Crunch Time

23

“Miss G., what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Ferdinanda’s wheelchair was rolling along the hallway downstairs. “I can’t stand it any longer!” she yelled up the steps. I motioned to Boyd. “Please don’t tell her what’s going on. No matter what,” I added.

“No matter what what?” Tom said impatiently. “Can you tell me what is going on?”

So I did. I knew he would not be pleased when I informed him of Lolly’s job for me, which I called “borrowing” Humberto’s wallet. I told him about my manufacture of the fake receipts, my hunch about the photos that would be at the library, and finally, of retrieving the chandelier under false pretenses.

“And they didn’t give you any trouble at Frank’s Fix-It,” Tom said disbelievingly.

“The guy was so trashed, he had no idea what I was doing,” I said. “I could have gone in there and pulled the Hope Diamond out from under him, and he wouldn’t have known.”

“We’ve known about the pot for a long time,” Tom said. “But we’ve never actually searched the place. I guess we could now.”

“And you could find—oops!—a chandelier made of diamonds. Then you could charge him with receiving stolen goods—”

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Miss Detective. You’ve already broken enough laws for one day. I’m coming up there now, to get the chandelier from Boyd. Do not let our guests know what you are up to. I’ll tell one of the guys here to get a judge to issue a search warrant for suspicion of drug dealing.” He paused. “You better hope this works.”

“It’ll work,” I said confidently. “Uh,” I said painfully, “I have to meet somebody in a little bit and will probably miss you. Boyd can pack up the chandelier and help you with it.”

“This is when I ask you who you’re meeting.”

“And this is when I tell you it’s none of your beeswax.”

“I’m so glad we have an open, honest, committed relationship,” said Tom, “full of mutual trust.”

“I won’t steal anything valuable,” I promised.

“That does not make me feel better,” he said, and signed off.

Kris Nielsen’s Maserati was parked in the driveway opposite our house when Boyd escorted me to my van. I shuddered and concentrated on getting behind my own wheel. Still, if Kris was at the house on our street, then he wouldn’t be at his home in Flicker Ridge, which was my next stop.

I set off just before noon. I wished for another of Ferdinanda’s pork sandwiches, but satisfied myself with a quick stop at the Aspen Meadow café for an iced latte, which I combined with a slice of one of my leftover coffee cakes. I polished both off as I drove through the entrance to Flicker Ridge.

The sky began to boil with dark clouds rolling in from the mountains to our west. A stiff breeze rocked the van and blasted my windshield with dust. Another storm was coming. I wondered if Arch had taken a jacket to school and if he kept a spare pair of boots in his trunk. The answer to both questions was Probably not. And what about his tires? Snow wasn’t in the forecast, but I still worried about him in any bad weather.

Well, I hoped the math test had gone well.

My cell startled me. Penny Woolworth’s scratchy voice said, “Goldy? Where are you? Are you coming over here or not?”

“I’m coming,” I announced as I wound up the paved roads in Flicker Ridge. “What are you worried about?”

“I usually finish here around one. There’s no check here, so he’ll probably come over to pay me. I mean, that’s what he ordinarily does.”

“Is there a place for me to park where he won’t see my van?”

“Try the dead end right below us. Just leave your car on the side of the road. Come straight up through Kris’s property. I’ll be at the door of his study. It opens to the outdoors.”

“I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

In the encroaching darkness, the huge gray houses in Flicker Ridge took on a silvery glow. Expanses of window glass shimmied in the wind. I looked down at my sweatshirt and jeans. I hadn’t even remembered a jacket. But once I removed the remaining coffee cake, I had an empty canvas catering bag. If I found something useful—like a receipt for work on an electric skillet—I would snag it. I would just have to be fast.

I grabbed the cloth sack, parked and locked the van, and took off on foot. Tom’s and my energetic lovemaking that morning and the previous night had done nothing good for my leg muscles. But I trotted painfully up the hill anyway to where Penny stood, hugging herself in the sudden chill.

