Crunch Time

9

In the Rockies, a storm is often preceded by strong winds, followed by a period of icy calm. Then the gale starts up again and the storm hits. Maybe that was what it was like when you were in the eye of a hurricane—minus the ice. As we passed Aspen Meadow Lake, the entire tinfoil sky, the pines, the aspens on the banks, were reflected in its silver surface. Frost had coated each pine needle and blade of wild grass. The effect was magical.

That morning, unfortunately, I was not able to appreciate the beauty of nature. If I thought Yolanda would not fret on the way to Denver, I was mistaken. Her frequent checks of the rearview mirror were punctuated by worries about Ferdinanda.

“She’ll catch cold if she stays outside all day. What if she can’t remember the security code to get back in?”

Then, “She smokes too much.”

And finally, “What if the person who burned down Ernest’s house finds out where we are and comes over and attacks her?”

“Yolanda,” I said as we drove down the ramp to the interstate, “please. Your aunt strikes me as someone who can take care of herself.” I wanted to ask whether she knew Ernest had made her such a huge beneficiary of his will. Another issue continued to niggle the back of my brain: What was the nature of Yolanda and Ernest’s relationship, exactly? She’d said they were just friends, but did you leave a “friend” your house and property? Or did you leave it to a lover because you were afraid you were going to die soon?

Either that was the possible title of a morbid country song or I needed more coffee.

Anyway, Tom would kill me if I broached these subjects. So . . . I tried to stay nonchalant as I asked, “Do you want to talk about Ernest?”

“I am afraid. I’m afraid of his clients. I’m afraid of Kris. I’m afraid of whoever burned down our rental, of whoever burned down Ernest’s house. I never used to be afraid, and now I live in fear.”

I took a deep breath and tried to remember how I used to deal with Arch when he had unreasonable panic attacks during the divorce from the Jerk. I’d get him to catalog the fears, and then I’d try to defuse each one.

“What are you most afraid of? It doesn’t have to be sensible.”

“Kris. He hurt me.”

“He hurt you,” I repeated, and glanced over at Yolanda. Her spill of russet curls glinted in the cold light. She stopped talking and stared at her lap. This immediately made me paranoid, and so I felt it was now my duty to check the rearview mirror for . . . well, for what, exactly? I’d seen one Maserati in my entire lifetime, and I’d thought it was a sports car made by Chrysler.

“Yes,” she said, and her voice caught. “I keep thinking about what he did to me and how I failed to protect myself, protect Ferdinanda—”

“You know what? Enough already,” I said as I signaled to exit the interstate.

“Enough of what? Where are you going?” Yolanda said. She looked around wildly. “Why are you taking this exit?”

“I’m just removing the threat.” Or trying to, I added mentally.

I headed back west, took the exit for Aspen Meadow, then zipped through the entrance to Flicker Ridge. Yolanda shook her head as I raced to the top.

“You are making a mistake, Goldy,” she warned, and in that moment, she sounded like Tom. Oh, well. I was going to do what I’d always wished I’d done with the Jerk: confront him, damn it.

I said, “That remains to be seen.”

My van had more pickup than Yolanda’s, so we were at the entrance to Kris Nielsen’s mansion in less than two minutes. The place was all one level, and consisted of vast expanses of yellow stucco and numerous windows. The house was topped with a long red tile roof. It was enormous and looked less like a residence than the corporate headquarters for Taco Bell.

“Goldy,” Yolanda said sharply, “please listen to me. This is a very bad idea.”

“You don’t even know what my idea is,” I said mildly, although I wasn’t quite sure what it was myself. How would I parry a thrust from a broom handle? I narrowed my eyes at the road. In my post-Jerk days, I’d taken self-defense lessons. If I needed that training, hopefully it would come back.

At the side of the road, I pulled behind a large cedar tree to conceal my van. Then I got out and jogged down the long driveway.

Well, well. Why was I not surprised to see Penny Woolworth’s Jeep parked at the side of the house? If she’d left the dogs out in that cold car, I’d throw her carefully made latte in her face.

I stepped quickly around to the battered Jeep and checked the interior. No puppies. Was Penny leaving them there? Was it possible Kris Nielsen had thousands of square feet of white carpet? I certainly hoped so. I walked back to the front of the house, where I checked the porch for security cameras. There were none. I rang the bell, then stepped off to the side, out of the line of sight of the peephole.

“Who is it?” Penny’s voice called meekly through the heavy wood a moment later.

“Mountain Journal!” I shouted, making my voice husky. “Need to see Mr. Nielsen!”

There was a pause. “Uh, about what?” Penny’s tentative voice called back.

“Harboring stolen puppies! Open this door or I’m calling the cops! Like now, lady!”

She opened the door a crack. “The puppies aren’t his, they’re—”

I slammed the door open and stepped into a stuccoed foyer. In my head, I could hear Tom’s voice saying, No, no, no. But I pressed forward anyway. I stopped at the edge of the foyer beside the living room, which was filled with chrome and leather contemporary furniture. Beyond it was a dining room, its glass dining room table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking modern chairs. Overhead, a complicated tubular crystal chandelier glimmered. I whirled and glared at Penny Woolworth. “You work for him on Thursdays, huh? Today’s Monday. Where is he?”

