Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Maybe the killer had not even known Ernest would walk into town. Maybe he or she had thought to follow Ernest at a safe distance, then shoot him by his dentist’s empty office.

  But then why burn down his house the following day? If you wanted to kill Ernest, why not just set the house on fire and be done with it?

  I stopped midstretch. Of course, Ernest had had excellent fire alarms, and Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and I had made it out, along with nine puppies.

  Nothing made sense. And before I could ponder the situation any more, the doorbell rang. I was about to stop my routine and go answer it when there were voices: Boyd was out on our front porch talking to Yolanda. They started laughing, and then she invited him inside.

  A moment later, there was mad yipping from the puppies, accompanied by Jake howling his head off. Scout the cat streaked into our room and slid under the bed.

  Let’s see: I had company to entertain, a crazed cat, six extra dogs plus the one we already had . . . and I hadn’t even gotten through the Salute to the Sun.

  Tom appeared at the bathroom door and eyed the plate with the cookies beside his coffee cup. “You’ve been busy.” He leaned down and kissed my head. “Did I just hear Boyd arrive?”

  “You did. I think Yolanda’s showing him the puppies. Please taste a cookie and have some coffee.”

  Tom chewed thoughtfully, then smiled and pronounced it excellent. He drank the coffee in just a couple of gulps—working in the sheriff’s office makes you impervious to the heat of drinks—and glanced outside. “Boyd said he would bring wood for the ramp, which was awful nice of him. He said he was bringing a ham, too—”

  “Another ham? Why?”

  When Tom grinned, the skin on each side of his sea-green eyes crinkled. “Aw, don’t get after him. He’s had a thing for Yolanda ever since he came out to the spa to keep an eye on you. When I talked to him last night? He said he was going to pick up something for breakfast. I thought he meant cinnamon rolls. But then he said he was bringing a ham. Maybe he wants to come back for dinner. We could have a hamboree.”

  “Not funny. Please don’t invite him. Yolanda and I have enough on our plate today already.”

  “Listen to the caterer: enough on her plate. Know the definition of eternity?”

  “Tom? Please.”

  He said, “A ham and two people.”

  “We’re not two people, though, are we?”

  “Do your yoga, Food Woman, see if it improves your mood.”

  “Well, I do have some news in the food department. Guess who’s making breakfast?”

  “Ferdinanda.”

  I smiled up at him. “Correct. Remember how Yolanda said her aunt was an early riser? That she used to work in a café before Castro’s revolution? Well, the noises we heard last night were Ferdinanda making a breakfast dish that has to sit overnight in the refrigerator. She’ll probably love serving it with the ham.”

  “She survived being screamed at while she was in the pantry?”

  “She made a mess of the place, moving things from one shelf to another. Looking for guava preserves, she said. She had her lap full of cans, too. They were for her workout.”

  Tom shook his head. “Glad I didn’t scare her with the gun. How long does she have to stay in the wheelchair?”

  “Probably until Thanksgiving, Yolanda told me.”

  Tom eyed the empty plate and coffee cup. “Want me to bring you a latte?”

  “I’ve had one too many espresso drinks already this morning. Better make it decaf. And thanks.”

  I moved through an abbreviated yoga routine while Tom steamed more milk and pulled the shots. I could hear him talking to Ferdinanda, who must have finished her strength exercises. I wondered if I should tell Tom about the fact that I’d set up a time to talk to Charlene. Maybe he could give me some tips on subtle interrogation. Plus, our talk about Ferdinanda reminded me of something else I wanted to know.

  “Here you go,” he said. He placed my steaming mug on one of the needlepoint coasters he’d ordered with the Adirondack chairs for our front porch. “And get this: Ferdinanda has preheated the oven and poured the juice.”

  “Thanks a million.” I got up on the bed and took a sip. The creamy beverage shot across my taste buds. “And it is yummy, too.” Scout the cat cautiously pawed his way out from his hiding place, then leapt up on the bed and snuggled next to me. I patted his back and said, “It’s a shame about Ferdinanda’s accident. A broken leg can heal, but it sounds as if hers is going to take forever.” I shook my head. “Did the Denver cops investigate the hit-and-run?”

