Crunch Time (21 page)

“No, thanks,” Arch replied. “I’ll manage. Wait, I can call Gus. His grandparents felt really bad that they couldn’t get their car up our hill, so I know they’ll want to take me.” He turned to Ferdinanda and Yolanda. “Thanks for breakfast. It was super.” And then, bringing joy to my heart, he hugged first Yolanda, then Ferdinanda, who both grinned widely.

When the Vikarioses arrived, Tom walked Arch out to their van. Boyd rubbed the top of his unfashionable crew cut. For a moment, I wondered if he, too, wished he were bald. But Boyd said only, “You’ve got a good kid there, Goldy.”

Yolanda said, “You’ve got a
great
kid.”

“Hoh-kay,” said Ferdinanda as she wheeled toward the stove. “Next shift. And I don’t want anybody getting in my way!”

Since arguing with Ferdinanda never got me anywhere, I merely fixed hot lattes for everyone else. I usually didn’t change from iced caffeinated drinks to hot ones until October, but since cold and snow had made an early appearance, I thought it was time. When Tom returned, he and Boyd told Yolanda, who again looked exhausted, to stay put while they cleared Arch’s detritus and set the table for the five of us. While the ham and eggs cooked, I spooned a bit of guava marmalade onto my plate and tasted it. It was
sweet
. But it had a distinctive taste, and I thought I could use it in an American-style coffee cake. I wanted to experiment, because I had some thinking and phone-calling to do, and I did those best while working with food.

Ferdinanda’s scrambled eggs were studded with chopped ham and sliced, caramelized onions. She’d added something else to them—whipping cream, I thought, or butter—that gave them an ineffable creaminess. She’d used the last of the Cuban bread to make a crunchy toast that she’d cooked in a frying pan—in some more butter. Every bite was heaven. I told her that the whole point of being the guest in someone’s home was that the
host
took care of the guests, not vice versa. She said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and asked me for the marmalade.

“Now I’m going on the porch to have a cigar,” she said as she pushed away from the table. “You don’t want me to do the dishes, I won’t.”

“I’m coming with you,” Boyd announced. He stood up.

“Nah, I don’t need you!” she called over her shoulder. “I’m ready for anything, I told you! Do you think I survived with Raul and the army, up in the mountains, because I was a wimp?”

“I’m just keeping you company,” said Boyd mildly as he opened the front door for her.

We called our thanks to her as she rolled outside.

“When does she see the doctor again about her leg?” asked Tom, sotto voce.

“Our calendar burned up in Ernest’s house,” Yolanda replied. She looked at the ceiling. “Along with the seventeen thousand in cash, the fireman says. We were in too much of a hurry, with the fire and the puppies, I just forgot about the money.” She sighed. “I’m getting used to starting over. But anyway, I’m going to have to call the doctor and find out when Ferdinanda’s appointment is. It might even be today. I’ve been so frazzled, I haven’t kept track.”

Once Tom had left, Boyd stayed outside with Ferdinanda. Every now and then as Yolanda and I did the dishes, we would peek out at them. With Ferdinanda smoking, Boyd shoveled our sidewalk, the steps to the porch, and the ramp. When he came around back to clean off the deck, he rolled Ferdinanda in front of him. She complained the whole way. We could hear her through the walls.

When Yolanda and I finished the dishes, she asked if she could use our phone so she could try to reach Ferdinanda’s doctor. I replied that she could, and she didn’t need to ask. If she could just use the house phone, I said, I could keep the business line clear, in case clients called.

When she retired to the dining room with the phone, I removed the extra lamb chops from the freezer for the Breckenridges’ party. Then I checked that we had plenty of garlic and said a silent prayer of thanks that we did. So now I was going to think and cook.

I buttered and floured two pans and preheated the oven. Then I pulled out unsalted butter, sugar, flour, sour cream, leavening, vanilla extract, a lemon, an orange, and the guava marmalade. As I creamed the butter and sugar, I ran all the questions about the case through my head. Tom thought Ernest had been murdered to shut him up. With Ernest’s house then burned to the ground, whatever evidence might have been in there was gone—more shutting up.