“I can’t—”

“Listen to me, Penny, you tell me where he is, or I will call Tom and have Zeke held—”

“What’s going on here?” asked Kris Nielsen from the dining room. Tall, with his shock of prematurely white hair swept back, Kris looked first at me, then at Penny, with genuine puzzlement. He wore a T-shirt, basketball shorts, and running shoes. The shirt made his arm and chest muscles pop out. I swallowed and realized what a really terrible idea it had been to come here. Kris walked toward me, holding out his hand. “We met once before, didn’t we? You’re Goldy?” His blue eyes were kind, merry even. “Is there a problem?” He looked back at Penny for some kind of explanation.

“I got the puppies from her,” said Penny, looking down at an asymmetrically designed area rug.

“And?” asked Kris, still confused. I didn’t shake his extended hand, so he dropped it to his side. When neither Penny nor I followed up on his question, he said, “Goldy, would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks,” I said stiffly. “I have to be somewhere.” I felt my courage evaporating, so I squared my shoulders and pointed at Kris. “Leave Yolanda and her aunt Ferdinanda alone. Leave me alone. She may have been afraid of pressing charges against you or of swearing out a restraining order against you, but I am not. Do you understand?”

“What?” he said in disbelief. He swayed back on his heels, as if I’d slapped him.

I turned my body and my pointing finger on Penny. “Whatever he’s paying you for your efforts, it is not worth it.”

“I, I, I . . . ,” said Penny helplessly. “Goldy, wait, you don’t understand.”

But since she offered no explanation of what I didn’t understand, and since Kris was still struck dumb, it was time for me to boogie. In the distance—the garage, probably—I could hear the puppies whining. I raced back to the van.

“How’d it go?” Yolanda asked, staring straight ahead.

“About as well as you’d expect.” I started the van and pulled away from the curb. When we reached the exit of Flicker Ridge, I picked up my cell and hit the speed dial for Tom. If Tom couldn’t do anything else, he could at least come up here and get Ernest’s beagles back . . . or something.

Unfortunately, Tom picked up on the first ring. “Miss G.? I just got off the phone with Kris Nielsen. What were you thinking?”

Nonplussed, I steered the van toward the interstate. This particular turn of events was not what I was expecting. I stared hard out the windshield and said, “I wasn’t exactly thinking.”

“That much is clear.” He was quiet for so long, it made me uncomfortable. Yolanda, staring out her window, was no help. Finally Tom sighed. “He was very upset. Says he has no idea why you barged into his house. He says he invited you to have a cup of coffee, and you threatened him. Did you threaten him? You didn’t take a weapon into his house, did you? A knife, say? Tell me you didn’t.”

“Tom, I didn’t even take a wooden spoon in there.”

“Well, that much is good, I suppose. I did some shucking and jiving with him, said we had strong anti-stalking laws in this state, that I’d heard his Maserati myself this morning—”

“You heard it?” I said, incredulous. “You never told me that! How did you know it was a, ah—” I glanced over at Yolanda. I didn’t want her to know what I was talking about. “How did you know what it was?”

“Oh, Miss G. If I didn’t know my cars by now, I would not be worthy of the title Police Officer.” He paused. “Neither Boyd nor I actually saw Kris this morning, and he insists he was working out on his exercise machines. At home. Maybe it was somebody else’s Mas, who knows. But people in our neighborhood can barely afford to put clothes on their kids’ backs. They don’t have the dough for that kind of vehicle.”

“Exactly!” I said. “That’s why I—”

“Miss G. I have to go. I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation, remember? I promised Kris Nielsen that you would not attempt to contact him in any way in the future, all right?”

“Oh-kay.”

“Those anti-stalking statutes apply to you, too, Miss G. Do you understand?”

“Tom, please stop.” We signed off, not happily.

“What did Tom say?” Yolanda asked.

“Nothing, really. He just wants me to leave Kris alone.”

Yolanda snorted. “That’s rich.”

Outside, the mantle of gray cloud had grown much darker. The wind started up again, this time with such force that it violently swept leaves, pine needles, and bits of trash across the highway. The thermometer in my van indicated the external temperature was thirty-one. When we reached the Ooh-Ah Bridge, with its spectacular view of the Continental Divide—which was behind us—the first snowflakes began to fall.

I cursed silently. These were tiny flakes, the kind that signal a true storm, not a flurry. Worse, the snowflakes didn’t drift slowly downward, they sped sideways with such ferocity and thickness that a sudden, dense white curtain made visibility difficult. First the view of the plains, usually so clear when you’re heading east, disappeared. Then I couldn’t make out the road a hundred yards in front of us. Eventually, I couldn’t see the road ten yards ahead. I got into the middle lane and slowed the van way down.

Yolanda transferred her worry to the weather. “Think they’ll still have these physicals? It looks pretty bad. Maybe you should call and see if the school is going to cancel.”

“Something involving sports at a Catholic high school?” I replied, straining to see out the windshield. “Those kids and parents would turn out if we had flash floods, a tornado, and ten inches of basketball-size hail.”

