Crunch Time

12

Back in the kitchen, I couldn’t help it. I called Tom. He wasn’t at his desk yet, so I announced into his voice mail that Father Pete knew where Hermie Mikulski was. Father Pete also had seen Charlene Newgate’s new, rich boyfriend, who might be our bald perp. Emphasis on the might, I added.

I then tried Tom’s cell, but he must have been in one of those folds in the mountains that prevented reception. I repeated my message anyway and hung up. In the living room, Boyd and Father Pete were still conversing in low tones.

“What is it?” Yolanda asked as I held myself next to the kitchen door.

Ferdinanda gave me a steely stare. “Why are you listening? Is the father hearing the cop’s confession? If so, you are doing something very bad.”

“No, no, no,” I said impatiently, “Father Pete isn’t performing any sacraments. He’s talking to the policeman because he might know something about what’s been happening to you two. But if I can’t eavesdrop, I can’t tell what the priest is telling the cop!”

Ferdinanda’s gray eyebrows shot up. “Does the father know who burned down Ernest’s house? Was it the same man who was here last night?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe.”

At that moment, the front door opened. The puppies’ whining decreased as Father Pete went through. That was it? Fewer than five minutes of questions?

Still in the living room, Boyd got on his cell. Ferdinanda announced she was going into the dining room to rest. Uh-huh. I wondered if she wanted to do some eavesdropping herself. Yolanda moved to the pet-containment area and poured food into Jake’s bowl. Ordinarily, our bloodhound noisily gobbles up his food, but this morning, he wouldn’t look at us. There was a resolute silence from his bed.

“What do you suppose is the matter with him?” Yolanda asked me as I tipped out kibble for Scout the cat, whom I had seen exactly twice since the puppies came on the scene.

“He’s sulking,” I said. “He misses the puppies.”

While we were dutifully washing our hands, Boyd came back into the kitchen.

“The priest is going to call Hermie.” He held up a card. “I have her cell number here and just tried it. No answer.”

I shook my head. Hermie had told me to have Tom call her, but she was in hiding? What gave?

Boyd went on. “And as far as that woman and the bald guy? The priest doesn’t know anything. He can’t even remember when he saw the two of them. About two weeks ago, he thinks. I’ll call the bartender at the Grizzly, but it does get crazy busy in there sometimes. There’s no surveillance, and if it was two weeks ago, the saloon isn’t going to have a credit card receipt. Still, it’s worth a try. Let me call Tom.”

I was grateful that Boyd had brought us up to date but frustrated that he hadn’t learned more. He returned to the living room while Yolanda told Ferdinanda about her appointment that afternoon.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Ferdinanda said. “I can skip one appointment.”

“No, you can’t,” Yolanda replied with equal firmness. “He is the one doctor who will see you with your Medicare. You’re going.” I’d never seen Ferdinanda back down, but this time, she did.

When Boyd rejoined us, he said he hadn’t been able to reach Tom, but he’d left a voice mail. He pressed his lips together, then said, “Give me some duties here.” I handed him a printout of our prep schedule. I cited unnamed errands I had to do myself that afternoon—the exact nature of which I did not want to share—and said I wanted to be done by eleven.

“We can do this,” I said, encouraging them. There was no grumbling.

The four of us got down to work. The focaccia dough had risen, so I spilled it into two sheet pans. With one hand, I pressed holes into the dough, while with the other I carefully dribbled pools of golden extra-virgin olive oil into the depressions. Then I sprinkled the top with crushed fresh rosemary, dried oregano, poppy seeds, and sea salt. These breads did not need another rising, so into the oven they went.

Yolanda drained the new potatoes and shocked the haricots verts in ice for the salades composées. “You have a vinaigrette you want to use?”

“Do something fun. Since we’re having Navajo tacos, we’ll call it a Mexican–Caribbean–Native American fusion.”

She smiled. “No problema, babe.”

We were due to arrive at the Breckenridges’ place at four. We would set up before the guests arrived for cocktails and Rorry’s assortment of fruit and cheese, due to start at five. If all went smoothly, we’d serve the salads around six, followed by the lamb chops, bread, and tacos. Folks could make their choice. Or they could have both. Once the snows started in Aspen Meadow, everyone became hungrier. For six whole months, there were no more swimsuits or tiny tennis dresses to mess with.

I was thinking about this as Yolanda, her brow corrugated, shook the vinaigrette she’d made.

“What is it?” I asked.

She whacked the jar down on the counter so hard, I thought it would shatter. “Maybe I should just move Ferdinanda away from Aspen Meadow. Too many bad things are happening. I don’t want you and Tom and Arch to be targets.” She tore off a paper towel and wiped up the splashed vinaigrette.

“Yolanda, don’t. Tom will figure this whole thing out, and you can be safe and happy again.”

She said, “I doubt it.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Boyd said tenderly. “We’re going to nab this perp.”