I sifted flour, salt, and leavenings, then zested a lemon and an orange and minced the result. What had Ernest found out that would make him have to be killed to shut him up? There were lots of possibilities but no certainties. If the motive was to keep something quiet, did the shooter question Ernest, to see if he knew something? Because if so, you’d expect signs of a struggle, and there weren’t any. Maybe the shooter already knew what it was?

I stirred the vanilla, zests, and marmalade into the batter, then carefully folded in the dry ingredients. I divided the batter between the two pans and placed them in the oven.

Ernest McLeod had been a good man, in addition to being kind and generous. Somehow, I felt as if Yolanda was holding out on me, but I had no clue how to elicit information from her. She seemed like a deer perpetually caught in the headlights, and the stabbing of a Peeping Tom the night before was not going to make her any less nervous.

Yolanda returned to the kitchen and announced that as she feared, Ferdinanda’s follow-up doctor’s visit was that afternoon, just when we would have the big push for the Breckenridges’ dinner. In catering terms, this meant right now, it was Crunch Time.

We began in earnest on the menu for that evening’s dinner: Rorry was providing cheeses, crackers, and fruit for people to munch on while they drank wine, which was being provided by a parishioner. Thank goodness Marla was bringing beer to go with the Navajo tacos. We would have to do the fry bread for the tacos on the spot, Yolanda said, because that was how it tasted best. But we could sauté the ground beef and seasonings, plus chop the tomatoes and lettuce in advance. I thanked the Lord we had iceberg lettuce, and plenty of it, because I’d meant to use it to make lettuce cups for the Caprese salad but then decided not to at the last minute. The ingredients for the
salades composées,
along with the flourless chocolate cakes, were already in the walk-in.

Yolanda and I swiftly divided the prep duties. She would work on the ingredients for the composed salads. I pulled the focaccia dough out of the refrigerator and set it aside to rise. Next I minced the garlic in the blender.

With a sinking heart, I sautéed the ground beef with taco seasoning. Maybe it wasn’t haute cuisine, but a client’s eccentricities were not my problem, I always told myself. As the beef sizzled in the pan, I chopped a mountain of lettuce, another one of tomatoes, and a final one of scallions. Yolanda finished the salad ingredients and made a large bowl of guacamole. Finally, I grated so much cheddar I thought my knuckles were going to give out. Still, when we were done, Yolanda insisted we stand back and admire our work. It helped.

The doorbell rang, startling both of us. Boyd looked in from the deck, held up his hand for us to stay put, then rolled Ferdinanda into the kitchen.

“This is too much,” she muttered, but opened her eyes in admiration when Boyd drew his gun and walked carefully down the hall.

He called to our visitor to identify himself.

Father Pete yelled back, “I’m Goldy’s parish priest! Why don’t you identify
your
self?”

“Look here, Father,” Boyd called through the door.

“And furthermore,” Father Pete hollered, “I am not afraid of you! In fact, I’m calling the sheriff’s department!”

“It’s okay,” I said to Boyd, who was looking through the peephole.

Boyd, still defiant, holstered his weapon and opened the front door. “I
am
the sheriff’s department,” he said to Father Pete, who was punching numbers into his cell phone. “We had an incident here last night.”

Father Pete pocketed his phone and passed by Boyd. The priest gave the cop a decidedly frosty look. Father Pete, who had been a boxer in his younger, thinner days, had twice won the Golden Gloves. He might have been a match for Boyd at some point in his life, but not today, when he came striding down the hall, unafraid, but burdened by a large cardboard box.

Before he got to the kitchen, Father Pete asked me, “What kind of incident, Goldy?” But then he caught sight of Yolanda, who was holding the door to the kitchen open. Father Pete’s mind made an unfortunate leap. “Mistaken identity again?”

