Crunch Time

7

Monday morning, I awakened well before the alarm went off. Tom was still asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb him. But a thought had niggled my brain to full consciousness. I glanced at the clock: It was half past four. Problem was, I wasn’t quite sure of the nature of the question, if that was even what it was. I looked outside and frowned. A hard frost had iced the trees. Thick fog enveloped the streetlight near our bedroom window. I closed my eyes. What was that idea that was just out of reach? The more I tried to grab for it, the more it eluded me.

I eased out of bed and tried to relax my way into whatever the bothersome notion had been.

Before Arch became a teenager, and thus too cool for such pursuits, I used to take him fishing in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. My job was to hold the net and collect the squirming trout, so I could take my son’s picture, with him proudly holding his catch aloft. All this would have to be done quickly, because Arch always threw back his haul. Now, it seemed, I was thrusting wildly with the net, but whatever I was trying to snag remained maddeningly out of reach.

There was only one thing to do in this kind of situation, I thought as I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and walking shoes. Cook. I’d been told that working with your hands to prepare food engages your left brain. So, the reasoning went, your right brain was free to wander around and capture intuitions. It had happened to me enough that I trusted the process.

I crept down to the kitchen. I didn’t expect the household to start moving for at least a couple of hours. I looked forward to savoring the quiet, the time to think and—

Someone was crashing around in our pantry. I simultaneously pulled the pantry door open and screamed bloody murder.

“Dios mío!” cried Ferdinanda, her hand clutched to her heart. “What are you yelling about?” Instead of answering her, I stared at the pantry shelves, which were all jumbled. She had cleared off one whole area and now had a dozen cans in her lap.

Tom, wearing his undies, appeared at the door to the pantry. He was holding his .45 in both hands. When he saw us, he lowered it and said, “Uh, ladies?”

Yolanda, her face full of fear, stood shivering in the doorway to the dining room. “What happened? Did someone try to break in?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I apologize, everybody. Please go back to bed. I heard someone and hollered. It was just . . . Ferdinanda.” Yolanda disappeared back into the dining room. Tom, his gun lowered, shuffled across to the desk and pulled out the remote control to the garage, which was where he stored the .45, in a hidden compartment. But he had not gone outside to get it. He just happened to have it upstairs? I knew better than to ask him about his weapon while others were around. Tom, for his part, shook his head, put the remote back down, and left the kitchen. A moment later, I heard him clomping upstairs.

“Goldy,” Ferdinanda scolded, “what are you doing up so early? Weren’t you tired from last night?”

“Ferdinanda, what were you looking for? Why are you up at this hour?”

She wheeled herself out of the pantry. “Guava marmalade. And I’m awake now because I always am. During Batista’s time? I worked in a café in the mornings. I had to show up at four o’clock and make the bread. I’ve got our breakfast almost ready. I just needed some good jam to go with it.”

“Is this what you were doing last night?” I asked. The kitchen was empty, clean, and cleared of cooking utensils, except for a mixing bowl and a beater turned upside down to dry on the counter.

“Yes. When Tom came down to see what the noise was.” Ferdinanda rolled herself to the kitchen table, where she deposited the cans. Then she took off for the walk-in. She said over her shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here, you can help me.”

My shoulders slumped. I was so looking forward to having this time to myself. “What do you—”

I was interrupted by Tom, who’d pulled on sweats and now reappeared in the kitchen with his gun. He picked up the garage remote and disappeared, then came back a moment later. “Goldy? How long has this remote been dead?”

“Uh,” I said, trying to remember something, anything, about our supply of batteries. While Ferdinanda continued to crash around in the walk-in, I searched my brain. I had no idea where the batteries were or even if we had any. “Why did you even have the forty-five in the house, anyway?”

“Target practice yesterday,” said Tom. After a fruitless rummage through the desk drawer, Tom whispered, “All right, didn’t you just change the code for the panel?” Our detached garage was a remnant of the time when our brown shingle house had been built, in the twenties. There were two entries to it: the main one facing the street, and another on the side, a regular door which we kept locked with a key. The main door could be opened by either a remote—one that worked—or a numbered panel on the side.

“The panel code is Arch’s birthday,” I replied.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Tom. “Tax day.” He tossed the dead remote back into the desk and shuffled off. A moment later, the garage door rumbled open.

“Here we go!” cried Ferdinanda, triumphant. She emerged from the walk-in with a plastic-covered glass pan in her lap. “This is a bread pudding that sits overnight. I’ll make a rum sauce later. That’s as good as marmalade.”

