Crunch Time (20 page)

“But you’re thinking it’s our bald guy.”

“That’s my guess at this point.”

“So,” I said slowly, “you’re giving up on the idea that Yolanda burned down Ernest’s house? And her rental?”

“At this point, yes.” Tom paused. “This guy. In a twenty-four-hour period, he burns down Ernest’s house and maybe he steals my gun, although if he had it, it’s a miracle he didn’t use it on Arch. I don’t get it. What’s he up to?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he thinks we have clues to some of Ernest’s cases? Maybe he’s somebody who’s been sent to scare Yolanda? They think she knows something?” When Tom said nothing, I said, “I have a few things to tell you. Charlene Newgate, the secretarial service lady? I’ve known her for a long time, and she’s never had any money. But she’s got lots of it now.”

“You saw her at the CBHS event, the way you planned?”

“I did, and I was very circumspect—”

“You? Circumspect?” Tom interrupted, with a smile in his voice.

“Stop, okay? I asked if she’d ever worked for Drew Parker, and she clammed up.”

“I know. Our guys found the number of the secretarial service in Parker’s office, and she gave them the same silent treatment.”

I continued. “Well, Charlene said she didn’t even know who Parker was, but I think she was lying.”

“My wife, the human polygraph.”

I ignored this. “Charlene is not attractive, okay? But she said she had a new boyfriend, which Marla promised to look into. Charlene was wearing fancy clothes and was driving a Seven-Series BMW.”

“Nice boyfriend. We’ll try to take another run at her tomorrow.”

“Something else. Remember the Hermie Yolanda mentioned, with the missing fingers? I know her. Her name is Hermie Mikulski, and I saw her today at CBHS. She has a son there, named Brad. Hermie’s missing two fingers on her left hand, Tom. That’s new since the last time I saw her. She wants you to call her. And she isn’t old, the way Yolanda said, she just has prematurely gray hair. I can’t believe this is the same Hermie—”

“Let me talk to Boyd again.” Tom put his clothes back on, picked up his cell, and disappeared.

Half an hour later, when I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get any sleep, Tom returned and again began to undress. “Hermie Mikulski’s neighbors say she hasn’t been living in her house for a while. She told them she and Brad would be staying in different motels for a while, until some problem she had is resolved. They know she lost two fingers, but they don’t know how. We left a message on her home phone, we’re trying to get a cell phone number for her, and we’re trying to find out where she is. So far nothing.”

“Doesn’t the school have a number for her?”

“Not at this time of night.” Tom slid between the sheets. “How are you doing?”

“Not so hot,” I said honestly. “Listen, Tom. Marla said something else. Apparently, the house across the street from us sold. The buyers are an older couple with school-age children. Remember when I told you that three people were here this afternoon? The real estate agent who handled the sale of the house brought these people over
here
to talk to
me.
When Ferdinanda wouldn’t open the door, they went to Trudy’s.”

“Trudy didn’t see anything.” He sounded discouraged. “We asked her—”

“She can’t see our garage from her place,” I interrupted. “Did she tell you any more about the three people?”

“Just a description. Older couple, both brown-haired, with a gray-haired woman who said she was a real estate agent. But she wasn’t wearing a badge and wouldn’t give Trudy a card. They were only interested in talking to you, but they wouldn’t say why.”

I let this sink in—again. “Can you find out who bought Jack’s house?”

“I can try. Sometimes that kind of thing takes a few days, though, if the agent gives us a hard time or the sale hasn’t closed. Anything else?”

“Well, I wanted to let you know an odd thing that happened.” I waited for him to say what he usually did, which was that odd things were always happening to me. But he didn’t, so I related the story of Yolanda going Chernobyl with Father Pete at the ethnic grocery. “He thought she was certifiable,” I concluded. “Poor thing. She’s been through too much.”

“After the surprised way Kris Nielsen acted this morning when you confronted him?” Tom said. “Does this second incident make you even wonder if Yolanda might be exaggerating the stalking phenomenon? I mean, I know, he was unfaithful and gave her a sexually transmitted disease and hit her with a broomstick. And those things are awful. But—”

“If somebody did all that to me,” I said, “I’d be scared to death.”

“You’re right. But . . . do you believe her?”

