glass. "One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We have to do it."

I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn't ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk our lives remembering someone who was already dead.

"Killdeer's been dumped big time," Arthur reported dourly. "We've already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn't open my door this morning." He stopped to drink something. "Are you getting any?"

In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. "About a foot today," I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six-month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer - all ski resorts west of the Divide.

Arthur groaned. "The snowboarders and skiers? They're ecstatic! They've got an eighty-inch base in December! How'm I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew's having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast." I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. "Know what that crew's thinking, Goldy? I'll tell you. They're thinking Donner Pass."

Tucking the receiver under my ear, I started heating some milk: It was definitely a night for hot chocolate. "Arthur," I answered calmly, "why does the show have to be live? Why don't you just postpone the taping?" I adjusted the flame under the milk. "Better yet, why not tell me exactly what's going on?"

"Look." I heard another gulp. "High winds closed the bistro early tonight. Whenever gusts reach forty miles per hour, Killdeer Corp closes the gondola, so tonight's telethon was canceled. That's why the kitchen crew couldn't do your prep."

I tapped the gleaming new Carrara marble counter and glanced at my watch: half past ten. "So we have to raise money during our show?"

He cleared his throat. "The show was an annual telethon. It brings in about ten thousand bucks each year, and the station uses the money to buy equipment. So tonight, when the telethon got canceled, my boss announced to viewers that instead of seeing our show Saturday morning, viewers could tune in tomorrow morning for a live version of Cooking at the Top!" He took a gulp. "We have to do it tomorrow, Goldy. The professional fund-raiser folks say that if you put people off for long, they'll stow their checkbooks. Don't worry, I've got phone- bank volunteers."

"You said it was a memorial," I reminded him. "Haven't you ever watched it?"

"Never. I can't take telethons. Too much tension."

"It's in memory of Nate Bullock. High Country Hallmarks, you must have watched that." Arthur took another desperate swig. Nate Bullock, I thought. A pang of regret wormed through my chest. Yes, I had watched High Country Hallmarks. And I'd known Nate. His wife, Rorry, had once been my friend.