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.”
I slugged down some more beer, then said, “Why would you say that?”
A short, pretty Hispanic woman appeared with a plate of steaming enchiladas and placed them in front of me. I nodded my thanks, and she smiled. When she looked up at her husband, she knew something was up. As she scurried away, I waited for Norman Juarez to give me an answer.
I said, “It’s a fund-raiser for our church. Do you think we shouldn’t have taken his check?”
“Humberto Captain is a thief.” Norman Juarez emphasized each word. “If he ever comes in here, I will throw him out.”
I opened my eyes wide in mock amazement. “Was there a time when he didn’t pay his bill?”
Norman Juarez’s laugh was bitter. “So this is a charity dinner? He does a lot of those, gets his picture on the society page with one girlfriend or another. He tries to convince people he is a good man.” He eyed my half-empty beer glass. “You want another?”
I said, “Sure,” because I wanted Norman to keep talking. The crowd at the bar had thinned, and after a cursory glance at the remaining customers, Norman sauntered to his refrigerator and pulled out another bottle. There was no way in hell I was going to drink it, but never mind. I forked in a mouthful of enchilada. It was out of this world. There is simply nothing as divine as freshly made tortillas baked with Mexican queso and homemade salsa.
Norman opened the new bottle and topped up my glass. “Is this for a church in Denver or Aspen Meadow?”
“It’s for Saint Luke’s Episcopal in Aspen Meadow.” Norman looked at me expectantly, so I took the tiniest imaginable swig of beer. “With everything going south in the economy, we’re having trouble meeting our budget. Two generous parishioners agreed to host the event at their house. Each of the guests is paying a thousand dollars.”
Norman expelled breath again in a signal of disgust. “Make sure the church cashes Humberto’s check first.”
I took another teensy sip of beer, to appear companionable. “Now you’ve got me scared. Did he steal something from you?”
Norman looked away and sucked in his cheeks. At length he said, “A long time ago, he stole my family’s entire life savings. In today’s market? Worth about ten million dollars. Maybe more.”
I choked. “Ten million dollars?”
“Give or take.”
“How in the world did he do that?” I asked, then took a big bite of enchilada.
Norman walked away without warning, and I thought he was done talking to me. But he was only checking on the other drinkers. A couple needed refills, so after he’d tended to them, he walked back to me.
“How’re those enchiladas?”
“Unbelievable,” I replied truthfully. “I’m going to have to come back here. My husband works for the sheriff’s department. He and his pals love Mexican food.”
At the mention of the sheriff’s department, Norman’s face again grew gloomy. “What does your husband do at the department?”
“He . . . investigates serious crimes, like homicides.”
“I had a friend who used to work for the sheriff’s department.” Norman turned over a paper napkin wrapping cutlery. “My friend was killed a couple of days ago. I hope the department does a better job investigating his death than it did looking into the theft of my family’s savings.”
I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. I really could not spend more time talking to Norman, at least not now. Norman, for his part, asked, “How does one get tickets to this dinner?”
“You, uh, call the church. But I already have the menu set and most of the food made—”
“We will bring food. You like the enchiladas? Isabella and I will bring a pan of them.”
“That’s very nice, but—” I looked around desperately, trying to think. I didn’t want Norman Juarez to pay two thousand dollars to come to a church dinner where he might get into a fight with Humberto Captain. Plus, we already had too many guests at this dinner. Maybe some people would cancel. One could hope. How had I gotten myself into this situation? And of course I could hear Tom’s voice in my ear: You’re always getting yourself into these situations.
“You need to go?” Norman asked. “You want me to wrap up your food?”
“I do need to take off,” I said. “I’m sorry, I can’t take the leftovers. If you come tonight, though, I’ll get to taste more enchiladas. But, please . . .”
“Don’t stab Humberto with one of your kitchen knives?” He gave me a wry smile. “I won’t.”
I didn’t drink any more beer. I thanked Norman and asked him to tell his wife she was a superb cook. Then I paid my tab and left a huge tip.
On the way back up the mountain, I reflected on my conversation with Norman Juarez. That poor guy. He’d worked his way to running his own business after losing a family fortune worth ten million dollars? I wondered how long ago he’d hired Ernest, how much Ernest had found out, and in particular, what it was that Ernest said he had recovered. Part of that ten mil, or did Norman even know?