“This is all very sweet of you,” I forced myself to say as I peered around her into the walk-in’s dark interior. Make a rum sauce out of what?

“Just leave the pudding on the table for a while,” Ferdinanda said as she piled large cans of beans and broth back in her lap. Outside, the garage door thundered closed. I certainly hoped we hadn’t awakened any of the neighbors with all the screaming and clanking. Ferdinanda gave me an expectant look. “Can you push me into the dining room? I need to do my exercises.”

“Sure,” I said. Tom reentered the house, reset the house alarm, and walked upstairs. I felt a shudder of guilt for getting him up so early.

“Goldy?” asked Ferdinanda.

“Right.” I pushed the wheelchair through the swinging door to the dining room, which Ferdinanda could have easily opened herself, and clearly already had when she came out there. As Ferdinanda placed most of the cans on her cot, I looked around our guests’ temporary bedroom. Years ago, when I’d done the minimal amount of decorating required for a house, I’d only put up sheer curtains over the long mullioned windows. But the sun was not up yet, thank goodness, and the room remained dark. Yolanda, inert on her cot, had pulled the sheet up over her ears.

With a sigh, though, I realized that I had also awakened the puppies. This was becoming the opposite of a quiet morning of relaxation.

I crept back to the pet-containment area. Scout the cat was nowhere to be seen. Jake was asleep with four of the puppies leaning up against him. I picked up the two whining puppies and carefully snuggled one against each shoulder. Then I rocked them until they went back to sleep. With as much care as I would have used handling newborns, I placed them next to Jake’s warm back. He did not open his eyes, but his tail thumped twice in acknowledgment.

Finally I retreated to the kitchen, where I washed my hands and put on a clean apron. I hadn’t remembered whatever it was that had awakened me, and with all the commotion and no caffeine, I sure couldn’t bring up the thought to net it.

What kind of cooking would aid my thought process? And could I work in the kitchen so quietly that Tom, Yolanda, and all the dogs would be able to sleep?

I fired up the espresso machine, ground freshly roasted beans in my new burr grinder, and cast my mind over things we’d eaten lately that we’d enjoyed. There was the toffee Tom had bought. I decided to make another cookie for the high school buffet: a conglomeration of sweet, tangy, and crunchy ingredients that I would call Crunch Time Cookies. In the walk-in, I nabbed unsalted butter and a couple of eggs. I thought the cookie should not be too sweet, so I picked up some cream cheese to add tang. I gathered oats and other dry ingredients, plus our favorite Mexican vanilla, from where Ferdinanda had moved them in the pantry. I looked around at the mess in there. When was I going to get this all cleaned up?

While the cookies are baking, my mind supplied. And after you have some coffee.

I made myself a quadruple-shot cappuccino, then sipped it as I measured brown and regular sugar and sifted together flour and leavening agents. I was making toffee cookies, so I thought I could use semisweet chocolate chips as well as toffee bits. Pecans have always been my favorite nut, so I thought, To heck with almonds and tradition, I’m going to add the crunch of toasted pecans.

The nuts tapped against the side of the sauté pan as I heated them oh-so-quietly and took tiny mouthfuls of my luscious coffee. Think, I ordered myself.

Tom had said that someone had set Ernest up, by arranging, or, to be more precise, rescheduling, a dental appointment that he wasn’t due to have for two weeks. The dentist, in Hawaii, didn’t know anything about it. But he wouldn’t have been the one to attend to the calendar; his secretary would have. But Drew Parker, DDS, didn’t have a full-time secretary anymore, and he claimed Zelda, his temporary secretary, was a ditz. Had anyone else done his office work? Dr. Parker himself said he used a service, the name of which he could not remember. And it was that aspect—the service—that had awoken me that morning, full of curiosity concerning an idea that was just out of reach of my mental net.

After ten minutes of stirring the pecans, I turned them out onto paper towels to cool. I softened the butter and cream cheese a bit in the microwave, then emptied them into the mixer bowl and let the beaters rip. Next I combined the sugars and slowly added them to the mixing bowl, continuing to beat until the mixture was ultra-creamy and very soft. Next came the eggs, then the vanilla. While that mixture melded, I sifted the dry ingredients; combined the oats, chocolate chips, and toffee bits in a bowl; and roughly chopped the pecans.

Okay . . . I’d repeatedly heard about people like Dr. Parker, who’d let secretaries and other assistants go. Sometimes they said all the business could afford was a temp. My cynical view was that usually the business was trying to rid itself of the cost of providing benefits to a full-time employee. But never mind that; what had I been thinking?

