Doug Portman was a social-climbing accountant who had somehow become a rather large cog in our state political machine. Dressed in dapper seersucker or corduroy, he was always a hobnobbing presence at law enforcement picnics and other events. I didn't know what he did to earn his living now, and didn't want to know. The only thing I knew was that he had married for money and could now indulge in his collecting hobby. Still, I felt guilty about selling him Tom's skis, since I had not told Tom to whom I was selling them. You didn't exactly say, Uh, honey.? I'm selling one of your most prized possessions to a guy I used to date. . . oh yes, I still have his number. . . .

Outside, the snowflakes whirled and thickened. My face was numb with cold. I briefly released my deathgrip on the metal bars to tighten my hood. The time before Christmas should be full of laughter, parties, shopping, decorating, baking, family gatherings. So why was I dealing with the loss of my beloved business, a live television fund-raiser for a kind, outdoorsy fellow who'd died in an avalanche, and - as of twenty minutes ago - a crazy earring-studded guy sending poisoned love notes to a cop? Not to mention the sale of a valuable collectible item, more or less under the table, to a man I'd vowed never to see again?

But I was seeing him again. So much for never.

-3- The gondola inexplicably started again and I sighed with relief. At the top, I popped through the doors, shouldered my skis and pack, and headed onto the mountain's flat peak. A bitter wind blew me into the snow before I could don my skis. I gasped as my body hit the hard-pack and pain exploded up my knees. Poor Cinda, I thought as a red-clad ski patrol member gently helped me up. When she wrecked her knees, had it hurt as much as this?

"You all right?" the tanned patrolwoman asked, her voice tight with concern. "Need help getting to the show?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine." I struggled to my feet, slung on the backpack, then conscientiously slotted my boots into my skis. Eventually, today's show will be over, I consoled myself as I reached for my poles.

I skied cautiously to the racks by the Summit Bistro. The restaurant occupied the eastern third of an enormous blond-log edifice known as the Chapparal Lodge.

Snuggled within a stand of pine trees, surrounded by a wide apron of log decking, the lodge housed the bistro, the kitchen, a cafeteria, and mountaintop ski patrol headquarters. The lower level contained a storage area, rest rooms, and pay phones. I racked my skis and reflected that until a few moments ago, I'd had no dealings with the patrol, who were summoned if you had a crisis on the slopes. Patrol members, expert skiers who wore red uniforms emblazoned with white crosses, brought injured skiers down on sleds, closed dangerous runs, and yanked lift tickets from reckless skiers and snowboarders. Apparently, they also felt they should pluck a mid-thirtyish woman to her feet when she did a face-plant in the snow.