Read Online Tough Cookie by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
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
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with glossy dark hair and porcelain skin, a young Rose Kennedy. Loved paintings with bold brushstrokes. Couldn't eat bell peppers.
Again I got Magill's flat eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the squeaky suit in the chair. "Elva and Doug Portman have been divorced for a couple of years. Elva lives in Italy now. So, you knew Portman, but haven't been in touch with him for a while? Patrolman Hoskins said you were skiing together?"
I looked up at the water-stained ceiling. This guy does not need to know my story. I hadn't even told Tom I was selling his skis to Portman. I was suddenly conscious of how badly Portman's death might play out in the media. Prominent citizen dies on way to rendezvous with cop's wife. I wished desperately I'd never contacted him about the damn skis.
Magill inhaled noisily through his teeth, a gesture of impatience. "Patrolman Hoskins told me that you claimed to be acquainted with Portman. But your son said he didn't know him - "
"My son? My son?" I snapped to attention, enraged. "You should know you can't question a minor without a parent present!"
Magill's suit squeaked as he leaned forward. "I'm not here to hurt you, Mrs. Schulz. I know you're a caterer, I know you do the TV cooking show." He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then asked in a perplexed tone, "Does your reluctance to talk to us mean you're here in some official capacity for your husband?"
"In some official capacity for my husband?" I echoed, bewildered. I remembered Doug Portman's words: I've got something for Tom in my car. I'd thought it was a book about the 10th Mountain Division, or a magazine on military memorabilia. But what would make Magill think I was here in an official capacity? He knew I did the show. I wish Magill also realized that I'd endured a snowstorm, a TV show that had to rank high in the annals of disastrous live performances, and a lethal accident. That was enough for one morning, thanks. This security guy's unofficial and inept interrogation had not impressed me favorably. Where were the police?
At that moment, as if in answer to a prayer, a short, dark, mustachioed man in a green sheriff's department uniform walked into the cramped office.
"Mrs. Schulz, forgive me for taking so long," said the deputy, whose name tag announced he was Sergeant Bancock. "I happened to be near the Eisenhower Tunnel when the call came, so I got here as fast as I could." He nodded to Magill and then dismissed him with an impassive, "I'll call you. Hoskins, you stay."
Magill, angry to be banished, banged the door shut with a little more energy than required. Pulling out a notebook, Sergeant Bancock sat down and began to ask me a routine set of questions: my name and address, what I was doing at Killdeer, and so on. Like Magill, he asked me to describe my day. This time, I did. I had just come to the part where I looked over the slope at the run below, when my husband strode in. Thank God.
Tom, a handsome, bearlike man with gentle green eyes and thick, sandy-brown hair, didn't need to announce that he was in charge. He just was. I felt thankful for it, and for him.
Bancock stood and shook Tom's hand. "Schulz. We're just getting going here."
"This is Ski Patrolman Hoskins," I said, getting to my feet. Tom nodded at Hoskins, hugged me, then searched my face.
"You all right, Miss G.? Want to go outside for a bit?"
"Thanks," I whispered. "I just want to get this over with. Is - "
"Arch has gone back to the Druckmans' condo," Tom reassured me, anticipating my question. "He's spending another night. I'll take you home, if you want. We can leave the van here."
I had to bite my lip not to exclaim: "Oh, yes, take me home, please!" Instead, I told him I was fine. Tom smiled tenderly at me, tilted his head at Ski Patrolman Hoskins, and sat down beside me. .Sergeant Bancock smoothed out a fresh page in his notebook.
"Not much longer, Mrs. Schulz," he said. "Of course, the coroner may have more questions for you later. You want to talk
Again I got Magill's flat eyes, the uncomfortable shift of the squeaky suit in the chair. "Elva and Doug Portman have been divorced for a couple of years. Elva lives in Italy now. So, you knew Portman, but haven't been in touch with him for a while? Patrolman Hoskins said you were skiing together?"
I looked up at the water-stained ceiling. This guy does not need to know my story. I hadn't even told Tom I was selling his skis to Portman. I was suddenly conscious of how badly Portman's death might play out in the media. Prominent citizen dies on way to rendezvous with cop's wife. I wished desperately I'd never contacted him about the damn skis.
Magill inhaled noisily through his teeth, a gesture of impatience. "Patrolman Hoskins told me that you claimed to be acquainted with Portman. But your son said he didn't know him - "
"My son? My son?" I snapped to attention, enraged. "You should know you can't question a minor without a parent present!"
Magill's suit squeaked as he leaned forward. "I'm not here to hurt you, Mrs. Schulz. I know you're a caterer, I know you do the TV cooking show." He gnawed the inside of his cheek, then asked in a perplexed tone, "Does your reluctance to talk to us mean you're here in some official capacity for your husband?"
"In some official capacity for my husband?" I echoed, bewildered. I remembered Doug Portman's words: I've got something for Tom in my car. I'd thought it was a book about the 10th Mountain Division, or a magazine on military memorabilia. But what would make Magill think I was here in an official capacity? He knew I did the show. I wish Magill also realized that I'd endured a snowstorm, a TV show that had to rank high in the annals of disastrous live performances, and a lethal accident. That was enough for one morning, thanks. This security guy's unofficial and inept interrogation had not impressed me favorably. Where were the police?
At that moment, as if in answer to a prayer, a short, dark, mustachioed man in a green sheriff's department uniform walked into the cramped office.
"Mrs. Schulz, forgive me for taking so long," said the deputy, whose name tag announced he was Sergeant Bancock. "I happened to be near the Eisenhower Tunnel when the call came, so I got here as fast as I could." He nodded to Magill and then dismissed him with an impassive, "I'll call you. Hoskins, you stay."
Magill, angry to be banished, banged the door shut with a little more energy than required. Pulling out a notebook, Sergeant Bancock sat down and began to ask me a routine set of questions: my name and address, what I was doing at Killdeer, and so on. Like Magill, he asked me to describe my day. This time, I did. I had just come to the part where I looked over the slope at the run below, when my husband strode in. Thank God.
Tom, a handsome, bearlike man with gentle green eyes and thick, sandy-brown hair, didn't need to announce that he was in charge. He just was. I felt thankful for it, and for him.
Bancock stood and shook Tom's hand. "Schulz. We're just getting going here."
"This is Ski Patrolman Hoskins," I said, getting to my feet. Tom nodded at Hoskins, hugged me, then searched my face.
"You all right, Miss G.? Want to go outside for a bit?"
"Thanks," I whispered. "I just want to get this over with. Is - "
"Arch has gone back to the Druckmans' condo," Tom reassured me, anticipating my question. "He's spending another night. I'll take you home, if you want. We can leave the van here."
I had to bite my lip not to exclaim: "Oh, yes, take me home, please!" Instead, I told him I was fine. Tom smiled tenderly at me, tilted his head at Ski Patrolman Hoskins, and sat down beside me. .Sergeant Bancock smoothed out a fresh page in his notebook.
"Not much longer, Mrs. Schulz," he said. "Of course, the coroner may have more questions for you later. You want to talk
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