Crunch Time

21

While Boyd, Ferdinanda, and Yolanda spoke in low murmurs in the dining room, I set about doing the dishes. This is always a caterer’s least favorite task. In fact, the one good thing about going to Humberto’s house for dinner was that there wouldn’t be any cleanup.

Once every dish and pan was clean, an inner anxiety told me I had to cook. I didn’t have the time to start on the soup for the Bertrams’ party. Ferdinanda wouldn’t be in the mood to give me her recipe for the luscious pork we’d had the night before. But I did peer into the walk-in and saw that Ferdinanda had replaced the meat she’d used with sliced grilled pork and pork tenderloin. Mmm. I could put together a marinade for an old standby of mine, Snowboarders’ Pork Tenderloin. I’d marinate two, one for Boyd and Yolanda to have that night, and one to take to the Bertrams’ house the next night, Thursday, when SallyAnn Bertram had said we’d be cooking out to commemorate Ernest’s life.

Which reminded me! I put in a call to Penny Woolworth’s cell. Once connected to voice mail, I gave the address of the Bertrams’ house and told her about the dinner. Could she please clean the Bertrams’ place when she finished at Kris’s? I’d give her double her usual rate, I promised sweetly, before hanging up.

I gratefully went back to cooking. First I pulled out a pan and mixed together red wine, garlic, Dijon mustard, and herbs for the pork. As I reflected on all that had happened, I whisked in olive oil to make an emulsion. I eased the tenderloins into the silky mixture, turned them over to coat them thoroughly, and covered the whole dish with plastic wrap.

Once I’d placed the meat in the walk-in, I tiptoed up the steps to Arch’s room, where I booted up his computer and reopened the file I’d begun. I stared at the questions I’d asked myself back then. The messy divorce, I now knew, belonged to the Breckenridges. At this point it didn’t look as if Ernest had been following Brie Quarles, as I’d originally heard; he’d been following Sean Breckenridge. I changed that, but it seemed minor.

Ernest McLeod had had cancer and had been self-medicating with marijuana. Yolanda had been cooking meals for him before she and Ferdinanda moved in full-time. He’d decided to leave his house to her in his will.

The night before he was shot, he’d brought home nine puppies. The next morning, he’d told Ferdinanda, she of the encroaching deafness, that if anything happened to him, she should ask “the bird.” Right. Then he’d left his house on foot for an appointment that had been faked. He’d sensed—according to the department’s theory, which put the time of death at about a half hour to an hour after he left his house—that he was being followed and turned down a little-used service lane. When he’d thought he was in the clear, he’d come out, walked back toward the paved road, and been shot in the chest by someone using the same weapon that had been employed to kill a service-station attendant two years before.

The next night, his house had been burned down by Stonewall Osgoode.

The night after that, Stonewall Osgoode had stolen Tom’s gun and tried to break into our house before he was foiled by Arch.

Why would Osgoode steal Tom’s gun? I mean, presumably he had his own weapons. Maybe he’d cased the garage, found the hidden compartment with the .45, and then taken it so that we couldn’t use it on him when he broke into our place. Or perhaps he’d figured he’d use it to commit some other crime. I had no idea.

Two days after the incident with the weeder, someone had held what was probably the same gun that had killed the gas station attendant and Ernest McLeod, and killed Stonewall Osgoode.

I sighed.

From Lolly Vanderpool, I’d found out about the necklace belonging to Norman Juarez’s mother, that Humberto had indeed had it and Ernest had stolen it back. Ernest had called Norman with the exciting news that he’d found something belonging to his family. But he’d been killed before he could give it to Norman. I had no idea who was in possession of the necklace now. But there was a much bigger problem than larceny: the first-degree murder of Ernest McLeod.

I was suddenly glad that Tom was accompanying me to Humberto’s. Like Tom, I didn’t trust him, no matter how glossy and smooth-talking he appeared.

I also knew what Ernest had been doing for the person Yolanda had known only as Hermie. Hermie Mikulski had been trying to close a puppy mill. I typed that up and added that I suspected I knew why Ernest had stolen nine spayed female puppies from Osgoode. Ernest must have come across the smuggling-seeds-in-puppies operation. He’d decided to steal some back. Because their chow was next to Ernest’s own medical marijuana, I was convinced that he was trying to send a clue, in case something happened to him and his files.

I sat back in Arch’s chair. Had Ernest run afoul of some surveillance equipment out at Stonewall Osgoode’s place? Had Stonewall then found Ernest, killed him, and burned down his house to destroy the puppies, the files, and any other evidence that could incriminate him?

If so, then who had killed Stonewall Osgoode?

I blinked at the screen. Back to the larceny. I still hadn’t found Norman Juarez’s gold and gems, but given what Lolly had told me, I was convinced now that Humberto had indeed stolen them. Problem was, I didn’t feel anywhere close to finding a big cache of anything. Tonight, Lolly was going to photocopy—surreptitiously, I certainly hoped—the contents of Humberto’s wallet. Finding something usable in there seemed like a long shot.

Would I be able to do some surreptitious questioning of Humberto that night? Or would Tom want to have that honor himself, when he talked to Humberto about Osgoode?