And they did. By the time we got to Denver and turned onto the street that led to the Christian Brothers High School, the snow was mixed with rain. We passed the crowded parking lot and pulled up near the kitchen entrance. We were late, but it was only half past nine. We needed to be done setting up in two hours. The buffet lunch wasn’t due to start until noon, but hungry teenage athletes would be ready to eat at half past eleven, if not earlier.

Plus, I had to make sure I connected with Charlene Newgate at noon. I hoped I’d be able to find her in the gym.

Alas, the kitchen doors were locked. Yolanda guarded the van—in case someone came along and told us we had to move—while I went inside to hunt for the athletic director, Tony Ramos. Tony was supposed to have unlocked the kitchen doors, and I didn’t have his cell phone number.

A deafening amount of noise echoed off the tiled walls of the hallways. I checked Tony Ramos’s office: empty. I shot down the hallway and pushed my way into the gym, where the din was even louder than in the halls. Parents, students, doctors, nurses, and volunteers packed the space in a free-for-all atmosphere that was like a postgame celebration. The walls were hung with banners announcing championships the school had won in various sports. Someone with a bullhorn was trying unsuccessfully to impose order on the chaos. Parents called to one another in recognition, teachers made out name tags, and there was an excited buzz among the kids: Would the developing storm mean school might be canceled the next day?

While I was looking for Tony Ramos, I bumped into Sean Breckenridge. This was not a metaphorical bumping but a quite literal one, as my attention was focused on searching for Tony. Sean had been holding an oversize camera up to his eye, and neither of us saw the other until I’d whacked his lens and ended up on the gym floor. My elbow immediately screamed with pain, but I pressed my lips together.

“Oh, gosh,” he proclaimed. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s my fault,” I said after he’d helped me up. “Are you all right? Did I mess up your camera? I’m sorry.” As I said this, I pushed up my sleeve, which had torn. Blood spurted from my elbow.

Sean looked away quickly. “Did I, did I do that?”

“No, I did,” I said, pulling my sleeve down to my wrist. “Sean?”

He looked back at me cautiously. When he saw my sleeve was back in place, he used the long fingers of his free hand to brush his thinning dark hair over to one side. He glanced at his camera, which seemed to have weathered my impact. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

Embarrassment flooded Sean’s thin face. He cleared his throat. “Fine, thank you.”

He clearly wasn’t, but since the last time we’d talked he hung up on me, I said quickly, “Have you seen Tony Ramos? The athletic director?”

“Yes,” Sean said slowly “I just took a picture of him with the basketball team. I’ll show you where he was.”

I followed Sean’s tall, bowlegged body. The camera seemed to weigh him down, so that he listed like a leaking ship. At one point, he seemed to remember something and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his face.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, then hoisted his camera again and resumed his slow, tilted walk across the gym floor.

Wait a minute. Camera?

“Sean, what are you doing here?” I rushed up to his side. I mean, he was the senior warden of our Episcopal church in Aspen Meadow, and his only child was five. Marla had said the kid was precocious, but I doubted he was in high school already. “Are you the official school photographer?”

Sean shook his head as we threaded our way around clumps of students and parents. When we passed the entrance to the locker rooms, the odor of sweat almost knocked me flat. Sean said something unintelligible, and I hustled up to his side.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

“I’m the volunteer school photographer. They needed somebody, so here I am.” After a moment, he said bitterly, “There’s Tony.”

He pointed at Tony Ramos, a short, muscular fellow with close-clipped gray hair straight as a bristle brush. Tony Ramos had been the subject of media coverage this summer, when a national sporting goods company had bought a contraption he’d invented for the CBHS girls’ fast-pitch softball team. Tony had christened it the Pitch Bitch, but when the sporting-goods company had bought the thing for an estimated eight figures, they’d vowed to change it to something more “acceptable to young women.” Tony, not the most garrulous of people in ordinary circumstances, had said, “No comment.” When asked if he would retire from CBHS, he said merely, “No.” Now he was listening to a very pretty woman whom I could see only in profile. She was making comments, bending in toward Tony, and then laughing flirtatiously. When she turned and put her hand on Tony’s arm, I cringed. I recognized her: Brie Quarles.

“Tony?” I said. Sean Breckenridge slithered away. “Sorry to bother you, but we need to—”

“The kitchen door!” he said, slapping his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Goldy. Brie,” he said, turning to her, “I’d love to hear more. Some other time, okay?”

“All righty!” said Brie as she caught sight of me in my workplace kitchen duds. Her smile faded and she turned away. Even though we were both parishioners at St. Luke’s, and we both ostensibly subscribed to the idea that being Christian meant, at the very least, being nice to each other, I clearly wasn’t important enough to merit a bit of conversation.

“Hello, Brie,” I called after her. She stopped and turned around, giving me as blasé a look as possible. Despite the weather, she wore a pink polo shirt, khaki shorts, and flashy metallic flats. I certainly hoped she had a good winter coat somewhere in the gym. I said merrily, “I’m catering the church fund-raising dinner at the Breckenridges’ place tomorrow night. You’re going to be a guest?”

“What is this,” she asked, “twenty questions?” And with that, she whirled on one of her flats and flounced away to talk to someone more important.