“Yes,” I said, but I could hear the uncertainty in my voice. “You?”

“I never believe anyone, Miss G. But I can hold both possibilities in my head. Yolanda is exaggerating and stretching the truth. Yolanda is telling the truth and we’re dealing with a dangerous guy.”

I considered this. “There’s something else I want to tell you. This Peter kid Arch mentioned? The one with leukemia?”

He pulled me close. “Yeah?”

“It made me think, Tom. Ernest was getting thin. He hired Yolanda to cook for him. He invited her to stay in his home, and in exchange all he wanted was meals. He was growing marijuana in his greenhouse. He changed his will all of a sudden, leaving the place to Yolanda—”

“You’re on the right track, Miss G. Our preliminary autopsy indicates he had esophageal cancer.”

Ice formed in my chest. “That poor man. Why do you suppose he kept on working, doing investigations?”

“Some people don’t want others to know they’re terminal, because they don’t want pity. The investigations were probably what was keeping him alive. They were giving him a sense of purpose.”

“And we don’t know where his files are.”

“Except for the one with his will, they burned, Miss G. Forgot to tell you. The fire guys said Yolanda’s seventeen K is toast, too.”

I sighed. “Still, I know that money’s an issue. Why Humberto gave it to her, and what she’s going to do now, besides work for me. But with the filing: Wouldn’t Ernest have had a backup system of some sort?”

“Not necessarily. Ernest was old-school.” Tom exhaled. “Speaking of which, his former partner, John Bertram, isn’t in very good shape. Not because of Ferdinanda whacking him, but because he didn’t know Ernest was sick. He’s having a hell of a dose of survivor’s guilt, I can tell you. We’re having a get-together at their house on Thursday night, you know, the way we do. We’re going to share our recollections of Ernest—”

“I want to help,” I interjected. “And I’m sure Yolanda and Ferdinanda will want to, too. Did John Bertram even know that two women were living in Ernest’s house?”

“Nope. But remember, Yolanda and Ferdinanda hadn’t been there that long.” Tom exhaled. “You might as well know the rest. It looks like Ernest’s body was moved. He was shot in the chest, near the fire road that goes behind John Bertram’s garage. Then he was pulled out of sight of the main road, behind a boulder. As far as we can tell, Ernest wasn’t armed.”

“What was he doing back there?”

“We don’t know. There’s no path going from his house to where we found him. Our theory is that he heard or felt someone following him along the main road, so he ducked down the fire department’s wide dirt trail, which most people don’t even know about. Then when he thought he was safe, he started walking back toward the main road. Whoever was waiting for him jumped out and shot him with a thirty-eight.”

“Shell casings?”

“They’re working on a match now.”

I said, “Were there defensive wounds? I mean, if Ernest struggled with our bald guy, and the bald guy wanted to know what Ernest was up to or what he had discovered, maybe the perp would have tortured him.”

“No defensive wounds. His wallet and anything else he had on him are gone. But it wasn’t a burglary, apparently, or somebody wouldn’t have thought to come back to torch his house. We’re thinking the motive was to shut him up. About what, we don’t know yet.”

“What about Humberto? Does he have an alibi?”

“More or less. His guards are vouching for him, but our guys who interviewed them say they had rum on their breath, and it’s clear they spend most of their time down in the gatehouse that’s outside the high fence surrounding Humberto’s property. So that may not mean much. No matter what, there’s not evidence for a warrant. Kris Nielsen claims he was having brunch in Denver. He paid cash and kept the receipt.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Something else about Kris Nielsen. This summer, he called Father Pete and said he was trying to get an elderly woman involuntarily committed to an institution. The woman sounded like Ferdinanda, and it made me wonder more about Kris Nielsen.”

Tom exhaled. “He has financial resources, no question. As does Humberto Captain. We just don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Plus, we don’t yet know if Marla’s story about Brie Quarles is true, but we’re going to talk again to Brie. Our guys are still checking the scene and Ernest’s house, or what’s left of it. Maybe they’ll find something.”

“I hope so.” A cramp had spread from my chest to the pit of my stomach. Ignoring it, I asked, “How about the pictures you took of the puppies? Did you get any information from one of our town veterinarians?”