I put these thoughts aside while I stared at the screen. There was Kris Nielsen, still a cipher. According to Yolanda, he had been obsessed with her. And of course, I had witnessed his repeatedly calling her out at Gold Gulch Spa. Had it been love, as Penny Woolworth insisted, or had it been stalking? Of course, when I’d been working at the spa, Yolanda had not told me about the venereal disease, the attack with the broom handle, or the strange events at the rental, before it was burned to the ground.

Did the disease, the attack, and the strange events at the rental house really happen? Much as I loved Yolanda, if I couldn’t corroborate those facts, then I couldn’t verify them. And what about at the ethnic grocery store, when Yolanda had reacted in such an overwrought way when Father Pete had absentmindedly bumped into her? I shook my head.

Humberto had brought champagne to the dinner. Any caterer worth her chef’s whites knew you had to put a dish towel over a bottle of sparkling wine before you opened it. This was especially true if the wine—in this case, champagne—had been shaken or in any way disturbed. Had an unknown person sabotaged the metal ring holding pots, pans, and dish towels? I’d found a wrench out in the Breckenridges’ grass. If someone knew what they were doing, it would have been easy to loosen the bolt from which the ring had been suspended.

According to Sean Breckenridge, an unknown guest had requested Navajo tacos to be served at the dinner. Making them, Yolanda had been severely burned by boiling oil. Afterward, Kris said she should have been more careful. But was I reading too much into that? Who could have known that Yolanda would be the one making the fry bread? Had I been the target and not Yolanda?

So, really, anyone connected to this case—Sean or Rorry Breckenridge, Kris Nielsen, Brie or Paul Quarles, even Humberto Captain—could have unscrewed the bolts on the frying pan handle and the overhead pot rack.

What had happened to the couple with a family who supposedly bought Jack’s house, and wanted to meet me? Had the deal fallen through? Why had Kris bought the house across the street from us? I’d seen him today on Main Street. Harriet had been getting out of his Maserati. I tried to picture that section of the two-lane road that bisected our little town. Why had he been leaving her off there? Had she been withdrawing money from the bank?

I typed up what I knew about Charlene Newgate, who ran a temporary secretarial service in Aspen Meadow. She was an older, unattractive woman with a shrill voice and a resentful, angry personality. Yet she’d snagged a new boyfriend, Stonewall Osgoode, who had showered her with wealth. Was I being cynical in wondering what Stonewall had received from Charlene, in exchange for his attentions? Had Charlene made up the dental appointment for Ernest? It was entirely possible, I reasoned. Then she’d told Stonewall, who had killed Ernest.

I wondered if Tom would be better at getting information out of Charlene than I had been. Even if you wanted to see a lawyer before you said anything, having your nose broken by your boyfriend was a powerful incentive to talk.

My cell startled me out of concentration. It was Arch.

“We’re all taking a pizza to Peter’s tonight after practice.” He was out of breath. “Is that okay?”

I smiled at the reverse order of this announcement. What ever happened to asking for permission, then doing the activity? “Do you have homework?”

“Not much, and I got most of it done in study hall. I can finish it at Peter’s. Mom, I gotta go run up and down the stairs. That’s what the coach is having us do now to get into shape.”

“All right. Have fun at Peter’s. Tom, Ferdinanda, and I will be out tonight, but Boyd and Yolanda will be here. Please call them before you pull into the driveway. I want Boyd to make sure you get into the house okay.”

“Oh, Mom.”

We signed off. I saved what I had written and closed down his computer. I had no idea who had killed Stonewall Osgoode, much less what the motivation had been. But Tom’s gun had not been found at Stonewall’s house, and we had no idea why Stonewall had been trying to break into our house. Call me overprotective, but I didn’t want any member of our family, or any of our boarders, to be going into or out of the house without someone watching over them.

Incredibly, my watch said it was half past three. I still felt shaken by the events of the morning, and my work in the kitchen and typing on Arch’s desktop had not alleviated my sense of unease. I had to get dressed for the dinner. But I needed to do something. What? I realized I wanted to visit our church. Hopefully, that would help me feel more in control.

I quickly put on a black dress, flats, and a blazer. Downstairs, Boyd was sitting in the living room tapping out a text.

I said, “Do you know if the sheriff’s department has brought my van back?”

By way of answer, he held up my key ring. “Out front.”

“Could you walk out with me when I get into it? The morning left me a little freaked.”

“I thought you were going out tonight with Tom.”

“Not to worry. I’ll be back by quarter after five.”

Boyd pocketed his cell and accompanied me through our front door. Together we went down Ferdinanda’s ramp.

I took a deep breath. During late-September afternoons in Aspen Meadow, insects whisper in the browned stalks of field grass, even when chunks of snow stud the ground. A sudden breeze thrashed the pines, shushing the bugs’ chorus. The evening would be cool, verging into downright chilly. But at this moment, as I walked beside Boyd along our damp driveway, the deepening-to-cobalt sky, soft wind, and sinking golden sun made me feel a bit better. But not much.

Boyd helped me into my van. Across the street, the movers had left. The Maserati was not in evidence.

I turned the van around and headed toward Main Street. I had a call to make that I did not want Boyd even to have a chance of hearing. I punched the buttons for Penny Woolworth’s cell and left a message on her voice mail. She’d promised to let me into Kris Nielsen’s big fancy house while she was cleaning it the next day, I said. Did she remember? I’d also left her a message asking if she would clean up the Bertrams’ house. Did she receive the message? I hated to make Penny work so hard, but with her car-thieving husband about to get out of jail, she could surely use the extra cash.

