Crunch Time (23 page)

“I think you’d have to ask
her
.”

This time, Donna hunkered down under her blond hair, as if it were a hood. She said, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, I’m gently reminding you that you can’t refuse to rent to people just because they’re Cuban-Americans.”

Donna enunciated each word carefully. “I. Am. Not. A. Racist. I don’t care if they’re from Mars. The last rental of mine they lived in burned to the ground. Correction: Somebody burned it to the ground, and dropped a Cuban oil can nearby.”

“But,” I replied thoughtfully, “the police didn’t blame the women for the arson, right? I mean, that’s what the women told me. Have you . . . had any other rentals burned by arson?”

“Of course I haven’t.” A piqued, lost expression washed over her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any one-story houses available.”

“Donna, please.” I knew that expression: It was the way a
hungry
person looked. “Let’s start over.” I reached into my bag and brought out the coffee cake, which I placed in front of her. It looked rich, buttery, and oh-so-inviting under its glistening plastic wrap. “This is a recipe I’m testing. You seem extremely hassled, and I’ll bet you haven’t had lunch.”

She slumped back in her chair. The combative lioness became a kitten I’d just pulled out of the lake. She placed each of her hands on her cheeks and stared at my offering.

“Donna,” I said softly, “would you like some espresso and cream? I brought a thermos—”

“Well, actually, could you make me some . . . instant cocoa?” Her voice was meek as she continued to stare at the cake.

“Absolutely,” I replied, although I never used the word
instant
in the same breath as
cocoa
. Be that as it may, Donna needed comfort and sustenance, stat. Plus, my curiosity was aroused. She’d gone from a ramshackle storefront to a plush office—leased to her by a Cuban-American, but I hadn’t pointed that out—and the place even included a kitchen. Instead of traipsing around in jeans and sweats, she now had the air and the car of a high-priced defense lawyer. All this transformation had taken place since the last time I’d seen her. Yet, as was usually the case, money hadn’t bought happiness. In fact,
something
was making her miserable. I was hoping I could discover what.

In the kitchen, I found a small pot, filled it with water, and turned on what looked like a brand-new, unused stove top. I discovered paper cups, paper plates, and packets of instant cocoa, freeze-dried marshmallows conveniently included. Her office fridge didn’t smell too good, so while the water heated, I decided to help Donna out, with the hope that she would do the same for me. You could be an Episcopalian and believe in karma, especially given our proximity to Boulder.

I discovered random packages of fur-bearing cheese and moldy crackers, along with two boxes of leftovers bearing stickers from expensive Denver restaurants. The crackers and leftovers I dumped. I removed the cheese, then scrubbed the refrigerator’s small interior with wet paper towels and disinfectant. I washed my hands, trimmed up what turned out to be a chunk of cheddar, and placed a good-sized wedge on a plate. I stirred the boiling water into the powdered hot chocolate for Donna and put out two paper plates. I wanted to share a bit of cake with Donna and be sociable, even though I’d just plowed through two beers and most of a plate of enchiladas trying to do the same thing with Norman Juarez.

Back in her office, Donna was still staring at the cake. I began to wonder if she needed medical attention.

“Donna? Are you all right?” I asked softly. When she didn’t reply, I unwrapped the cake and sliced an enormous piece for her plate. I placed her makeshift meal in front of her, along with the steaming cocoa, its tiny marshmallows bobbing about merrily. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Startled out of her reverie, she nodded thanks, then sipped the cocoa and nibbled the cheese. She forked up a hunk of coffee cake, and as is often the case when one is sugar deprived and stressed out, the carbohydrates provided a jolt. “Thank you,” she said. “This is good.” Tears actually filled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to answer calls all morning, and I haven’t—”

“Hey, I’m the caterer, remember? No excuses needed.” I sliced myself a small piece of cake, then sat down and took a bite. The guava gave the cake a pop that I would have enjoyed even more had I some decent coffee—but wait, I did. I pulled out my Thermos, poured myself a cup, and sipped.

As we ate, I sent as many smiles Donna’s way as I could. I remembered what my father had told me, back when I was young, feisty, and driving my teachers crazy by talking back. Good old Dad had said, “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” Being vinegary by nature, I took considerable time to learn the lesson, if I ever had. But when I remembered Dad’s advice, I tried.

