Crunch Time (14 page)

“And you’ll tell me?”

Tom crossed his arms and smiled. “If you can keep it to yourself.”

“Thanks. I’ll be down in a few.”

Once Tom had quietly closed the door, I stared at the screen.

1.
Ferdinanda:
Mid-June, victim of hit-and-run. Was she a target? If so, why? What was she doing in Denver that she won’t divulge? Or is she just naturally difficult? Hates Kris. Loved Ernest. Ask her about Humberto.

2.
Yolanda:
Beginning of July, moves in with Kris. Mid-August: VD diagnosis. He hits her with broom; she moves out. While in rental, strange things happen; she thinks Kris is stalking her but has no proof. Twice, she and Ferdinanda see shadowy form at window; makes police report. Lost job at end of August, won’t give specifics about why Humberto gave her 17K in cash, found at Ernest’s house. (Did the cash burn up? Find out.) Won’t talk about Humberto; acts evasive. August 26: Rental mysteriously burns down. Unifrutco oil can nearby. Next day, she moves in with Ernest McLeod. She claims she is afraid of some of his clients: Hermie who’s missing fingers but loves puppies; some divorce clients; Juarez, who’s missing gold and gems. Ernest decides to leave her the house. Why? After Ernest is shot, his house is burned by arsonist. Why?

3.
Humberto Captain:
Being investigated by Ernest for theft of gold and gems from family of Norm Juarez. According to Tom, HC is slimy and uncooperative. Can a little export-import store provide him with the extravagant lifestyle he is rumored to have?

4.
Kris Nielsen:
Wealthy. Tells everyone he started a company and selling it made him rich. But he drunkenly confessed to Penny Woolworth, the cleaning lady, that he had inherited wealth. Penny tried to find out more about running a business, but Kris clammed up. Tom is trying to find out name of company Kris sold. Worse than all this: Yolanda says he is obsessed with her. He was unfaithful to her, gave her VD, hit her. Is he involved in the murder of Ernest? In the fire at Ernest’s house? If so, how? And why?

5.
Brie Quarles:
Being investigated by Ernest. Why? Is she the one with the messy divorce?

6.
Hermie:
Trying to close puppy mill. Are the beagle puppies from that mill? Is this why Ernest was killed, because he had discovered it?

7.
Ernest McLeod:
Investigating Humberto. Surveilling someone with messy divorce. Following Brie Quarles. Investigating puppy mill for Hermie. Why was Ernest growing marijuana in his greenhouse? Why did Ernest change his will? Why was Ernest killed?

I stared at that last question and thought if I could figure that out, I’d know who had shot Ernest while he was walking to his non–dentist appointment. I glanced around Arch’s desk, as if looking for clues there. All I saw was the bright orange flyer he’d designed for the athletes’ lunch today:
Yes, There Is Free Lunch!
(But You Have to Have a Physical First).
And then there was a cartoon of a doctor listening to the chest of an athlete, who in turn looked longingly at a steaming plate of food that was just out of reach.
Oh, Arch,
I thought as I picked up the flyer and stuffed it into my pocket.
You must have gotten your sense of humor from Tom.
I saved and closed the computer file, then raced downstairs for breakfast.

Yolanda looked as if her night’s sleep had not rested her at all. But she didn’t complain; she merely hugged me when I came into the kitchen. Ferdinanda rolled around the kitchen with purpose, giving Yolanda staccato orders for setting the table and making coffee. I wished she would not ride Yolanda so hard, but that issue was not, as we used to say when I was growing up, any of my beeswax. Ferdinanda commanded that I make a rum sauce, the directions for which she had written out and placed next to the stove. Rum, rum . . . did we have rum?

“I found your bottle of rum in the dining room cabinet,” Ferdinanda told me, as if reading my mind. “It’s there on the counter.” And so it was. I sighed and began working on the sauce.

Tom and Boyd traipsed in and washed up. When Ferdinanda’s golden, puffed bread pudding emerged from the other oven, I was impressed. While Boyd removed the ham from the oven, Ferdinanda instructed me to pour the hot rum sauce over the bread pudding, which I did. And then we all dug in.

Ferdinanda’s dish consisted of raisin bread soaked in a spiced cream-and-egg concoction that became a rich custard when baked. The result was moist, fluffy, and luscious, especially when dripping with the hot syrup. Ferdinanda beamed when I complimented her. Boyd proudly cut each of us thick slices of the ham he had brought. We all insisted the combination of salty meat with a slightly sweet dish was perfect.

