I sighed and surveyed the sprawling lodge, where I now prayed someone had thought to start a coffeemaker.

The bistro's heavy wooden door was locked. Banging on it hurt my frozen knuckles and produced no response. Blackout curtains covered the windows. The crew's bustle inside must have muffled my knocking. Then again, maybe they hadn't made it up the back road. This was not something I wanted to contemplate.

How was I supposed to get in? Eileen had told me that the rear part of the lodge's basement contained the mammoth trash-and food-storage areas, plus railroad tracks leading to the gondola. The gondola's cars were removed at night, so that a second crew could run canisters of trash down the mountain, and unpack the food supplies that ran back up. I moved along the decking and peered down: the TV van, complete with chained tires and a hood of snow, was parked by the rear entry. So the crew was here. This was good.

Melting snowflakes trickled down my cheeks and lips. It would take another ten minutes to struggle downhill to the lower entrance. I retraced my steps past the bistro door to the cafeteria entrance, yanked on all six doors, and finally found one open. Eureka.

The darkened cafeteria was empty. But at least I was inside the building. There were two ways of looking at Killdeer security, I thought as I readjusted my backpack and made my way to the kitchen entry. With all the locked doors, computerized scanning of lift tickets, and red-flags screaming Danger! Run Closed!, you'd think Killdeer was an outpost of the Pentagon. On the other hand, in the last five weeks I had repeatedly seen boundary ropes down, run signs askew, office doors unlocked, and scofflaws ducking lift ticket scanners. Add to this: untended kitchens left open.

I pushed through the doors and looked around hopefully.

"Hello?" I called into the gloom. No answer. No Eileen Druckman and Jack Gilkey chopping egg roll ingredients. A single fluorescent bulb cast a pall over the cavernous space. Rows of steel counters lined with cutlery, pans, and bowls, alternated with shelves burgeoning with foodstuffs. My footsteps echoed and re-echoed on the metal floor.

Through the kitchen's swinging doors, noisy hustling and shouting was suddenly audible. I stripped off my snow-coated jacket and boots, opened my backpack, and slipped into the sneakers I wore for the show. Then I whipped past the walk-in refrigerators and deep sinks and pushed through more swinging doors to the restaurant.

The glare of TV lights blinded me. Mysteriously, the lights did not diminish the intimate feel of the dining room. Chandeliers elaborately twined with fake deer antlers, stucco walls stenciled with painted ivy, plush forest-green carpeting, a moss-rock fireplace with a glowing hearth - all these gave the bistro the air of a ritzy hideaway. Silk roses and unlit candles topped pristine white damask tablecloths. Along one wall, a blond woman was hanging an arrangement of artworks. Elegant Gourmet Restaurant at Eleven Thousand Feet Above Sea Level." No problem!