Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Charlene Newgate,” I said. “His girlfriend. We could hear her when we were at the edge of the woods. She was screaming at him, begging him not to go. She threatened to go to the police. He . . . punched her hard, and she went down. It looked as if he knocked her out, but maybe he didn’t.”

  “You never saw her move again?” Tom asked.

  “No. Is she all right?”

  “He broke her nose,” Armstrong said. He inhaled. “Okay, so someone left markers saying where you should park. Why there?”

  “I guessed it was so we could approach without being seen.”

  “It was a man who called her?” Armstrong said sharply.

  “Hermie never said whether it was a man or a woman. She was focused on closing what she saw as a mill. I tried to keep her inside her car, once we were up in the woods. She pushed so hard on the door that I fell over. That’s why I couldn’t keep up with her,” I said, my tone apologetic. “She was racing across the open meadow, right at Osgoode.”

  Armstrong said, “I need to know exactly what you heard.”

  “Hermie screamed at Osgoode, threatening him.”

  “Her exact words?”

  I told them. “Then she lifted her gun, which was a twenty-two, and fired into the air. It sounded like a firecracker. Right after that, there was a boom, like a blast from another gun. I didn’t see where it came from. It was just loud. I thought I could hear you in my ear,” I said to Tom. “You were telling me to get down, so I fell and rolled in the snow. I heard two more of the same big explosions after that. I think I kept rolling, because I landed out in back of that shed. Oh, wait. I might have heard a car drive away.”

  “From where?” Armstrong asked.

  “I couldn’t tell. My ears were ringing from the gunfire. I was soaking wet and couldn’t see Charlene or Osgoode. I opened the door to the shed, then blacked out. Next thing I knew, I heard your bullhorn and then all of a sudden beagle puppies were licking my face and my legs. That’s it. I’m sorry I don’t know more.”

  Neither Tom nor Armstrong said anything.

  “What about Charlene?” I asked finally. “She threatened to go to the police. Was it because of the marijuana?”

  Armstrong said, “She was conscious when we got here and sitting up in the driveway. Osgoode had a twenty-two, but it was in the car and hadn’t been fired. There’s no sign of another gun. And Charlene said she’s not talking until she sees her lawyer. I doubt we’ll get anything out of her any time soon.”

  Damn it. “Look,” I said, exasperated, “I’m convinced Charlene is in this up to her neck. She’s never had any money, and now, all of a sudden, she has lots of cash. She’s got a new car, new clothes, furs, and she’s put her grandson into a relatively expensive parochial school. Osgoode was getting something from her. So, where’d he get that kind of money? Did he have, if you’ll pardon the expression, seed money?”

  Armstrong said nothing. After a moment, Tom said, “We’re checking his financials, seeing if he had a safety deposit box, that kind of thing. We’ll be using law enforcement computers to see if he pops up. The Animal Control people and a veterinarian are checking out all the puppies. Our guys and DEA are out at the the marijuana grow now, cutting it all down. It wasn’t mature, so he could not have made lots of money yet. Not on the seeds, not on the buds. The only thing we’ve been able to find out is that Osgoode only rented this house a few months ago, and he paid in cash. Our guess is he was just starting his operation.”

  “He flunked out of veterinary school,” I said. “Where did he get the cash he had to start all this? Charlene’s not attractive, she’s difficult to get along with, and, from what I could see, she’s quite a bit older than Osgoode. So what gives?”

  “Miss G.,” Tom said patiently, “we’re working on all that.”

  “Do you remember the dinner party at the Breckenridges’ house?” I asked. “Sean Breckenridge recently took photographs of beagle puppies. They could have been from here.”

  “Tell me about that,” Armstrong said.

  So I did. I added that Sean’s wealthy wife, Rorry, had hired Ernest McLeod to prove that Sean was having an affair. My mind reeled. But then what? Would Sean have had the fortitude to shoot Stonewall, to cover things up? I wondered. Almost as an afterthought, I said, “All this that’s happened out here? It might be connected to Yolanda.”

  “To Yolanda?” asked Armstrong. “Yolanda Garcia, the chef Boyd is protecting?”