Well, I thought as I accompanied Tony Ramos to the kitchen entrance, that was interesting. A truism I’d heard expressed on the radio suddenly came to mind: that the Church of England—in America, the Episcopal Church—is the last bastion standing in the way of the spread of Christianity. I wasn’t quite that cynical, because I did love Saint Luke’s, and the parish did a great deal of good in the community. In any event, I would have to grill Marla on the possibility that the reason the married Brie Quarles had been under surveillance was that she was fooling around with the married athletic director of Christian Brothers High School.

Tony, feeling remorseful about not being where he was supposed to be when we arrived, helped us schlep in all the boxes. The man was strong, I’d give him that. He then commandeered four athletes to move the two long tables we’d be using to serve food in the gym. In fact, Tony and his soldiers helped so much, our work took half the time I’d allotted.

And lo and behold, who should walk into the kitchen but Arch! I hadn’t seen my own sixteen-year-old son for two days. As usual, I noticed how he was becoming tall and gangly. Also as usual, his disheveled, toast-colored hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb lately. The gray circles under his brown eyes indicated he’d stayed up too late with his pals. But he looked happy.

“Hey, Mom.” A shy smile flickered across his face. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine, thanks.” I tilted my head at Yolanda, who was arranging the pork on large platters. “Yolanda and her great-aunt, Ferdinanda, are staying with us for a few days. They’re on cots in the dining room.”

Arch lit up as Yolanda walked over. “Cool! Is this the aunt who smokes cigars?”

Yolanda grinned at him. “Yup. But you’re not allowed to have any.”

“I’m in training,” Arch joked. “No smoking, no booze.”

“Arch!” I cried.

“Gotcha, Mom.” He surveyed the food. “Looks great. I need to ask you for something. One of the kids on our team? He’s been diagnosed with leukemia and started his treatment. Could I bring him some lunch?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, and swiftly put together cutlery and a dish full of food.

“He’ll never eat that much,” Arch warned as he blinked at the loaded plate. “He’s here because he missed being with the team. But he doesn’t want the other kids to stare at him in the gym, so the team is gathered in one of the halls with him, and his mom’s going to pick him up by a side door.”

“Just lead the way.”

Arch did. We entered a warren of hallways and eventually came to a tunnel of lockers with a clutch of boys at the end. A pile of sabers, épées, and foils indicated practice was over. The kids were seated around an emaciated, bald classmate whose skin was a terrible color. I got down on my knees, introduced myself, and handed him the plate. Arch had brought a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” the boy said as he looked at me with eyes that looked huge. “I’m Peter.”

“Well, enjoy,” I replied.

Peter’s forehead wrinkled. He said to his teammates, “So am I going to eat this while all of you are watching me?”

“Yeah,” replied one of the kids, “and after that, we’re going home to shave our heads, so we can look like you, too!”

They all laughed, then started talking, apparently to divert attention away from Peter so that he would not, indeed, be embarrassed. Several of the boys began to gather the equipment, while a couple got to their feet to open their lockers. Then there was a crash and a whoop of pain.

Everyone stopped moving and looked at Peter, who swallowed what was in his mouth. “It wasn’t me, guys.”

“It was me!” shouted one of the boys, whom I couldn’t see. “What the hell, Boats,” the kid, still invisible, shouted, “can’t you look where you’re opening your locker door?”

Boats, aka Alexander Boatfield III, closed his locker door, revealing a kid holding on to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. “Oh, Jesus,” said Boats. “I’m sorry, Mikulski. I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s obvious!” cried the offended Mikulski. I did not know this kid, whose last name was Mikulski. He must have been a new member of the team. What worried me more at the moment was that his hand could not contain the red flood from his nose. Blood dripped down his shirt and onto the floor.

“All right,” I said authoritatively, “I want to take you to the nurse. Arch, give him a shirt. Mikulski, sorry I don’t know your first name—”

“Brad!”

“Brad,” I said calmly, “we need to see if your nose is broken. Let’s go.” I took Brad’s free arm and signaled to Arch to lead the way back.

“This sucks!” Brad howled as I guided him down the hallway. “I’m going to look like shit for the school picture!”

“Cool it, Mikulski,” Arch said in a low voice once we’d turned a corner. “Peter’s a lot worse off than you, and you don’t hear him crying.”

“Jesus, Arch, I’m in pain here! Have a little compassion!”

Arch looked at me and rolled his eyes. The three of us tried to hustle along, but since Brad had his head tipped back, it was slow going. Just before the next hallway corner, I heard a clanking that I could not immediately identify. Then Sean Breckenridge, carrying all his photographic equipment, hove into view, and before Arch and I could pull Brad Mikulski back, Sean banged right into him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” hollered Mikulski. “Is this the blind leading the blind or what?”

“Omigod,” murmured Sean Breckenridge, looking at me. “I’m sorry, I was in such a hurry that I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. Goldy, have you seen—” In midquestion, Sean happened to look over at Brad Mikulski, who had lowered his chin to see who’d plowed into him. Brad’s blood was everywhere at this point—on his face, his shirt, Arch’s shirt—and it was dripping onto the floor.

Sean Breckenridge’s mouth dropped open and his cheeks paled. His eyes rolled upward as he keeled forward.

