“Or rum flavoring,” she told Rorry. “Might be better for the baby.” Rorry declined. I promised Cinda that I would have a celebratory Bacardi-coffee, heavy on the Bacardi, when I finished my last show that afternoon. She told me to break a leg.
Rorry and I had our season tickets scanned and clambered onto the gondola. As we ascended, the wind picked up dramatically, thrashing the snowfall sideways like thick confetti. Our gondola car quivered and swayed. When the wind abated slightly, a few skiers and boarders were visible battling their way down the runs. Between the runs, clusters of whitened pines nodded and bent in the wind.
Rorry’s face was pinched, the circles under her eyes dark and deep. She squirmed on the cold metal seat. I remembered that last month of pregnancy all too well. You didn’t suffer just an occasional pain, but almost constant physical unease, whether you were walking, sitting, or sleeping. I couldn’t even imagine the discomfort of a jarring ride on a cable car.
When the gondola shuddered to a halt at the turnaround, Rorry groaned as she heaved herself up and out the clanging doors. I felt guilty about asking her to walk to the lodge to claim Nate’s camera, and was tempted to take her ID into the Lost and Found myself. Maybe I could bluff my way through. But before I could put the thought into words, she was barreling ahead of me and I had to plow through ten inches of fresh powder to catch up.
A mob of skiers was clamoring to gain entry to the lodge. Rorry looked back at me in confusion. I pointed to the bistro. It would be inconvenient to go through the restaurant to the Lost and Found, but easier than trying to push through the people-jam at the main doors.
The aromas inside the restaurant were tantalizing: Roasting beef melded with tarragon, rosemary, and the scent of baking bread. Several of the diners were dipping into steaming bowls of what looked like cream of asparagus soup topped with spicy grilled prawns. My peanut-butter-smeared psyche howled with pain.
The first person I saw was Jack Gilkey. With his tall chef’s hat set at a slightly rakish angle, his handsome face filmy with sweat, he was placing bowls of the delicious-looking soup on the hot line. A half-dozen servers jockeyed to be first to shout more orders at Jack and whisk away with their soup orders. Jack caught sight of me, then smiled broadly and gave a thumbs-up sign—referring to either Eileen’s improved state or the state of his prepping for this afternoon’s show—and went back to ladling out food.
“You’re friends with the chef?” Rorry demanded under her breath.
“He’s living with an old friend of mine, Eileen Druckman. She owns the bistro.”
Rorry exhaled in disgust. “He’s a jerk.”
We pushed through the side door and walked down the hall to the Lost and Found. “What makes you say that?”
“Jack Gilkey,” Rorry responded hotly, “is like the teacher who’s nice to the parents but treats the kids like dirt. When he thinks you have something he wants, or you’re his superior, he’s as sweet as chocolate pie. You work for him, you’re dung. A couple of our guys who load the canisters won’t come up here anymore, ’cuz Gilkey blamed them when he forgot to order all the ground beef for a day. He even tried to get them fired. Gilkey knows he needs to fax the right forms down to us at the warehouse, but when he screws up, he’s always looking for somebody to blame.” Her voice was tight with anger.
In the Lost and Found, we were greeted by none other than Joe Magill, the brusque Killdeer Security fellow who’d asked me so many questions after the death of Doug Portman. Rorry dug into the Easter-bunny ski suit for her wallet while Magill asked what we needed. I gestured to the Lost and Found sign and said I had called about a camera and case, initials N.B. on the case. Magill tapped suspiciously on his computer, scowled at the screen, and tapped some more. He was about to say something when Jack Gilkey poked his head in the door. He was holding a plate laden with a grilled filet mignon, Duchess potatoes drizzled with melted butter, bright green edible-pod peas, and a small salade composée of marinated cherry tomatoes and baby corn. Agh!
“Here’s your lunch, Joe,” he said to Magill.
“You’re the man,” Magill replied, taking the plate, “you’re too much!” He frowned at us. If you two would just leave, his expression clearly said, I could eat.
Jack turned to me. “You’ve heard the good news about Eileen?” When I nodded, he said, “I’m going down to see her tonight. Want to come?”
“Can’t, sorry. I have to do the show, and then—”
“Okay, that’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he interrupted. “I’ve got your five-grain-bread dough rising, plus a loaf baking now. The cereal’s in a green plastic bowl in the refrig.” He made a face. “Arthur Wakefield brought the menu up. He’s having lunch here with one of his wine customers.”
I thanked him and he retreated quickly. Sure enough, he had not said a word to Rorry, or even taken any notice of her. She raised a telltale eyebrow at me: You see? Dung.
“Ladies,” Joe Magill said with a tinge of impatience, “I’m not seeing your camera case in our inventory.”
“That’s impossible! I called Killdeer Security just this morning. They said it was here!”
“Said it was here,” Magill replied with exaggerated politeness, “or said it was in the Lost and Found safe at the base?”
“Oh, phooey,” muttered Rorry, as she turned away. I was so angry that the Killdeer Security woman had not told me this on the phone that I said nothing. If you bite off a bureaucrat’s head, what do you get? Three more bureaucrats.
The main entrance was still crammed with skiers. The impossibility of fighting through them meant that Rorry and I had to retrace our steps. Unfortunately, it was my bad luck to run into Arthur Wakefield as I pushed open the door to the bistro. And I do mean run into.
Arthur sprawled backward, but managed to tuck his silver wine flask under his arm. My first paranoid thought was that he must have been watching me through the door’s glass square. He just hadn’t retreated quickly enough when I’d pushed through the entrance. He righted himself with dignity, then begged us to come over to his table for a minute. More bad luck: Arthur was having lunch with Boots Faraday. Boots smiled at me and nodded awkwardly at Rorry, who’d stiffened instantly at the sight of her.
“So, what are you two doing up here? Scoping out the last show? Having lunch?” Arthur, seemingly oblivious to the female hostility, asked his questions as he wiggled up next to us, unscrewed the flask, and poured white wine into two glasses. I looked longingly at their plates of baby-vegetable strudel napped with a creamy sauce, probably béarnaise. Arthur leaned in close to my shoulder, sniffed, and cried triumphantly. “I smell peanut butter!” He looked at both of us expectantly. “How about some ten-year-old Grand Cru chablis, then?”
Rorry moaned in disgust. “I go out, nine months pregnant, and all everybody offers me is booze.”
Boots’s expression said: Didn’t I tell you this woman was difficult? She said abruptly, “Did you get my message, Goldy?”
“I didn’t get your message, I just talked to you a few hours ago—” But I stopped when Boots shot me a stern look. Aha: She was trying to ask me if I’d told Rorry her story about Nate making an extreme sports film the day he died.