The Saint Luke’s parking lot held three cars: Father Pete’s old Ford, a black Saab that looked familiar, and a blue Lexus that I also thought I’d seen before—and recently, too. I checked my watch again: a quarter after four. These weren’t enough cars for a meeting. Then I remembered that Father Pete had said he had a counseling session late this afternoon.

Well, I was not Marla and I was not about to barge into our rector’s office and say, “Who’ve you got here that needs to talk?” Yes, I needed counseling and comfort, too. But if Father Pete was busy, there was something else I could do.

A vision of the rumpled tarp flung over Stonewall Osgoode’s body made my throat close. I walked quickly through the narthex and down the darkened nave, then knelt at the intercession table. After a brief hesitation, I lit two candles: one for Ernest McLeod, who’d done much good in the world.

The other was for Stonewall Osgoode, who probably hadn’t.

The sound of voices and the door to the rector’s office closing made my skin chill. I held perfectly still and willed myself to be unseen. I really did not want to chat with any parishioners at the moment. It could be embarrassing to them to be seen leaving a counseling appointment. I breathed slowly, deeply. There was no reason for anyone to look into the darkened church, was there? As the voices and footsteps down the uncarpeted hallway receded, I ducked into the opposite hall, which ran parallel to the nave. The closed doors to the Sunday school rooms made the narrow space dark. But after years of teaching the Bible to kids, I knew my way. I took off my flats and scurried forward in my stocking feet, stopping just before the opening to the narthex.

The heavy wooden church door squeaked as it opened. Father Pete bade a muffled farewell. I listened carefully. Both a man and a woman responded. Wait a minute. I knew those voices. Why were the two of them being counseled—together? I shook my head. Hurry up, Father Pete, hurry up, I commanded silently, and finally the door squealed closed. Once I heard Father Pete shuffling back down the opposite hallway, I raced into the narthex and peeked through the barred window in the wooden door.

Sean Breckenridge was trying to embrace Brie Quarles. She pushed him away. When he tried again to hug her, she shoved him hard. I eased the wooden door slightly open, less than an inch. I prayed that I would not get to the point where the hinge needed oil.

“Leave me alone!” Brie squealed. “You promised me! You lied!”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t,” Sean pleaded. “I said we would get married. I just didn’t know I wouldn’t get any money at all from her. I never dreamed she’d stick to that crazy prenup.”

“You are a liar. When I think of all I’ve done for you,” Brie said bitterly, “it just makes me ill. You said you didn’t love her anymore. You said we’d have a wonderful life, that neither of us would have to work, that we would be able to jet all over the world. When I think of everything you said to me, I want to slap you.” Brie paused. “I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she announced loudly. “We’re done.”

“Brie—”

“Tony Ramos has money!” Brie’s tone was cruel. “A national sporting goods company paid him a couple mil for the Pitch Bitch. He told me he’s only continuing to teach because he likes to help kids with sports. He hates his wife and can’t wait to dump her. Tony’s a real man who would be able to take care of me. Unlike you.”

“Brie, sweetheart,” Sean pleaded. “How can you be so cruel? You’re a lawyer. I thought you would want to work. Please don’t go. We’re soul mates. We were meant to be together.”

“We were never meant to be anything!” Brie shot back. “No, wait. You were meant to be an accountant, and good luck with that after all these years of not keeping up with tax law.”

“Brie, honey—”

“Watch me, Sean,” Brie interrupted. I blinked and kept my eyes trained on her as she fumbled with something on her wrist. “See this antique bracelet you said you bought for me?” she cried. “I know you stole it from her. The initials RB are engraved inside the band. That’s Rorry Boudreaux, in case you’re too stupid to remember your wife’s maiden name.”

I remembered Rorry cursing when she opened a bureau drawer, looking for something—presumably cash for Yolanda that she perhaps kept with her jewels? Rorry had said, Oh, damn him, before stalking into the closet, where, I guessed, she kept a safe to which Sean did not have access. While she was searching in the drawer, though, I was willing to bet a batch of cream puffs that she’d discovered Sean had taken the bracelet.

“Watch me, Sean!” Brie shouted, grabbing my attention again. “One of the diamonds came out when I fell running away from that cabin. So now all that’s left is a very sharp setting.” Brie held her wrist with the bracelet to the top of her opposite arm, then dragged it down to her elbow.

Blood spurted out of the scratch. Sean keeled forward, passing out on the gravel of the church parking lot. Ignoring him, Brie took off the bracelet and dropped it on his back. Then she brushed the blood down her arm and got into the blue Lexus. The tires ground the gravel hard as she accelerated out of the parking lot.

I looked at Sean. He wasn’t moving. Should I call an ambulance, or go get Father Pete and ask if he has any ammonia salts? When he asks what happened, what should I tell him?

Oh, for crying out loud. God was punishing me for eavesdropping, to put me in such a quandary. I sighed, slipped my feet into my shoes, pushed through the heavy door, and sprinted to Sean’s side.

“Sean!” I said. Without ammonia salts, I resorted to shaking his shoulder. When he did not respond, I rolled him over. “Wake up, Sean.” I brushed caked gravel off his face and gently slapped his cheeks. When he still made no sign of reviving, I picked up the antique bracelet, put it into his jacket pocket, then lightly smacked his temples. “Wake up or I’ll call your wife!”

