Tough Cookie полностью

At five to ten, I pulled into Arthur Wakefield’s driveway. Unlike the other houses along Elk Path, and undoubtedly pushing the limits of Killdeer’s covenants, his residence was painted the darkest gray I’d seen all morning. Charcoal siding contrasted with pearly decks and a steep slate roof. The place had a Loire-Valley château feel to it, which was undoubtedly what le wine-geek had in mind. Or had his mother chosen the place—and paid for it—before she died?

Peering through my windshield, I wondered about doleful Arthur’s agenda. If his mother had left him a good chunk of change, why would he need to work for PBS? Was the wine import business struggling? Or was Arthur living in a Killdeer condo for other, more personal reasons? His letter to the paper suggested a whole lot of rage. At least there was no Subaru wagon parked outside.

I hauled my box of goodies to the front door, balanced it on a silvery-gray railing, and rapped the gleaming knocker. I almost didn’t recognize Arthur when he opened the door. Gone were the black artiste clothes, the Pepto-Bismol bottle, the menacing body angle. The man actually looked happy to see me. His black hair was freshly washed and fluffed. Unfortunately, his cheeks were still gaunt and translucent, and his eyes retained their haunted look. Arthur may have been a bit happier, but the man was neither well rested nor relaxed. Maybe he’d been penning another tirade to the paper.

“Uh, Arthur?” I rebalanced my box. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” he rasped. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been … I mean, I just couldn’t wait for you to arrive.”

“Are you all right?” When he shook his head, I crossed the threshold and edged around an expensive-looking, intricately patterned wool Oriental. Another gift from Mom? I wondered. The formal living room, all mahogany furniture and light walls hung with Old-Master-style oil paintings, was strangely impersonal. In the hallway, porcelain figurines adorned a mahogany end table. Nowhere did photos or memorabilia give a clue as to Arthur’s background.

Something more astonishing adorned the walls: at least a dozen collages by Boots Faraday. I tilted my head at one, a montage of tall grasses, bushes, and evergreen shrubs, all sprinkled with snow. I peered close and read the title: “Winter Garden.”

From behind me, Arthur gushed, “Boots is one of my best customers.” I almost dropped my box in surprise. “It’s coming into her busy season,” Arthur continued airily, “Christmas and all. She’ll be ordering cases and cases of wine for the showings in her house. She sells tons of her work that way.”

“More than in the local gallery?” I asked innocently. I’d had a feeling that saleslady wasn’t entirely forthright.

“Oh, please. Those Killdeer Gallery people think ‘Western Art’ is anything with a pony in it. Come on out to the kitchen, please,” he entreated. “And in answer to your earlier question, no, I’m not doing well today.” I shot him a sympathetic glance. He looked piqued. “My first wine shipment was supposed to arrive and didn’t. I’m going to have to postpone the party until Monday, which makes me look terrible. I tossed all night, trying to think how to re-invite people. Haven’t had a thing to eat.”

“Let’s go, then!” I said heartily. Postponement was no problem for me: My calendar was depressingly open. No matter what the problems were, if Arthur was hungry, he was mine.

He pointed down the hall. I schlepped my box into a cheerful space with yellow walls, bright white tile counters, and a yellow-and-white floor of handmade tiles: hallmark of a noncook, because tiles spell major back pain. On the walls were bright tourist posters of France splashed with hues of lavender, yellow, and gray.

Arthur slumped into a ladder-back chair at his tiled breakfast bar, where eight or so bottles of wine sported jaunty ribboned bows and handwritten cards screaming You’re Invited, Again! “I’ve got ten cases of wines sitting at Denver International Airport,” he complained glumly. He stared at the wine bottles and a handwritten list next to them.

I raised my eyebrows. “Where at DIA?”

“Customs,” he answered dolefully.

“Got a medium-sized pan?”

He gestured wearily to a bank of drawers. I located a saucepan and started cooking the oatmeal mixture I’d brought. I wanted to ask Arthur if he’d heard anything new about Doug Portman’s suspicious death. More importantly, I wanted to see his reaction to my question. I also wondered fleetingly how we were supposed to do an intake interview if Arthur needed to 1) have something to eat and 2) spring valuable cases of wine from Customs. I stirred the creamy oatmeal mixture when it started to bubble. I couldn’t ask him questions yet. I knew the dangers of trying to discuss business with, or elicit information from, a client with low blood sugar. I’d face crankiness, irrationality, and indecision. You don’t get to be a successful food person without taking instant stock of such things.