“Where have you been?” she asked crossly. “I could so lose my job over this. And it’s not—”

“It’s not what?” I asked as I slid inside the door.

Penny’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing.”

“It’s not what, Penny?” I said with a sudden flash of anger.

She looked down at the wooden floor. “It’s not the first time I’ve let somebody in here. Ernest McLeod was an old friend, from when I was a bartender. He said the same thing you did, that Kris was, you know, maybe going to hurt Yolanda. I thought Kris loved Yolanda. I mean, he kept saying he loved her. But Ernest, well, he was my friend.”

“For God’s sake, Penny. I wish you had told me this sooner.” Yolanda had not been sure whether Ernest had started investigating Kris when he was killed. He had only promised that he would, eventually. I asked Penny, “Did you tell the cops?”

“With Zeke about to get out of prison? No way.”

I shook my head as I moved into the huge study, which boasted scarlet red wallpaper and an oak floor.

A mahogany desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets lined one wall. On the side opposite, where I stood, were a framed diploma—from Carleton, I noted—and various masks. They looked African, perhaps, or South American. Made of straw or wood and painted garish colors, they made me uncomfortable.

“He collects these?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s like his hobby.”

“So tell me about what Ernest wanted,” I said as I moved to the desk.

“Same as you,” Penny said nervously. “To look at files, mail, stuff like that. There’s a safe in Kris’s closet, and of course I don’t know the combination or what’s in there. I kept asking Ernest, ‘What are you searching for?’ Ernest said he thought that since Kris was obsessing over Yolanda, which is what he called it, Kris might have drawn up a plan of what he was doing, or what he was going to do, or maybe he was keeping a journal. Something like that. He brought a handheld scanner.” Penny exhaled and cocked her ear to the door.

“Did Ernest find anything to scan?” I asked as I pulled on file-drawer handles. A single lock at the top kept them all tightly closed.

“I don’t know, Goldy. My job is to clean, get it? I just left him alone in here. Later, I felt really bad about letting Ernest in. So then when Kris told me how much he loved Yolanda, and that he just wanted to know how she was doing and where she was, I told him. I mean, Kris paid me. Ernest didn’t, but as I said, he was an old friend.”

I turned and faced her. “So I can’t get into the safe. Does he keep the key to these files on a ring or fob of some kind? Or is it separate?”

“Actually,” she said reluctantly, “I think it’s separate, ’cause one time he came barging out of his study, where he’d been working on taxes all morning. He was hollering that he needed to go somewhere, and did I know where his car keys were?”

I rustled through the desk drawer. There was nothing except blank paper, index cards, and writing utensils. No key. “Please, Penny,” I begged, “you need to help me find the key to this file cabinet. And I will pay you for your help here, plus at the Bertrams’ this afternoon.”

“Oh, hell, Goldy, I don’t know how to find one little key.”

“There’s a recession on, Penny. And I pay in cash.”

She grumbled something unintelligible, then yanked open another desk drawer, which revealed more pencils, pens, and another neat pile of paper pads. I asked her to run her hands over and behind the books on Kris’s shelves. She sighed heavily but climbed up on the long desk and starting poking behind the volumes.

I did a visual survey of the room. The door I’d come through was in the wall with all the masks. There were about forty of them.

“So, Penny, did he say these masks were valuable?”

“Huh?” She was prodding the area behind the highest books. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Right, I thought. Because if they were really valuable, Kris Got-Bucks would have had cases built for them, right? A quick glance at my watch said it was half past twelve.

“Couple more questions, Penny. Do you know where any of these masks come from? I mean, does he tell you?”

“Uh, yeah. One is from Kenya.” She wavered on the desktop and pointed uncertainly. “One is from Brazil. Can’t remember which one that is. Oh, and the new one?” She pointed to a red painted mask. “That’s like, voodoo. He told me the word. Something like San Rita.” She pulled out her hand and inspected it with disgust. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I’ve never dusted back here. There are dead bugs and all kinds of crap. And before you ask me, no, I haven’t found a key.”

