Crunch Time

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Gee whiz,” said Yolanda, “I’ve heard of cops doing racial profiling before, but I’d never actually experienced it. And they’re called duck suits.”

  “I was joking,” said Tom, but he realized he’d made a mistake. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Yolanda muttered. “I’ll bet you’re sorry.”

  Tom went on. “And Humberto said, ‘Here, Yolanda, take seventeen thousand bucks, and by the way, I don’t actually have a place for you to stay, but I have an idea. To earn this money, could you and Ferdinanda go live with Ernest McLeod, because he’s investigating me, even though he’s not a cop anymore?’”

  Yolanda said, “Ernest was investigating Humberto?” Once again, I detected a note of . . . what? Dishonesty?

  Tom said flatly, “Don’t try to convince me you didn’t know that Ernest was looking into Humberto’s affairs.”

  Yolanda closed her eyes. She said, “Okay, I knew.”

  John Bertram was summoned by his cell, and I found myself blinking rapidly. I was surprised by what Yolanda had admitted, but I still felt sorry for her. When my business had been closed after someone tried to poison a guest at an event I was catering, I’d been subjected to Tom’s questioning. In fact, that was how we’d met. But I hadn’t enjoyed the interrogation one bit.

  Tom pressed her. “Did you know anything about the investigation?”

  Yolanda took a deep breath. “Something about gold and gems.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom, “something. Do you know if Ernest found anything?”

  “I do not,” said Yolanda, staring straight at Tom.

  John Bertram returned and took a seat. “I just got off the phone with our guys who went to see Kris Nielsen. After the rental house burned down, why didn’t you go stay with Kris? Just temporarily? He told our officers he offered to have you and Ferdinanda—”

  “The hell with you!” Yolanda cried, jumping to her feet. “I told you, that man was stalking me—”

  “He denies stalking you,” John said simply.

  “He’s lying,” said Yolanda.

  “Was Ernest working for you?” asked Tom. “Trying to prove a case against Kris Nielsen?”

  “I don’t know.” She glared at Tom. “But let me ask you something. When your guy went to see Kris, did the officer treat Kris the same way you’re treating me? I’ll bet he didn’t, because Kris is rich. And white.” While these words hung in the air like an indictment, Yolanda pointed first at Tom, then at John. “Kris Nielsen is my ex-boyfriend, and his house is the last place I would go. Ever.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a faded gray nylon windbreaker, the kind that had been fashionable about twenty years ago. The jacket made a slithery sound as she put her arms into the too-large sleeves. I wondered if she’d bought it at Aspen Meadow’s secondhand store, Julian Teller’s favorite clothes shop. “I’ve had enough,” Yolanda announced. “I need to go get my aunt, and then I need to drive back to Ernest’s place and take care of the dogs. And then I’m going to start calling Ernest’s friends.”

  “Actually, Yolanda,” I interjected, “I’d feel better, well, actually, you and your great-aunt need to stay with us. With someone gunning for Ernest, and with Kris acting . . . you know, the way he is, I’d feel more comfortable all the way around if you were here.”

  Yolanda looked at Tom. “I told Ernest I’d take care of his puppies.”

  John Bertram piped up. “I can take care of the dogs tonight. Feed them, take them out before we go to bed. But my wife’s allergic, so I can’t have them in our house. They’ll be all right at Ernest’s place after you get your stuff.”

  Yolanda had not stopped staring at Tom. “Are you sure you want us here? I can go back and forth to take care of the dogs.”

  Tom’s tone turned gentle. “Yes, I already checked with the department. It’s fine, really. You know how Goldy worries.”

  “You want to spy on me,” Yolanda said to Tom.

  “We want you to be safe,” Tom replied.

  Yolanda pushed through the kitchen door and moved down the hall. “I’ll think about it,” she called over her shoulder. “Now I’m on my way to the church.”

  “I told you, we’re coming to talk to Ferdinanda,” Tom replied.

  Yolanda pushed the kitchen door open and again pointed at Tom. “When you talk to Ferdinanda? If you treat her the way you treated me, she’ll spit in your face.”

  “I thought you said we’d frighten her,” said Tom. “I thought you said she was vulnerable and weak.”