  Tom groaned. “Yup. No reliable eyewitnesses, no license plate, just a few mentions of a big black SUV.” He looked out the window that had a view of our street. “The Denver guys’ question to me was, ‘Do you know that old woman would not tell us why she was down here in the first place?’ There was a small ethnic grocery store nearby, and the proprietor said he recognized her. He said she doesn’t like to say what she’s doing or why. After the accident? She told the grocery store proprietor, this country has freedom of speech, and freedom of no speech, and that was what she was doing.”

  The stairs creaked, and I jumped. “Who’s that?”

  Tom gave a half grin. “Just Boyd. I recognize his step.” He started to leave.

  “Wait. Tom, I looked something up on my kitchen computer this morning.” I rushed forward before he could object. “I was thinking about Ernest’s appointment being changed, and Dr. Parker saying he couldn’t remember the name of the secretarial service he hired. Well, there’s only one secretarial service in town, and it’s run by a woman I know from Saint Luke’s, or at least from when she used to come to the food pantry. Her name is Charlene Newgate. I’ve already sent her an e-mail, and we’re going to see each other at the physicals today. Her grandson is a student at CBHS. He must be new because I haven’t seen him at any school functions—”

  “Miss G., what are you saying to me? You want to know if she worked for Dr. Parker? You want to question this woman about Ernest’s appointment? And wait, you want to wear a wire, too?”

  I sipped the coffee and tried to think. “No, I just want to know if it’s okay with you. That I talk to her, I mean.”

  Tom shook his head and sighed. “Be very careful. And be nice—”

  “I’m always nice.”

  Tom chuckled. “Right. If she worked for Parker, we’re going to figure that out anyway. But don’t press her, got it? I want to hear what she has to say, and in particular, how she acts with you.”

  Boyd knocked softly on our door. When Tom answered, Boyd said he needed to get into the garage to get the toolbox. Tom gave him the code, said he’d be right there, and came over to give me a kiss.

  “See you, Miss G.”

  “Thanks, Tom. You know I’m only trying to help Yolanda.” I sipped the coffee again. In a moment, banging began to echo up the stairs. “And one more thing—”

  Tom slumped. “Only one more?”

  “Is there a laptop up here? I don’t want to use your computer in the basement, and I don’t want to use the one in the kitchen. I want to use one up here.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “There’s that new desktop in Arch’s room.” When I didn’t mention why I needed it, Tom said, “Oh, man, Miss G., don’t I know you.” It was not a question. “You want to start a file, make a list of what’s happened, that kind of thing, right?” I pressed my lips together and looked out the window. Tom went on. “And you want to be up here to do it, not in the kitchen, because despite what you say about loving good old honest Yolanda, you want to keep what you’re putting down to yourself.”

  I shot him a glance. “Yeah, okay, I’m just being, well, circumspect. Do you know how to password-protect a file? I don’t want to mess up Arch’s stuff.”

  “Wouldn’t he just love you for that. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  While Tom booted Arch’s Mac, I looked around my son’s room. His memorabilia crowded the shelves above his d
esk. There were pictures of Arch with Julian on a fishing trip, Arch smiling broadly with the Christian Brothers fencing team, another of him brandishing his new épée. Another photo showed him in front of a cake on his sixteenth birthday, flanked by his best friend, Todd Druckman, and his newfound half brother, Gus Vikarios. We called the trio the Three Musketeers. Most amazingly, to me, anyway, were the fencing trophies between the photos. DENVER AREA FENCING CHAMPIONSHIP, THIRD PLACE. BOULDER FENCERS, THREE-TIME KING OF THE HILL. WESTERN REGIONAL RUNNER-UP, UNDER-EIGHTEEN ÉPÉE TOURNAMENT.

  This was, all of it, a sea change from Arch’s life up to a few years ago. In elementary and middle school, he’d been steeped in misery—not unlike little Otto Newgate, who had taken his grandmother’s last name. Otto was even younger and smaller than Arch. For his part, Arch had been unathletic, bullied constantly, addicted to role-playing games, and torn apart by my divorce from the Jerk. But in a gradual change, he’d turned away from Dungeons and Dragons, secretiveness, and despair, and made friends besides Todd. At CBHS, he’d ventured into fencing. He’d focused and concentrated at school and, best of all, started to gain confidence, even joy. And then my heart twisted in my chest, because I realized at what point this change had begun to occur: It was when the man in front of me, now busily tapping on Arch’s keyboard, had come into our lives, and stayed.