After that, we checked off all the items needed for the menu, then moved on to labeling and packing our equipment and the foodstuffs. Rorry had told me she was using “The Abundance of Fall” for her decorating theme and would have gourds, hay, and bunches of flowers in a big arrangement for her centerpiece. I packed the ingredients for the fry bread batter, the meats, minced garlic, chopped tomatoes, chopped lettuce, grated cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and schlepped it all into the walk-in. I was glad not to have to worry about the table.

There were those nagging questions I still had for Yolanda. She was labeling all the items for the salads. Maybe she didn’t know any more about Ernest’s investigations, but she hadn’t talked much to me about Humberto or Kris. I wanted to know everything about them. If Humberto was really dangerous, why did she seem to be protecting him? And was it possible he had burned down the rental and somehow forced her to ask Ernest to take her in? I wondered.

And if Kris was truly stalking Yolanda, then we were all in danger. Some famous general—Patton, maybe?—had said, “Know your enemy.” In this case, make that possible enemies.

Once we were done with the packing up, Yolanda announced she had to get Ferdinanda ready to go to the doctor. Since it was quarter to eleven, they would have to hustle.

“But when will you be back?” I called after her. “Should I pack up the van for the Breckenridges’ event myself?”

Boyd gave me a severe look. “You’re not packing up anything by yourself.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Whoever this bad person or persons are, I’m pretty sure it’s not me they’re after.”

“We should be back before four,” Yolanda said as she wheeled Ferdinanda back into the kitchen.

“I’m going with them,” Boyd announced levelly. “And I need to know exactly where you’re off to, Goldy, and when you’ll be back.”

“Just picking up a few things at the grocery store,” I lied. “No big deal.”

“Then I’m walking you down to your van. Where’d you leave it?” I told him, and while he checked the outside perimeter of the house, I rapidly packed up one of the guava coffee cakes I’d made that morning. I also pulled four shots of espresso and poured them, plus a judicious amount of whipping cream, into my thermos. Where I was going, it would help to have a food bribe.

Yolanda gave me a skeptical grin as I made these preparations. “Those people at the grocery store must love you.”

I put my finger to my lips. She grinned at me. I had no idea where she thought I was going, and actually, I didn’t have a completely clear idea myself. Yet.

Boyd accompanied me through the melting snow. The sheriff’s department had finished investigating our garage, and the yellow tape was down, as was the garage door. There was nobody around. In Aspen Meadow, folks tend to cocoon after the first big snow. A county snowplow was working our street, spraying enormous wedges of white stuff onto the curb opposite us.

At my van, Boyd opened the driver’s door. “I want you to be watchful, do you understand?” When I nodded, Boyd said, “All right. I’ll set the alarm and close up the house.” I placed the wrapped cakes on my passenger seat and revved my van. Where was I going, exactly? I had to think.

I wanted to know who had burned down Yolanda’s rental. I wanted to know who had done the same to Ernest’s house. I wanted to know who had stolen Tom’s gun and then decided to make calls or shoot video, or send texts, or whatever, right outside our own place.

Somebody or somebodies were pressing in on our boundaries, and I was pissed.

As I eased my van through the ice and slush on Main Street, I reflected. When had this chain of events begun? I had not the slightest notion where the puppies had come from, even less of a clue as to where the marijuana Ernest was growing had originated. At the start of all this, Ernest’s dentist appointment had been changed. With Charlene Newgate now a definite person of interest, would Tom be upset if I tried to talk to her again? Probably.

I called Charlene Newgate’s number anyway, and was rewarded with voice mail. She was involved in this, I was convinced—although the evidence wasn’t there yet. Tom still hadn’t called me back, unfortunately. I asked Charlene to return my call and gave my cell phone number. I doubted she’d leave her new rich boyfriend long enough to attend to messages, but it was worth a try.

I drove up past Aspen Meadow Lake, which was an icy gray—not yet frozen, but filled with melting snow. It looked forbidding. I chewed the inside of my cheek and longed for the coffee I’d packed up. Was the change in Ernest’s dental appointment really the beginning of these horrid events? No, it wasn’t. Ernest had had some clients with big problems, and the one I knew about was Norman Juarez. Tom had said he owned a bar down near the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.

I called Information and, hoping against hope, asked for a search for bars called Norman’s, or Norm’s, on the state road that ran past the department. It was a long, hilly highway that eventually ended up in Boulder, although I certainly didn’t want to go that far.

She came up with nothing, as I’d expected. I asked her to try Juarez.

“I have one called the Juarez Bar and Grill,” the operator said doubtfully. “It’s listed as being on the highway. Want the address or the phone number?”

“Both, please.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the bar, which, even though it was small, was strung with green, red, and white flags. MEXICAN FOOD OUR SPECIALTY! a handmade sign blared. I wondered how hungry I was. I couldn’t just go in and start asking questions.

One of the things about being female is that if you go alone into an establishment that serves liquor, day or night, everyone assumes you’re looking for a pickup. I pressed my lips together, pulled the diamond ring Tom had given me around so it was in plain view, and bellied up to the bar.