Yolanda turned on her heel and shut the kitchen door in our faces.

“Let’s go into the living room,” I said to Father Pete. To Boyd, I said, “Could you bring us the remaining puppies, please?”

“Goldy,” Father Pete whispered to me, “what is
going on
?” Then he glanced around the living room. Boyd had neatly stacked his pillow and sleeping bag at one end of the couch. The makeshift curtain between the living and dining rooms was pulled back, revealing the cots. In the kitchen, Yolanda and Ferdinanda were again speaking Spanish in fierce, low tones. Father Pete said, “Is that woman staying with you? Who else is at your house?”

I sighed. “That other cot in the dining room is for her great-aunt. Did you hear about Ernest McLeod’s house burning down?” When Father Pete nodded, I said, “They were staying there, and now they’re spending time with us. The sheriff’s department deputy who greeted you at the front door is bunking on the couch. We had a—” Well, what had it been, exactly? “We had an attempted burglary last night. It’s possible it was the same man who burned down Ernest’s place.”

“Goodness gracious.” Father Pete sat in one of our wing chairs and put his box on the floor. “Is there any way I can help?”

I rubbed my temples and tried to think. In the kitchen, Boyd was talking to Yolanda. He clearly had the puppies, because their whining was louder. I asked Father Pete, “Do you know where Hermie Mikulski is staying?”

Father Pete lifted his wide chin. “I do, and she is fine. I cannot, however, tell you where she is. I mean, I promised her.”

I sighed. Maybe Boyd would be able to get it out of him. I said, “Well, do you remember Charlene Newgate?”

“With the secretarial service? Yes. She hasn’t been around the church in a while. Of course, the food pantry is at Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach now . . . why? Does she need food?”

“No, I don’t think so. But do you happen to know . . . if she has a rich new boyfriend?”

“That bald fellow? Is he her rich boyfriend? I saw them at the Grizzly one time, when I was trying to help an alcoholic parishioner—” He stopped talking when he saw my shock. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

I almost couldn’t get the words out. “Do you know the bald fellow? Do you know his name?”

At that moment, Boyd came into the living room carrying a puppy in each arm. Yolanda was right behind him, snuggling the last one to her chest. They wordlessly deposited them in Father Pete’s box.

Yolanda said, “I’ll go get a can of food.”

“That’s not necessary,” Father Pete said. “I already have puppy chow.” He squirmed a bit in his chair, as if he were having a change of heart but couldn’t find the words to match. “Young lady—”

“My name is Yolanda,” she said, brushing her tumble of russet curls away from her lovely face.

“Yolanda,” Father Pete said warmly, “I am sorry you are having so many difficulties. If you need the church in any way, we are prepared to help you—”

“Thank you,” Yolanda said stiffly. “I am fine now.” She patted the puppies one last time, then left.

“Sergeant Boyd,” I said breathlessly, “Father Pete knows where Hermie Mikulski is. He can’t tell me, but he may tell you.”

“I cannot tell either of you,” said Father Pete.

I shook my head. “Father Pete has also seen a bald fellow who may be our perp. He was with Charlene Newgate.” I didn’t know if Tom had filled Boyd in on Charlene’s background, and I didn’t want to do it now.

Boyd looked at me skeptically, but he sat in the other wing chair. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket and nodded at Father Pete. “Tell me what you know, please.”

Reluctantly, I left the living room. I wished I could hear what they were saying, but the crying of the beagles drowned them out.

12

B
ack in the kitchen, I couldn’t help it. I called Tom. He wasn’t at his desk yet, so I announced into his voice mail that Father Pete knew where Hermie Mikulski was. Father Pete also had seen Charlene Newgate’s new, rich boyfriend, who might be our bald perp. Emphasis on the
might,
I added.

I then tried Tom’s cell, but he must have been in one of those folds in the mountains that prevented reception. I repeated my message anyway and hung up. In the living room, Boyd and Father Pete were still conversing in low tones.

“What is it?” Yolanda asked as I held myself next to the kitchen door.