“You know what?” I said kindly. “We really don’t have to find a rental for Ferdinanda and Yolanda today. With the sudden storm, you must have tenants calling every two minutes.” Actually, the phone had not rung since I’d been there, but never mind. And where was the assistant? Maybe driving around looking for takeout. “Tenants are probably driving you nuts,” I babbled on, “because they can’t find snowblowers, or snow shovels, or they don’t have heat. Over a foot of white stuff in September has discombobulated everyone, me included. Isn’t it bizarre?”

“Yes, it is.” She sipped her cocoa and gave me a wary look. “But it’s not my tenants who are driving me crazy.”

“Um,” I said thoughtfully, “not your tenants?”

“No, it’s the people who
aren’t
my clients who are doing that.”

“You know what?” I said, leaning forward in what I hoped was conspiratorial confidence. “Six people just got added to the dinner I’m catering tonight. And there might even be two more. None of these people were regular clients, either, but—”

“I mean”—she interrupted me—“I like sex as much as the next person, but why do you have to ruin somebody’s business because you won’t go to a hotel?”

“Has the economy gotten
that bad
?” I asked. “I thought they had nooner rates down in Golden—”

“Oh, these people have money,” she said conspiratorially, taking another bite of cake.

“The nerve!” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I sure wanted to find out. When she continued to eat cake, I asked hopefully, “Why would
anyone
ruin a business because someone refused to go to a hotel?”

“I know how they do it, too,” she said without explaining the ruining-business part. She put down her fork and pointed a scarlet-painted nail at the ceiling. “One of them poses as a potential client. They ask for the cheapest rental houses available in the mountain area. Then they get my assistant to let them into the property, and then he or she says they’re not interested. My assistant even thinks they’re using disguises now.”

“You’ve never seen these people?”

“No. I usually just show the high-end homes.”

“Can your assistant describe the—”

“No. Believe me, I’ve tried to get her to tell me what they look like. But she needs new glasses, and she says I’m not paying her enough so that she can get them. When I say, ‘Well, then, how can you drive?’ she says she probably shouldn’t be driving, but anyway, she says these people are sort of young, sort of thin. As if that’s going to help me.” Donna shook her head and stopped talking.

“I promise you,” I said, “if my friends rent from you? They will be as pure as the driven—”

“I have to catch these two,” Donna said, interrupting me again.

“These two . . . ?”

“That’s the only way. I’ve offered rewards to the neighbors of every single one of my unsecured listings. I mean, if the neighbors call me in time so I can catch the squatters.”

“What are unsecured listings?”

But she lapsed back into her reverie. Eventually, she uncurled herself from wherever her mind had taken her. She looked at me as if she were again trying to remember who I was. When she did, she took another bite of cake and nodded her approval. “If I tell you about this, you can’t tell the
Mountain Journal.
”

“I wouldn’t tell the paper. But it sounds as if you can’t tell the paper either, because you don’t know who
these two
are.”

“No, I don’t.” She drained her hot chocolate and clapped the cup on the desktop. “But I
do
know when they sneak into my rentals and have sex. Sometimes I don’t know right away, but I know, because they don’t clean up after themselves. It’s part of their, what do you call it, their MO.”

I said, “Donna, breaking and entering is against the law. What did you mean by unsecured listings? Don’t your rentals have security systems?”

“Only high-end homes have security systems. This couple prefers cozy little cottages, preferably deep in the woods. They break a window, open the back door, and let themselves in. They bring along their food and wine, and one time, two sleeping bags that could be zipped together. How
cozy
. I wanted to get the bags tested for DNA, but the cops wouldn’t do it. They said it was too expensive and sleeping bags that I had handled would not be evidence of a crime. Then I wanted to have the genetic testing done on my own. But when I heard how much it cost, I didn’t.”

I thought about the couple who’d showed up at my door the other day, along with their real estate agent. Had they been casing Jack’s place? It wasn’t a rental. Then again, it didn’t have a security system.