At half past eleven, there were close to a dozen males—no females—sitting and drinking. There were booths and tables, all empty. I wondered about the men. Tom had told me that criminals often drink at bars during the day, so there are always a couple of undercover cops in there imbibing with them. The cops are always hoping to get some inside scoop, and often they do. The downside, unfortunately, is that more than one out-of-uniform police officer has become an alcoholic in the pursuit of his duty.

The guys at the bar ranged from scraggly-looking, with long gray hair and beards, to ruffian types, with tight T-shirts and torn jeans. They eyed me, and I pressed my lips together in a no-nonsense manner.

A tall Hispanic male, his curly black-and-gray hair cut very short, left his work at the bar and came up to me. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Help you?”

“A Heineken and two cheese enchiladas, please.” I tried to sound normal, but drinking beer and eating Mexican food when you have a big dinner to cater in the evening wasn’t exactly what you’d call normative behavior. For me, anyway.

He brought the Heineken first, then said it would be a few minutes for the enchiladas, as his wife had just made a fresh batch of tortillas. I said that sounded fantastic.

I sipped the Heineken as slowly as possible, but I still had to order a second one, because the enchiladas were taking some time. Okay, I really couldn’t have more than two beers before catering the Breckenridges’ gig, or I’d fall on my face in their kitchen. Maybe I should have ordered water, I thought, but then realized that it was less likely the bartender, if indeed he was Norman Juarez, would talk to me.

I signaled to him after I’d had a few sips of the second beer. He ambled over.

“So, your wife makes the tortillas? I’m impressed.”

He nodded. “They are incredible.” He had a slight accent.

I went on. “So, are you from Mexico?”

He snorted. “I am from Cuba.” He pronounced it the way Ferdinanda did, “Koo-bah.”

“My goodness,” I said, trying to think of how to engage him in a conversation. “I should have ordered a Cubano.”

He was drying a glass with a dish towel, but stopped. “Do you want a Cubano with your enchiladas?”

“Maybe next time,” I said cheerfully. “You know, that’s so interesting that you’re from Cuba, because I’m having dinner tonight with a Cuban man—I mean, actually, I’m catering a dinner where he will be a guest. His name is Humberto Captain? Have you heard of him?”

Norman Juarez’s face darkened immediately as my question hit its target. He carefully put down the towel and glass, then gave me a penetrating look. “I hope Humberto has already paid you for the dinner.”

I slugged down some more beer, then said, “Why would you say that?”

A short, pretty Hispanic woman appeared with a plate of steaming enchiladas and placed them in front of me. I nodded my thanks, and she smiled. When she looked up at her husband, she knew something was up. As she scurried away, I waited for Norman Juarez to give me an answer.

I said, “It’s a fund-raiser for our church. Do you think we shouldn’t have taken his check?”

“Humberto Captain is a thief.” Norman Juarez emphasized each word. “If he ever comes in here, I will throw him out.”

I opened my eyes wide in mock amazement. “Was there a time when he didn’t pay his bill?”

Norman Juarez’s laugh was bitter. “So this is a charity dinner? He does a lot of those, gets his picture on the society page with one girlfriend or another. He tries to convince people he is a good man.” He eyed my half-empty beer glass. “You want another?”

I said, “Sure,” because I wanted Norman to keep talking. The crowd at the bar had thinned, and after a cursory glance at the remaining customers, Norman sauntered to his refrigerator and pulled out another bottle. There was no way in hell I was going to drink it, but never mind. I forked in a mouthful of enchilada. It was out of this world. There is simply nothing as divine as freshly made tortillas baked with Mexican queso and homemade salsa.

Norman opened the new bottle and topped up my glass. “Is this for a church in Denver or Aspen Meadow?”

“It’s for Saint Luke’s Episcopal in Aspen Meadow.” Norman looked at me expectantly, so I took the tiniest imaginable swig of beer. “With everything going south in the economy, we’re having trouble meeting our budget. Two generous parishioners agreed to host the event at their house. Each of the guests is paying a thousand dollars.”

Norman expelled breath again in a signal of disgust. “Make sure the church cashes Humberto’s check first.”

I took another teensy sip of beer, to appear companionable. “Now you’ve got me scared. Did he steal something from you?”

Norman looked away and sucked in his cheeks. At length he said, “A long time ago, he stole my family’s entire life savings. In today’s market? Worth about ten million dollars. Maybe more.”

I choked. “Ten million dollars?”

“Give or take.”

“How in the world did he do that?” I asked, then took a big bite of enchilada.

Norman walked away without warning, and I thought he was done talking to me. But he was only checking on the other drinkers. A couple needed refills, so after he’d tended to them, he walked back to me.

“How’re those enchiladas?”

“Unbelievable,” I replied truthfully. “I’m going to have to come back here. My husband works for the sheriff’s department. He and his pals love Mexican food.”