Ferdinanda gave me a steely stare. “Why are you listening? Is the father hearing the cop’s confession? If so, you are doing something very bad.”

“No, no, no,” I said impatiently, “Father Pete isn’t performing any sacraments. He’s talking to the policeman because he might
know
something about what’s been happening to you two. But if I can’t eavesdrop, I can’t tell what the priest is telling the cop!”

Ferdinanda’s gray eyebrows shot up. “Does the father know who burned down Ernest’s house? Was it the same man who was here last night?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe.”

At that moment, the front door opened. The puppies’ whining decreased as Father Pete went through. That was it? Fewer than five minutes of questions?

Still in the living room, Boyd got on his cell. Ferdinanda announced she was going into the dining room to rest. Uh-huh. I wondered if she wanted to do some eavesdropping herself. Yolanda moved to the pet-containment area and poured food into Jake’s bowl. Ordinarily, our bloodhound noisily gobbles up his food, but this morning, he wouldn’t look at us. There was a resolute silence from his bed.

“What do you suppose is the matter with him?” Yolanda asked me as I tipped out kibble for Scout the cat, whom I had seen exactly twice since the puppies came on the scene.

“He’s sulking,” I said. “He misses the puppies.”

While we were dutifully washing our hands, Boyd came back into the kitchen.

“The priest is going to call Hermie.” He held up a card. “I have her cell number here and just tried it. No answer.”

I shook my head. Hermie had told me to have Tom call her, but she was in hiding? What gave?

Boyd went on. “And as far as that woman and the bald guy? The priest doesn’t know anything. He can’t even remember when he saw the two of them. About two weeks ago, he thinks. I’ll call the bartender at the Grizzly, but it does get crazy busy in there sometimes. There’s no surveillance, and if it was two weeks ago, the saloon isn’t going to have a credit card receipt. Still, it’s worth a try. Let me call Tom.”

I was grateful that Boyd had brought us up to date but frustrated that he hadn’t learned more. He returned to the living room while Yolanda told Ferdinanda about her appointment that afternoon.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Ferdinanda said. “I can skip one appointment.”

“No, you can’t,” Yolanda replied with equal firmness. “He is the one doctor who will see you with your Medicare. You’re going.” I’d never seen Ferdinanda back down, but this time, she did.

When Boyd rejoined us, he said he hadn’t been able to reach Tom, but he’d left a voice mail. He pressed his lips together, then said, “Give me some duties here.” I handed him a printout of our prep schedule. I cited unnamed errands I had to do myself that afternoon—the exact nature of which I did not want to share—and said I wanted to be done by eleven.

“We can do this,” I said, encouraging them. There was no grumbling.

The four of us got down to work. The focaccia dough had risen, so I spilled it into two sheet pans. With one hand, I pressed holes into the dough, while with the other I carefully dribbled pools of golden extra-virgin olive oil into the depressions. Then I sprinkled the top with crushed fresh rosemary, dried oregano, poppy seeds, and sea salt. These breads did not need another rising, so into the oven they went.

Yolanda drained the new potatoes and shocked the haricots verts in ice for the
salades composées.
“You have a vinaigrette you want to use?”

“Do something fun. Since we’re having Navajo tacos, we’ll call it a Mexican–Caribbean–Native American fusion.”

She smiled. “No
problema,
babe.”

We were due to arrive at the Breckenridges’ place at four. We would set up before the guests arrived for cocktails and Rorry’s assortment of fruit and cheese, due to start at five. If all went smoothly, we’d serve the salads around six, followed by the lamb chops, bread, and tacos. Folks could make their choice. Or they could have both. Once the snows started in Aspen Meadow, everyone became hungrier. For six whole months, there were no more swimsuits or tiny tennis dresses to mess with.

I was thinking about this as Yolanda, her brow corrugated, shook the vinaigrette she’d made.

“What is it?” I asked.