“Was the word Santería?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”

“Could you point to it again?” She did, and I walked quickly to the new mask. I felt its sides. Nothing. Gently, I lifted it off its hook and placed it upside down on the wood floor. A key was taped to the back.

I peeled the key off the dry clay and said, “Okay, Penny, you can go finish your other cleaning. Call me if he comes.”

“Oh my God,” she said as she jumped down and slapped her palms together to dislodge dirt. “It’s a good thing I haven’t cleaned in here yet.”

I said, “Thanks again.” As Penny raced out the study door, I crossed to the file cabinet, inserted the key, and turned it. The drawers unlocked.

Quickly, go quickly, I thought. I needed to protect Penny, Yolanda . . . and myself. The files were alphabetical. Amenities. Boats. Board Notes. The first two contained pamphlets of things he apparently wanted or was interested in; the third was notes from an alumni board that he belonged to. Media. Miscellaneous. Mother. The final drawer contained everything from Northwest—a list of restaurants he wanted to visit or had visited in Portland and Seattle—to Taxes, Subscriptions, and Warranties.

There was no file on Yolanda. I didn’t know if I was happy or disappointed.

It was quarter to one. I leafed through Media and found another batch of pamphlets for televisions, cameras, and laptops that Kris either had or was interested in. Mother was a very fat file. Puzzled, I saw it contained numerous letters to and from an insurance company, police reports, and newspaper clippings. On one police report, Kris’s neat handwriting had penned Jackass.

Police reports? Jackass?

It was ten to one. I didn’t have a handheld scanner, so I stuffed the Mother file into my bag. This would warrant further study, and if I could get out of there quickly, I’d be able to peruse it at my leisure . . . provided Kris didn’t notice the file was gone.

The Miscellaneous file was intriguing because it did not, in fact, contain miscellaneous clippings, letters, and other papers that one would expect. Instead it contained neatly penned charts with numbers in columns. Each line on the charts contained dates, with numbers and initials.

Well, I thought as I crammed this file into my bag, too, in for a penny, in for a pound. Penny Woolworth probably wouldn’t appreciate that saying, but—

“He’s coming!” she screamed. “Get out!”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I straightened the now loosely fitting files, closed all the drawers, and relocked the cabinet. Unfortunately, the piece of tape that had held the key in place was clogged with clay particles, so I had to take a moment to find a new roll and retape the key behind the Santería mask. My hands shook as I replaced it on the wall.

I heard the Maserati’s characteristic vroom-vroom. I swallowed hard and looked around the study. My mother had always checked the trash when she returned from shopping, sure that evidence of my misdeeds would have been chucked in there. Penny said she hadn’t cleaned in here yet, so I stuck the used bit of tape in my pocket, emptied Kris’s small garbage can into my canvas tote, and skedaddled. Running back down the hill, despite slipping through patches of snow, proved easier than trotting up. Nevertheless, I was still huffing and puffing when I arrived at the van.

A diamond-studded chandelier, some stolen files, and another person’s garbage. Not bad for a day’s haul.

Five minutes later, still slightly out of breath and with my heart ceaselessly pounding, I piloted the van through the Flicker Ridge exit and called Boyd. This alerting him to my every arrival and departure was definitely cramping my style.

“Your husband has a lot of questions for you,” he said.

I cleared my throat. There was no way I could tell Boyd what I had just done. Instead, I said, “Did they get the chandelier out okay?”

“Yeah. I told Yolanda and Ferdinanda they had to stay in the dining room while some sensitive police materials were being moved. Tom’s guys brought in a large cardboard box and took the chandelier away in it. Tom still doesn’t know how he’s going to structure the search warrant for the fix-it shop.”

“Well,” I said dismissively, “I’m not a lawyer.”

Boyd chuckled. “Oh, don’t we know that! Still, Tom wants you to stay home until we go to the Bertrams’ place together.”

I sighed. I had plenty of things to look at, plus soup to make. So this was a manageable constraint.

