Surprised by her question, I squinted at another collage. This one hung on the kitchen wall. I was pretty sure it was by the same artist who'd done the one above the breakfast bar. Photos of large and small teacups had been set at all angles. It also resembled some of the detailed collages I'd seen behind the watercolors in the Killdeer Art Gallery the day before. Eileen cleared her throat.

What do the cops know about the ski accident? Why do you ask, Eileen?

"I really don't know," I said lamely. "They don't let me in on the status of - "

"Forget it," Jack interjected, as he looked sadly at the half-finished cake.

Eileen waved her hand. "Listen, Goldy. . . Jack's been out on parole for six months." She leaned forward, her eyes pained and earnest. "Portman was his caseworker, and - "

"What?" I couldn't compute what she was telling me, and looked from Eileen to Jack and back again. "You're out on parole? For what?"

"I was convicted of criminally negligent homicide. But I wasn't guilty of it," Jack announced matter-of-factly. He poured himself more of the fragrant coffee. No one said anything for several long moments. Jack sighed. "I used to be married. My wife, Fiona, loved to ski as much as I did. Don't think I'm arrogant, Goldy, I'm just a really good skier. Fiona was more like low-intermediate. One day, we both had too much to drink at lunch. She wanted us to race to an out-of-bounds area beside a black run. It has a great view, and she'd been there once with her son." His voice had flattened, as if he were reciting his story under hypnosis.

"Jack, don't make yourself do this," Eileen implored.

Jack held up a hand. "Please, hon, you wanted advice from Goldy. She needs to hear what happened." He took a deep breath. "Fiona and I got to the overlook. A minute later, somebody crashed through the trees and attacked us. Fiona lunged for me and I tried to catch her, but she slipped away somehow. The attacker was wearing a ski mask. Whoever it was, was strong and fast. He or she hit me with a rock and I passed out." He stopped. "Then the attacker must have pushed Fiona over the cliff. Anyway, my wife. . . was killed."

"And you were convicted of homicide?" I asked incredulously.

"They had to have somebody to blame. The prosecutor said I shouldn't have let Fiona ski drunk, that I shouldn't have taken her down such a dangerous run. She had grabbed my hand when we were trying to defend ourselves against the attacker, and my mitten was by her body when the ski patrol came. They trampled the snow so much, they couldn't trace our attacker." He sighed again. "It was a day of unstable snow, too. But that didn't matter. The police didn't find enough evidence to charge anyone else, and I was sentenced to three years in prison. I served a year, was granted parole six months ago. . . I had a record of good behavior." He snorted cynically.