  “If you frighten her, it doesn’t matter how vulnerable and weak she is, she’ll hit you. I am not kidding.”

  Tom shook his head mildly. “We’ll be nice.”

  I thought, Uh-huh.

  I went out to the driveway with them, because I wanted to make sure Yolanda was okay. Tom and John, meanwhile, tried to settle on who was going with whom and what vehicle they were going to take. Out back, Jake began to howl, as if he wanted to get his two cents in. The wind had picked up even more strength, and whenever one of us tried to say something, the words were whipped from our mouths. Finally, Tom huddled in next to Yolanda and spoke to her. She rolled her eyes, dug in her purse, and came out with a ring of keys. Then Tom walked over to me and came close to my ear.

  “Drive Yolanda’s van, would you please, Goldy?”

  “Sure. Can you lock the house?”

  Tom walked back up the steps and made sure our front door was secure and the alarm was set. When he returned, he dropped the key ring into my hand. “We’ll drive her to the church. We want her to be with us, in case she decides to share any more information. Then you can drive Ferdinanda and Yolanda over to Ernest’s place, so they can take care of the puppies and pick up their stuff before they come back here.”

  “What if they don’t want to stay with us?”

  “Then I’ll come get you at Ernest’s.”

  “Will department investigators still be at Ernest’s house?”

  Tom glanced at his watch. “They should be.”

  “Whatever,” I said as I marched to Yolanda’s vehicle.

  It was an ancient van that had been retrofitted with a small elevator for a wheelchair. Even with that, the vehicle couldn’t have cost more than a few thousand dollars. Formerly turquoise and white, it was now mostly rusted. I gingerly opened the door. Inside, it was immaculate, although the carpet was worn and the windshield cracked. I cranked the key in the ignition, shifted into Drive, took my foot off the brake, and turned the steering wheel. When nothing happened, I gently stepped on the accelerator. After an initial hesitation, the behemoth growled and jerked away from our curb. It listed to starboard and the engine made a horrible grinding noise.

  As I moved down our street behind Tom, John, and Yolanda, the hair on the back of my neck prickled. Was I being followed or watched? Or was I being paranoid? Maybe our discussion in the driveway, or Jake’s howls, had brought unseen neighbors to their windows. I checked the van’s pitted rearview mirror but saw only tiny stalks of silvery snow-in-summer. Tom had told me it was a favorite perennial in Aspen Meadow because it spread rapidly and withstood the summertime hail that crushed more delicate flowers. Tom had helped Trudy, our next-door neighbor, plant a dozen of them along the fence in her front yard, and with this summer’s record rainfall, the invasive plant had taken over.

  I refocused my attention and checked the street. No one was behind Yolanda’s van. The sidewalks were empty. The FOR SALE sign in Jack’s front yard rippled in the wind. Oh, Jack, I thought, I miss you. My heart twisted in my chest.

  The wind kicked up waves of dust as our vehicles lumbered down Main Street and up toward Aspen Meadow Lake. The water itself formed dark wavelets that mirrored the charcoal sky. My watch said it was only quarter after five, but it seemed like much later.

  Our Lady of the Mountains loomed on the hill just above the lake. Despite the cold wind, Ferdinanda and the monsignor were out in the parking lot. The priest, short, slender, and already half-bald, was shivering in
his clericals. Ferdinanda, stout, square faced, and frizzy haired, sat tall in her wheelchair. She wore only a shapeless brown dress that looked as if it had been prison-issue from the former Soviet Union.

  I wondered why they were outside. But that was clear soon enough, as Ferdinanda was smoking a cigar. She waved it jauntily when she saw the van, but when she realized it was accompanied by a police car, her chin dropped. She stared through the cracked windshield, as if she were trying to make out Yolanda.

  I threw the vehicle into Park and jumped out to reassure her, but that only made matters worse.

  “Where’s Yolanda?” she demanded of me, pointing the cigar in a menacing manner. “Why is she not here?”

  I said, “She’s over in that other—” And then I waved at the police car.

  Ferdinanda began to wail. “What’s he done to her now?” she cried.

  “Who’s that?” asked Tom as he eased his way out of the prowler. “What has who done to her?”

  “Where is Yolanda?” she demanded.