  “Look,” I said, “isn’t it possible that the same person who torched Ernest’s house, stole Tom’s forty-five, and was lurking outside our house, also burned down her rental?”

  Armstrong said, “Do you think Yolanda knew this guy Osgoode?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Tom said, “That reminds me. We found a stab mark in Osgoode’s back. Where Arch got him with my weeder. And his closet had size-eight shoes. But we haven’t found my gun in Osgoode’s house.”

  I said, “You should put pressure on Sean Breckenridge to tell you if Osgoode was the one whose puppies he photographed. If he won’t answer your questions? Prick the back of your hand with a sterile needle and show him the blood. He’ll faint, but when he comes around, if you threaten to do it again, he’ll talk to you.” Armstrong shook his head. I rushed on. “You could show Osgoode’s picture to Yolanda, see if she recognizes him from anyplace.”

  Armstrong asked me for Sean’s contact information. Then there was silence in the patrol car.

  “So, are you going to talk to Arch?” I asked, but faltered, imagining Tom asking my son, This dead guy? Is he the one you stabbed with a garden tool?

  Armstrong read my mind. “You can be there when we question your son, if we even need to do that.”

  “Osgoode was shot with a thirty-eight,” said Tom, his voice matter-of-fact. “We found three shells near the garage, so whoever killed him was hiding back there. Also, Goldy, we can’t be sure, but the shells look like the same ones we found last week—”

  “Last week?”

  “From the gun that killed Ernest McLeod. In addition to not finding my forty-five, we have not found a thirty-eight,” Tom said.

  “Are you saying Osgoode didn’t kill Ernest McLeod?” I could hear the incredulity in my voice. All along, I’d thought, The bald guy with the Molotov cocktails, the bald guy outside our house, he’s the one who murdered Ernest.

  “I’m not saying he didn’t kill Ernest,” Tom replied. “I’m only saying the gun he had with him, in his car, is not the one used to shoot Ernest.”

  I slumped in my seat. I felt tired, cold, wet, and dispirited.

  “Do you have your keys, Miss G.?” Tom asked me. I patted my pockets and shook my head no. “Let me take my wife home,” Tom said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket and handing them to Armstrong. “See if your guys can find her key ring in the meadow, and if you can’t, use these for her van.”

  “We have Mrs. Mikulski’s set, too,” Armstrong said. “You want us to drive her van to her house? I think the ambo took her down to Southwest Hospital.”

  Tom said, “Yeah, call Hermie’s son at CBHS.” Tom turned to me. “What’s his name, Brad?” I nodded. “Let Brad know what’s up. If he has his own car, he can probably pick her up at the hospital when she’s discharged. And, hey, Armstrong? Make sure you examine the markers where Hermie and Goldy turned off the main road. Call me if anything else comes up.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Okay, Miss G., let’s go.”

  I pulled the blanket close around myself and walked slowly toward Tom’s Chrysler. I was dreading the bawling-out I would get from him. But then something caught my eye. In fact, it had been right in front of me all the time.

  Osgoode didn’t have the silver BMW he’d given Charlene out in the driveway. He’d been packing up a Jeep Grand Cherokee that was so dusty it was hard to tell it was black. In the passenger-side rear window were stickers: a ram, the mascot for Colorado State University; an NRA sticker; and a bumper sticker that read, You
can have my gun if I can have your bulletproof vest.

  “Wait, Tom, look,” I said, pulling on his elbow. “The car. Osgoode’s.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a black SUV. Just like the one that mowed down Ferdinanda in Denver.”

  Tom sighed. “Goldy, you’re reaching again.”

  “You could do forensic tests—”

  “That’s the problem with TV,” Tom said. “They make you think we can test for anything. Ferdinanda was hit, what, two, three months ago? This car had to have been washed numerous times since then. And now look at it. I mean, Osgoode lived on a dirt road, for God’s sake.”

  “Please have your guys examine the Jeep carefully, especially the grille. Please? What if Osgoode is the one who mowed down Ferdinanda? Maybe someone wanted to send some other kind of message to Yolanda: I can hurt your aunt, too.”

