through the crowded room. He opened a door and I walked into a small office. The patrolman told me to take a seat; he'd be back in a minute.
I had just struggled out of my ski gear when Arch poked his head into the room.
Similar Books