She whacked the jar down on the counter so hard, I thought it would shatter. “Maybe I should just move Ferdinanda away from Aspen Meadow. Too many bad things are happening. I don’t want you and Tom and Arch to be targets.” She tore off a paper towel and wiped up the splashed vinaigrette.

“Yolanda, don’t. Tom will figure this whole thing out, and you can be safe and happy again.”

She said, “I doubt it.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Boyd said tenderly. “We’re going to nab this perp.”

After that, we checked off all the items needed for the menu, then moved on to labeling and packing our equipment and the foodstuffs. Rorry had told me she was using “The Abundance of Fall” for her decorating theme and would have gourds, hay, and bunches of flowers in a big arrangement for her centerpiece. I packed the ingredients for the fry bread batter, the meats, minced garlic, chopped tomatoes, chopped lettuce, grated cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and schlepped it all into the walk-in. I was glad not to have to worry about the table.

There were those nagging questions I still had for Yolanda. She was labeling all the items for the salads. Maybe she didn’t know any more about Ernest’s investigations, but she hadn’t talked much to me about Humberto or Kris. I wanted to know everything about them. If Humberto was really dangerous, why did she seem to be protecting him? And was it possible he had burned down the rental and somehow forced her to ask Ernest to take her in? I wondered.

And if Kris was truly stalking Yolanda, then we were all in danger. Some famous general—Patton, maybe?—had said, “Know your enemy.” In this case, make that
possible enemies.

Once we were done with the packing up, Yolanda announced she had to get Ferdinanda ready to go to the doctor. Since it was quarter to eleven, they would have to hustle.

“But when will you be back?” I called after her. “Should I pack up the van for the Breckenridges’ event myself?”

Boyd gave me a severe look. “You’re not packing up anything by yourself.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Whoever this bad person or persons are, I’m pretty sure it’s not me they’re after.”

“We should be back before four,” Yolanda said as she wheeled Ferdinanda back into the kitchen.

“I’m going with them,” Boyd announced levelly. “And I need to know exactly where you’re off to, Goldy, and when you’ll be back.”

“Just picking up a few things at the grocery store,” I lied. “No big deal.”

“Then I’m walking you down to your van. Where’d you leave it?” I told him, and while he checked the outside perimeter of the house, I rapidly packed up one of the guava coffee cakes I’d made that morning. I also pulled four shots of espresso and poured them, plus a judicious amount of whipping cream, into my thermos. Where I was going, it would help to have a food bribe.

Yolanda gave me a skeptical grin as I made these preparations. “Those people at the grocery store must love you.”

I put my finger to my lips. She grinned at me. I had no idea where she thought I was going, and actually, I didn’t have a completely clear idea myself. Yet.

Boyd accompanied me through the melting snow. The sheriff’s department had finished investigating our garage, and the yellow tape was down, as was the garage door. There was nobody around. In Aspen Meadow, folks tend to cocoon after the first big snow. A county snowplow was working our street, spraying enormous wedges of white stuff onto the curb opposite us.

At my van, Boyd opened the driver’s door. “I want you to be watchful, do you understand?” When I nodded, Boyd said, “All right. I’ll set the alarm and close up the house.” I placed the wrapped cakes on my passenger seat and revved my van. Where was I going, exactly? I had to think.

I wanted to know who had burned down Yolanda’s rental. I wanted to know who had done the same to Ernest’s house. I wanted to know who had stolen Tom’s gun and then decided to make calls or shoot video, or send texts, or whatever, right outside our own place.

Somebody or somebodies were pressing in on our boundaries, and I was
pissed
.

As I eased my van through the ice and slush on Main Street, I reflected. When had this chain of events begun? I had not the slightest notion where the puppies had come from, even less of a clue as to where the marijuana Ernest was growing had originated. At the start of all this, Ernest’s dentist appointment had been changed. With Charlene Newgate now a definite person of interest, would Tom be upset if I tried to talk to her again? Probably.