  Reluctantly, Tom called over a crime scene tech and asked him to process the Jeep very carefully. The tech, young, thin, and scarred with acne, said, “Don’t I always?” Tom thanked him.

  When Tom and I reached his car, he opened his trunk. “Once we’re out on the road? Take off your wet clothes and put these on.” He handed me a set of sheriff’s department sweats.

  My voice shook when I said, “Thanks.”

  Tom warmed up the engine, then pulled out of Osgoode’s driveway and turned the heat to high. As soon as we were on Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, I peeled off my wet garments and pulled on the dry sweats. They were like heaven. But I was still shivering.

  We’d gone about a mile before Tom said, “I need to talk to Lolly.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “Goldy, this is not just a larceny case, in case you hadn’t noticed. We now have two bodies. Ernest McLeod worked for the sheriff’s department for years. Osgoode, okay, he was a scumbag. But neither one of them deserved to be killed. I have to know every single word Lolly told you about Humberto Captain. Why? Because Norman Juarez’s case, with its missing gold, jewels, and necklace, was one that Ernest was working on. In case I have to put it together for you, that makes Humberto a suspect.”

  I exhaled. “I know he’s a suspect. Just let me call Lolly, okay?”

  Of course, I knew I’d told Lolly to drug Humberto that afternoon, copy the receipts from his wallet, and then drug herself. Still, I needed to appease Tom, and I did want him to be able to talk to Lolly eventually. So once we were back within cell range, I called Lolly’s home number and left a message, saying Tom wanted to talk to her that night.

  My stomach growled. With all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed missing lunch. Now I did. Still, I needed to put in another call. I wanted to talk to Father Pete. I needed guidance, counseling, prayer, something. And I wasn’t the only one.

  “This is Saint Luke’s,” Father Pete answered.

  “Father Pete, why aren’t you out having lunch?” I asked, apropos of nothing.

  “Goldy? The church secretary goes home for lunch. I think I can man the phones for an hour and a half. But . . . you don’t sound good. Is everything all right? The veterinarian called to tell me it would be several days before I could have my puppies back. What’s going on? How is Yolanda feeling?”

  “Fair,” I said, “thanks for asking.”

  “Is she home from the hospital?”

  “Yes, she’s recovering.”

  “And the dogs?”

  Tom made slashing motions across his throat, so I quickly went on. “I don’t know much about the dogs, except that everyone should have their adopted animals back soon. It’s actually, I mean, this call is about . . . two parishioners who may need some pastoral care.” I waited while he fetched pen and paper. Apparently Father Pete didn’t believe in tech toys, either.

  “All right, then,” he said, “who are they?”

  “I can’t really talk about their situations,” I said guardedly, “but Hermie Mikulski and Charlene Newgate may need you to visit them. Hermie’s fine, just shaken up, and she should be on her way home from the hospital this afternoon. Charlene Newgate has a broken nose. At the moment, she’s down at the Furman County Jail.”

  Father Pete muttered something unintelligible. Then he said, “All right, I’ll track them down. Hermie should be easy enough, but I haven’t seen Charlene Newgate for years. I’m glad her secretarial service turned into a success. I just wish she’d check in from time to time. That poor woman was in need of pastoral support. People think once they have money, they don’t need a spiritual safety net, and they do.”

  “Thanks, Father Pete.”

  “And you, Goldy? How are you doing?”

  I said, “Not good at all, I’m afraid. I was in the mess with Hermie, but I’ll let her tell you about it.”

  “I promise I’ll try to reach them. I just have to be back late this afternoon for a counseling appointment. If I don’t see the women before then, I’ll keep trying. Thank you for alerting me to this, Goldy.”

  “You’re welcome.” I signed off with a promise that I would see him soon.

  We turned off Main Street and up our street. Tom miraculously found a spot next to the curb. When I jumped out, a wave of fatigue, hunger, something rolled over me.

  “I’m going to question Yolanda and Ferdinanda, if you don’t mind,” Tom said in a low voice as we made our way up the ramp that Boyd and Tom had built. It was surprisingly sturdy. “Please don’t interfere.”

  “Question away. I’m ravenous, though. Can it wait until after lunch?”

  “Let me get a feel for things here.”