At the mention of the sheriff’s department, Norman’s face again grew gloomy. “What does your husband do at the department?”

“He . . . investigates serious crimes, like homicides.”

“I had a friend who used to work for the sheriff’s department.” Norman turned over a paper napkin wrapping cutlery. “My friend was killed a couple of days ago. I hope the department does a better job investigating his death than it did looking into the theft of my family’s savings.”

I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. I really could not spend more time talking to Norman, at least not now. Norman, for his part, asked, “How does one get tickets to this dinner?”

“You, uh, call the church. But I already have the menu set and most of the food made—”

“We will bring food. You like the enchiladas? Isabella and I will bring a pan of them.”

“That’s very nice, but—” I looked around desperately, trying to think. I didn’t want Norman Juarez to pay two thousand dollars to come to a church dinner where he might get into a fight with Humberto Captain. Plus, we already had too many guests at this dinner. Maybe some people would cancel. One could hope. How had I gotten myself into this situation? And of course I could hear Tom’s voice in my ear: You’re always getting yourself into these situations.

“You need to go?” Norman asked. “You want me to wrap up your food?”

“I do need to take off,” I said. “I’m sorry, I can’t take the leftovers. If you come tonight, though, I’ll get to taste more enchiladas. But, please . . .”

“Don’t stab Humberto with one of your kitchen knives?” He gave me a wry smile. “I won’t.”

I didn’t drink any more beer. I thanked Norman and asked him to tell his wife she was a superb cook. Then I paid my tab and left a huge tip.

On the way back up the mountain, I reflected on my conversation with Norman Juarez. That poor guy. He’d worked his way to running his own business after losing a family fortune worth ten million dollars? I wondered how long ago he’d hired Ernest, how much Ernest had found out, and in particular, what it was that Ernest said he had recovered. Part of that ten mil, or did Norman even know?

Presumably, the cops had asked Norman these questions. From my perspective, the theft of his family’s gold and jewels, plus Humberto’s apparent desperation to find out how much Ernest had discovered about him, made Norman a good person to know about. Maybe at some point he’d tell me more about his loss. And despite Norman’s assurances, I was still worried that he and Humberto might get into a fight at the party that night.

As my van strained up the interstate, I tried once more to go back to the question of when all this mess had started.

Okay, there was the fact that someone may have been peeping in the windows of Yolanda’s rental. Then the house had burned down, and not by accident. The presence of the oil can and accelerant at the scene pointed conclusively to arson.

Yolanda had told me that the owner was Donna Lamar. Had the police talked to her since Ernest’s house had burned down? I wondered.

The van crunched through ice as I pulled onto the interstate’s shoulder. I called Information again, got Donna’s number, and punched buttons.

“This is Donna Lamar, owner of Mountain Rents,” her recorded voice announced. Honestly, did anyone answer their own phone anymore? “I’m with a client now, but if you care to leave a message, you may. Or you can come visit me at my beautiful new office, suite two hundred in the Captain’s Quarters.”

“This is Goldy Schulz,” I said in as authoritative a tone as I could muster. “I absolutely must know about a rental as soon as possible.” I gave my cell number, hung up, and hoped that would do the trick.

I stared at the phone. The Captain’s Quarters? Holy cow. I remembered when Donna—a renowned cheapskate who was also, for better or worse, the Saint Luke’s treasurer—had operated a tiny storefront, Mountain Rents, on Main Street, above Frank’s Fix-It. I’d just learned from Yolanda that Donna actually owned many of the houses she rented. And now, in an economic downturn no less, Donna was operating out of the swankiest new office building in Aspen Meadow? What was with that?

Determined to find out, I pulled the van from the shoulder back to the highway. Ten minutes later, I was signaling to turn into the parking lot of the Captain’s Quarters, a stunning stucco and red tile–roofed office building that overlooked manmade fishing ponds. Beyond was a sweeping vista of Flicker Ridge. The Captain’s Quarters was gorgeous, and leasing an office in there must have been mega-expensive. Even with one of Donna’s properties burning to the ground, dealings in rentals must have been great.

I hopped out of my van and took a deep breath. The melting snow gave the chilled air a bracing scent. Still, I wanted summer back. This was September, for crying out loud, not January. I blinked up at the Captain’s Quarters. No expense had been spared on roof tiles and copper trim. I’d never been inside and was curious to see it. Back when business was booming all over Aspen Meadow, I had occasionally catered breakfasts and lunches for law firms and stockbrokerage businesses. But most of the stockbrokerages had gone under. The few remaining law firms had cut their staffs in half, and all catered meals had been canceled for the foreseeable future.

Donna Lamar, though, well . . . who knew what was going on with her? There was only one car in the lot, a late-model silver Saab station wagon with the license plate MTN RT. It looked as if Donna—who’d always used that vanity plate—had traded in her muffler-dragging, once-red Saab station wagon so in need of paint it looked like a used pencil eraser, for a new one, with no muffler in sight. She was parked in front of an oversize sign: CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS—PREMIER OFFICE SPACE TO LEASE. Under that was DEVELOPED BY HUMBERTO CAPTAIN.

