“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. His hair had become matted on one side, wildly skewed on the other. His cheeks were bright red.
“I got Tom. I told him you were all right but you’d been in a ski accident. He wanted to know what happened, and I said maybe you could come talk.” He grimaced. “Those patrol guys by the phone said you couldn’t come out yet. Tom said, ‘Why not?’ I said I didn’t know, and Tom said he was leaving right away to come get you. He’ll be here in about an hour and a half.” My son pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked me over curiously. “Are you hurt?”
“No, hon. Thanks.”
“So what happened? Somebody with a bunch of money had an accident?”
“I think so.” I frowned. A needle of anxiety poked my chest … poor Arch. “Somebody was skiing and had a bad fall.”
He glanced at the front office, then turned back to whisper, “They’re really arguing about something out there. Gotta go.”
A moment later my silver-haired companion returned. He was accompanied by a taller, massively built, grim-faced fellow who was carrying a covered paper cup. The big guy—fortyish, thinning dark hair, lumpy face—wore a belted maroon ski suit with the Killdeer logo across the chest. He introduced himself as Joe Magill, from Killdeer Security, before placing the cup on the desk in front of me.
“Your son said you liked coffee, so we brought you some.”
“Thanks.” I looked at the drink but did not touch it.
Magill, who had an oddly diffident air about him, announced that he was in charge. He gestured at the silver-haired man, said I already knew Patrolman Ted Hoskins, and that he and Ted had a few questions, if I didn’t mind. I said nothing as the two men sat down. But I knew protococlass="underline" If there was any kind of investigation, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department was in charge. Their efforts would be aided by the Forest Service, which leased land to the ski resorts, and by the ski patrol, a group of trained volunteers. In terms of who was in charge, Killdeer Security was fourth down the list.
“Now, Mrs. Schulz,” Joe Magill began smoothly, “what we’d like you to do is talk to us about your day, beginning with when you got up this morning—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. I took a shaky breath. “Mr. Magill? You’re from Security?”
“Yes, Mrs. Schulz. Anytime there’s an accident on the slopes, we’re responsible for investigating. Did you witness the accident?”
“Could you please tell me where Doug Portman is now?”
Magill inhaled impatiently. When he leaned back in his chair, his ski suit made a silky, scratching sound. His opaque eyes widened. “Portman died in the ambulance, I’m sorry to say.”
“I see.…”
“Your son told us your husband is a police officer.” Magill again.
“Yes, that’s correct. He’s on his way.”
“This is not an official questioning, Mrs. Schulz. But we need your help. The sheriff’s department and ski patrol will conduct an official interrogation as soon as a deputy arrives. The ski resort just needs to know if you witnessed the accident.”
“Why does the ski resort need to know that?”
Magill cleared his throat. “In a case like this, with a prominent Killdeer citizen killed, we’re probably going to be facing litigation of some kind. We need to know precisely what happened.”
“Mmm.” I probably should have drunk some coffee, but I held back. Accepting a drink from Magill felt as if I were conceding points to a man I did not know well enough to trust. Plus, I’d been at enough crime scenes to know that we should wait before I started answering questions. Not that this was a crime scene, but … Tom, I felt confidently, would want me to wait for a Sheriff’s deputy to arrive.
“Mr. Magill,” I said finally, “have you contacted Mrs. Portman?” I stared at the paper-covered bulletin board and tried to conjure up a mental picture of Doug’s wife. I’d met Elva Portman at a crowded law enforcement cookout several years ago, and had had a chance to talk to her for a few moments at a gallery opening I’d catered in Killdeer. She was sophisticated and wealthy, 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.