Presumably, the cops had asked Norman these questions. From my perspective, the theft of his family’s gold and jewels, plus Humberto’s apparent desperation to find out how much Ernest had discovered about him, made Norman a good person to know about. Maybe at some point he’d tell me more about his loss. And despite Norman’s assurances, I was still worried that he and Humberto might get into a fight at the party that night.
As my van strained up the interstate, I tried once more to go back to the question of when all this mess had started.
Okay, there was the fact that someone may have been peeping in the windows of Yolanda’s rental. Then the house had burned down, and not by accident. The presence of the oil can and accelerant at the scene pointed conclusively to arson.
Yolanda had told me that the owner was Donna Lamar. Had the police talked to her since Ernest’s house had burned down? I wondered.
The van crunched through ice as I pulled onto the interstate’s shoulder. I called Information again, got Donna’s number, and punched buttons.
“This is Donna Lamar, owner of Mountain Rents,” her recorded voice announced. Honestly, did anyone answer their own phone anymore? “I’m with a client now, but if you care to leave a message, you may. Or you can come visit me at my beautiful new office, suite two hundred in the Captain’s Quarters.”
“This is Goldy Schulz,” I said in as authoritative a tone as I could muster. “I absolutely must know about a rental as soon as possible.” I gave my cell number, hung up, and hoped that would do the trick.
I stared at the phone. The Captain’s Quarters? Holy cow. I remembered when Donna—a renowned cheapskate who was also, for better or worse, the Saint Luke’s treasurer—had operated a tiny storefront, Mountain Rents, on Main Street, above Frank’s Fix-It. I’d just learned from Yolanda that Donna actually owned many of the houses she rented. And now, in an economic downturn no less, Donna was operat
ing out of the swankiest new office building in Aspen Meadow? What was with that?
Determined to find out, I pulled the van from the shoulder back to the highway. Ten minutes later, I was signaling to turn into the parking lot of the Captain’s Quarters, a stunning stucco and red tile–roofed office building that overlooked manmade fishing ponds. Beyond was a sweeping vista of Flicker Ridge. The Captain’s Quarters was gorgeous, and leasing an office in there must have been mega-expensive. Even with one of Donna’s properties burning to the ground, dealings in rentals must have been great.
I hopped out of my van and took a deep breath. The melting snow gave the chilled air a bracing scent. Still, I wanted summer back. This was September, for crying out loud, not January. I blinked up at the Captain’s Quarters. No expense had been spared on roof tiles and copper trim. I’d never been inside and was curious to see it. Back when business was booming all over Aspen Meadow, I had occasionally catered breakfasts and lunches for law firms and stockbrokerage businesses. But most of the stockbrokerages had gone under. The few remaining law firms had cut their staffs in half, and all catered meals had been canceled for the foreseeable future.
Donna Lamar, though, well . . . who knew what was going on with her? There was only one car in the lot, a late-model silver Saab station wagon with the license plate MTN RT. It looked as if Donna—who’d always used that vanity plate—had traded in her muffler-dragging, once-red Saab station wagon so in need of paint it looked like a used pencil eraser, for a new one, with no muffler in sight. She was parked in front of an oversize sign: CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS—PREMIER OFFICE SPACE TO LEASE. Under that was DEVELOPED BY HUMBERTO CAPTAIN.
Well, well. In addition to his import-export business, Humberto Captain was dabbling in real estate. I wondered how many of the offices he’d leased. With only one car in the lot and the economy in the tank, I doubted he’d leased many.
As I put the cake, thermos, and paperware into my all-purpose catering tote, I wondered if Donna would spill any details of her office-rental arrangement to me. I took the inside steps two at a time. At the top, I bumped into none other than Donna Lamar.