Finally, Sean blinked. “My— Who are you?”

“Goldy the caterer. You passed out.” His eyes lolled from side to side. His face was totally drained of color. Was he okay to drive? Should I call an ambulance? I put my hand on his shoulder. “Sean? I put the bracelet in your pocket. Do you want me to get—”

“Leave me alone.” He shoved my hand away. “You and your snooping. You’ve ruined my life. You and that—” He did not finish the thought.

“I and that what ruined your life? Fill in the blank for me, Sean.”

“Shut up.” Sean propped himself up on one elbow so that he was not facing me. He began to make an odd huffing noise. Oh, Lord, he was crying. He got to his feet, wobbled over to the Saab, started it up, and drove away.

You should have kept your pecker in your pocket, I thought as I raced to my van. When I turned the key in the ignition, Father Pete came lumbering out of the church. He caught sight of me and reared back, his expression one of puzzlement. I merely waved and spun my vehicle in a corona of gravel as I headed toward Main Street. At this point, I really didn’t have time to stay and visit.

But on the quick drive home, I did want to think. Was Ernest McLeod, the private investigator whom Rorry had hired, the other person who had ruined Sean’s life? Okay, Sean couldn’t stand the sight of blood. So presumably, he could not have raised a .38 and shot Ernest—not without fearing he’d pass out and be found along with Ernest’s body. But Sean could have hired someone to do the job. In fact, he could have paid Stonewall Osgoode, whose beagle puppies he had photographed, to do the job for him.

There was something else that confused me. Brie had said, When I think of all I’ve done for you . . . Apart from sex, what had Brie done for Sean?

Rorry Breckenridge’s usual routine was to avoid cooking. But on the day of the church party, Etta was gone, and Rorry had been in and out of the kitchen as much as anyone. Say our saboteur had not been aiming for Yolanda or me, as I had thought. If Rorry had been hit with the ring of pots, or had been burned by the hot oil, then what? Did Sean think he would inherit Rorry’s money if she died? Could Brie, a lawyer, have found out the terms of the previous will, which left millions to Sean, and then sabotaged Rorry’s kitchen in an attempt to get rid of her?

Could Brie have found out about Ernest’s investigation of Sean and killed him? Or perhaps she had hired Osgoode?

I had no idea how to find out. The sheriff’s department had no murder weapon yet. And the problem with contract killings was that I’d never heard of there being an actual contract, as in, on paper.

I called Boyd. He said Tom would be waiting on the porch for me, gun drawn. Very funny, I thought as my van’s engine groaned up our street.

Talking on the cell, then seeing Tom, arms crossed, on our front porch reminded me of something else. I had not heard back from Lolly Vanderpool. Oh Lord, I hoped nothing had gone wrong with our plan. Guiltily, belatedly, I realized the whole thing had probably been too dangerous in the first place. Still, Lolly had said she would be at Humberto’s dinner party that night. Tom would not be happy to find out that I hadn’t made contact with her.

And he wasn’t. “Will I see her tonight?” he asked as he opened the front door for me. “Will she be there?”

“Gosh, Tom. Let me at least talk to her before you start berating me about her, okay?” I looked him up and down. He wore khaki pants, a dark brown sweater, and a shirt and tie.

“Doesn’t he look handsome?” Ferdinanda crowed as she wheeled herself down the hallway. She had the covered quiche in her lap. “He’s been so sweet to me, too. The monsignor says I have to forgive, so I forgave him.”

“Only after I apologized profusely for asking you a few questions,” Tom reminded her.

Ferdinanda shook a crooked finger at Tom. “You don’t fool me for a minute. I’ve been interrogated by experts. And I’ve done some questioning myself, if you want to know the truth.”

To our great surprise, the doorbell rang.

“I didn’t hear anybody come up the steps,” Tom muttered. He held his hand out to keep any of us from going closer to the door. When he checked through the peephole, he said, “Jesus Christ.”

“So the Lord is here?” Ferdinanda asked gaily.

Tom’s look was so somber that I shivered. “It’s Kris Nielsen and a young woman. Boyd, why don’t you come with me? This may look like a social call, but I doubt it is. Yolanda, stay put. Ferdinanda? You too.”

Yolanda had her head in her hands. She had looked so happy, so at ease, when Boyd had had his arm around her. Now she looked as if, once again, she were falling apart.

“Hey, neighbor!” Kris called through the door. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“Get behind that makeshift curtain,” Boyd told Yolanda and Ferdinanda. He tucked his shirt in so that his service revolver was visible. “Tom, let’s go.”

“I’m coming out with you two,” I announced as Kris knocked again. “Two cops and one caterer?” I added to forestall their objections.

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I wish you would not.”

I shrugged. “I want to meet our new neighbor, in better circumstances than the last couple of times I’ve seen him.”

“Don’t goad him, Goldy,” Tom warned.

“Me?” I said innocently. “Never.”

Tom opened our front door just wide enough for the three of us to scoot through. When Kris tried to peer around Boyd into the house, Boyd paced forward aggressively, a get-out-of-my-space move. Kris backed up quickly and almost toppled off our porch. Harriet, surprised, merely stepped out of the way.