“Arch!” I shouted. “Catch him!”

Arch deftly stepped into Sean Breckenridge’s trajectory, absorbed the weight of his fall, and lowered him to the floor.

“I swear, this is getting out of hand,” said Brad Mikulski, staring down at an unconscious Sean Breckenridge. “We’re going to have to open a ward on hallway B. Somebody needs to call a priest.”

“Sit down on the floor, Brad,” I ordered. “Arch, run and get us some help, would you, please? Ask them to bring compresses and ammonia salts.”

Brad Mikulski sat on the floor, lifted his chin, and cut his glance sideways at Sean Breckenridge. “It’s just a little blood, man. Why do you have to be such a wuss?”

Moments later, Arch reappeared with two nurses. One was fortyish and slender; the other, young, bulky, and blond, appeared to be an assistant. Both wore the blue PJ-type scrubs common these days among their profession. Unsure of the extent of the injuries, each was carrying a first-aid kit. The older one gave instructions to the younger, who held a small tube of ammonia salts under Sean’s nose. He jerked awake, looking confused. The other nurse shook her head at Brad Mikulski, who, in turn, was watching the goings-on with Sean Breckenridge with interest.

The older nurse said wearily, “What have you done to yourself this time, Mikulski?”

While Brad Mikulski was in the middle of his protestations that he hadn’t done anything, the problem was what had been done to him, the nurse interrupted him. She told me she and her colleague would handle the situation, and that Arch and I could go back to whatever it was we’d been doing before the collision.

“Do you know how to get to the gym from here?” Arch asked me.

When I said that I was sure I did not, my son began to lead me. As we walked along, I asked about Peter’s condition.

“We don’t know much,” Arch said protectively. “Please don’t ask me a bunch of questions I can’t answer.”

“Oh-kay.” Was I that nosy? Well, probably yes.

Arch furrowed his brow, as if he were trying to remember something important. “Somebody said that—outside?—it’s snowing to beat the band.”

“It’s coming down in Aspen Meadow,” I said. “You won’t be home too late, will you?”

“Gus’s grandparents invited Todd and me over for dinner. They said they’d bring me home, too. Remember, my car’s in our garage? You were afraid the radials weren’t going to be good enough to get through the winter, and you wanted to get real snow tires for it.”

“Right, we’ll get to that. Speaking of which, I’m worried about the weather. The snow is coming down really hard, so please ask the Vikarioses to bring you home early. Like nine at the latest?”

“Sure.” He deposited me at the door of the kitchen. “Thanks for being nice to Peter. And to Mikulski, too.”

“Arch, of course I would be nice to—” But my son had taken off. As I watched his retreating back, I wished I’d asked who Peter’s mother was. I simply couldn’t imagine being in her shoes. The pain she must have been feeling . . . I wondered about Peter’s prognosis. Arch was always accusing me of nosiness, so it sure didn’t feel right to be digging around in this.

Then again, what about Brad Mikulski? Was his mother Hermie, the one who might have hired Ernest to look into the puppy mill, over her son’s supposed objections? Brad didn’t come to church, so I hadn’t seen them together. Still, I shook my head at the fact that I’d been too preoccupied by Brad’s blood and Sean Breckenridge’s reaction to it to ask. I took a deep breath and focused on the work at hand, which was feeding a big crowd of athletes, parents, teachers, and medical personnel.

When I returned to the gym, Tony Ramos was speaking into the bullhorn, and the kids were organizing themselves according to his instructions. The physicals would continue through lunch, Tony announced. When Yolanda and I started to serve at quarter to twelve, two lines of more or less disciplined kids moved along both sides of the tables, piling their plates high with salads, buffalo wings, sandwiches, and cookies. The school provided the drinks: water, milk, and juices—no pop, thank goodness—so that was one less thing to deal with.

As I spooned a refill of Caprese salad into one of the buffet bowls, I saw something that gave me a start. It was a kid, a boy, not very tall, overweight, with tufts of light brown hair sticking out at all angles from his head. He was holding himself somewhat apart, which made his lumpy stomach stand out even more. I’d never seen him at CBHS, and if he was from our church, I didn’t recognize him. But I knew him, somehow. Arch had reentered the gym with his team, so I caught his eye and motioned him over.

“Don’t look now,” I said surreptitiously as I deposited the last few tomato slices into the bowl, “but there’s a heavy kid nearby, and he looks familiar. Is he from Aspen Meadow? Is he new to the school?”

Arch leaned over the salad bowl. “I don’t need to look. It’s Otto Newgate, and he was a year behind me at Aspen Meadow Elementary. I tried to talk to him, you know, welcome him to CBHS, but he said he didn’t want to be here at all, that his grandmother insisted he come. And get this. His grandmother wants him to try out for the basketball team, so he’s getting his physical. This school won the state championship last year. One member of the team is thinking of skipping college and going straight to the pros. Even CBHS’s junior varsity beat other senior varsities. Otto has exactly no chance of making either basketball team.”

“Oh, no.”

Arch said, “I mean, I feel sorry for Otto. I do. But if he doesn’t want to be here, then he should just tell his grandmother, no dice. Can I go now?”

“Yes, buddy. Thanks.”