I blinked. In her late thirties, Donna had a very attractive face that I’d seen impeccably made up, as it was today, only at Saint Luke’s and at parties. Gone were the jeans and sweatshirt. Now she wore a beautifully cut chocolate-brown business suit. Instead of sneakers, she had on heels that were so high I would have fallen over putting them on. Her thick, puffy blond hair, instead of being pulled back in a raggedy bun, was cut attractively and curled in layers to the tops of her shoulders. Her skirt was short and not what I would have called businesslike. Still, I’m sure it helped when her business was with males. She was leaving her office in a hurry and was fumbling with a bunch of keys.
“Gosh, sorry,” I said. “I was just coming to see you. I called?”
She narrowed her eyes at me in confusion, then clanked her keys. “I’m sorry, I’m just not remembering a call from you, Goldy.”
“Well, I did,” I said with exaggerated patience. “It’s important. A business matter.”
I held out my hand, and she shook it limply. Then she eyed me up and down, which gave me the chance to do the same to her. I was again struck by how spiffy she looked. New clothes, new car, new digs. As with Charlene Newgate, I wondered, Where is all this sudden wealth coming from? She was probably wondering, What kind of business matter could Goldy the caterer want to discuss?
She still regarded me with puzzlement. “Did my assistant set up an appointment for you?” she asked. “She’s new, and she doesn’t quite understand my business.” Donna looked longingly down the steps, as if they could pull her away from me.
“I called because I want to talk to you about a rental.” I assumed an anxious look. “I’m pretty desperate.”
“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go into my office.”
“Did you not realize I was coming?”
“No, I didn’t.” She put a hand on my arm, and I noticed beautifully manicured, scarlet-painted nails. “Wait. Goldy. Okay, we can discuss a business matter, if you want, but don’t you sometimes get involved in solving crimes?”
“Actually, yes—”
“I wish you could help me solve one particular kind of crime,” she said fiercely.
“Do tell,” I said, a mite too eagerly.
She ignored this, let go of me, and headed to her desk, where she slapped her brown leather purse onto a stack of papers. She put her hands on her hips, again lost in thought.
I didn’t want to step into whatever stream Donna’s consciousness ran in, so I looked around. The office was sparsely decorated, but on one wall was a letter framed with a photograph and a newspaper article. I inched over to the wall, to see what Donna had found suitable to hang. It was a thank-you note from a local elementary school, in gratitude for Donna coming in to talk about businesses run by women. The students surrounding Donna had given bored looks to the camera, but Donna herself was beaming. A Mountain Journal article accompanied the letter and photograph. The title screamed, LOCAL AGENT/OWNER SUCCESS! There was no byline, and the laudatory paragraphs sounded suspiciously as if they had been written by Donna herself.
I moved some brochures from an uncomfortable-looking side chair and sat down. “Donna, you really are an achiever. I’m so impressed with how well you’re doing!”
“Yes.” Her smile was frigid.
“So, do you want to talk about a certain kind of criminal activity?”
She assessed me. “Did you say you were looking for a rental?”
“I am looking for a rental,” I lied. “That’s why I’m here. I just thought, since you mentioned it, if you needed me to help you with something, I mean, like something with a property, a problem that might hurt your reputation as a female entrepreneur—”
Donna Lamar took a seat and flipped her blond hair off her shoulders. “Do you have an area or price range in mind?”
I cleared my throat. “I have two women staying with me. They need a place. We can’t go on, all in the same house together, much longer,” I said ruefully, wondering if the pity angle would work where the flattery one hadn’t. “It’s just too much for all of us in one place.”
“Price range? Location?”
“In Aspen Meadow,” I replied thoughtfully. “It needs to be inexpensive, and it needs to be all on one story, because one of the women is in a wheelchair.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Donna Lamar. She shook her head and gazed at the ceiling. “As if I didn’t have enough problems. Don’t tell me it’s those two Cuban women.”
“Hmm.” As she glared at me, I said quietly, “Discriminating against potential renters based on their ethnic background is against the law. Not to mention that Father Pete wouldn’t approve.”
She tucked in her chin. Her shadowed eyes widened. “I don’t care about ethnic whatever! Father Pete can think whatever he wants. That crazy old woman drove me nuts! She was always going on about how she was in Castro’s army. You’d think she single-handedly turned that island into a haven for commies. Plus, if Cuba was so wonderful, why didn’t she stay there? I ask you.”
“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 hav
e 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.
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