“I just wanted to talk to you about Harriet!” Kris said. He wore khakis and a long-sleeved orange and black rugby shirt. Harriet, as tall and statuesque as I remembered from the Breckenridges’, had on an ill-fitting navy flannel dress and tattered sneakers.

“Let’s take this parlay into the street,” Boyd said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

When we reached the middle of the road, Tom and Boyd stopped as if on cue. I halted quickly behind them, with a sudden mental image from West Side Story: The Sharks and the Jets were getting ready to rumble. Kris, also taken aback, grabbed Harriet’s hand and glanced at our front windows. I shook my head but did not say what I was thinking: You’re not going to make Yolanda jealous, Kris. It was then that I noticed out-of-place jewelry on Harriet. Despite her tatty clothing, she wore a thin diamond choker and dangling diamond earrings.

“So here we are,” Tom said, lifting his chin.

“I was hoping we could—” Kris said, but then stopped and squared his shoulders. “I wanted you to know I’m moving on. Letting bygones be bygones, you know? Life is too short.”

“Indeed,” Tom murmured. “So I want to warn you very gently not to harass my wife or her friends.”

Kris’s tone turned steely. “I bought this house”—with his free hand, he gestured at Jack’s place—“so Harriet can have a project—”

“Yes,” Harriet interrupted energetically, “I’m good with my hands. I work at—”

“And as long as you’re issuing warnings,” Kris said, interrupting right back and pulling Harriet closer while glaring at me, “here’s one for you, Goldy. Sean Breckenridge is very upset that you snooped around in his business.” He gave me a defiant smirk.

“His business?” I asked. “What business would that be?”

Tom cleared his throat and shook his head, one time. I knew better than to speak again. The five of us stood uneasily in the road for a few long moments, until finally Boyd said, “I’m going back in to check on Yolanda. Nice to meet you, Harriet.”

Harriet, perhaps cowed by Kris’s grip on her hand, merely looked down at the pavement and nodded.

Tom caught my eye and tilted his head toward our house. I sighed and followed Boyd back to our front door, with Tom right behind me.

Despite Boyd’s warning to get into their makeshift bedroom, Yolanda was waiting in the hall. Her brown eyes were large and fearful, and when she spoke, her teeth seemed to be chattering. “What did he want?”

While Boyd gathered her in for a hug, Tom said, “To show off some jewelry he got his girlfriend. Goldy? Let’s get ready to go to Humberto’s.”

Ferdinanda insisted on knowing what Kris was “up to now,” but Tom merely repeated what he’d said to Yolanda. Ferdinanda spoke under her breath while Tom took the quiche. After a few minutes gathering up keys and whatnot, Ferdinanda rolled herself down the ramp, a skill at which she was becoming quite proficient. Then, over Ferdinanda’s protests, Tom helped her into Yolanda’s old van. He signaled that we were going in his Chrysler.

“Tom, what are you doing?” I asked. “She won’t be able to manage by herself.”

“She’s fine,” Tom said. “She admitted to me that even though she can’t walk yet, she did just dandy driving to and from the store. Her weight-lifting exercises, which she has continued with cans from our pantry, make her arms strong enough to lower the wheelchair to the ground, open it, and then get herself into and out of it.” He shrugged. “Or at least, so she says.”

“Do you believe all she was doing was driving around town?”

Tom’s face was inscrutable. “She insists she likes the feeling of freedom that driving gives her. Anyway, even with a GPS system, I don’t know if I could find my way to Humberto’s house. It’s perched way up at the end of a private lane on a mountain circled all round with unmarked roads. So I have to follow Ferdinanda. And I want to talk to you alone.”

I said, “Oh, great. About what? Our little parlay with Kris and Harriet?”

“No, that was just BS. But I did put a rush on the evidence from the Breckenridges’ house. There were no fingerprints at all on the clamps and bolts that held up that hammered copper ring for the pots. That we could understand, if the house is kept sparkling and is regularly dusted with a cloth. But . . . besides Yolanda’s, there were no distinguishable prints at all on the electric skillet. I mean, there was nothing, and that is weird. Say someone left the pan there for you or Yolanda to use. They wouldn’t wipe their prints off unless they were up to something. And they were definitely up to something, because the screws on the handle were new. But they’d been stripped and were loose.”

“So someone was trying to hurt her. Or me.”

“Someone was trying to hurt somebody.”

“Sean knew Rorry would be in the kitchen, which she usually wasn’t, and he didn’t know that Rorry had changed her will. Maybe he was hoping to kill her or scare her.”

“It’s possible. That’s why I suggested she not stay in the house last night.” Tom’s voice was calm as he sped to catch up with Ferdinanda, who had turned onto a dirt road north of Aspen Meadow.

“Something else,” I said. I told him about running into Sean and Brie at the church, and their acrimonious exchange. There had also been Brie’s shrill reproach of Sean, left hanging in the air: When I think of all I’ve done for you. . . .

“Brie as Ernest’s killer?” Tom’s tone was doubtful. “She just sounds like a garden-variety gold digger.”

We were still bumping over the gravel. I said, “And what do you make of Kris at this point?”

Tom shook his head. “He probably came over to our place tonight because we questioned him this afternoon about his buying Jack’s house. He’s very insistent to anyone who will listen that he purchased it solely as a renovation project for his new girlfriend, the lovely Harriet, and not because his ex is currently living across the street.”

