"I know why you wanted to have lunch with me," Boots interrupted. "You don't care about my work. Or the artists' association. And you certainly don't give a damn about Nate Bullock. You think I killed that son-of-a-bitch know-nothing wannabe critic, Doug Portman."

"Did you?"

"No. But I wish I had. Am I a suspect?"

"No, you're paranoid. I'm higher up on the list of suspects than you are."

"Were you there when he died, Goldy?"

"No."

"Then why is the sheriff's department asking you about his so-called suspicious death?" She grinned maliciously. "I mean, if you don't mind me asking a question or two."

"My ex-husband is in jail. Doug was a member of the state parole board. I was skiing with him. It looks peculiar."

My dessert arrived and we fell silent. When the waitress left, Boots demanded, "Why do the cops even think it's a suspicious death in the first place?"

I sipped my espresso. I couldn't tell her about the medical patches and the threat, couldn't tell her about the mysterious closure of the run, or the blood allover the snow. "I don't know exactly."

Boots pursed her lovely lips. Then she said, "Baloney."

I shrugged. The anger in her was making me nervous.

She stood, snatched up her jacket, and flipped her blond hair over her shoulders. "Go to hell, tough cookie."

-12- Well! Let's do lunch any ol' time.

I finished the brownie, sipped my espresso, and reflected on Boots's news that my crime-solving exploits had been written up in the local paper. How had I missed that? The waitress returned and told me the blond lady had thrown a fifty-dollar bill at her. I told her to keep the change.

I got directions to Mountain Man Wines, where the manager said he would happily deliver the rest of Arthur's bottled invites. By the time I got to Big Map, a light snow had begun to fall. Pink-cheeked skiers, their boot buckles clanking, headed past me, bound for lunch after a brisk morning on the slopes. And speaking of food, not only had my meeting with Boots Faraday been less than perfect, I had to assess my first day as a personal chef as a failure. Arthur had not given me a check, had not signed a contract, had only given me a vague list of foods I could put together for his wine-tasting buffet. He was going to call, though, and wanted me to do the buffet Monday. Wonderful.

I passed a line of skiers waiting for the gondola. I clambered up to the bottom of Base View Run, where skiers and snowboarders had to stop to take off their equipment before heading back to the gondola or across the footbridge. At the far left of the run's end stood Big Map, a fifteen-by-eight-foot plastic-covered diagram of the ski area. Arch was not there.