Charlene Newgate! It was ten minutes after noon, and I’d been so busy worrying about Arch’s sick teammate, and dealing with the buffet, I’d almost forgotten I was due to meet her. And I certainly hadn’t put much thought into what I was going to say when I saw her, beyond bluffing about invitations to a doctor’s catered event. I knew I needed to ask questions that wouldn’t scare her off or do anything else to upset Tom.

I asked Yolanda to take over, which she did. I scanned the gym bleachers for Charlene. Would I even recognize her? I wondered.

Finally I caught sight of her, up high, wearing a fur, yes, fur coat that she had wrapped tightly around her. It wasn’t particularly cold in the gym, either. What with all the animal lovers in the Denver area, Charlene was running a risk wearing real fur anywhere outside her house. Still, the CBHS kids were not, I thought, the paint-throwing types. At least, I hoped they weren’t.

To the best of my knowledge, Charlene hadn’t come through the line, so I made her a sandwich and put large servings of Caprese and potato salads next to it. Then I double-timed it to the top bleacher.

“Charlene!” I greeted her, gasping from the exertion of climbing. “Sorry I didn’t make it right at noon. Please have some lunch.” I handed her the plate.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d remembered, Goldy.” She shrugged off the coat. Charlene looked older than someone in her fifties. No doubt, the stress of being both a single mother and a single grandmother had taken their toll. Like her grandson, she had thin, light brown hair that formed uneven tufts around her head. She was a bulky woman, but instead of the jeans and T-shirt I’d always seen her in, this day she was dressed stunningly, in charcoal wool slacks with a matching sweater. Her thick ankles were swathed in black leather boots.

“Charlene,” I said, “you look like you’ve won the lottery.”

She spooned a bite of salad into her mouth, taking care not to get any on her clothes. She chewed, nodded her approval, then said, “I have a new boyfriend.” Her whole face seemed to twinkle as she smiled at me. “He’s good to me.”

“How nice.” I meant it. “Is he here? Can I meet him?”

Distrust flared in her eyes. “No. He has lots of business projects. You wanted to talk to me about those invitations you need addressed?”

“Well, actually,” I said, improvising, “it was a Halloween party, for a dentist? Drew Parker? He called just as we were leaving the house to come here. He’s in Hawaii—it must have been the middle of the night there—anyway, his practice isn’t doing so well, so he’s not having me cater the party after all. In fact, he’s not even going to have a party.”

Charlene snorted and looked away. “All these years, I’ve been slaving away running a secretarial service. I’ve watched the doctors, dentists, lawyers, and businessmen I work for get richer and richer. Now I’m the one doing well, and I have no sympathy.”

I ignored her very palpable resentment, sat down next to her, and pretended to focus on the kids in the gym. “It’s so good your business is doing well. So, do you know Drew Parker? I mean, do you ever do work for him?”

She eyed me again, and I put on my most innocent-looking face. She trained her gaze on the gym floor. “I’ve already talked to the police, if that’s what you’re getting at—”

“Oh, no!” I lied. “The police? About what?”

Charlene looked away. “My service has worked for a lot of professionals in Aspen Meadow. Practically all of them, if you want to know the truth. I told the police, Drew Parker’s name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I understand. I have a lot of clients, too. By the time I’ve finished serving dessert? I can’t remember half of their names.” I paused. “My business is suffering, though. I’m glad yours is doing well.”

She gave me a look that would have curdled cream. “You have enough money to send your son here,” she rejoined. “Now Otto can have all the advantages that other kids have.” She lifted her wobbly, stout chin. “He’s going to do real well.” She opened her light brown eyes wide at me, and I blinked. She leaned in toward me, and I got a whiff of her powdery scent. “Who says money can’t buy happiness? Not me!”

Tony Ramos interrupted us with his bullhorn. He announced that the athletes had to finish their lunches and get their physicals, if they had not already done so, because the doctors and nurses needed to leave.

“Goldy Schulz!” A harsh female voice interrupted my visit with Charlene.

“Oh, Christ,” said Charlene under her breath. She picked up her plate and handed it to me. “Keep me away from that crazy woman, will you?”

I said, “What crazy woman?”

“Go!” Charlene told me. “Get out of here!”

I held the plate carefully with both hands, turned around so as to face the gym, and scanned the bleachers.

“Goldy Schulz!” the abrasive voice called again. The parents who sat all around, instead of paying attention to Tony Ramos, turned to look at me. Even some of the kids out on the gym floor stared upward.

At length I saw the woman calling me. My heart plummeted. Hermie Mikulski, her prematurely gray hair crimped in sharp curlicues all around her head, her tall, commanding body encased in a tube of pale gray wool, stood at the bottom of the steps, her hands on her hips.

“Coming!” I called weakly. I hadn’t seen Hermie Mikulski since the annual meeting of our parish, the previous January. Whenever I’d greeted her at church, I’d received a cold nod in reply, which I figured was just her way. But now she was screaming at me? Why? Was she blaming me for her son’s bloody nose?