“Baloney. What more proof do you need that he is stalking Yolanda?”

“A lot more, as it turns out. She didn’t report the assault with the broom handle; she just says when he gets angry, he becomes violent. She won’t give us the name of the doctor who treated her for venereal disease. Not that that’s a prosecutable offense, but don’t you think she’d at least give us the doctor’s name?”

“Not necessarily.”

Tom drew up behind Ferdinanda, who’d stopped ten feet in front of a large iron gate. The entire property was surrounded by a tall fence composed of iron spikes nailed to metal rails at six-inch intervals. Two uniformed men came out of a guardhouse to greet Ferdinanda. Tom put down his window, and we could hear Ferdinanda merrily talking to the men in Spanish. She did not protest when they asked to see her driver’s license. After that, they slid open the van’s big door to examine the interior.

“There is no way I’m letting them into my trunk,” Tom said. “We’ll go home first.”

“What about the gun? Does the department have any idea who killed the gas station attendant in Fort Collins?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

I’d been convinced that Osgoode had killed Ernest, then burned down his house to conceal evidence. Every other person Yolanda had told us about or that we’d learned about—Kris, Hermie, Sean, Brie, Humberto—did every single one of them have an alibi for killing Ernest?

“And you haven’t found the gun,” I said.

“Again, Miss G., not yet.”

“Are you rechecking—”

“Yes. Everyone’s alibi for the time we think Ernest was killed.”

Ahead of us, Ferdinanda had been let through the gate. Tom pulled up and got out of the car. He’d closed his window so that I wouldn’t hear what he was saying to the guards, which I found very annoying. No doubt he was thinking of my habit of butting into conversations, or at least of eavesdropping on them. How bothersome to have a husband who knew you so well.

Tom showed his identification and talked to the guards. He then, apparently, asked for their identification. The guards’ swaggering confidence turned to general consternation, a panicked search for wallets, and the handing over of cards. Tom held each ID up to the setting sun—what he was looking for, I knew not. Then he handed them back their cards, pointed to the gates, and made a sweeping motion with his right hand to indicate the spiked fence. The guards nodded seriously, then motioned for Tom to go through. There was no check of Tom’s trunk.

“What in the world was that about?” I asked as Tom accelerated through the gates and waved to the guards.

“I told them they had an illegal fence,” Tom said mildly. “The county permits them if they’re six feet or lower. Humberto’s spikes are about ten feet high. I told them I was sure they didn’t want to have county officials driving up here tonight with jackhammers to take down a metal fence. Not while Humberto was having dinner guests. And, I added, sometimes county officers bring along representatives from immigration.”

“There is no way any county official—” But then I caught Tom’s grin. “You are mean.”

“I’m not. Every single thing I told them was true.” His tone was all innocence. “The fence is illegal. I was sure they didn’t want county administrators driving up here tonight. Sometimes immigration officials accompany county bureaucrats. All true.” His smile widened. “Most of the time it’s damned hard to work for the government. That, on the other hand, was fun.” Ahead of us, Ferdinanda began the steep climb of first one switchback, then another, to ascend the hill to Humberto’s place.

I said, “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Yeah. There was a safe in Osgoode’s house. Our guys finally drilled into it and found a hundred thou, give or take, in cash. No papers or files, unfortunately, and there was no checkbook conveniently placed in his desk. But the marijuana out at the grow hadn’t been harvested. So what we’re wondering is, how did Stonewall make money to bankroll his rental, purchase seeds online, buy dogs to breed, and support Charlene? That’s what we’re trying to figure out, without Charlene’s help.”

“Who’s her lawyer?” I asked.

“Jason Allred,” said Tom. “Aspen Meadow all-purpose attorney.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Goldy, you’ve probably catered for him. He does lots of business in Aspen Meadow.”

Allred, Allred. I asked, “Wasn’t he the one who drew up Ernest McLeod’s will, that left everything to Yolanda?”

Tom steered carefully around a hairpin turn. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Why?”

“I’m just trying to connect the dots,” I said as we drew into a paved oval where an old Toyota was parked next to a red VW bug. The VW had a window sticker that read, Massachusetts Institute of Technology: Lolly’s.

Maybe Tom did need to call the county zoning officials. Why? Because if there was a law against out-of-style residences, Humberto’s huge white Caribbean-style mansion would get the first citation. My mouth actually dropped open. The previous year, I’d seen two photos of the house in the Mountain Journal, and they had both been taken inside. How could anyone have a white stucco house in the mountains? The dust all summer, and snow all winter, would make it impossible to keep clean. Oh, well, I thought as Tom parked his car next to Ferdinanda’s van. At least I didn’t have to clean the place.

Tom hurried around to Ferdinanda’s side, where the irrepressible older woman was already settling herself in her wheelchair. Tom pushed her up to the front door. I brought the quiche.

A silent, uniformed maid greeted us with a nod, took the foil-wrapped pie, and ushered us into the living room. It was the size of a small gym, but with a red tile floor. White marble fireplaces stood guard at each end. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows filled the opposite wall. The western view featured a sweeping vista of the Continental Divide, where snowcapped peaks were tinted pink by the setting sun.

Tom said, “Wow. No wonder he bought this piece of land.”