At the house, I waved to Yolanda and Ferdinanda. The two of them were sitting in the living room with a plate of cookies and cups of coffee. Boyd followed me through the door, then closed and locked it. He looked suspiciously at my canvas bag, but I kept the handles well tucked under my arm. Ferdinanda fussed so much over the fact that I hadn’t had lunch that I almost lost my temper. But instead I placed a cookie in my mouth and thanked her for her concern.

Yolanda looked tired. The burns on her bandaged legs still made movement difficult for her, and standing was also a challenge.

“I want a bath,” she said ruefully, “but, Goldy, what about the soup? Do you want me to—”

“What are you complaining about?” Ferdinanda said, chiding her. “Bath? Bath?” She dismissed this with a wave. “When I was a sniper in Castro’s army, up in the jungle? We only got to wash in streams.”

“Goldy,” said Yolanda, ignoring Ferdinanda, “I want to start on the soup. I mean, if you do.”

I glanced ostentatiously at my watch. “Why don’t you have that bath now? You look exhausted.”

“I had a restless night.”

“You don’t have to cook,” I said.

“No,” she replied stubbornly, “I want to.”

“Tell you what,” I said as I clutched the bag tightly to me. “Can we talk in the kitchen, just the two of us?”

She looked downcast, but followed me. I carefully closed the kitchen door.

I said, “Ernest had already begun investigating Kris.”

She immediately looked away. “Oh, God—”

“Yolanda, please. Are you sure that Ernest never said anything about Kris? Or about finding something in Kris’s house?”

Yolanda again began to tear up. “Ernest did tell me he was looking at Kris. I . . . didn’t want to tell Tom, because . . . I was afraid,” she whispered.

“Of Kris?”

“Yes, of course.” Her voice was still low, as if she were sure Kris could hear her. “But also, Tom was so suspicious of me. Like he didn’t believe me.”

“In a murder investigation, Tom has to suspect everybody. So, did Ernest find anything at Kris’s place?”

“He had a lead. That was all he told me.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“Ferdinanda told me she informed you that Humberto had hired me to spy and paid me the seventeen thou that went up in smoke. I never did any spying. I loved Ernest.”

“I know. And Tom knows.”

Yolanda shook her head. “We never should have stayed here.”

“No, no, don’t say that.” I put down my bag. “You may feel crazy now, but you’re going to be fine. Look, I went through this breaking-up thing with my ex. In spades. Come on, give me a hug.” She obliged, and then I pulled away. “Tell you what. Could you go back out to the living room and tell Boyd what you just told me, about Ernest and Kris? Try to remember details. Then ask him to call Tom.”

She nodded her assent, turned away quickly, and pushed through the kitchen door.

I tried to focus. When Yolanda had arrived at the house, she had not told me the whole truth. She had been afraid. And given my history, I didn’t blame her.

In the living room, I could hear Boyd on his cell phone. I stared at our landline, which was blinking. I pushed the button for voice mail and was told I had one message.

“Oh, Goldy, thank God your machine picked up!” SallyAnn Bertram’s breathless voice announced. “I don’t have your cell number, or if I do, I can’t find it. When is that cleaning lady coming over? I can’t remember, and I can’t find my calendar, and when I started tidying up, I realized that there was way too much for me to . . . well, actually, I feel overwhelmed. John promised he’d be home early, but he just called and said he thought we needed some more propane, plus he’s borrowing a grill from somebody—” The machine cut her off. She’d called an hour ago.

When was Penny due at the Bertrams’ place? In my current mental state, I could not remember. It seemed to me she’d indicated she was going straight from Kris’s house. My watch said half past one. I did not dare call her cell, in case Kris was nearby and saw the incoming number. If I used Boyd’s cell, Penny might answer. Even though she blamed the Furman County Sheriff’s Department for all her husband’s woes, with her husband getting out of jail the next day, wouldn’t she pick up?

I was worried about her. That trumped everything.