The sheriff’s department, going into Parker’s office that day, ought to be able to locate the name of the temp service he used in his Rolodex or in his files. The temp service. What temp service?

I stared down at the chopped pecans. They smelled so good, I couldn’t resist popping a still-warm nut into my mouth. It was crunchy and sweet.

Finally, something about a temp service swam toward me. I could see a face; I could recall a vaguely unpleasant personality.

I stopped the mixer and stirred in the flour and leavening agents, plus the pecans, chocolate chips, and toffee bits. I figured the cream cheese would ripen the flavor of the batter if I let the batter chill for a while. It would have been better if I could have let it sit overnight, but I didn’t have overnight. I covered the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the walk-in.

Then it was time for a little CPR on the old memory bank. I pulled out the phone book and searched through the yellow pages until I came to “Secretarial Services.” Some in Denver, Lakewood, and Littleton had advertised there, but . . . there was only one in Aspen Meadow. It was called Do It! and their slogan was “Secretaries Do It Behind the Desk.” Right. I looked closely at the proprietor’s name. Finally, I snagged the thought that had awakened me at half past four.

The owner of Do It! was Charlene Newgate. And I knew her. For crying out loud, of course I knew her. I fixed myself another cappuccino and sat down at the kitchen table.

I’d met Charlene, who I thought must now be in her fifties, when I was doing outreach work at St. Luke’s. At that time, our parish had had the only food pantry in the mountain area. Back in the dark old days before the government had more resources to track down deadbeat dads, Charlene’s husband abandoned her and her daughter. Habitat for Humanity built Charlene and her daughter a house, but Charlene also had a series of live-in boyfriends. They, too, packed up and shipped out. All this left Charlene with only the barest welfare income. She came into the church from time to time for tuna, peanut butter, canned ravioli, and breakfast cereal. Unfortunately, Saint Luke’s hadn’t offered free counseling sessions to people coming for food, or I would have suggested them to Charlene.

As a teen, Charlene’s daughter got pregnant. She gave birth to a son, but shortly thereafter went to prison for dealing drugs. One time when Charlene had come in and asked if we had SpaghettiOs, she’d shared with me that she was determined to raise her grandson, little Otto, by herself. Otto, who loved SpaghettiOs, was a year younger than Arch. In elementary school, Otto had been even more uncoordinated than Arch, and my heart had bled for them both.

When the Jerk had finally popped for tuition money for Arch to go to Elk Park Preparatory School—a disaster of monumental proportions—Charlene had complained bitterly to me that she was unable to afford such opportunities for Otto. I’d wanted to say, You want your son to be ostracized for not having money, not belonging to a country club, not being athletic, and not going to Europe for the summer? Be my guest. But I’d said nothing. After one year of hell, I’d quietly taken Arch out of Elk Park Prep and put him into the Christian Brothers High School, which cost half as much as Elk Park Prep and had none of the aggravation. Charlene somehow found out where Arch was and told me that she wished she were rich—!—so that she could send Otto to a Catholic school like the one where Arch was.

I finished my coffee and cleaned up the mess of eggshells, butter wrappers, beaters, and measuring cups. Then I thought, Oh, why not make a batch of those cookies right now? They would probably be better if I baked them later, but I wanted to see what I’d invented. Delayed gratification had never been my thing, and anyway, the cookies had oats in them, so they were sort of breakfasty. I preheated the oven, slapped a silicone pad on a cookie sheet, and tried to remember more about Charlene Newgate. I needed to figure this out, doggone it, because I was willing to bet several pounds of unsalted butter that either she had been the secretary for Drew Parker or she’d sent one of her temps to work there.

Charlene got the idea for her business while visiting the church, when she’d seen other single mothers lining up for food for their families. If the mothers’ children were in school, Charlene figured, why not see if the ladies could be plugged into gaps in the business world in Aspen Meadow? She’d started Do It! and found work for office assistants, bookkeepers, and office managers, and after that, personal organizers, house cleaners, pet sitters, nurses, and paralegals.

I took the bowl of batter from the walk-in and carefully scooped out twelve balls of dough, which I gently flattened before putting into the oven. I set the timer, booted the kitchen computer, and popped online. Bingo. Charlene Newgate and Do It! had a website and a phone number. Best of all, her e-mail address was also included.

After some thought, I sent an e-mail to Charlene, making up some BS about catering a party for a doctor and wondering if her secretarial service would be willing to address and stamp invitations. It was the best I could do on short notice.