While Ferdinanda and I did the dishes, Tom and Boyd finished work on the ramp. Yolanda took care of the puppies, and I was thankful Boyd had bought more chow the previous night. With Yolanda and Ferdinanda staying there, I thought we might need more food, besides ham, that is. Once the dishes were out of the way, I nabbed an index card to start a new grocery list. Ferdinanda asked me shyly if I could pick up some guava marmalade.

“Sure. Where do you get it?”

When she described the location of an ethnic grocery in Denver, I wondered if it was the one she’d been going to when an SUV had mowed her down. Could someone have been following Ferdinanda? Why would someone do that? And was I becoming as paranoid as our two houseguests?

Yolanda came in from tending the puppies, said they were all fine, and washed her hands. Then she asked if it was all right for her to make Boyd and herself another coffee.

“Yolanda,” I replied, “you know that old
mi casa es su casa
saying? Just take whatever you want.”

“In that case,” interjected Ferdinanda as she shrugged into an old jacket of Tom’s, “I’m going to have a cigar. You know what the Mexicans say?
Después de un taco, un buen tabaco
. Except we didn’t have tacos for breakfast, we had my bread pudding. Better put on your coat, Goldy! It’s freezin’ out there.” With this, she rolled down the hall toward the front door, not into the dining room, her makeshift bedroom. Did she already have her cigars with her? I didn’t remember her bringing anything in from the van. Where did she
put
stuff? I suspected that if we turned Ferdinanda’s empty wheelchair upside down, we would shake out an umbrella, a set of false teeth, and a baby pachyderm.

A short while later, I zipped up my winter coat and accompanied Yolanda out to the front porch. I held the door open while she walked through with a tray of coffees—I’d made another decaf for myself—and the ubiquitous sugar bowl. When we arrived, Tom grinned. Boyd, with his dark crew cut, muscular body, and kind face, positively lit up. Ferdinanda, clearly happy with whatever was going on between her niece and the police officer, blew cigar smoke toward the neighbors.

As Ferdinanda had warned, the air temperature had plummeted since the previous evening. A thick gray blanket of cloud lay low over the mountains. In years past, we’d had snow in mid-September, so perhaps our short-lived Indian summer was indeed over for good.

I sat down with my latte—grateful it was unsweetened in addition to being decaffeinated—and admired the progress the men were making on the ramp. Then, quite unexpectedly, I had one of those frissons you get when you know you’re being watched, or judged, or threatened.

I put my coffee down and walked out to the center of our street. Almost from habit, I checked Jack’s empty house. The
FOR SALE
sign was still there, if slightly askew. The place looked deserted. Our bloodhound wasn’t howling; Tom and Boyd continued to work.

I shivered and did a one-eighty, right in the middle of the street. Nothing.

I pulled the sleeve up my right wrist; my skin was covered with gooseflesh. I swallowed. I’d seen a TV nature show where the narrator had been giving a discourse on the African savanna and how gazelles were “warned” by birdcalls when predators were nearby. The question being discussed in the program was, how had gazelles learned bird language? But I hadn’t heard a birdcall, because most of our birds had flown south at the end of August. What, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ferdinanda and Yolanda said in unison, “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

I recognized him from newspaper photographs: Humberto Captain.

8

“H
ello, officers!” Humberto called loudly, with a papal-style wave. Ferdinanda, Yolanda, and I were still standing in front of the windows. The two women exchanged an unreadable glance. Tom and Boyd stopped Humberto on the sidewalk, where the three of them spoke in such low tones that we couldn’t make them out.

“What do you all want to do?” I asked.

“See if they argue,” Ferdinanda replied without moving her gaze from the window.

They didn’t exactly quarrel, but the conversation did not seem to be going well. Humberto gesticulated adamantly at the house, until finally Tom accompanied him to the porch, where he admonished Humberto in a raised voice to stay put. When Tom came inside, he was shaking his head.

“He wants to know how the girls are,” Tom said. “That’s his term, not mine. And he means Yolanda and Ferdinanda, not you, Goldy.”

“Did you ask him why he called Ernest’s house last night, right before the arsonist hit?” I asked with more heat than I intended. “Did you ask him if he was the arsonist?”

Tom inhaled patiently. “Goldy, I am building a
ramp.
Last night, our guys did question Captain. He says his cell phone was stolen last week. He also says he was at home when the Molotov cocktail was being thrown at the greenhouse.” Tom lifted his chin at Ferdinanda and Yolanda. “You want to talk to him?”

“He is our . . . family friend,” Ferdinanda said. I wondered why she did not sound enthusiastic about the relationship.