I picked up my bag and found Boyd back in the living room. He was off the phone. Yolanda and Ferdinanda had retreated to the dining room.

“May I borrow your cell, Sergeant?”

“What happened to yours?”

“Just—please?”

Boyd said, “You have to stand right here while you use it.”

“Thanks. A friend of mine cleans for Kris Nielsen, and I want to make sure she’s okay.” I added, “She’s worked for him for a while. I don’t think this is a big deal.”

Boyd shook a carrot-shaped forefinger at me. “That’s what you always say.”

Penny answered on the first ring. “Zeke? Did they let you out early?”

“No, it’s Goldy. Sorry.”

“Christ, Goldy!” There was the quick crash of a door slamming. “I’ve been over at your friend’s house for half an hour, and the place is a frigging rats’ nest! You could take half the stuff out of here and have enough for two garage sales!”

“Well, I’m sorry—”

“Why are you calling me from the sheriff’s department?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not at the department, I’m borrowing a phone. Did you finish at Kris’s place okay?”

“Yeah, I suppose. He didn’t seem to suspect anything. I was so nervous I thought I was going to pee while he wrote out my check. Did you put everything back just the way you found it?”

“Well, not exactly. But if he didn’t notice, then we both should be fine. Listen. There was a message for me at home from SallyAnn, and I wanted to make sure you got there.”

“When I got here, that woman was having a major meltdown. She kept following me from room to room, until I finally handed her a gigantic trash bag and said, ‘Here, fill this with everything you haven’t used in the last year. When you have one bag full, start on another one. When I finish here, if I ever finish here, I’ll take them all to Evergreen Christian Outreach.’ Do you know, that woman’s on her third bag?”

“Good, then—”

“Listen, Goldy, I’m here, but I’m not sure I can get through all this. I think I’m gonna need help.”

“How’s three o’clock? I’ll try to bring helpers.”

“Better than nothing.” She disconnected.

I gave Boyd an imploring look. “Can we—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just remind your son to go over to somebody else’s house for dinner. And to stay there until we call him.”

I promised I would, then raced upstairs with my bag. I grabbed four hundred dollars from my underwear drawer, which was where I stowed emergency cash. I stuffed it into my wallet, for Penny.

I picked up my canvas bag and tiptoed to Arch’s room, where I closed the door. I dialed his cell—which the CBHS kids were not allowed to answer during school hours—and left a message asking if he could please eat dinner over at Gus’s and call me when he was done. Then I apologized and said I would explain it all to him later.

I nipped over to his desk, booted his computer, and pulled out the things I’d stolen from Kris’s. I began with the Miscellaneous file, since it was far thinner than the one marked Mother. With any luck, I would be able to take good notes on the contents, then return both files to Penny that night, so she could replace them the next time she worked at Kris’s.

The Miscellaneous file was indeed sparse: It contained only two pages, each with three columns. Had I dropped something? I certainly hoped not. Two pages I could photocopy and figure out later. I raced down to the basement, avoiding contact with Boyd and our houseguests, and copied both sheets.

Back upstairs, I did a cursory study of the pair of papers. Along the left side of each were dates. I blinked at the papers and told myself to concentrate.

The dates along the left side of the first page began in June and went through July; the second page covered August and went through the previous day, September the sixteenth. Today had not been entered yet.

Every date in June was not noted, but there was one D, with a check mark. The far-right number corresponding to the D had four digits; the others all had three. July, on the other hand, contained many S’s and two B’s. Most of the S’s had check marks, some had X’s. The B’s had check marks. In July, every date was noted.

It was the same for August, a pattern of S’s and B’s. All had check marks with three digits in the right-hand side. For September, there were also three I’s, two F’s and a K. The K corresponded to a five-figure number, and each F and I matched a four-figure number.

Back on the first page, I wondered why there was only one D there, and then I looked at the date: June the fifteenth.