Well, well. In addition to his import-export business, Humberto Captain was dabbling in real estate. I wondered how many of the offices he’d leased. With only one car in the lot and the economy in the tank, I doubted he’d leased many.

As I put the cake, thermos, and paperware into my all-purpose catering tote, I wondered if Donna would spill any details of her office-rental arrangement to me. I took the inside steps two at a time. At the top, I bumped into none other than Donna Lamar.

I blinked. In her late thirties, Donna had a very attractive face that I’d seen impeccably made up, as it was today, only at Saint Luke’s and at parties. Gone were the jeans and sweatshirt. Now she wore a beautifully cut chocolate-brown business suit. Instead of sneakers, she had on heels that were so high I would have fallen over putting them on. Her thick, puffy blond hair, instead of being pulled back in a raggedy bun, was cut attractively and curled in layers to the tops of her shoulders. Her skirt was short and not what I would have called businesslike. Still, I’m sure it helped when her business was with males. She was leaving her office in a hurry and was fumbling with a bunch of keys.

“Gosh, sorry,” I said. “I was just coming to see you. I called?”

She narrowed her eyes at me in confusion, then clanked her keys. “I’m sorry, I’m just not remembering a call from you, Goldy.”

“Well, I did,” I said with exaggerated patience. “It’s important. A business matter.”

I held out my hand, and she shook it limply. Then she eyed me up and down, which gave me the chance to do the same to her. I was again struck by how spiffy she looked. New clothes, new car, new digs. As with Charlene Newgate, I wondered, Where is all this sudden wealth coming from? She was probably wondering, What kind of business matter could Goldy the caterer want to discuss?

She still regarded me with puzzlement. “Did my assistant set up an appointment for you?” she asked. “She’s new, and she doesn’t quite understand my business.” Donna looked longingly down the steps, as if they could pull her away from me.

“I called because I want to talk to you about a rental.” I assumed an anxious look. “I’m pretty desperate.”

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go into my office.”

“Did you not realize I was coming?”

“No, I didn’t.” She put a hand on my arm, and I noticed beautifully manicured, scarlet-painted nails. “Wait. Goldy. Okay, we can discuss a business matter, if you want, but don’t you sometimes get involved in solving crimes?”

“Actually, yes—”

“I wish you could help me solve one particular kind of crime,” she said fiercely.

“Do tell,” I said, a mite too eagerly.

She ignored this, let go of me, and headed to her desk, where she slapped her brown leather purse onto a stack of papers. She put her hands on her hips, again lost in thought.

I didn’t want to step into whatever stream Donna’s consciousness ran in, so I looked around. The office was sparsely decorated, but on one wall was a letter framed with a photograph and a newspaper article. I inched over to the wall, to see what Donna had found suitable to hang. It was a thank-you note from a local elementary school, in gratitude for Donna coming in to talk about businesses run by women. The students surrounding Donna had given bored looks to the camera, but Donna herself was beaming. A Mountain Journal article accompanied the letter and photograph. The title screamed, LOCAL AGENT/OWNER SUCCESS! There was no byline, and the laudatory paragraphs sounded suspiciously as if they had been written by Donna herself.

I moved some brochures from an uncomfortable-looking side chair and sat down. “Donna, you really are an achiever. I’m so impressed with how well you’re doing!”

“Yes.” Her smile was frigid.

“So, do you want to talk about a certain kind of criminal activity?”

She assessed me. “Did you say you were looking for a rental?”

“I am looking for a rental,” I lied. “That’s why I’m here. I just thought, since you mentioned it, if you needed me to help you with something, I mean, like something with a property, a problem that might hurt your reputation as a female entrepreneur—”

Donna Lamar took a seat and flipped her blond hair off her shoulders. “Do you have an area or price range in mind?”

I cleared my throat. “I have two women staying with me. They need a place. We can’t go on, all in the same house together, much longer,” I said ruefully, wondering if the pity angle would work where the flattery one hadn’t. “It’s just too much for all of us in one place.”

“Price range? Location?”

“In Aspen Meadow,” I replied thoughtfully. “It needs to be inexpensive, and it needs to be all on one story, because one of the women is in a wheelchair.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Donna Lamar. She shook her head and gazed at the ceiling. “As if I didn’t have enough problems. Don’t tell me it’s those two Cuban women.”

“Hmm.” As she glared at me, I said quietly, “Discriminating against potential renters based on their ethnic background is against the law. Not to mention that Father Pete wouldn’t approve.”

She tucked in her chin. Her shadowed eyes widened. “I don’t care about ethnic whatever! Father Pete can think whatever he wants. That crazy old woman drove me nuts! She was always going on about how she was in Castro’s army. You’d think she single-handedly turned that island into a haven for commies. Plus, if Cuba was so wonderful, why didn’t she stay there? I ask you.”