Yolanda closed her eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

Well, that was not the way I would want my friends to talk about me when I dropped in, but never mind. To Tom, I said, “How’d he find out Ferdinanda and Yolanda were here?”

Tom lifted his hands in despair. “How d’you think? He called Marla very early this morning, saying he had stuff for Yolanda and Ferdinanda. Woke her up, he says. I can just imagine how popular he is with Marla right now. Let’s go out there and see how quickly we can finish this.”

Once we were all on the porch, Humberto focused his attention on Yolanda and Ferdinanda. He opened his hands in a lavish gesture. “My dear friends and countrywomen,” he began.

“Hey, Julius Caesar,” said Yolanda, her tone cool. “I was born outside of Miami.”

Humberto continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I am here to offer help.” He walked back to the black car, reached inside, and brought out a bag. He carried it to the porch and handed it to Tom.

Tom checked the contents and said, “This is nice. Cheese, crackers, and rum. Thank you.”

Humberto nodded. But then he eyed the half-empty coffee cups that sat on the wooden table between the Adirondack chairs. He pulled his mouth into a moue of distaste when he saw the shards of another cup on the porch floor. He turned to me and lifted his graying eyebrows expectantly. Well, if he thought I was going to offer him caffeine or explanations, he was mistaken. “I heard . . .” Here he faltered and cleared his throat. “I heard that the, the home where you were staying burned down last night. Ferdinanda and Yolanda, you may come and stay at my house. It is much bigger and more comfortable”—here he did his regal wave again, indicating our humble abode—“than this, I assure you.”

“We’re happy here,” said Yolanda, lifting her chin. “I’m working with Goldy, so this is convenient for us. But thanks for your offer. We’ll remember you want to
help.
” She put a peculiar emphasis on that word, which once again made me wonder exactly what was going on with Yolanda.

“I am happy to help you, Yolanda. Our families have always been friendly with each other. Our Cuban community needs to stick together, especially in times of tragedy.” When no one said anything, Humberto said, “Yolanda, if you would not like to stay at my house, allow me at least to invite you, Ferdinanda, and your kind hosts to my house on Black Bear Mountain for dinner. Shall we say, Wednesday night?”

Before Yolanda could answer, Tom said, “Fine,” his tone flat. “We’ll be there.”

Humberto drew himself up. He looked confused by Tom’s unenthusiastic acceptance of the dinner invitation. “You will remember my house, perhaps? The police were less than cooperative when I experienced a break-in not so long ago.”

Boyd lifted his eyebrows. “Would that be the break-in where your cell phone was stolen?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“No,” said Humberto, “my cell phone was taken . . . from my jacket. I told the police this. I . . . was having mojitos with a very attractive woman, and I left her for a moment . . . during that moment, the phone was taken.”

Ferdinanda shook a gnarled finger at Humberto. “You gotta lay off those mojitos, amigo.” It was her first comment since we’d all come out there. “But thank you for wanting to help your Cuban
friends.
”

Even I was surprised to hear Ferdinanda’s sarcasm, and once again, I could not figure out exactly what the dynamic was between these three.

Boyd said, “So you had
another
theft, Mr. Captain?”

Humberto was defiant. “I did. But your department was unhelpful.”

Tom said, “Mr. Captain, if you won’t tell us the details of your security system, and you won’t tell us what was taken from your house, how can we help you? How can we not feel that coming all the way up to your place and taking a report is a complete waste of time?”

Humberto straightened his shoulders, but you could see by the way his arms hung helplessly at his sides that he felt he’d failed to get whatever he wanted by coming here. He made a last stab. “So, did you find out . . . anything of interest in Ernest’s house? I mean, was there anything inside to, to tell you who burned it down?”

These were the wrong questions. Tom walked to Humberto, who shied back as if he were about to be hit. But Tom only gently took his arm. “Read the newspaper, Mr. Captain. That’s where to get the latest news. See you Wednesday.”

Humberto allowed Tom to escort him to his car, but then turned and stood steadfast for a moment, despite the bum’s rush from Tom. “Six o’clock! And, ladies! Would you like to bring a special dish on Wednesday night?”

This reminded me of a wedding invitation I’d received once, back in the bad old days when I was a doctor’s wife. It was from someone I barely knew, but this person had scrawled across the heavyweight bond,
Bring salmon salad for twelve
. Guess what didn’t happen?

“What would you like, Humberto?” asked Yolanda, solicitous. “Dessert? An appetizer?”

“An appetizer would be lovely,” he replied, smoothing back his long salt-and-pepper hair.