I called Charlene Newgate’s number anyway, and was rewarded with voice mail. She was involved in this, I was convinced—although the evidence wasn’t there yet. Tom still hadn’t called me back, unfortunately. I asked Charlene to return my call and gave my cell phone number. I doubted she’d leave her new rich boyfriend long enough to attend to messages, but it was worth a try.

I drove up past Aspen Meadow Lake, which was an icy gray—not yet frozen, but filled with melting snow. It looked forbidding. I chewed the inside of my cheek and longed for the coffee I’d packed up. Was the change in Ernest’s dental appointment really the beginning of these horrid events? No, it wasn’t. Ernest had had some clients with big problems, and the one I knew about was Norman Juarez. Tom had said he owned a bar down near the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.

I called Information and, hoping against hope, asked for a search for bars called Norman’s, or Norm’s, on the state road that ran past the department. It was a long, hilly highway that eventually ended up in Boulder, although I certainly didn’t want to go that far.

She came up with nothing, as I’d expected. I asked her to try
Juarez
.

“I have one called the Juarez Bar and Grill,” the operator said doubtfully. “It’s listed as being on the highway. Want the address or the phone number?”

“Both, please.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the bar, which, even though it was small, was strung with green, red, and white flags.
MEXICAN FOOD OUR SPECIALTY!
a handmade sign blared. I wondered how hungry I was. I couldn’t just go in and start asking questions.

One of the things about being female is that if you go alone into an establishment that serves liquor, day or night, everyone assumes you’re looking for a pickup. I pressed my lips together, pulled the diamond ring Tom had given me around so it was in plain view, and bellied up to the bar.

At half past eleven, there were close to a dozen males—no females—sitting and drinking. There were booths and tables, all empty. I wondered about the men. Tom had told me that criminals often drink at bars during the day, so there are always a couple of undercover cops in there imbibing with them. The cops are always hoping to get some inside scoop, and often they do. The downside, unfortunately, is that more than one out-of-uniform police officer has become an alcoholic in the pursuit of his duty.

The guys at the bar ranged from scraggly-looking, with long gray hair and beards, to ruffian types, with tight T-shirts and torn jeans. They eyed me, and I pressed my lips together in a no-nonsense manner.

A tall Hispanic male, his curly black-and-gray hair cut very short, left his work at the bar and came up to me. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Help you?”

“A Heineken and two cheese enchiladas, please.” I tried to sound normal, but drinking beer and eating Mexican food when you have a big dinner to cater in the evening wasn’t exactly what you’d call normative behavior. For me, anyway.

He brought the Heineken first, then said it would be a few minutes for the enchiladas, as his wife had just made a fresh batch of tortillas. I said that sounded fantastic.

I sipped the Heineken as slowly as possible, but I still had to order a second one, because the enchiladas were taking some time. Okay, I really
couldn’t
have more than two beers before catering the Breckenridges’ gig, or I’d fall on my face in their kitchen.
Maybe I should have ordered water,
I thought, but then realized that it was less likely the bartender, if indeed he was Norman Juarez, would talk to me.

I signaled to him after I’d had a few sips of the second beer. He ambled over.

“So, your wife makes the tortillas? I’m impressed.”

He nodded. “They are incredible.” He had a slight accent.

I went on. “So, are you from Mexico?”

He snorted. “I am from Cuba.” He pronounced it the way Ferdinanda did, “Koo-bah.”

“My goodness,” I said, trying to think of how to engage him in a conversation. “I should have ordered a Cubano.”

He was drying a glass with a dish towel, but stopped. “Do you
want
a Cubano with your enchiladas?”

“Maybe next time,” I said cheerfully. “You know, that’s so interesting that you’re from Cuba, because I’m having dinner tonight with a Cuban man—I mean, actually, I’m catering a dinner where he will be a guest. His name is Humberto Captain? Have you heard of him?”

Norman Juarez’s face darkened immediately as my question hit its target. He carefully put down the towel and glass, then gave me a penetrating look. “I hope Humberto has already paid you for the dinner.”