Crunch Time (24 page)

“Well, if you’re going out to that cabin, I guess I’d better make some calls,” Donna said. She gave me a solicitous look. “Actually, I’m thankful you’re doing this.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” I put the rest of the wrapped cake, my thermos, and the list of unsecured rentals into my tote and tried to think of a way to take advantage of Donna’s sudden gratitude. “Is Humberto, does he show the offices that are available?”

“Goldy? You can
not
put those two women into this office building. It’s against the law for people to live in an office building. And anyway, Humberto’s been great to me. Very generous. He would never agree to put them in here, and I would never ask.”

“You don’t understand,” I said patiently. “Humberto adores Yolanda and Ferdinanda. He came over first thing yesterday morning, when he heard they were living with me. He wanted to help.”

“Of course he did.”

“They told him they were fine. And, uh, Yolanda is making money, by helping me cater tonight.”

Donna shifted her weight to one foot and put her hand on her hip. Alas, the distrust was back. “I thought you were desperate to get these women out of your hair.”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. If any one-story rentals come up, I’d love to hear about them.” I hoisted up the plastic bag, then picked up my tote. “I don’t mean to delay you, but you know the party we’re catering tonight?”

“The fund-raising supper. Thank you for doing that, Saint Luke’s really needs the money.”

“Well,” I said, continuing blithely, “there are going to be some wealthy people at the dinner. Sometimes clients ask me questions, like ‘Do you know if there are any good deals on offices in town?’ And I thought, since Humberto will be at the Breckenridges’ place tonight, I could introduce him to—”

“
I’ll
be at the dinner tonight, so if anyone wants to know about office space at the Captain’s Quarters,
I
can introduce them to Humberto.” Donna moved around her desk to give me the bum’s rush out of her office.

I stood my ground. “Does Humberto himself show the offices? I mean, what if someone wants to lease an office right away? Does he have keys to all the offices?”

Donna
clip-clopped
to the door. “Yes, he has keys, yes, he shows the offices. He’s got big offices and little offices in this building. I do appreciate your going out to help me with the people breaking into the rentals.”

“Don’t worry, if I find out anything, I’ll call you. Maybe I’ll even figure out who your squatters are.”

She didn’t offer a reward, but she did open the door for me. I smiled as I left, as if we were old pals and I really would call her if I figured anything out.

Which, of course, I had no intention of doing.

13

O
utside, the sun was shining, but the air was still cold. The plows had rammed dirty walls of ice onto the roadsides. Even so, the pavements were still swathed with thin blankets of snow. Driving would be treacherous, and I had enough problems without ending up in a ditch. I opened the side door of my van and carefully flung in my tote, followed by the plastic bag of detritus from one of Donna’s rentals. Maybe this evidence wasn’t technically from adulterers, maybe it was just from sort-of-young, sort-of-thin people, teenagers even, seeking a thrill. But it was something, and if Ernest had been investigating this couple, the evidence might be connected to his death.

Once inside my van, I turned on the engine and wished I’d worn gloves. It was twelve forty-five, and I was unaccountably hungry. The enchiladas were a memory and the coffee cake was calling. I unwrapped it, broke off a hunk, and chewed thoughtfully while staring at Donna’s list. The one rental she’d checked, the one where the lovebirds had made their most recent nest, was way out by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. I wasn’t sure I had the time, the tires, or the tolerance to find a house in that area. Worse, there was no way to find out if the plows had been through the vast labyrinth of dirt roads that lay around the preserve.

I rewrapped the cake, poured myself some coffee, and stared again at the address. I knew Tom would be furious if I drove out there and poked around in an empty house,
alone
. But Donna had been on her way to do just that, right?

I could hear Tom’s voice in my head saying,
You’re not Donna
.

Wait a minute,
I thought. I had a friend who lived in that area, not far from the rental, if I was judging distances correctly. Sabine Rushmore was a librarian whom I had known for years. I’d catered the retirement party she’d held at her house. She was sixty-five, but you’d never guess it. Except for her long, frizzy gray mane, she didn’t look a day over forty. My theory was that she kept herself youthful with her work as a peace activist, her long treks to remote parts of Colorado and the Mountain West to hunt for dinosaur bones, and of course—
of course
—the labor she put into growing organic vegetables. To me, it all sounded exhausting, but Sabine thrived on the activity.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know Sabine’s home phone number. There was no way the privacy-obsessed staff at the Aspen Meadow Library would give it to me, even if Sabine needed a kidney and I had one on ice in the van. And anyway, I thought, as I punched the buttons for Information, what if Sabine’s number was unlisted? What if she lived so far off the grid that she didn’t even have a phone?

Well, glory be. There was a Rushmore listed on the same county road as the rental. I punched in the number and couldn’t believe it when Sabine answered.

“Goldy, wow, I can’t believe you’re calling,” she said, out of breath. In the background I could hear crunching noises, and I guessed she was digging out her driveway. “It’s so good to hear from you. Gives me a chance to give up on clearing snow.”

