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We had all been disappointed not to see Julian this summer. Arch, though, had felt Julian's absence most acutely.
     
     
"Go see your friend, Goldy. Have him tell you one of his stories of Nazi treasure. And stop worrying so much."
     
     
Clasping the basket, I hugged Andr‚ and hurried down the stone steps. Once across the creek, I trotted between the mud-blackened bank, the granite boulders, and a thickly packed heap of dry twigs, monument to the industry of beavers. A rising wind whistled through a nearby stand of yellow-tinged cottonwoods.
     
     
Most of the models had departed. The elk had returned to the meadow to graze. Beside my van, the breeze whiplashed a slew of white-faced daisies. Leggy thistle branches waved bright pink-purple tops and spilled hairy nests of silver seeds. The breeze shifted and wafted my scent toward the elk. They lifted their racks and trotted cautiously toward the safety of the trees. I unlocked the door, shoved the picnic basket onto the front seat, and thought of Andr‚'s words. Forget the men who were bothering me? How?
     
     
I revved the van. What I really needed was help from the main man in my life - Tom. I was terrified the county health inspector would descend on our home at any moment and deem that the cabinet-window mess left by Gerald Eliot wasn't technically a commercial kitchen repair, but a remodeling. Remodeling was illegal without pulling a permit and closing the kitchen. Tom had promised to help. But Andy Fuller, the prosecutor who was such a thorn in Tom's side, had just plea-bargained down to reckless driving a drunk driver's killing of six people on I-70. Tom's long, tempestuous meetings with Fuller precluded home maintenance.
     
     
I carefully negotiated the rocky road leading back to Blue Spruce. At the intersection with the highway, preoccupied with thoughts of Tom's troubles with Andy Fuller, I gunned the van and nearly hit a paint-peeled board announcing Swiss Inn Apartments - Seven Miles Ahead, West of Aspen Meadow, next to a Real Estate For Sale sign plastered with an Under Contract!!! sticker. I slowed and sloshed through the mud. Worry muddled my brain. Where was I? Oh yes, taking food to Cameron Burr, president of the Furman County Historical Society, an old friend whom I loved dearly, especially for the many tales of Aspen Meadow he'd told my son Arch. And the story Andr‚ had alluded to was Arch's favorite: the improbable myth that somewhere in the Colorado mountains, the Nazis had buried a stash of gold. Before Barbara got sick, she'd told me she and her husband were going to have to find that money, if they were ever going to payoff Gerald Eliot.
     
     
I turned at the road running by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm, drove another three miles, then rocked over the Burrs' puddle-pocked driveway. My apprehension grew. The last time I'd been to visit Cameron, he'd been home in the middle of the afternoon, battling anxiety with tranquilizers that he washed down with hot chocolate while listening to old Ravi Shankar tapes. He'd told me how he'd tried to help Gerald Eliot with his cash flow by getting him a job as a security guard at the Homestead Museum. But he still didn't come back to finish our sun room, Cameron had moaned. Join the club.
     
     
I pulled up in front of a contemporary-style, green-stained A-frame house. Its roof was pitched steeply to the ground, like an oversized tent. Jutting out the back was the unfinished sun room; the few panes of glass Gerald Eliot had left untouched winked in the sunlight. Across the driveway from the main dwelling was the guest house, a miniature replica of the green A-frame. Cameron's maroon pickup truck was parked at an angle in front of the guest house door.
     
     
Standing on the van's step, I could just see the panoramic view of the Continental Divide's icy peaks beyond the A-frame. The photographer wants a view of snow, Andr‚ had asserted over the phone. And I am to make a treat for the homeowner