  “Thank you, Tom,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s just a file. Here you go, Miss G.” He stood and held out the desk chair for me. “Your password is Havana. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if any of Ferdinanda’s breakfast dish is ready. Don’t be long, ’cause Boyd and I do have to do some work today, as in down at the sheriff’s department.”

  “Wait. I have a quick question regarding Yolanda’s problem with Kris. If he was threatening her, and she could document it, couldn’t he be charged with menacing?”

  Tom nodded. “She made a report, remember? But in order to sustain a charge of menacing, Miss G., we need documentation and evidence. Same with harassment. We have to have something to go on, and she didn’t even make a sheriff’s department report when he hit her with the broom.”

  “And the investigation at Ernest’s house? When will you know about accelerant, what’s been destroyed, canvass of the neighborhood, ballistics on the gun that shot him, that kind of thing?”

  “Today or tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll tell me?”

  Tom crossed his arms and smiled. “If you can keep it to yourself.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be down in a few.”

  Once Tom had quietly closed the door, I stared at the screen.

  1. Ferdinanda: Mid-June, victim of hit-and-run. Was she a target? If so, why? What was she doing in Denver that she won’t divulge? Or is she just naturally difficult? Hates Kris. Loved Ernest. Ask her about Humberto.

  2. Yolanda: Beginning of July, moves in with Kris. Mid-August: VD diagnosis. He hits her with broom; she moves out. While in rental, strange things happen; she thinks Kris is stalking her but has no proof. Twice, she and Ferdinanda see shadowy form at window; makes police report. Lost job at end of August, won’t give specifics about why Humberto gave her 17K in cash, found at Ernest’s house. (Did the cash burn up? Find out.) Won’t talk about Humberto; acts evasive. August 26: Rental mysteriously burns down. Unifrutco oil can nearby. Next day, she moves in with Ernest McLeod. She claims she is afraid of some of his clients: Hermie who’s missing fingers but loves puppies; some divorce clients; Juarez, who’s missing gold and gems. Ernest decides to leave her the house. Why? After Ernest is shot, his house is burned by arsonist. Why?

  3. Humberto Captain: Being investigated by Ernest for theft of gold and gems from family of Norm Juarez. According to Tom, HC is slimy and uncooperative. Can a little export-import store provide him with the extravagant lifestyle he is rumored to have?

  4. Kris Nielsen: Wealthy. Tells everyone he started a company and selling it made him rich. But he drunkenly confessed to Penny Woolworth, the cleaning lady, that he had inherited wealth. Penny tried to find out more about running a business, but Kris clammed up. Tom is trying to find out name of company Kris sold. Worse than all this: Yolanda says he is obsessed with her. He was unfaithful to her, gave her VD, hit her. Is he involved in the murder of Ernest? In the fire at Ernest’s house? If so, how? And why?

  5. Brie Quarles: Being investigated by Ernest. Why? Is she the one with the messy divorce?

  6. Hermie: Trying to close puppy mill. Are the beagle puppies from that mill? Is this why Ernest was killed, because he had discovered it?

  7. Ernest McLeod: Investigating Humberto. Surveilling someone with messy divorce. Following Brie Quarles. Investigating puppy mill for Hermie. Why was Ernest growing marijuana in his greenhouse? Why did Ernest change his will? Why was Ernest killed?

  I stared at that last question and thought if I could figure that out, I’d know who had shot Ernest while he was walking to his non–dentist appointment. I glanced around Arch’s desk, as if looking for clues there. All I saw was the bright orange flyer he’d designed for the athletes’ lunch today: Yes, There Is Free Lunch! (But You Have to Have a Physical First). And then there was a cartoon of a doctor listening to the chest of an athlete, who in turn looked longingly at a steaming plate of food that was just out of reach. Oh, Arch, I thought as I picked up the flyer and stuffed it into my pocket. You must have gotten your sense of humor from Tom. I saved and closed the computer file, then raced downstairs for breakfast.

