"Which means he won't be home."

"Look, Tom," I replied impatiently. "Please. I'll be fine. I'll probably still be up cooking when you get back tonight." I had lots of work to do at home, none of which required a commercial kitchen: preparing for an intake meeting with Arthur and baking cookies for a library party. The library wanted to throw a come-one, come-all holiday party for patrons. I'd offered to bring the Christmas cookies. I was doing this volunteer food service so people would know I was still out there. So people would not think I had quit the food biz altogether. And what a price to pay for the Sunday reception: missing the Broncos play the Kansas City Chiefs! But I was determined to be a caterer full of the holiday spirit. And, with any luck, I'd have everyone fed and the place cleaned up in time to catch the second half.

Tom snapped open his cellular and called Marla. My best friend was not home. Tom checked his watch and announced to Marla's machine that she should cancel her plans for the rest of the day, drive to our house, and, wait. "Goldy needs you," he concluded.

In spite of all that had happened that day, I smiled at the thought of hopelessly busy-with-life, immensely wealthy Marla Korman careening her Mercedes to our curb to await my arrival from Killdeer. Maybe she'd do it; Tom's message ensured she'd be eager for bad news. Meanwhile, I had Arch to speak to, a weekend crammed with nonpaying jobs, and looming questions about my former relationship with a parole board member, now mysteriously deceased.

Next Tom called Eileen Druckman's condo and asked for Arch. He handed me the phone.

"Mom?" My son's tentative, worried voice crackled across the connection. "Now can you tell me what happened?"

I told him a guy skiing Hot-Rodder was in an accident and I just had to talk to the patrol for a while. Was he sure he didn't want me to come get him?

"I'll be okay here, I guess." He sounded uncertain. An adolescent boy wants to be with you and yet despises mothering; he wants to make sure you're okay but doesn't want to appear to care. "What happened to the guy? Where was all that money coming from? Did somebody try to rob him?"

"Honey, I don't know. He died - "

"He's dead? Did he run into a rock or something?"

"Nobody has a clue. And yes, he was carrying a lot of cash; he was our buyer for Tom's World War Two skis. Listen, hon, I'll be coming back to Killdeer in the morning to meet with a client. We could ski together in the afternoon, if you want."

"Uh, no thanks." Ski with someone as uncool as your mother? No way. "Look, Mrs. Druckman wants to talk to you. I told her you witnessed an accident."

I groaned as Sergeant Bancock appeared at the door and summoned Tom to the outer office. Tom's lips brushed my cheek before he left.