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I labeled the gifts for Tom, Arch, Marla, and Julian, and slid them under beds and into other hiding places. Returning to the kitchen, I took out unsalted butter, sugar, flour, and double-strength vanilla, to start on the cookies for the neighbors. Still the questions from “Reggie Dawson’s” call replayed in my head.

Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County? Ridiculous, I thought, as I beat the butter and sugar into a fluffy mass. Of course not. Doug Portman had been killed before I could chat with him, sell him skis, or retrieve something from his car to show to Tom.

Once I’d mixed in the other ingredients and rolled out the dough, I stared at it. Wait a minute. Did someone think I knew what Doug Portman had been up to? Did someone think I hadn’t been there to sell Doug skis—but to do something entirely different? Like what? Act as a go-between with the police department? Expose Portman’s bribery scheme?

I put these thoughts out of my head as I cut molded stars, bells, Santas, and Christmas trees out of the smooth, buttery dough. Soon the kitchen was enveloped in the homey scent of baking sugar cookies. Once I’d cooled, frosted, and decorated the treats, I placed a dozen on each of ten paper Christmas plates, wrapped them in cellophane, and delivered them to the neighbors. My spirits soared as each neighbor offered thanks, hot cider, and hugs.

When I returned home, the phone was ringing. I picked up only to hear heavy breathing followed by a click. I pressed buttons to trace the call, then hung up and sighed.

Tom had been right to warn me to be cautious: I was finally convinced that the accident with my van had not been an accident, but a deliberate attempt to get rid of me.

CHAPTER 17

The next morning, I boarded the gondola just after ten. The previous day had ended without mishaps or additional anonymous calls. Still, all the way to Killdeer, I’d worried about Arch and whether he’d be safe at school. I’d worried whether “Reggie Dawson” would threaten, appear, bully, or harm me. Tom insisted that that kind of call was usually intended to keep someone away from an investigation. Since the caller had asked specifically about my relationship with Doug Portman, was that investigation what he wanted to keep me away from?

As the suspended car zoomed up Killdeer Mountain, I smiled politely at my fellow passengers—five chicly-clad skiers from Virginia—and reflected on what I’d learned thus far about the deaths at Killdeer. “Reggie Dawson” may have been trying to warn me away from the Portman case. But any one of his prying questions could engender negative stories about me. Publicity like that would make the reopening of Goldilocks’ Catering impossible, building code, drains, or no.

Three years ago, Fiona Wakefield and Nate Bullock had died at this resort—within hours of one another. Both deaths had occurred under mysterious circumstances. Jack Gilkey had been convicted of contributing to his wife Fiona’s death. A snowboarder accompanying Nate Bullock had vanished from the face of the earth.

Far below, out the window, I could just make out where Hot-Rodder intersected the catwalk. Hot-Rodder Run. Four days ago, Doug Portman, a not-unanimously-popular local art critic and chief of the state parole board, had died there. Portman’s death had also been shrouded in bizarre circumstances, not least of which was that someone had left him a death threat on a greeting card.

Portman must have felt law enforcement closing in on his profitable scam. Doug Portman had planned a Mexican escape—when someone closed a ski run and killed him.

Other strange occurrences might or might not be related to these three deaths, I reflected as we rolled up the last segment of snowy slope. Right after Portman was killed, someone had stolen and then returned Rorry Bullock’s Subaru. Her car might have been the one used in an attempt to dump me over a cliff. Why use Rorry’s car? What was the connection?

One ex-convict, cancer patient Barton Reed, had been denied parole by Portman, and had been mouthing public threats against him. Another ex-con, Jack Gilkey, had been terrified of what Portman’s death could imply for his future. Arthur Wakefield, son of one of the earlier victims, was enraged with Portman for letting Jack Gilkey out on parole, and was working with all his might to get his mother’s will set aside. Arthur had also been tracking Portman’s movements, and had broken into Portman’s condo to snag his mail, which included the ticket to Mexico.