  Yolanda looked as if her night’s sleep had not rested her at all. But she didn’t complain; she merely hugged me when I came into the kitchen. Ferdinanda rolled around the kitchen with purpose, giving Yolanda staccato orders for setting the table and making coffee. I wished she would not ride Yolanda so hard, but that issue was not, as we used to say when I was growing up, any of my beeswax. Ferdinanda commanded that I make a rum sauce, the directions for which she had written out and placed next to the stove. Rum, rum . . . did we have rum?

  “I found your bottle of rum in the dining room cabinet,” Ferdinanda told me, as if reading my mind. “It’s there on the counter.” And so it was. I sighed and began working on the sauce.

  Tom and Boyd traipsed in and washed up. When Ferdinanda’s golden, puffed bread pudding emerged from the other oven, I was impressed. While Boyd removed the ham from the oven, Ferdinanda instructed me to pour the hot rum sauce over the bread pudding, which I did. And then we all dug in.

  Ferdinanda’s dish consisted of raisin bread soaked in a spiced cream-and-egg concoction that became a rich custard when baked. The result was moist, fluffy, and luscious, especially when dripping with the hot syrup. Ferdinanda beamed when I complimented her. Boyd proudly cut each of us thick slices of the ham he had brought. We all insisted the combination of salty meat with a slightly sweet dish was perfect.

  While Ferdinanda and I did the dishes, Tom and Boyd finished work on the ramp. Yolanda took care of the puppies, and I was thankful Boyd had bought more chow the previous night. With Yolanda and Ferdinanda staying there, I thought we might need more food, besides ham, that is. Once the dishes were out of the way, I nabbed an index card to start a new grocery list. Ferdinanda asked me shyly if I could pick up some guava marmalade.

  “Sure. Where do you get it?”

  When she described the location of an ethnic grocery in Denver, I wondered if it was the one she’d been going to when an SUV had mowed her down. Could someone have been following Ferdinanda? Why would someone do that? And was I becoming as paranoid as our two houseguests?

  Yolanda came in from tending the puppies, said they were all fine, and washed her hands. Then she asked if it was all right for her to make Boyd and herself another coffee.

  “Yolanda,” I replied, “you know that old mi casa es su casa saying? Just take whatever you want.”

  “In that case,” interjected Ferdinanda as she shrugged into an old jacket of Tom’s, “I’m going to have a cigar. You know what the Me
xicans say? Después de un taco, un buen tabaco. Except we didn’t have tacos for breakfast, we had my bread pudding. Better put on your coat, Goldy! It’s freezin’ out there.” With this, she rolled down the hall toward the front door, not into the dining room, her makeshift bedroom. Did she already have her cigars with her? I didn’t remember her bringing anything in from the van. Where did she put stuff? I suspected that if we turned Ferdinanda’s empty wheelchair upside down, we would shake out an umbrella, a set of false teeth, and a baby pachyderm.

  A short while later, I zipped up my winter coat and accompanied Yolanda out to the front porch. I held the door open while she walked through with a tray of coffees—I’d made another decaf for myself—and the ubiquitous sugar bowl. When we arrived, Tom grinned. Boyd, with his dark crew cut, muscular body, and kind face, positively lit up. Ferdinanda, clearly happy with whatever was going on between her niece and the police officer, blew cigar smoke toward the neighbors.

  As Ferdinanda had warned, the air temperature had plummeted since the previous evening. A thick gray blanket of cloud lay low over the mountains. In years past, we’d had snow in mid-September, so perhaps our short-lived Indian summer was indeed over for good.

  I sat down with my latte—grateful it was unsweetened in addition to being decaffeinated—and admired the progress the men were making on the ramp. Then, quite unexpectedly, I had one of those frissons you get when you know you’re being watched, or judged, or threatened.

  I put my coffee down and walked out to the center of our street. Almost from habit, I checked Jack’s empty house. The FOR SALE sign was still there, if slightly askew. The place looked deserted. Our bloodhound wasn’t howling; Tom and Boyd continued to work.

  I shivered and did a one-eighty, right in the middle of the street. Nothing.

  I pulled the sleeve up my right wrist; my skin was covered with gooseflesh. I swallowed. I’d seen a TV nature show where the narrator had been giving a discourse on the African savanna and how gazelles were “warned” by birdcalls when predators were nearby. The question being discussed in the program was, how had gazelles learned bird language? But I hadn’t heard a birdcall, because most of our birds had flown south at the end of August. What, then?