I finished cleaning up after myself and realized I needed another coffee. I steamed some whipping cream, poured it into a china cup, and pulled two double shots of espresso on top. While I drank it, I cleaned up the pantry. The sheet of cookies came out, and after letting them set up for a couple of minutes, I moved them over to a cooling rack.

A moment later, the computer made that little bink! noise that indicates you have mail. I was sure it was an ad for Viagra—I get a lot of those, and trust me, that’s the last thing Tom needs—but I was curious. It was twenty after five in the morning, Mountain Time. Who would send me an e-mail at that hour?

Charlene Newgate, that’s who. She wrote, I’ll be at the physicals today at Christian Brothers High School. Otto is a student there and trying out for sports. I knew you were catering the lunch, because Otto brought home a notice about it. How’s noon? She concluded by giving me her cell phone number, in case that time didn’t work.

Before I could think about it, I wrote, Sounds great. See you in the gym. After I’d sent the message, I wondered if Tom would approve. Still. Why wouldn’t he? What was Charlene going to do in a crowded gymnasium, throw a file cabinet at my head? She ran a secretarial service, and if she had hired out a temp for Drew Parker, the cops were going to discover it anyway. The worst she could do, I thought, was refuse to talk to me, once she discovered the doctor’s-party bit was a sham.

I picked up one of the cookies, bit into it, and entered heaven. The crunch of toasted pecans combined with the soft chocolate and chewy texture of baked toffee bits made me swoon. And of course, it went so well with the coffee. I made a latte for Tom, put a couple of cookies on a plate for him, and zipped back up the stairs.

It was just before six, and Tom was making his usual shaving noises in the bathroom. There was water running somewhere else, too, I realized, but I couldn’t figure out whether someone downstairs was having a shower or Yolanda was in the basement, doing a load of laundry. Clearly, having a couple of extra females in the house would take some getting used to.

I placed my load on a night table, sat on the floor, and closed my eyes. Very slowly, I began my yoga routine. My muscles were tight, either from getting up early to bake and think or from all the stress they’d undergone escaping from the inferno at Ernest’s place. My backside was sore, too, no doubt from the tumble I’d taken down the steps to his basement.

I breathed, stretched, and endeavored to relax. Unfortunately, now another question came squirming to the front of my mind. Why set up Ernest by moving a dentist appointment?

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 desk. 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 Mexicans 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?

I tried to look nonchalant as I again glanced up and down the street. Except for our little crew, no one was around. There was the usual rumble of traffic from Main Street. From about two blocks away, an approaching school bus chugged along. But then I heard something else: a metallic growling, grinding noise, like a set of gigantic axes being sharpened. Once, twice. Vroom, vroom.

“¡Ai!” cried Ferdinanda from the porch. “It’s Kris.”

Yolanda, frozen in place, dropped her coffee cup onto the cement floor of the porch, where it broke. Tom and Boyd were immediately on guard. Boyd went so far as to pull his firearm out of its holster.

“Take the women inside!” Tom called to me.

I sprinted back and did as commanded. We watched through the living room windows while Tom and Boyd split up and walked to opposite ends of the street. The detritus of the ramp-making lay higgledy-piggledy across our front yard. I glanced at my watch: half past seven. Yolanda and I had to leave at eight for the Christian Brothers High School, to be there by nine so we could start setting up. But I wasn’t as worried about that as I was about Yolanda, who was trembling.

“It was his car,” Yolanda said under her breath. “Kris’s.”

I said, “You could tell by that grinding noise?”

Ferdinanda and Yolanda said in unison, “Yes.”

“He drives a Maserati,” Yolanda said, “because it’s expensive and he wants to show off. Problem is, he has trouble with the Formula One gears, and when he’s stopped, like he’s set the car in Park? He hits the accelerator so the exhaust makes that vroom-vroom sound.” I thought of Zeke Woolworth, in prison for grand theft auto. I bet he would know how to make Kris’s car hum.

“He’s around here somewhere,” Ferdinanda said, her voice flat. “He followed us to this house.”

I wanted to disagree with her, to say we’d left Ernest’s house by a back service road not known to many people, least of all to Kris. She was being paranoid. Still, I’d had that frisson. What had my nerves sensed?

Well, well. It was not Kris in his Maserati who came driving up our street a minute later, as Boyd and Tom returned, holstering their weapons. Instead, a long black Mercedes pulled to our curb and disgorged a tall, heavy, Hispanic male. Despite the weather, he wore a beige suit. He was very wide in the middle but narrowed as you glanced at his feet or head. His curly black hair was threaded with gray. His tanning-bed face and hands were the color of papaya flesh.

I recognized him from newspaper photographs: Humberto Captain.