  Tom opened the door for me. I groaned as the rich, luscious scent of eggs mixed with cream, cheese, and spinach ballooned out of the kitchen and enveloped us. In the hallway, Tom said he would give a limited recap of the morning’s events to everybody while I took a shower. I thanked him and mounted the stairs.

  From our bedroom windows, I saw a moving van pull into the driveway of Jack’s old house. As I watched, a white Maserati pulled in behind the van. I didn’t want to be caught looking, so I quickly pulled down the shades.

  As the hot water cascaded down my back, my thoughts inevitably returned to the image of the sheriff’s department tarp over the body of the person I now knew as Stonewall Osgoode. Why would someone want to murder him? Even eco-terrorists didn’t target puppy mill owners. Had there been a dispute over the marijuana garden? Drug dealers had no qualms about killing one another. But why go to all the trouble of luring Hermie and me out there? Had Osgoode’s murderer actually thought that silk-and-pearls Hermie Mikulski, with her maimed left hand, her little .22, and her course in shooting, would really kill someone? As Tom had pointed out, no matter what Osgoode had done, he hadn’t deserved to die for it.

  And the big question, as far as I saw it, was: If indeed the same gun had been used to murder Ernest McLeod, why would someone want both him and Osgoode dead? What was the connection?

  My mind spun, a result, no doubt, of the morning’s trauma. I toweled myself quickly and put on one of my own sweat suits. I was eager to get down to lunch, to hear what Tom was going to say. He had a remarkable way of providing clarity when all I could see was a jumble.

  When I got to the kitchen, however, Boyd, Yolanda, and Ferdinanda were in a jovial mood, talking back and forth about where Yolanda and Ferdinanda were going to live after Ferdinanda got out of her wheelchair. Clearly, they didn’t know about Ernest’s will yet. Yolanda’s burned legs were still bandaged up, and her face registered pain whenever she moved. But she seemed to be enjoying Ferdinanda’s suggestions. Make enough money catering to rent an apartment. Live frugally and save up. Buy a little place on Cottonwood Creek. Have enough land to plant a garden to grow yuca. Be able to go out onto a deck and admire a view of snowcapped peaks.

  Boyd grinned widely, then winked at me. He knew as well as I did that homes in the valley created by Cottonwood Creek would not have great views unless they were fifty stories high. The Mountain Journal had pointed out that actually, very few houses in town were situated so as t
o have a full view of the Continental Divide. And as far as gardening went? The reason Ernest McLeod had built a greenhouse was that Aspen Meadow’s growing season was too short for root vegetables. Most gardeners opted for the perennial-and-rock variety. This was the kind that Tom had put in our backyard. Still, Boyd and I weren’t about to spoil their planning fun.

  Meanwhile, Tom was not joining in the discussion, much less doing any questioning. He was slicing and dicing something on a cutting board. Curious, I moved over and saw garlic and fresh basil falling from his knife. The scent was deliciously pungent.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “Making more of that salad dressing,” he said, his tone nonchalant. He did not look up from his task, which was probably not a bad idea, considering he was holding a very sharp knife. “Could you get the mayonnaise out of the walk-in for me? Please? Also, I need some of your best-quality olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar. If that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I fetched the ingredients while Boyd washed his hands and set the table for five. Tom turned the blender motor to its loudest buzz. Thank goodness. Such deafening noise meant I didn’t have to mention the moving van and Maserati across the street, much less my escapade that had ended with the death of Stonewall Osgoode, arsonist, gun thief, puppy-mill operator, and drug dealer.

  Ferdinanda asked me to bring the quiches and rolls out of the oven, which I did. As instructed, I put one quiche on a rack to cool, for us to take to Humberto’s that night. The other one I placed on the kitchen table, next to a crystal bowl of field greens, pine nuts, grape tomatoes, and blue cheese crumbles. Tom had already tossed it with his new salad dressing.

  The harrowing events of the morning had not diminished my appetite. Ferdinanda’s luscious, cheesy quiche was melt-in-your-mouth fabulous, and Tom’s dressing, the same love potion he’d made the night before, was out of this world.

  “Need to talk to you all about a few things,” Tom said casually when we had finished eating.