The smell of paint made my nostrils itch and my eyes tear up. I didn’t know what kind of redecorating Humberto had done, because care had been taken to make everything look old. Gilt-framed oil paintings of hunters carrying dead game hung above the fireplaces. Armchairs on either side of the hearths were upholstered in tapestry prints featuring hunting dogs carrying dead birds in their mouths. Several couches set between mahogany tables were upholstered in dark leather. The walls were tan. Instead of crown molding, woodworked arches surrounded the room. Overhead, aged timber beams—like the arches, these performed no actual support function—gave a hacienda feel to the place, as did wrought-iron wagon-wheel light fixtures. The whole place was laughably over the top. Still, I was sure Norman Juarez wouldn’t have found it funny.

“Hello, hello!” trilled Lolly as she rounded a corner teetering on silver stilettos. She wore a silver tube-type dress; her black and blue hair had disappeared under another platinum wig. The hairpiece was on slightly crooked, I noticed with dismay. “Remember me? I’m Odette. I’m Humberto’s, uh, date,” she told Ferdinanda as she shook the older woman’s hand. Lolly then cast her eyes downward as she shook hands with Tom, who looked at her suspiciously. Lolly quivered as she came forward to hug me.

“Can you show me the bathroom, please?” I asked, a bit too loudly. Again Tom’s hawk’s eyes missed nothing.

“Too heavy on the T,” Lolly whispered as she led me down a hallway featuring more hunting pictures. “Photocopy is in bottom of tissue box in bathroom. Maid’ll be in kitchen through dinner. New surveillance everywhere. Watch out.”

“Tom wants to talk to you.”

Her shoulders sagged. But after a few more teetering steps, she whispered, “All right, but you’ll have to get rid of Humberto first.”

“Your wig’s on crooked,” I whispered back.

She cursed and said she would fix it.

As surreptitiously as possible, I checked the white-tiled bathroom for a surveillance camera. A tiny red light, glimmering high up in the corner opposite the toilet, made me feel distinctly violated. I fake-sneezed once, then again, turned my back to the camera, and leaned over the sink. My fingers trembled as I dug down into the white tile tissue box beside the faucet. I pulled out several tissues along with Lolly’s piece of paper. I sneezed once again for good measure, honked into the tissue, then slipped the folded paper and the tissues into my pocket.

When I returned to the living room, Humberto was making his entrance. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, as usual. He was impeccably dressed in a tan-colored suit, white shirt, and red tie. But his eyes were heavily lidded and he truly did look as if he’d just awakened from a too-deep nap. Too heavy on the temazepam, indeed.

“What may I prepare for you to drink?” he asked, bowing toward Ferdinanda and me. “Oh dear, and how is Yolanda? I should have asked after her welfare first.”

“She is fine.” Ferdinanda took hold of Humberto’s proffered hand and tugged down on it. Humberto, who was having a bit of trouble maintaining his balance anyway, cascaded forward, nearly losing it altogether. Undaunted, Ferdinanda pulled on Humberto’s hand again. Only Humberto’s grasp of a nearby table kept him from going ass-over-teakettle. “Yolanda is strong,” Ferdinanda said menacingly. “Like me.”

“Yes, Ferdinanda,” said Humberto. He groaned as she maintained her iron grip on him. “I know you are both proud”—here he moaned—“uh, Cuban-American—ack—ah, women.”

“Yes,” said Ferdinanda, “we are. Last night, did your puta loosen the bolts on the electric skillet?”

“I, uh, agh! You’re killing me! And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t hurt Yolanda, or you’ll have me to answer to,” said Ferdinanda, with her death-steel grip still on Humberto.

Humberto gasped with pain. “I, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” Ferdinanda let go of Humberto’s hand so swiftly that he had to grab the back of one of the hunting-dog chairs to keep from falling into the fireplace. “As long as we understand each other.”

“This is interesting,” Tom said to me in a low voice. “I wouldn’t want to tussle with Ferdinanda in a dark alley, wheelchair or no wheelchair.”

I said, “Nor would I.”

The silent maid came and bustled about pouring drinks. Ferdinanda asked for a Cuba libre. Humberto shook the hand that Ferdinanda had been squeezing to restore feeling in it. He said that he, too, would like a Cuba libre. Lolly said she would give booze a pass, thanks, and just have water. Tom and I opted for white wine. The maid filled the drink orders, then came through with appetizers on individual plates with tiny forks: hot Cuban sandwiches cut into tiny triangles, a myriad of olives on toothpicks, and squares of the heated spinach quiche. It was all delicious, and I made another mental note to ask Ferdinanda for her quiche recipe.

Ferdinanda and Humberto began to discuss Cuban politics, with Humberto blaming President Kennedy for Castro’s getting a stranglehold on Cuba, and Ferdinanda blaming Castro for putting on the stranglehold in the first place. Lolly remained silent while Tom and I tried to make polite but nonpolitical comments. As the discussion turned into a heated argument between Humberto and Ferdinanda over whether any ruler should be allowed to suspend freedom of speech or the press, or restrict dissent in any form, I feared our dinner was in jeopardy. Ferdinanda had more examples at her disposal, while Humberto, full of bluster but intellectually lazy, seemed to become more and more frustrated by Ferdinanda’s interrupting him. If push came to actual shove, I didn’t doubt Ferdinanda’s ability to arm-wrestle Humberto to the floor.