When I reached the gym floor, I clutched Charlene’s plate between me and Hermie, like a kind of shield. To forestall a verbal attack, I quickly said, “Is Brad your son? I’m sorry that he—”

Hermie tossed her head. “I’m not here about Brad.” The area between her gray eyebrows furrowed. “Why were you talking to that woman?” When Hermie pointed up at Charlene, I noticed something that made my mouth fall open. Where two of Hermie’s fingers on her left hand should have been, there were only stumps.

“Hermie?” I asked. “When did—” In my mind, I could hear Arch’s voice saying, Being nosy, Mom? I had the presence of mind to say, “What woman would that be?”

“That welfare cheat, Charlene Newgate! Look at her up there, wearing a fur coat. I pity the animal who died for that woman. Oh,” she trilled, squinting and nodding ominously in Charlene’s direction, “Charlene’s got herself a sugar daddy now. Never mind that he’s a criminal.”

“A criminal? Who is he?” I asked breathlessly.

When Hermie turned her angry, trembling chin at me, I felt something like wool at the back of my throat. Hermie said, “I heard on the news that Ernest McLeod was dead. I take it your husband is looking into it?”

“Well—”

Hermie drew herself and her massive bosom upward, and took a deep breath. “Ernest was working for me.”

I swallowed. Was I supposed to let on that I already knew this? I said, “Oh? Doing what?”

“How far along is your husband in the investigation?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

“Have him call me,” Hermie said. With that command, she turned on her squat heels and marched away.

“You could always call him,” I said to empty air.

I had wanted to ask Charlene Newgate more questions, and I now certainly wanted to ask Hermie Mikulski more questions, such as What happened to your hand? But it seemed both women had dismissed me. I dashed across the gym to help with the cleanup.

Yolanda was already hard at work, washing the metal serving dishes. We’d used paper plates and cups, as the school didn’t want even the possibility of broken china or glass on their expertly sprung gym floor. The washing-up operation took less than an hour. A few stragglers were still in the gym, one doctor, three kids, and assorted parents. Sean Breckenridge had left. Brie Quarles was still there, and once again she was hanging on to Tony Ramos. What in the hell was going on with them? I wondered. Maybe Brie wanted her son to make the basketball team. Well, Marla would know.

Otto Newgate and his grandmother were among the last to leave. Charlene had expertly wrapped a scarf around her head. She lifted that chin of hers and pulled her fur around her, Tallulah Bankhead bidding me a grand farewell. Otto held on to his wide stomach. He looked absolutely miserable.

Outside, the rain had completely turned to snow. An astonishing six inches had already accumulated on the school’s football field. The pavement, which had been slightly warmer, only had about four inches of white stuff, but the snow was falling even harder than it had been when we came down from Aspen Meadow.

“We’d better hurry,” Yolanda said as she heaved one of our boxes into the van. “I’m worried about Ferdinanda.”

Ferdinanda! “Oh, dear,” I said as I pushed in my last box. “I promised her I’d go to an ethnic grocery store and get her some guava marmalade, or preserves, I can’t remember which. Do you know?”

Yolanda said, “I sure do. Want to let me drive?”

With a check from the school stuffed into my pocket, I relaxed, finally, in the passenger seat. Yolanda revved the van engine and got in line to exit the school parking lot. I was stunned by the amount of snow we were getting, but knew there was nothing we could do about it. It was while I was looking out the window that I saw something else that astonished me. Charlene and her grandson were getting into a car, hers, apparently, because she was easing herself into the driver’s seat. The bumper sticker read, SECRETARIES DO IT BEHIND THE DESK.

It was a 7-series BMW. That was some boyfriend.

It took longer than either Yolanda or I would have imagined to get to the Capitol Hill area of Denver and the ethnic grocery store. Even though Denverites are used to driving in snow, the first snowfall of the season, whether it comes in September, October, or even November, invariably paralyzes the city. Plus, since it was technically still summer, I doubted most folks had given a thought to snow tires, which slowed them down even more. Still, we eventually arrived at the store, which was called merely Ethnic Foods. Their parking lot was almost full. This told me that people had convinced themselves that they absolutely had to have their picante sauce and caviar if they were going to be snowed in, whether it was for a day or a week.

“Was it near here that Ferdinanda was hit?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Yolanda pointed me in the direction of the jams and said Ferdinanda liked guava marmalade. She said she needed sour pickles and would meet me at the front. I snagged a basket, found guava marmalade, and put it in my basket. Mission accomplished, I headed toward the row of cash registers, eager to get home before rush hour.

And we would have made it, maybe, if a huge crash, shattering, and tinkling of breaking glass, plus a lot of screaming, had not emerged from one aisle over.

“Get away from me!” Yolanda screamed. “Who sent you? Why did you bump into me? To scare me? Did Kris send you to hurt me?” There were more explosions and splinterings of glass. I rushed toward the ruckus.

“Stop it!” a male voice pleaded. Wait, that was a voice I knew, didn’t I? “You’re not acting logically,” the man said, his voice raised. “Stop hitting me! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“I’m calling the police!” Yolanda shrieked.

I raced toward the source of the racket. It was hard to see what was going on, because light reflected off a field of glass shards. The acrid scent of brine made me pull back. What looked like at least twenty broken jars of pickles and olives were strewn everywhere. Yolanda, stricken, was holding herself flat against the pickle shelves. And on the floor, disheveled, drenched in pickle juice and olive brine, his face red with mortification, was the man who loved to cook with genuine kalamata olives, our very large, very Greek, Saint Luke’s parish priest, Father Pete.