Tom sighed. “This past summer? A hiker brought a small beagle puppy that was bleeding into one of our local guys. The puppy was female but hadn’t been spayed.” Tom paused. “The puppy had some buckshot in its backside.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, the little gal made a full recovery. The veterinarian offered to put it up for adoption, but the hiker said he wanted to adopt the thing, that it was karma. Or dogma, whichever you prefer.”

“Who would shoot a puppy?” I asked.

“There are bad people out there, Miss G., in case I need to remind you. My question is, what was a puppy doing out on a remote hiking trail? If the hiker hadn’t found her, she would have died, that’s for sure. The vet said the hiker was a real animal lover, and that he went back to the same trail the next day, looking for more casualties. He didn’t find any, but he did hear gunfire.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” My stomach clenched again.

“Miss G., relax,” said Tom, reading my mind. “The vet is going to look through his files to see if he recorded who this hiker was and where he lives. We’ll talk to him.” Tom pulled me closer. “And for now? We’re in our own house, the security system is set, and there are two cops under this roof.”

“I think Boyd is developing an attachment to Yolanda,” I whispered. “That’s not going to screw up the investigation, is it?”

“It didn’t hurt the investigation when I developed an attachment to you when there was an attempted poisoning at a party you catered, now, did it?”

T
he next morning, we were awakened by the sound of water trickling through our gutters. As quickly as it had come, the evidence of the blizzard was disappearing. I pulled back the curtains and looked outside. The sun shone through sprays of drops, spangling our bedroom wall with rainbows. Melting clumps of snow were already dropping from our street’s pines and aspens, and a recognizable thump on our deck indicated the load of snow on our roof had thawed enough for the whole thing to slide off. Shining rivulets of water snaked down the middle of the street. I was pretty sure Arch would have school. Would Brad be there? Would Tom be able to find Hermie? I wondered.

I also wondered how the fencers’ bald looks would go over.

I didn’t dwell on these thoughts. Instead, more sinister worries surfaced, like memories of nightmares:
In the darkness, did the cops get a good enough photo of our would-be burglar’s boot prints to match them absolutely to the ones at Ernest’s house?
Did that same guy break into our garage and steal Tom’s gun?
And how would the guy know where Tom kept the gun?
Who were the three people who came to our door yesterday, and what did they want?
And in a buyer’s market,
who would purchase the house Jack had gutted, when he’d intended to remodel it and it looked horrible? The house has only been for sale for a few weeks.
So what gives with that?

Am I being paranoid, or does someone want to keep an eye on us?
If so, why?

The answers to none of these were forthcoming. I allowed the thoughts to drain away as I moved through my yoga routine. The scent of ham drifted up the stairs.

When Tom finished shaving, he came out and sniffed. “Sure smells like someone’s cooking a super breakfast again! When Ferdinanda gets out of her wheelchair, maybe we could move her and Yolanda into our basement.” He winked. “Not that your breakfasts aren’t fabulous, Miss G. It’s just good to have a break now and then.”

“From me?”

“
You
need a break from cooking. I thought I heard Arch moving around.” His forehead furrowed. “Wonder if anyone woke up Boyd?”

But someone had. In the kitchen, the newly bald Arch sat next to Ferdinanda and across from Boyd and Yolanda. In front of my son was a plate of ham, eggs, and a slab of toasted Cuban bread spread with guava marmalade. He was forking in food while asking Ferdinanda questions.

“So you don’t really inhale the cigar smoke?” he said around a mouthful.

“You inhale it a little,” Ferdinanda replied. “You gotta get the taste.”

Rather too loudly, I said, “
Hello?
”

“I’m just asking her, Mom.” Arch shoveled in more food, then announced, “I checked online, and we do have classes today. There wasn’t enough snow to close a school of fish. Speaking of pets, how cool are those three puppies, Mom? Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

“We were being foster parents for a day. Father Pete’s coming to get them this morning. Speaking of which, did anyone take care of them this morning? Food, water, and the rest?”

Arch said, “I did, Mom. And Sergeant Boyd came outside with me while we were in the backyard.” My son turned his attention to Tom. “I can’t drive my car, though, right? I mean, isn’t the garage still a crime scene?”

“Yes, it is. Sorry, buddy. It’ll probably just be for today. I can drive you down there, if you want.”