“I think you’d have to ask her.”

This time, Donna hunkered down under her blond hair, as if it were a hood. She said, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, I’m gently reminding you that you can’t refuse to rent to people just because they’re Cuban-Americans.”

Donna enunciated each word carefully. “I. Am. Not. A. Racist. I don’t care if they’re from Mars. The last rental of mine they lived in burned to the ground. Correction: Somebody burned it to the ground, and dropped a Cuban oil can nearby.”

“But,” I replied thoughtfully, “the police didn’t blame the women for the arson, right? I mean, that’s what the women told me. Have you . . . had any other rentals burned by arson?”

“Of course I haven’t.” A piqued, lost expression washed over her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any one-story houses available.”

“Donna, please.” I knew that expression: It was the way a hungry person looked. “Let’s start over.” I reached into my bag and brought out the coffee cake, which I placed in front of her. It looked rich, buttery, and oh-so-inviting under its glistening plastic wrap. “This is a recipe I’m testing. You seem extremely hassled, and I’ll bet you haven’t had lunch.”

She slumped back in her chair. The combative lioness became a kitten I’d just pulled out of the lake. She placed each of her hands on her cheeks and stared at my offering.

“Donna,” I said softly, “would you like some espresso and cream? I brought a thermos—”

“Well, actually, could you make me some . . . instant cocoa?” Her voice was meek as she continued to stare at the cake.

“Absolutely,” I replied, although I never used the word instant in the same breath as cocoa. Be that as it may, Donna needed comfort and sustenance, stat. Plus, my curiosity was aroused. She’d gone from a ramshackle storefront to a plush office—leased to her by a Cuban-American, but I hadn’t pointed that out—and the place even included a kitchen. Instead of traipsing around in jeans and sweats, she now had the air and the car of a high-priced defense lawyer. All this transformation had taken place since the last time I’d seen her. Yet, as was usually the case, money hadn’t bought happiness. In fact, something was making her miserable. I was hoping I could discover what.

In the kitchen, I found a small pot, filled it with water, and turned on what looked like a brand-new, unused stove top. I discovered paper cups, paper plates, and packets of instant cocoa, freeze-dried marshmallows conveniently included. Her office fridge didn’t smell too good, so while the water heated, I decided to help Donna out, with the hope that she would do the same for me. You could be an Episcopalian and believe in karma, especially given our proximity to Boulder.

I discovered random packages of fur-bearing cheese and moldy crackers, along with two boxes of leftovers bearing stickers from expensive Denver restaurants. The crackers and leftovers I dumped. I removed the cheese, then scrubbed the refrigerator’s small interior with wet paper towels and disinfectant. I washed my hands, trimmed up what turned out to be a chunk of cheddar, and placed a good-sized wedge on a plate. I stirred the boiling water into the powdered hot chocolate for Donna and put out two paper plates. I wanted to share a bit of cake with Donna and be sociable, even though I’d just plowed through two beers and most of a plate of enchiladas trying to do the same thing with Norman Juarez.

Back in her office, Donna was still staring at the cake. I began to wonder if she needed medical attention.

“Donna? Are you all right?” I asked softly. When she didn’t reply, I unwrapped the cake and sliced an enormous piece for her plate. I placed her makeshift meal in front of her, along with the steaming cocoa, its tiny marshmallows bobbing about merrily. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Startled out of her reverie, she nodded thanks, then sipped the cocoa and nibbled the cheese. She forked up a hunk of coffee cake, and as is often the case when one is sugar deprived and stressed out, the carbohydrates provided a jolt. “Thank you,” she said. “This is good.” Tears actually filled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to answer calls all morning, and I haven’t—”

“Hey, I’m the caterer, remember? No excuses needed.” I sliced myself a small piece of cake, then sat down and took a bite. The guava gave the cake a pop that I would have enjoyed even more had I some decent coffee—but wait, I did. I pulled out my Thermos, poured myself a cup, and sipped.

As we ate, I sent as many smiles Donna’s way as I could. I remembered what my father had told me, back when I was young, feisty, and driving my teachers crazy by talking back. Good old Dad had said, “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” Being vinegary by nature, I took considerable time to learn the lesson, if I ever had. But when I remembered Dad’s advice, I tried.

“You know what?” I said kindly. “We really don’t have to find a rental for Ferdinanda and Yolanda today. With the sudden storm, you must have tenants calling every two minutes.” Actually, the phone had not rung since I’d been there, but never mind. And where was the assistant? Maybe driving around looking for takeout. “Tenants are probably driving you nuts,” I babbled on, “because they can’t find snowblowers, or snow shovels, or they don’t have heat. Over a foot of white stuff in September has discombobulated everyone, me included. Isn’t it bizarre?”

“Yes, it is.” She sipped her cocoa and gave me a wary look. “But it’s not my tenants who are driving me crazy.”