“Yolanda, it’s all right,” I said soothingly. “This is our priest. Our rector. It’s okay.” I realized I was still gripping my basket, which I put on the floor.

“He pushed me. He bumped into me hard, on purpose,” she said. She pressed her lips together, perhaps realizing that a priest would not intentionally hurt her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you,” said Father Pete. “I was reading a label, and I thought I barely touched you. Okay, look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. I’m absentminded. Mea culpa.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Yolanda, her voice still trembling.

“I can vouch for this man,” I said to Yolanda as soothingly as possible. I turned to our poor rector, who was, indeed, absentminded, and renowned for trying to do two things at once, like backing up and reading a label. Usually, like this time, he failed at both undertakings. “Father Pete, are you all right?” I swallowed. “Can I help you get up?”

Father Pete grunted. “I’m fine. I can get up on my own.” He brushed his dark, curly hair away from his face and groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. He then tried to step around the olives and pickles littering the aisle. A clerk appeared, a cell phone in one hand and a mop in the other. She looked from one person in our little trio to the other, waiting for direction.

“It’s all right,” I told her, trying to sound authoritative. “We had a little mix-up here. Sorry about the mess.”

“If everyone would just leave the aisle,” she said miserably, “I can clean up.”

So we did, and Father Pete, who looked much worse than Yolanda, wanted to know if we were all right. Father Pete seemed particularly concerned about Yolanda, whom he tried to help away from the pickles, where she remained flattened. She bristled at his touch.

“I’ve known Father Pete myself for several years,” I murmured to her. “He’s a good man. Please come out of the aisle, so the grocery lady can clean up.”

Yolanda moved away, finally, after picking up her brine-soaked purse and taking two jars of pickles, which she clutched in each hand like weapons. I nabbed my basket and headed toward the cash registers. Father Pete abandoned his cart.

While Yolanda paid for her merchandise, Father Pete whispered to me, “I promise, Goldy, I didn’t hurt her.”

“I know, Father Pete,” I replied. “She’s a little touchy these days.” While Yolanda talked to the cashier, I lowered my voice even further, thinking I would try to explain the situation to Father Pete. “Do you happen to know Kris Nielsen?” I asked. Oops, I thought. I had not received Yolanda’s permission to talk about her problems with Father Pete.

“Oh, Kris is wonderful.” Father Pete’s tone was suddenly warm, and he gave me the benefit of his benevolent brown eyes. “He’s been very generous to the parish, and he’s always trying to help those in need. Why?”

“He’s a member?” I had never once seen Kris Nielsen at Saint Luke’s. I looked up at Yolanda, who was watching me talk to Father Pete. I signaled that I’d be there in a moment, and she went back to talking to the cashier.

“He’s not officially a member,” Father Pete replied. “He travels a lot with his work, so he can’t come on Sundays.”

What work? I wondered. Kris didn’t work. Maybe he wanted to sleep in on Sundays. I said, “And what do you mean, Kris is always trying to help those in need?”

“Oh, my! He outfitted our Sunday school rooms with all new furniture. He bought a lovely rug for the parish meeting room—”

“You said he helped those in need,” I reminded him. “Like, people.”

Father Pete straightened. “Yes, yes. A couple of months ago, he called because he was looking into convalescent facilities in Denver. I can tell you about this, without giving any names, since you ask. Anyway, Kris said he knew an elderly woman who belonged in a nursing home. He was willing to foot the entire bill. But this woman’s great-niece, who was a dear friend of his, could not see the problem. So Kris said he needed me to step in. I asked him if the elderly woman was of sound mind. Kris said she was not. I asked if a doctor would sign off on the elderly woman’s mental incompetence, and Kris said, ‘Oh, well, she’s very clever, she could fool anyone.’ I told him I probably couldn’t aid him, then, and he was saddened by that, because he clearly wanted to help his friend, the great-niece.”

I said, “Clearly.” Yeah, right. I wanted to tell him about the venereal disease, about the broomstick attack, about the possibility that Kris had been stalking Yolanda. But I knew that both Yolanda and Father Pete would not want me to. “Father Pete, I wonder if you could keep this whole incident in the grocery store between us? You, me, Yolanda, the pickles, and the olives?”

Father Pete’s look of puzzlement was replaced by what I thought of as his smooth, pastoral expression. If I wanted him to keep something quiet, that was exactly what he would do. “Do you and Tom still want me to take in some rescue puppies?”

I rocked back on my heels. I’d forgotten that Father Pete was our last adoptive parent for Ernest’s dogs. “Yes, please, oh, yes.” I looked outside at the snow, now a raging blizzard. We’d be lucky to get home without incident. “Will tomorrow be all right?”

“Of course,” said Father Pete, brightening. “I have a four-wheel-drive vehicle, if this snow becomes too much.” He held his hand up to Yolanda, as if to bid her a fond farewell. Then he leaned into me, while he continued to smile at Yolanda. In his low voice again, he said, “I think your friend needs professional help.”