  “Estoy aquí,” called Yolanda as she rushed to her aunt. I’m here. Yolanda fell to her knees in front of the wheelchair and hugged Ferdinanda’s knees. I could make out enough of their Spanish to understand that Yolanda was telling her great-aunt that Ernest was dead, that he had been murdered, and that the police were here to question her.

  Ferdinanda’s mouth turned downward. She dropped the smoking cigar on the asphalt and leaned forward to embrace Yolanda. The priest worriedly crushed the cigar with his toe, then asked Tom and John if there was anything he could do to help.

  “Yeah, go back inside, Father, if you would,” said Tom. “We’re just going to talk to Ferdinanda for a few minutes.”

  “Oh no you’re not,” said Ferdinanda. “Put me into the van, Yolanda. I want to go home, take care of the dogs.” Ferdinanda began to roll herself toward the van.

  John Bertram abruptly stepped in front of the wheelchair, as if to stop her. “Tom, do you want me to—”

  John Bertram did not see Ferdinanda reach beside her hip and pull out a telescoping baton. As Yolanda and Tom both cried, “No!” Ferdinanda pressed a button to extend the baton and whacked a startled John Bertram across the knees.

  John hollered, “Christ!” and fell to the pavement.

  “You just assaulted a police officer!” Tom yelled at Ferdinanda. The monsignor knelt quickly beside John and spoke softly to him. John, for his part, cussed and held his knees. Was the monsignor used to police officers being hit by the disabled in the church parking lot? Probably not. But the priest seemed okay. John Bertram did not.

  “Ferdinanda!” shouted Tom as he hustled to John’s side. “What were you thinking?”

  “That man tried to block the way of a handicapped person!” Ferdinanda hollered right back. “I’ll call my lawyer! I’ll sue the sheriff’s department!”

  Yolanda stood protectively next to Ferdinanda. At the same time, she tilted her head and gave Tom a raised-eyebrow I-told-you-so look.

  Tom ignored them both, knelt next to John, and asked the priest to step aside. Then my husband expertly felt around John’s knees, told him nothing was broken, that he was probably just bruised.

  John said something unintelligible.

  Tom talked in low tones to John, who must have agreed to something. Tom asked the monsignor for help. Eventually, John put one arm around Tom’s shoulders, one around the priest’s, and the three of them moved haltingly to the squad car. They eased John into the front seat. Tom thanked the priest, who waved to Ferdinanda and Yolanda and hustled back to the rectory. He was probably saying a prayer of gratitude that he was getting away from this particular mess.

  With John still inside, Tom got out, slammed the driver-side door, and walked over to us. But instead of losing his temper, he kept his tone even.

  “John says he’s okay, just in pain,” Tom said to Yolanda. “I couldn’t feel anything broken, but I want him to be checked out, just in case. Let’s get your aunt into the van. We can talk for a few minutes, before I take John to the hospital.”

  The old van had chilled quickly. Once Ferdinanda had gone up the motorized lifting device and was strapped in the back, Tom sat in the passenger seat. I saw him take in how decrepit the vehicle was, with its split seats, torn dashboard, cracked and pitted windshield, and worn carpet. Yolanda got behind the wheel and turned on the engine so it could warm us up. I took the lone seat in back, beside Ferdinanda.

  Tom turned to face us. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about Ernest, Ferdinanda. Please.”

  “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer here,” Ferdinanda said defiantly.

  “You’re not a suspect,” Tom replied. “Will you talk to me?”

  Ferdinanda patted her frizz of hair. After a moment, she said, “I suppose.”

  “What time did Ernest leave the house on Saturday?”

  “What?” she replied, and then I remembered that Yolanda had said she was hard of hearing.

  Tom raised his voice a notch. “When did Ernest leave his house Saturday morning?”

  “About half past eight,” said Ferdinanda. “He said he was going to walk, try to get some exercise. He’d told us it helped alcoholics if they get high from walking or running, instead of from booze.”

  “Is that what he said that morning?”

  Ferdinanda turned the sides of her mouth down, considering. “No. That was what he usually said. He didn’t say it that morning.”

  “What did he say that morning?”