I pictured her steep, rutted dirt driveway. “Don’t you have anyone to help you?”

“Not at the moment. Greg’s taken the four-wheeler into town for supplies for our horses. I wanted to surprise him. Anyway, I’m almost done.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Good thing I brought my phone outside in my pocket, huh? Maybe I subconsciously wanted an interruption. What can I do for you?”

I explained that I was hoping she could come with me on a bit of a hunt, sort of like one of her fossil-seeking expeditions.

“It’s really exactly like looking for dinosaur bones. Only easier,” I said.

“Goldy the caterer. Making the link between pastry and paleontology, eh?” she asked, a smile in her voice. “Sounds more like one of your crime-solving capers. I remember you found a body in the library once.”

“Hey,” I said in protest, “it wasn’t my fault the guy was murdered there.”

“And,” she continued, “you said the perpetrator of another murder was in the library at the same time.”

“Aspen Meadow Library is a popular place.”

“So what I’m asking, Goldy, is this: Are we going to need to be armed when we go on this expedition of yours?”

I thought of Arch using the weeder on our would-be intruder. “Well, it might not hurt if we took some sharply pointed garden equipment. Just kidding. I think the perps have fled.” I rushed on to give details that she would have to promise not to tell the paper: that apparently, a couple had broken into an A-frame near her, to have sex, most likely, and I wanted to see if there was anything left that would help me aid the real estate agent in figuring out who they were. “The agent was on her way out there when I volunteered to make the trek,” I told her.

“I know the house,” Sabine said. “The owner’s home-based business collapsed. He had to move his family back in with his wife’s parents down in Denver, where he’s working in a restaurant. Their house has been for rent for a while. People don’t like to commute to Denver from way out here.” She took a deep breath. “Yeah, sure, come on ahead.”

I said I would see her in less than half an hour and turned the van in the direction of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. I knew there would be no wrath equal to Tom’s if I did not tell him what I was up to, so I put in a call to his voice mail. I informed him of everything Donna had told me and added the caveat that he couldn’t put it into the sheriff’s calls in the paper. And, I said, I had a friend who was going to go into the empty house with me. By the way, I concluded, had he been able to question Charlene Newgate? And did he have the canvass, time of death, and ballistics and accelerant results back from Ernest’s murder and the arson? “Just curious,” I said, “trying to help.” I could imagine Tom shaking his head.

I drove down to Aspen Meadow Lake, which blazed with sparkles from the afternoon sun. Vestiges of snow laced the water’s edge. There was no traffic, so I pulled over. Something was niggling at the back of my brain after the call to Tom. Oh, yes, the informal dinner gathering at the Bertrams’ place on Thursday, so everyone could remember Ernest. I wanted to help.

I dialed SallyAnn Bertram’s number and put the phone on speaker. As her number rang, I turned right onto Upper Cottonwood Creek Road. When my tires skidded to the left, I inhaled sharply. Slowly, I started up the winding road. I needed to be on the lookout for black ice as well as snow that might have blown over it. An innocent-looking swath of white stuff could conceal a hazard that flipped your vehicle.

When SallyAnn answered, I identified myself and said I wanted to help out with the potluck supper on Thursday night, when the department was going to gather to remember Ernest. What did she need me to bring?

“Oh, Goldy, you’re a dear! I don’t know what to tell you, because I haven’t even started to organize this thing, but I do know somebody is bringing hamburgers, because John wanted us to have this outside, so we can grill. But now I worry that it will snow again, or even rain, and if it rains or snows, everyone will have to come inside. That’s really terrible, because this place is such a wreck, I hate to imagine what everyone’s going to think when they walk through our doors. I think John has that disorder, you know, where someone hoards stuff? He built a six-car garage on our property, and it has one truck in it, plus a bunch of junk, including the lawn furniture that we never did bring out this summer. But John, you know? When he can’t find something in the garage? He buys a new tool or other thingamajig, and puts it into one of the closets in the house. So our closets are all spilling over with stuff. What’s supposed to be our living space is now filled with junk, and we don’t have room for these people that he invited over here without even telling me—”

“SallyAnn, wait a sec.” I had to interrupt her, because not only was she having a panic attack, she was about to give me one. And anyway, I’d just cleaned out Donna Lamar’s refrigerator. That was all the mental space I could give to decluttering in one day. “One thing at a time,” I said slowly. “Can you get a pen and paper?” When she rummaged for those, I heard what sounded like pots falling onto the floor. Maybe John wasn’t the only one with a hoarding disorder. “First of all,” I said, “let me bring something hot, because the weather has turned cool. If one of the guests is bringing hamburgers, then how about if I bring homemade cream of mushroom soup? Everyone seems to like it, no matter what the weather.”

“Okay, but I don’t know what to do about all the mess—”

“No problem there, either. I’ve already arranged a cleaning lady who owes me a favor to do some extra work.
I’ll
pay
her
to clean up your house Thursday. How about that?”