“Um,” I said thoughtfully, “not your tenants?”

“No, it’s the people who aren’t my clients who are doing that.”

“You know what?” I said, leaning forward in what I hoped was conspiratorial confidence. “Six people just got added to the dinner I’m catering tonight. And there might even be two more. None of these people were regular clients, either, but—”

“I mean”—she interrupted me—“I like sex as much as the next person, but why do you have to ruin somebody’s business because you won’t go to a hotel?”

“Has the economy gotten that bad?” I asked. “I thought they had nooner rates down in Golden—”

“Oh, these people have money,” she said conspiratorially, taking another bite of cake.

“The nerve!” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I sure wanted to find out. When she continued to eat cake, I asked hopefully, “Why would anyone ruin a business because someone refused to go to a hotel?”

“I know how they do it, too,” she said without explaining the ruining-business part. She put down her fork and pointed a scarlet-painted nail at the ceiling. “One of them poses as a potential client. They ask for the cheapest rental houses available in the mountain area. Then they get my assistant to let them into the property, and then he or she says they’re not interested. My assistant even thinks they’re using disguises now.”

“You’ve never seen these people?”

“No. I usually just show the high-end homes.”

“Can your assistant describe the—”

“No. Believe me, I’ve tried to get her to tell me what they look like. But she needs new glasses, and she says I’m not paying her enough so that she can get them. When I say, ‘Well, then, how can you drive?’ she says she probably shouldn’t be driving, but anyway, she says these people are sort of young, sort of thin. As if that’s going to help me.” Donna shook her head and stopped talking.

“I promise you,” I said, “if my friends rent from you? They will be as pure as the driven—”

“I have to catch these two,” Donna said, interrupting me again.

“These two . . . ?”

“That’s the only way. I’ve offered rewards to the neighbors of every single one of my unsecured listings. I mean, if the neighbors call me in time so I can catch the squatters.”

“What are unsecured listings?”

But she lapsed back into her reverie. Eventually, she uncurled herself from wherever her mind had taken her. She looked at me as if she were again trying to remember who I was. When she did, she took another bite of cake and nodded her approval. “If I tell you about this, you can’t tell the Mountain Journal.”

“I wouldn’t tell the paper. But it sounds as if you can’t tell the paper either, because you don’t know who these two are.”

“No, I don’t.” She drained her hot chocolate and clapped the cup on the desktop. “But I do know when they sneak into my rentals and have sex. Sometimes I don’t know right away, but I know, because they don’t clean up after themselves. It’s part of their, what do you call it, their MO.”

I said, “Donna, breaking and entering is against the law. What did you mean by unsecured listings? Don’t your rentals have security systems?”

“Only high-end homes have security systems. This couple prefers cozy little cottages, preferably deep in the woods. They break a window, open the back door, and let themselves in. They bring along their food and wine, and one time, two sleeping bags that could be zipped together. How cozy. I wanted to get the bags tested for DNA, but the cops wouldn’t do it. They said it was too expensive and sleeping bags that I had handled would not be evidence of a crime. Then I wanted to have the genetic testing done on my own. But when I heard how much it cost, I didn’t.”

I thought about the couple who’d showed up at my door the other day, along with their real estate agent. Had they been casing Jack’s place? It wasn’t a rental. Then again, it didn’t have a security system.

I said stubbornly, “You really should talk to the police again about the break-ins. If you have sleeping bags, they might be able to trace back—”

She waved this away. “I just wanted them to do DNA testing. I don’t want the breaking-and-entering part to get out. You know how the sheriff’s calls always appear in the Mountain Journal. If I tell the cops I have squatters balling away in my rentals, then everyone will want to do it. And nobody, but nobody, wants to rent a place where squatters have broken a window and left wine bottles, plastic wineglasses, cracker crumbs, and cheese wrappers. Those things attract rodents. Nobody is going to rent a place where there are rodent droppings, and my assistant and I can’t check every single listing every day to make sure they’re clean.” Donna shivered. “The whole thing is disgusting.”

“You could hire a private detective.”

She shook her head again. “Actually, a nice investigator did come to see me. He had a client who was trying to track down a couple having an affair. His client thought the adulterers might be meeting in vacant rentals.” She took a bite of cheese. “But last night, on the news? I heard the guy died. So I have no idea if he discovered them.”

I felt as if I’d been slapped. “The detective? It was Ernest McLeod?”

“You knew him?”

“I did.” I omitted the part about Yolanda and Ferdinanda living with him, fearing she might jump to conclusions. “Do you . . . know who his client was? The one trying to track down the people having the affair?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.” She rubbed her hands together and stood up. “Thanks for the cake. My assistant is showing a couple of properties and was supposed to bring back sandwiches, but who knows where she is now. Anyway, I was just going off to one of my listings, a small A-frame, when you showed up. A neighbor reported seeing a strange car there, so I was going to check. Whoever it is, they’re probably gone now.”