  “I was out on his patio, smoking a cigar. Yolanda was doing the dishes. Ernest? He said, ‘That thing will kill you, Ferdinanda, you ought to stop.’ ” She paused for a moment. “I don’t hear so good anymore. I think that was what he said.”

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Tom. “Anything about being worried? Anything about someone wanting to hurt him?”

  Ferdinanda rubbed the sides of her mouth with her tobacco-stained thumb and forefinger. “A woodpecker was at his feeder. I think Ernest said, ‘I’m going now. If anything happens to me, ask the bird.’ ”

  “ ‘Ask the bird’?” said Tom. “That’s what he said?”

  “I think so. I told you, I don’t hear so good anymore. I laughed. He laughed. Then he walked away. He didn’t come home last night. Didn’t Yolanda tell you? She called all over. We were worried sick. We drove over to the dentist’s office, but the dentist wasn’t there. Ernest wasn’t either. Yolanda, she called the clinic, the hospital—”

  “When he was saying something about asking the birds, did he say he was going anywhere else besides the dentist?”

  Ferdinanda lifted her chin. “No. Ernest promised us he was coming home right after his appointment. He wanted Yolanda’s seafood enchiladas.”

  “Was Ernest carrying anything?” Tom asked. “When he left? His cell phone, something like that?”

  Ferdinanda’s wizened face looked blank. “He just had on his backpack, the way he always did.”

  “One last thing,” said Tom. “When you asked, ‘What’s he done to her now?’ what did you mean? Who were you talking about?”

  “That Kris Nielsen,” Ferdinanda replied. Here she took out a handkerchief from an unseen pocket of the brown dress and spit into it. She wadded up the kerchief and stowed it in another invisible pocket. “Yolanda got sick. Sexually transmitted disease.”

  Yolanda protested, saying, “Oh, Tía, no—”

  Ferdinanda held up her hand to shush her niece. “Yolanda’s doctor asked who was she having sex with. She said only Kris. The doctor said Kris made her sick. So Yolanda asked Kris if he was sleeping with other women, someone with a disease. Do you think he cared about her, about how she was sick? No. He picked up a broom. I knew what he was going to do, so I rolled myself in front of him. That bastard pulled off my eleke and then pushed me aside.”

  “Eleke?” Tom asked, bewildered.

  “A beaded necklace,” Ferdinanda explained. “It is sacred. But listen. That bastard Kris took
that broomstick and hit my dear Yolanda two times. Crack, on one arm. Then crack, on the other.”

  My mouth dropped open as I glanced at Yolanda. Her left hand covered her eyes in shame.

  Ferdinanda concluded by saying, “That’s when we decided, we have to move out.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” I whispered to Yolanda.

  “I couldn’t tell you, Goldy,” said Yolanda, still not looking at us. “I was ashamed.” She did glance up at me then. “He hit me so hard I thought my bones were broken. They swelled up, then turned black and blue. My long sleeves covered up the bruises.”

  “Yeah,” said Ferdinanda. “Tell her about the VD, too.”

  Inside the dark van, I could just make out Yolanda’s face turning scarlet. She said, “Crabs. I’ve been treated. I got it from him, but I’m all right now. It was nothing that would affect food handling. I told Ernest, in case he didn’t want me fixing his dinners. He knew all about STDs and their treatment, and he told me not to worry about it.”

  “Did you file a police report, Yolanda?” asked Tom gently. “Over the fact that Kris hit you?”

  “No,” she replied in a low voice. “Later, when we were in the rental and things started happening, I called the police. But back then? When he hit me? I just wanted to get out of there.”

  4

  I interrupted. “Tom, let me get them back to their place.”

  “Just remind me,” said Tom, his tone still gentle, “was Ernest investigating Kris? Trying to prove he’d been harrassing you?”

  Yolanda looked down and sighed.

  Ferdinanda shook a gnarled index finger at Tom. “Not yet. But Ernest, he promised he would help as soon as he finished up some other things.”

  “Some other things?” said Tom.

  Yolanda intervened. “He was going to help me. But he had to finish up the divorce case, the puppy mill, investigating Humberto and the missing assets. After that, he was going to go after Kris. Ferdinanda is right. He promised.” Another sob escaped her lips.

  Ferdinanda dug in her pocket for the tissue. She muttered, “Humberto,” and spat into the tissue.