Hadn’t Yolanda told me Ferdinanda had had her accident in mid-June? Since I’d seen a black SUV over at Stonewall’s, I wondered again if he’d been involved in the accident, and if so, why. I would have to get the exact date of the accident from Yolanda.

The dates and figures swam before my eyes. They could relate to anything in Kris’s life. I for Investments, S for Sell, B for Buy. Crap.

In the back of my mind, I could hear Penny’s voice saying she needed me to come help her clean up the Bertrams’ house. We had a party to do that night, and I had no idea whether the pages in front of me—papers I had obtained illegally, no less—meant anything or not.

I opened the packed Mother file. It contained the last will and testament of one Rita Nielsen. A coroner’s report, dated the fifteenth of January, two years and eight months ago, indicated Rita Nielsen had died between the twentieth and the twenty-sixth of December, from carbon monoxide poisoning. I went through bank account slips and statements from mutual funds. It looked as if Kris Nielsen had inherited twelve million dollars, as he’d drunkenly admitted to Penny Woolworth. So the “making money starting up a computer company” was bunk, as Lolly Vanderpool had suspected.

I sifted through the many pages until I found the one that Kris had written Jackass across the top of. It contained a name, Joe Pargeter, and a number. I called it and was connected to the police department in Lake Bargee, Minnesota.

“Is Joe Pargeter in?” I asked.

“Oh, no, he’s out on a job,” a female with a midwestern twang replied. Then she probably remembered she wasn’t supposed to give out information to a stranger and became suspicious. “What do you need him for?”

I gave her my name and cell number and asked if Joe Pargeter could please call me as soon as possible. I said I desperately needed to talk to him about the death of Rita Nielsen.

The woman clucked. “You’re another insurance investigator?”

Insurance investigator? I said, “No, I’m not. But I really, really need to talk to him.”

She said, “Yah, I’ll pass the message on to Joe.”

“Thank you.”

“You betcha,” she said, and signed off.

I had no idea whether Joe Pargeter would call me back. Ideally, Tom and the cops should talk to him if he did, but first I wanted to see if there was anything there, or if I was on another wild goose chase. Where was Lake Bargee, Minnesota? A place you could go on a wild Canadian goose chase?

I was due in the kitchen. I closed up both files and stowed them in my canvas bag. Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and I needed to make fresh cream of mushroom soup for the gathering at the Bertrams’ to remember Ernest.

My heart was still pulsing so loudly from my day of burglaries, I was sure I could hear it. Cooking would help me calm down.

Boyd was in the living room talking on his cell. Ferdinanda and Yolanda were already in the kitchen working. Yolanda was heating up the chicken stock. Ferdinanda narrowed her eyes at me, but I kept my mouth resolutely closed.

“Nobody tells me anything,” said Ferdinanda. She wheeled over to my portable CD player and slotted in a Tito Puente CD. Soon the first floor was reverberating with the sounds of Latin music.

I washed my hands. “The two of you started working without me.”

“We wanted to,” Yolanda replied as she melted butter in a huge stockpot. She kept her voice neutral, but she still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Why don’t you help Ferdinanda chop ingredients? I poured boiling spring water over some dried mushrooms, because I figured you’d want them in addition to the fresh ones.”

“And you were right,” I said, equally neutral. I drained the now-plumped mushrooms through cheesecloth and saved the water. Despite the upbeat music, Ferdinanda seemed angry with everyone. She muttered under her breath as she rolled herself into the walk-in. She emerged with the ingredients Yolanda had requested, then handed them to me. I gave her a cutting board with the plumped mushrooms and asked her to slice them.

Ferdinanda and I sliced and diced while Yolanda pulled out dry sherry and cream. Within minutes, I’d minced shallots and fresh mushrooms and scraped them into the butter. A scent that was both earthy and heavenly bloomed in the kitchen.

When the mushrooms began to release their liquid, Yolanda stirred flour into the stockpot. Once the mixture bubbled, she slowly poured chicken stock and sherry into the roux. She was not smiling. I wondered if our friendship would ever get back to normal.