“Humberto!” I shrieked as I jumped up, startling everybody. “Tell me about your view here!” I walked over to the windows. “I remember seeing this in the newspaper. How did you find such a magnificent piece of property?”

Humberto, his face flushed, gave Ferdinanda a final fierce look, then attempted to smooth his expression. “Ah, thank you for asking. I looked a long time for this land. The whole thing was very expensive.”

“I’m sure it was,” I said, smiling. “Can you tell me which mountain is which?”

Of course I knew which peak was Mount Evans, which was Longs Peak up north, and how on a clear evening, which this was, Pikes Peak was visible way down south. Humberto, who seemed not to have memorized his mountains, gave me a confused look, so I said, “I know you’re acquainted with my friend Marla. Did you know one of her puppies was very ill?”

Humberto rubbed his orangey-tan forehead. “I didn’t know she had puppies.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, and Humberto jumped. “She got them from . . . a friend of a friend. But it looks as if the puppies came from a mill. Run by a guy named Osgoode? Does this ring any bells?”

Humberto frowned at me and seemed to welcome the maid ringing an actual bell, the one announcing dinner. Dang!

On the way into the dining room, which also faced the Continental Divide, I whispered to Tom, “You need to get Humberto out of here so we can talk to Lolly. Have your people interrogated him about Osgoode?”

“Yes, Miss G.,” he said. He gave me a sideways smile. “Like you, they came up empty. But don’t worry, I can get rid of Humberto.” Tom excused himself to make a cell phone call, outside.

The dining room also smelled of paint. Like the living room, the floor was paved with red tile. Stone floors are hell on a caterer’s back, and I was glad not to be cooking and serving, although I did feel sorry for the maid. When Tom returned, my heart warmed when he pulled one of the leather-tooled chairs from the long trestle table to make way for Ferdinanda’s wheelchair. She loudly thanked him while glaring at Humberto.

Humberto proudly dimmed the lights on the chandelier, which he said he’d found in Paris on one of his travels. Like the ones in the living room, it was a ring of wrought iron topped with candle-shaped bulbs, but this one was at least more delicate than the wagon wheels. The dimmed lights gave the place a romantic feel. Lolly kissed Humberto’s cheek and said everything looked fabulous, and wasn’t he a smart fellow to find such beautiful decorations? He preened under her admiration.

The maid brought out a heavenly scented roast chicken surrounded with potatoes, carrots, yuca, and fried plantains. We talked and ate for twenty minutes without a single political comment from anyone, for which I was thankful.

We were halfway through luscious, creamy flans when Tom’s cell rang. He apologized to the group, went into the hall, then came back looking rueful.

“Humberto,” he said, “I’m sorry, but it looks as if there’s a team here to take you to the department for more questioning.”

“But we haven’t finished our dinner!” Humberto sputtered.

Tom shook his head. “I know, I tried to put them off, but they’ve got three cars down at your gates, and it’s the district attorney himself who ordered the interrogation. Some new evidence has come to light. And if you don’t go with them, they’re going to arrest your guards as material witnesses. We do have several interrogators who are Mexican-American, and they speak perfect Spanish. So unless you’re willing to hire individual lawyers for your guards at this late hour, then I’m afraid—”

“No, no,” barked Humberto. He waved his hands. “I will go. But I’m sorry, the rest of you will have to leave.”

“Leave?” said Ferdinanda, her mouth full of custard. She swallowed. “Now?”

“Yes, I am sorry,” Humberto said, his voice full of fury. “I cannot leave my house unguarded.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust us?” Ferdinanda demanded. “What have you got in here that’s so valuable you can’t allow your guests to finish their dinner?”

Humberto snarled something unintelligible. “Even the maid will have to go. Everyone must leave.”

Lolly did not look at us. Instead, she pushed back her chair and mumbled that she would go get her things.

Ten minutes later, Tom had helped Ferdinanda into her van, Lolly had loaded her overnight bag into her VW, and Tom and I were seated in his car. The maid came bustling out, furious, and slid into her Toyota, cursing at Humberto the whole time. He ignored her, opened his garage door with a remote, and drove out behind us in a silver Mercedes.

We made an odd procession snaking down the hill. The maid’s old Toyota belched exhaust. Ferdinanda fearlessly heaved the listing, rusted van from one side of the driveway to the other. Lolly followed cautiously in her lollipop-red VW, while Tom smoothly navigated his Chrysler and Humberto tailgated us in his ultraslick sedan. As we rounded the last turn, the commotion was apparent. Outside the illegal fence, three police cars, their lights flashing in the early dark, looked truly ominous.

“What did you have to do to get them here?” I asked Tom.

“Not much.” He gave me another of his Cheshire-cat grins.

“But you said Humberto had to be interrogated because there was a new piece of evidence.”

“No,” Tom patiently replied, “I said he had to be questioned. I also said there was new evidence, which there is. I didn’t say the two were linked.”

“You are a dog that is sly, Tom.”

The photocopied sheet was burning a hole in my pocket. Still, I thought it would look too suspicious to the guards if I turned on the interior light to read the sheet, which might, after all, contain nothing. I needn’t have worried. At the bottom of the hill, the guards all looked as if the police presence was making them wish they could disappear.