I stood up, too, but was reluctant to leave. “Why don’t you let me do it? Ernest McLeod was a friend of mine, and I’d like to help you catch these people. Also, if you have some old cheese wrappers and plastic glasses they left, I might be able to figure something out. I am a food person.”

She pointed one of those red-painted nails at me. “I don’t want this in the paper.”

“I won’t call the paper,” I promised.

“You’d better not.” She stared at me.

What was with this woman? I wanted to ask her if she’d seen a stocky bald guy. I wanted to know what her relationship to Humberto was, if he gave her the office rent-free, if he had access to her rentals, and if he paid her to have that access. But Donna was both suspicious and hard to keep on track. Even though I was frustrated, I didn’t want her to become distracted again.

“Um, Donna? If I have a list of your unsecured rentals, I might be able to do a better search.”

She rifled through the papers on her desk and came up with a single sheet. “Ten listings without security systems.”

When I asked, “Which one had the neighbor who called you?” Donna leaned down and put a red check mark next to one address. I said, “Did she get a description of the car, or a license plate, maybe?”

“All this neighbor saw was a dark SUV in the driveway. I’m telling you, all this couple likes is cabins far from everything. Wait here a sec.” She went to a closet and pulled out a bag. “I don’t know why I kept this stuff, but I did. There are two sleeping bags in there, plus plastic glasses, some cheese wrappers, and an empty box of crackers. You ask me, these people are pigs.”

I opened the sack and immediately closed it. Like in the refrigerator, the scent of moldy food was overpowering. I stood up to wrap the cake. “Would you like the rest of this?”

“I’d love it, but I think it would just sit in my refrigerator, where I already have a bunch of old stuff. A cleaning crew was supposed to come through, but they didn’t. One more thing I have to deal with.”

An assistant. A cleaning crew. A gorgeous new office. “Oh,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me. “Humberto Captain built this office space? It’s gorgeous. I know Humberto,” I added.

Suspicion flared in her eyes. “Yes, he built this beautiful building. You see, I’m not prejudiced against Cuban-Americans.”

“This place is really top-notch. I used to cater in offices like this.”

She lifted her chin in defiance. “Well, he gave me a really good rate, so that somebody would be in here, you know, occupying the place.”

How could I ask her if he had access to all her files and keys without her clamming up? How could I find out if Humberto was the one who’d been looking in Yolanda’s rental windows? Was it possible that anyone besides Tom suspected that Humberto might have burned down Yolanda’s rental so that she would have to make other arrangements, like living with a private investigator who was getting close to discovering the gold and gems Humberto insisted he’d never stolen?

“Well, if you’re going out to that cabin, I guess I’d better make some calls,” Donna said. She gave me a solicitous look. “Actually, I’m thankful you’re doing this.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” I put the rest of the wrapped cake, my thermos, and the list of unsecured rentals into my tote and tried to think of a way to take advantage of Donna’s sudden gratitude. “Is Humberto, does he show the offices that are available?”

“Goldy? You cannot put those two women into this office building. It’s against the law for people to live in an office building. And anyway, Humberto’s been great to me. Very generous. He would never agree to put them in here, and I would never ask.”

“You don’t understand,” I said patiently. “Humberto adores Yolanda and Ferdinanda. He came over first thing yesterday morning, when he heard they were living with me. He wanted to help.”

“Of course he did.”

“They told him they were fine. And, uh, Yolanda is making money, by helping me cater tonight.”

Donna shifted her weight to one foot and put her hand on her hip. Alas, the distrust was back. “I thought you were desperate to get these women out of your hair.”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. If any one-story rentals come up, I’d love to hear about them.” I hoisted up the plastic bag, then picked up my tote. “I don’t mean to delay you, but you know the party we’re catering tonight?”

“The fund-raising supper. Thank you for doing that, Saint Luke’s really needs the money.”

“Well,” I said, continuing blithely, “there are going to be some wealthy people at the dinner. Sometimes clients ask me questions, like ‘Do you know if there are any good deals on offices in town?’ And I thought, since Humberto will be at the Breckenridges’ place tonight, I could introduce him to—”

“I’ll be at the dinner tonight, so if anyone wants to know about office space at the Captain’s Quarters, I can introduce them to Humberto.” Donna moved around her desk to give me the bum’s rush out of her office.

I stood my ground. “Does Humberto himself show the offices? I mean, what if someone wants to lease an office right away? Does he have keys to all the offices?”

Donna clip-clopped to the door. “Yes, he has keys, yes, he shows the offices. He’s got big offices and little offices in this building. I do appreciate your going out to help me with the people breaking into the rentals.”

“Don’t worry, if I find out anything, I’ll call you. Maybe I’ll even figure out who your squatters are.”

She didn’t offer a reward, but she did open the door for me. I smiled as I left, as if we were old pals and I really would call her if I figured anything out.

Which, of course, I had no intention of doing.