The phone rang again.
“Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?” Doug Portman’s obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. “Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?”
“Yes, Doug.” What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We’d dated unhappily after I’d rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex-husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains-crisis had brought him back in our orbit.
“Still want to sell those World War Two skis?” Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. “The ones Ike signed?”
“If the price is right.” Tom’s historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10th Mountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he’d fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half. Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we’d need to replace the drains, I’d called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He’d turned me down.
“I’ve changed my mind. Eight thousand. Cash.” Doug said triumphantly. “Take it or leave it.”
“Great,” I said, surprised and pleased.
“Meet you at your cooking show, then.” Doug lived in Killdeer. “And hey. If I’m going to buy your skis, I want some of those goodies you’re making.” He paused. “I heard they charge nine bucks for spectators. Suppose you could leave me a free ticket at the restaurant desk? We’ll ski down together afterward. It’ll be fun.”
Everybody promised fun. I sighed and told him no problem. A free ticket? Eight thousand dollars to spend, and Doug couldn’t spring nine bucks for public television? But this was typical. Doug never paid for what he could scavenge for free. I told him I’d see him the next morning and signed off.
With my hopefully soporific hot drink in one hand and the second oversized chocolate cookie in the other, I strolled to the kitchen’s back wall. Gusts of wind plastered icy flakes against our new windows. I put down the cocoa and placed my palm on the cold glass. The snow relentlessly batted against the pane, tat-tat-tat-tat. A whirling curtain of snow streamed past our deck light. The deck itself boasted at least eighteen inches of new powder. I prayed for Tom to be safe. He was down in Denver, working a fraud case. His Chrysler’s snow tires were in pretty good shape. Piloting my own rear-wheel-drive van to Killdeer the next morning would be another story.
I wanted to do the show. I pulled my hand away from the window and sipped my creamy drink. With my catering business shut down, the program’s wide audience still showcased the personal-chef venture, for which I refused to give up hope. Now, with Doug’s offer, I finally had a deal for the skis. Plus, knowing the show was dedicated to remembering dear Rorry Bullock’s husband, I had to get to Killdeer in the morning.
I bit into the cookie and watched the snow. Christmas was only nine days away, but the Yuletide spirit eluded me. I’d bought a snowboard for Arch—his heart’s desire—and a new revolver for Tom. I was no gun-lover—far from it—but I’d learned a great deal about firearms from Tom. The dangers and risks of his work had convinced me he needed another weapon, even if all he used it for was practice. So: We had some gifts. Our tree sparkled in the living room. We had plans to bake Christmas cookies together, as a family. But without a job after the New Year, I felt a lack of purpose, and Christmas was just one more landmark on a calendar I didn’t want to face.
Things could be worse, I consoled myself as I drank more cocoa. I could be out in this weather. I could be facing the holidays without a husband, like Rorry Bullock. My heart ached for her.
Handsome and effervescent, Nate Bullock had always been one to court—and then miraculously escape from—the perils of mountain life. Had he secretly been tracking Canadian lynx, reintroduced to the Front Range after the native lynx habitat had been destroyed by development? Who knew? One fact everyone agreed on was that Nate Bullock had strayed—or hiked intentionally—into Killdeer Valley, an area that was off-limits for all humans, not just skiers, because of the possibility of avalanches. The avalanche, that killer tide of snow that sweeps the unsuspecting to their death, was much to be feared in the Colorado mountain winter.
That’s why the Valley is out-of-bounds, Killdeer officials had solemnly intoned, ever wary of their liability insurance. Avalanches in the high country happen without warning. Of course, this had not prevented Killdeer Corporation from recently deciding to expand the resort onto the slope adjacent to the Valley. Next season, a new lift would take skiers and snowboarders right over the area where Nate had died. Poor Rorry, I thought again, with guilt. Would she be at the fund-raiser? Would she want to talk to me, when all I’d done was write her a sympathy note? Why hadn’t I been more persistent in checking up on her after Nate’s death?
I finished the cookie and downed the cocoa. Late at night, problems loom large. I had to crawl to bed and get some beauty sleep. Or, as I checked my pudgy, curly-blond-haired reflection in the frosted window, just some sleep, period.
Early the next morning, in an impenetrable, windy, predawn darkness, I loaded the historic skis into my van. It was still snowing hard. A torrent of flakes iced my face as I stamped inside. I left a note for Tom, whose large, warm body had finally snuggled in next to mine around two A.M. I packed up my boots and skis, traipsed out to check the tread on my radial tires—barely adequate—and set out for Killdeer.
As my van negotiated the snow-crusted expanse of Main Street, the wind lashed fresh snow across my windshield. When I pulled over to scrape it off, I was hit in the face with a swag of holiday evergreen and a strand of white lights. Convulsing in the wind, the decorations had torn loose from a storefront. I climbed back into the van, shivered, and started the slow trek to the highway.
Once the van was headed west on Interstate 70, I cranked the wipers as high as they would go to sweep off the relentlessly falling snow. Traffic was light. Beside the road, a herd of bighorn sheep clustered below a neon sign warning of icy roads on both sides of the Eisenhower Tunnel. When I passed Idaho Springs, a radio announcement brayed the news that an avalanche had come down late the previous afternoon at the Loveland Ski Area. Cars slowing down to watch the cleanup were clogging the road, the announcer solemnly declared.
“Perfect,” I muttered.
Twenty minutes later, I braked behind a long line of cars. Through the snowfall, I could just make out dump trucks laboring in the Loveland parking lot as they scooped away a three-story-high heap of snow, rocks, and broken trees. Under the pile was a maintenance building. The radio announcer passionately recited a rumor of a scofflaw skier who’d ducked a boundary rope and precipitated the slide. The avalanche had raced down the hillside, snapped a stand of pines like match-sticks, and buried the vacant building. Passengers riding up the high-speed quad lift had seen the skier schuss to safety—and away from being caught.
Concentrate on your driving, I warned myself, as I entered the neon-lit purgatory of the tunnel, that deep, dark passageway bored beneath the Continental Divide. After a few minutes, the snowpacked descent from the tunnel loomed ahead in the early morning grayness. When I emerged, a sudden wind whipped the van, rocking it violently. Another thick shower of snow blanketed my windshield.