I said stubbornly, “You really should talk to the police again about the break-ins. If you have sleeping bags, they might be able to trace back—”

She waved this away. “I just wanted them to do DNA testing. I don’t want the breaking-and-entering part to get out. You know how the sheriff’s calls always appear in the
Mountain Journal.
If I tell the cops I have squatters balling away in my rentals, then everyone will want to do it. And nobody, but nobody, wants to rent a place where squatters have broken a window and left wine bottles, plastic wineglasses, cracker crumbs, and cheese wrappers. Those things attract rodents. Nobody is going to rent a place where there are rodent droppings, and my assistant and I can’t check every single listing every day to make sure they’re clean.” Donna shivered. “The whole thing is disgusting.”

“You could hire a private detective.”

She shook her head again. “Actually, a nice investigator did come to see me. He had a client who was trying to track down a couple having an affair. His client thought the adulterers might be meeting in vacant rentals.” She took a bite of cheese. “But last night, on the news? I heard the guy died. So I have no idea if he discovered them.”

I felt as if I’d been slapped. “The detective? It was Ernest McLeod?”

“You knew him?”

“I did.” I omitted the part about Yolanda and Ferdinanda living with him, fearing she might jump to conclusions. “Do you . . . know who his client was? The one trying to track down the people having the affair?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.” She rubbed her hands together and stood up. “Thanks for the cake. My assistant is showing a couple of properties and was supposed to bring back sandwiches, but who knows where she is now. Anyway, I was just going off to one of my listings, a small A-frame, when you showed up. A neighbor reported seeing a strange car there, so I was going to check. Whoever it is, they’re probably gone now.”

I stood up, too, but was reluctant to leave. “Why don’t you let me do it? Ernest McLeod was a friend of mine, and I’d like to help you catch these people. Also, if you have some old cheese wrappers and plastic glasses they left, I might be able to figure something out. I
am
a food person.”

She pointed one of those red-painted nails at me. “I don’t want this in the paper.”

“I won’t call the paper,” I promised.

“You’d better not.” She stared at me.

What was with this woman? I wanted to ask her if she’d seen a stocky bald guy. I wanted to know what her relationship to Humberto was, if he gave her the office rent-free, if he had access to her rentals, and if he paid her to have that access. But Donna was both suspicious and hard to keep on track. Even though I was frustrated, I didn’t want her to become distracted again.

“Um, Donna? If I have a list of your unsecured rentals, I might be able to do a better search.”

She rifled through the papers on her desk and came up with a single sheet. “Ten listings without security systems.”

When I asked, “Which one had the neighbor who called you?” Donna leaned down and put a red check mark next to one address. I said, “Did she get a description of the car, or a license plate, maybe?”

“All this neighbor saw was a dark SUV in the driveway. I’m telling you, all this couple likes is cabins far from everything. Wait here a sec.” She went to a closet and pulled out a bag. “I don’t know why I kept this stuff, but I did. There are two sleeping bags in there, plus plastic glasses, some cheese wrappers, and an empty box of crackers. You ask me, these people are pigs.”

I opened the sack and immediately closed it. Like in the refrigerator, the scent of moldy food was overpowering. I stood up to wrap the cake. “Would you like the rest of this?”

“I’d love it, but I think it would just sit in my refrigerator, where I already have a bunch of old stuff. A cleaning crew was supposed to come through, but they didn’t. One more thing I have to deal with.”

An assistant. A cleaning crew. A gorgeous new office. “Oh,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me. “Humberto Captain built this office space? It’s gorgeous. I know Humberto,” I added.

Suspicion flared in her eyes. “Yes, he built this beautiful building. You see, I’m not prejudiced against Cuban-Americans.”

“This place is really top-notch. I used to cater in offices like this.”

She lifted her chin in defiance. “Well, he gave me a really good rate, so that somebody would be in here, you know, occupying the place.”

How could I ask her if he had access to all her files and keys without her clamming up? How could I find out if Humberto was the one who’d been looking in Yolanda’s rental windows? Was it possible that anyone besides Tom suspected that Humberto might have burned down Yolanda’s rental so that she would have to make other arrangements, like living with a private investigator who was getting close to discovering the gold and gems Humberto insisted he’d never stolen?