What was normal when you’d just survived a breakup with a crazy-possessive ex-boyfriend, lost your friend and benefactor to murder, escaped an arson attack on your home, and suffered oil burns on your legs?

I blended glistening whipping cream into the soup and set it to simmer. Yolanda heated everything while I pulled out the remaining marinating pork tenderloin and slipped it into a zipped plastic bag. No matter what, it certainly was easier to cook for a big party when you had experienced chefs as houseguests.

Ferdinanda disappeared into the dining room to get herself ready for the party while I nabbed several packages of greens and Tom’s Love Potion dressing for a salad. Yolanda, Boyd, and I packed up. It didn’t take long. I had gotten to the point where I just wanted this party to be over.

After fifteen minutes of cleaning up and making sure we had everything, I puréed the soup and packed it up. Then I slipped upstairs to take a quick shower and change. I knew I’d probably need a much longer shower later, but hot water would help clear my head. I stowed my wallet with the money for Penny in the pocket of clean jeans and pulled on a polo shirt and a sweater. Then I heard an unfamiliar car stop on the street. I looked out our window.

It was a Furman County Sheriff’s Department prowler, lights blazing.

Fright poured through my veins as I punched in numbers. At quarter to three, Arch was probably at his locker.

“Mom!” he said, exasperated. “I got your message, okay? After practice, I’m going to Gus’s for dinner. You don’t have to call me ten times.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “And it’s not ten times. Can you call me when you finish eating?”

“All right. Jeez, have a little faith, will you?”

I’m trying, I thought as he hung up. I walked quickly down to the front hall, where Boyd had placed all our boxes. He stood with his arm around Yolanda and Ferdinanda’s wheelchair next to his legs. Ferdinanda’s mouth was set in a determined, angry line. Yolanda, who had changed into a turquoise Caribbean-style dress, looked paralyzed with fear.

“I don’t think we should go,” she whispered. “I haven’t been anywhere since my legs were burned—”

“I promised SallyAnn and Penny we’d help.” My voice sounded rusty. “It’ll be all right. It’s a house full of cops! SallyAnn wants Boyd there, and he’ll be able to guard you—”

“I’m driving all of us in Yolanda’s van,” Boyd announced. “The Maserati is back. Tom found something out, and he sent a police car to watch while I load the van and get you ladies out of here. We’ll have armed officers escorting us all the way.”

Yolanda looked at me in alarm. I took a deep breath and nodded to her, as if to repeat, Everything will be all right.

Boyd was as good as his word. The prowler lights flashed as we went out to the van, one at a time, with Boyd beside us. My mind worked overtime as I tried to figure out what Tom could have discovered. If he’d told Boyd, it was clear we weren’t going to hear it.

Did this have to do with Kris, or was Tom concerned about protecting us from someone else?

As soon as we were on our way to the Bertrams’, my cell rang. The caller ID read Pargeter.

“This is Goldy Schulz.” My voice had somehow turned high and querulous.

“Joseph Pargeter, returning your call. The office manager took your name and number, but she didn’t tell me who you were, where you were, or what your interest was in Rita Nielsen’s death.”

“I’m in Aspen Meadow, Colorado,” I said quickly, “I’m an independent citizen. I was wondering what you could tell me about Rita Nielsen.”

“And you are interested because . . . ?” he asked.

“Kris Nielsen is giving my friends and me some trouble.”

At this, Ferdinanda and Yolanda began to speak rapid-fire Spanish. Boyd glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“You’ve told the local authorities?” Pargeter asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said breezily. “My husband, Tom Schulz, is an investigator with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. But—” My mind ran over recent events: the fires at Yolanda’s rental and Ernest’s house, the discovery of a marijuana grow, the murders of Ernest McLeod and Stonewall Osgoode, the chandelier with the stolen diamonds, the files I had found in Kris’s house. I said, “Kris’s ex-girlfriend is a friend of mine.”

“Why don’t you put your husband on the line?” asked Pargeter. “I’d feel more comfortable talking to him.”