"Sorry, Miss G. I haven't memorized all the statutes."

"He couldn't be. Anyway, Tom, no matter what's going on with John Richard, Doug Portman died while skiing. This can't have anything to do with John Richard. End of story."

But I knew all too well that wasn't quite the end of the story. Why would Doug insist on buying Tom's skis with cash instead of a check? Wasn't that foolhardy? And speaking of foolhardy, if the run was closed, why was Doug Portman on it? People who died skiing usually suffered heart attacks. Or they collided with an obstacle and died of internal injuries. If Doug suffered an internal injury, there was an awful lot of his blood on the slope.

I knew, too, that a suspicious death raises questions first about the person who discovers the body. Say a woman finds the body of a parole board member. Say she has an abusive ex-husband, now in jail. The ex-husband is no threat, until lie comes up for parole. If he's granted parole, what happens if the formerly abused wife takes exception to the decision of the parole board?

My body felt numb. This time, however, it wasn't from the cold.

Hoskins and Bancock reappeared to say they had a description of Portman's BMW and were going to search for it. When the door closed behind them, Tom scraped a chair over, clasped my elbow, and spoke in a gentle voice.

“Look. I shouldn't have said anything."

"They were your skis. I should have told you - "

"Goldy, please. There's a lot going on here that's out of whack."

"No kidding." I finally took a sip of my coffee. It was cold.

"For one thing," Tom went on calmly, "why would Portman give you something for me?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's an article discussing the rising values of collectible skis. Wouldn't he have called the sheriff's department directly if he'd had something to give you from work?"

He waved a hand. "We'll know pretty soon. If this is work-related, if it has to do with a case, you shouldn't be acting as courier."

"What could he have had for you, relating to one of your cases, that couldn't wait until Monday morning?"

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Portman was kind of an eager beaver, very self-impressed. Of course, maybe on your dates, he didn't give that impression - " He chuckled.

"That's not funny," I said as he smiled.

"If some guy I put behind bars and he let loose out on parole has become a troublemaker, then we have problems." Tom moved his hand up to my shoulder. "I know you don't want it, but it might be a good idea for somebody to be with you."

"I don't need pampering, Tom. I'm fine."

"Where's Julian?" he asked pleasantly, as if he I hadn't heard me.

"Julian is - " Actually, where was Julian? This fall, our twenty-year-old family friend and boarder had transferred from Cornell to the University of Colorado. Julian Teller's lifetime ambition, temporarily derailed owing to this change in colleges, was to become a vegetarian chef. Meanwhile, he was determined to pursue his B.A. no more than an hour away from us, his adopted family. "Julian is . . . let's see. . . it's Friday." Julian apprenticed in a Boulder restaurant on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and his classes were. . . "Friday afternoons, he has film class. Then at night the class watches old movies. Afterward, he spends the weekend at a friend's apartment."