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The phone rang. Tom rose to answer it. “You never actually completed the sale to Doug, so it’s doubtful you’ll have to face prosecution,” he answered slowly. Then he hesitated; the phone bleated. “But, Goldy—it does look very bad.”

CHAPTER 14

Tom was sitting at the table, scribbling in his trusty spiral notebook, phone tucked under his ear, when I entered the kitchen. The game was in overtime, the score tied. I didn’t care. I was angry my kitchen was closed, furious my van had been destroyed, and remorseful that I hadn’t been brave enough to tell Tom who was buying his skis. And why was all this happening? Because, years ago, I’d dated Doug Portman. And then, unabashed, I’d offered to do business with him. I’d figured, he’s the perfect buyer for the skis. I’d thought, This money will solve all our problems, and quick. Sure.

I looked around the kitchen. Action is better than inaction. Or something like that. I carefully moved Arch’s still-wet, splatter-frosted cookie sheet onto another counter, then stared at my old recipe card box. Tom continued to talk on the telephone.

I flipped through the box of stained recipe cards, my old standby before the kitchen computer. What dishes would comfort and nourish Rorry Bullock when she came home from the hospital with her newborn? Two reliable casseroles beckoned from a time before I entered the catering business: lasagne and Swedish meatballs. On one of the walk-in’s side shelves, I miraculously located fresh oregano, basil, and thyme. Serving meatballs and lasagne could jeopardize my upscale reputation, I reflected while removing ground beef, ricotta, Fontina, whipping cream, eggs, and mozzarella from the walk-in. Rorry wouldn’t tell on me, would she?

“Okay, got it. Yeah, sure, send it now. Thanks.” Tom hung up. “We know what opioid was on the patches. A drug called Duragesic.”

“Oh, brother.” Duragesic was a very powerful painkiller, administered through transdermal patches. The potency of the drug diminished over a period of time, at which point a cancer patient or other chronically ill-and-in-pain patient put on another patch.

“You use or even touch more than one Duragesic patch at a time, you’re probably going to die,” Tom added grimly. “But there wasn’t enough on those particular patches to kill anybody.”

“So why would you threaten a law enforcement person, in this case the head of the parole board, with something that wouldn’t work?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you thought it would work. Maybe you just wanted to scare the guy to death.” He slid his finger down the list of names he’d written in his notebook. “Eleven people I’ve arrested over the last four years have treated their cancer pain with Duragesic. Five of them were denied parole by Doug Portman. One’s in remission in Lamar, one’s a roofer in Pueblo, one’s in a Colorado Springs hospital on life support. One guy died. The last one, man of thirty, was paroled last June by someone else. He’d been denied twice by Portman. But Barton Reed violated his parole three weeks later by assaulting a big guy wearing a Red Wings jersey. He swore the Detroit fan taunted him. But Reed still went back to jail for another six months anyway.” Tom shook his head. “He’s been out for a couple of weeks.”

I set a pot of water on to boil for the pasta. “How’s his health?”

“He’s in remission now. Last May, while he was still in jail, he was in so much pain he was on … Duragesic.” Tom’s fax rang. A moment later the machine spat out a high-quality photocopied photograph. Barton Reed, wide-faced and menacing, a dozen crosses and oval-shaped earrings strung along the edge of each ear, leered off the faxed page. The photocopy undeniably captured the likeness of the man I remembered seeing last summer at Aspen Meadow Health Foods, the man I’d dubbed the Earring King. Last June, he’d been putting together an herbal remedy for his illness. When Cinda had talked to me about him on Friday, he’d been putting together something altogether different: a threatening card with death as its message. What had Jack Gilkey said? Reed has revenge in his heart.

I poured green-gold olive oil into a sauté pan. When the heat made the oil glisten, I tossed in chopped onions and crushed garlic cloves. They sizzled, turning the air mouthwateringly pungent. “So … what was Reed’s original offense?”

Tom cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. “Did you know our friend Barton was a hot snowboarder for a lot of years? Don’t get me wrong, that wasn’t what got him into trouble. He toured the freestyle circuit here and abroad. That takes money—for travel, lodging, entry fees, you name it. In winter, he based himself in Killdeer. In summer, he would search Aspen Meadow and the other wealthy areas of Furman County for elderly women in the last stages of cancer.”