“Oh, would you?” SallyAnn’s stressed-out tone went from agony to relief. “Does she have a whole team? ’Cause that’s what we’re going to need.”

“We’ll work it out. How many people have said they’re coming?”

“So far, about twenty, although I haven’t been keeping a list. I suppose that I should, now that I’ve found the paper, although I’m having to use an old tube of lipstick to write down what you’re telling me. But listen, we’ll probably have double that number, at least. I don’t want to run out of food, and if everyone decides to bring salads, then we’ll really be in a mess. . . .”

A new worry. Could SallyAnn’s doctor prescribe her a tranquilizer?

“Find a pen and keep it, with the paper, by the phone,” I said sternly. “When people call, write down their names. Ask them to bring potato salad or dessert. Everybody loves those dishes with hamburgers, and if you want, I can bring a large tossed green salad with the soup.”

“Omigod, Goldy, you’re saving my life, thank you so much.” Her breath caught. “I suppose I shouldn’t be going on about my own hostess problems when Ernest . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought.

After a pause, I reassured her. “The sheriff’s department will figure out who did this, don’t worry.”

“But he’s gone,” she wailed.

“I’m sorry, SallyAnn, I didn’t realize you were close.”

“We weren’t—I mean, we used to be, but after he had to leave the department, we sort of drifted apart, even though his house is up the hill. . . . Now I feel awful.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Did Ernest seem sick to you?”

“Sick, you mean, like the cancer? We didn’t even know he
had
cancer until he was dead. You see, after he became a private investigator, we didn’t get together with him too often. But come to think of it, last time we saw him, he looked a little thin. He said it was getting sober, you know. But don’t most people eat
more
when they’re recovering from alcoholism? Well anyway, I guess he didn’t, because the last time we saw him, he said he was hiring someone to fix dinners for him a few days a week. I offered to bring food over, but he knows my cooking, so he, you know, declined. Nicely, but still. Anyway, the last time we saw him was a couple of weeks ago. He really seemed to like that gal—oh, you’re not supposed to call anyone a gal anymore, but anyway, he was excited about having her cook for him. He liked her, and that seemed to brighten up his mood, you know?”

“He liked her?”

“Well not like he was falling in
love
with her, but then again, maybe he was, and he just didn’t tell us, the way he didn’t tell us about the cancer. Wait. Is this the woman who was living in the house when it burned down? The one whose aunt or whoever she is whacked John with her baton?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are
they
coming to the party?”

“Not if you don’t want them to, but the women have been through hell. Boyd has been staying with us, to . . . provide extra protection for them, since someone torched Ernest’s house. Tom and Boyd don’t think they’re safe anywhere else. So, if you want Boyd at the party, the women will have to come. Yolanda caters with me, and her great-aunt really is a lovable old bird, once you get to know her. Tough, but not without charm.”

“Well, I
do
want Boyd at the party,” SallyAnn said, sounding uncertain again. “Ernest really liked Boyd. Everyone likes Boyd. So I suppose we have to have the women, too.”

“Great.” I slowed before a hairpin curve. “I’ll send the cleaning lady over. We’ll be there with soup and salad. Say about six?”

“Thanks, Goldy, thanks. Sorry to be so disorganized about all this, it’s just that Ernie’s death threw us for a loop.”

“Ernie?”

“Well, Ernest. In the department? John was the only one Ernest allowed to call him Ernie. Ernest called John ‘Bert,’ so they could be Bert and Ernie. It was their little joke. You know how cops need their humor.”

“Indeed I do.”

We signed off, and I carefully negotiated the turn. Once again my wheels skidded sideways. I wanted to call Penny Woolworth, the spying cleaning lady, to talk about this new gig. But I didn’t want to be distracted.

I turned right onto the long dirt road that led to the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. The byway had been plowed once, but now snow, mud, and ice had combined into a frozen sludge that my tires chewed through sometimes and skidded through other times. I sighed. It was already just past one. I absolutely had to be home by three at the latest, so Yolanda and I could pack up for the Breckenridges’ dinner.

I was startled when a car raced up behind me and then overtook the van. It was a silver BMW that must have had four-wheel drive and snow tires worthy of a Sherman tank. Snow spewed over my windshield, and I was forced to slow.

I turned on the wipers and shouted, “Thank you very much,” but of course the driver couldn’t hear me.

As the wipers swept snow from the glass, I saw something. Or thought I saw something. It was a bumper sticker, a familiar one. Had it been
Secretaries Do It Behind the Desk
? I hurried up and sent the van into a one-eighty skid that left me cursing. I hadn’t been able to see who was driving the BMW, but it had taken every bit of growing-up-in-Jersey driving to keep from landing in the snow-covered pasture that lay to my right.

I turned back around with the idea that maybe I could catch up with Charlene’s vehicle, if that was what it had been. But the driver was zipping along at a clip my van would have had trouble managing going downhill, on dry pavement. And anyway, now the road was headed uphill. Where could the BMW have been going? That was the question, and not an easily answered one.