“I’ll fix my famous spinach quiche,” Ferdinanda hollered as he got into his car. “It’s part Italian and part French. I used to make it for the rich people who came into the café in Havana. Now that you’re a rich person, it will be perfect!”

Humberto pretended he did not hear. His long black car pulled away smoothly from the curb, and he was gone. I knew export-import businesses could be profitable, but I did wonder if they could enable you to afford a house on Black Bear Mountain or a top-of-the-line Mercedes.

Yolanda and I made serious inroads on the packing up that is an essential part of any catering undertaking. I asked her once if she knew what Humberto did for money, but she said only what I already knew about his business. I wanted to ask her about Tom’s insinuation that Humberto had had a hand in a big jewelry theft, but since Tom hadn’t brought it up again, I didn’t feel I had permission to jump in.

We worked feverishly against the clock. But leaving on time was not to be, alas. I figured I must have unconsciously put out a karmic sign to the universe that day, one that said, “Open house today! Please drop in to ask for anything you want before eight in the morning.”

When Yolanda and I were packing the last box for the school’s buffet lunch, the doorbell rang again. Jake and the six remaining beagle puppies started howling. I wondered where I’d put our headache medication.

Yolanda gave me another one of her fearful looks.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If it was someone untrustworthy, Tom and Boyd would have stopped him or her.” But I raced down the hall anyway.

I looked through the peephole at a fortyish woman. At first I couldn’t place her, but then I remembered: This small, mousy-looking lady with brown eyes like tiny buttons and a cap of short, straight, dyed brown hair was Penny Woolworth, Marla’s and Kris Nielsen’s cleaning lady. Last night, Marla had told Tom that she’d ask if Penny would take three of the puppies. I couldn’t open the door fast enough.

“Hey, Penny, come into the kitchen. I’m catering today, and—”

“What’s Ferdinanda doing out on your front porch?” she asked. “Why are your husband and that other man building a ramp? Is it for her?”

Well, great.
Was Yolanda in danger? If Ferdinanda spent most of every day on the front porch, smoking cigars and monitoring the goings-on in the neighborhood, then it really wouldn’t be long before the whole town knew they were at our place. Humberto Captain, obviously in a hurry to find out where Yolanda and Ferdinanda had taken up residence, had gone right to the source: Marla, early in the morning and without caffeine. I made a mental note to call my best friend and tell her not to give the news to anyone else.

I tried to think of what to say as I hung up Penny’s coat. Penny did, after all, work for Kris Nielsen. Was there any way to prevent her from finding out exactly why Ferdinanda was outside? Was Yolanda still in the kitchen? That would not be such a big deal. Still, between the kitchen and the dining room, there was only a swing door. I gestured for Penny to precede me back down the hall. Unfortunately, as she walked into the kitchen, she quick-stepped over to the dining room door and swung it open. When she saw Yolanda making up the cots, Penny turned and faced me, her mouth formed into an O of surprise.

“Penny!” I exclaimed. “What the hell? Do I come into your house and nose around?”

She blushed scarlet. “I was just trying to—”

“Yeah, I know what you were just trying to do.” I forced myself to soften my tone as I pointed to the far end of the kitchen. “Meet me over there.” When we were by the back door, I said, “Please
don’t
tell Kris they’re staying here.”

“He says he loves Yolanda more than life itself,” Penny whispered. She crossed her small arms over her chest. “He’s not a bad person, really, I mean, not really,
really
bad, he just has a hard time being faithful—”

“Penny?” I said, interrupting. “You want to keep your job with Marla, don’t you?”

She gave me an angry frown. “All right! I won’t tell Kris she’s here. You don’t have to threaten me. And anyway, Zeke and I have been talking about getting some dogs just forever.”

My heart warmed toward her. “You’re helping us by taking the dogs.”

She hugged her sides in anticipation. “Won’t Zeke be surprised when he hears I’ve adopted
three
beagles?”

I merely smiled and said, “Yolanda and I are about to leave for our catering assignment. Would you like to take a latte with you?”

I ground more coffee beans while Yolanda packed up the dogs, along with a can of Jake’s food and some old towels I’d given her to line the cardboard box. She began weeping when she handed the container to Penny.

Penny, misreading the situation, said, “Kris will take you back, Yolanda.” She heaved up the box, sending it slightly askew. The puppies slid sideways in the box and began whining. “No worries. I’ve got them. Look, Yolanda, Kris really misses—”

“I don’t care about Kris! I’m just sad to lose the dogs, Penny,” Yolanda said, dashing the tears from her eyes. “They belonged to a friend.”

“Oh?” Penny was immediately curious. “Who?”

I set the wand to steam Penny’s milk on High. This was a neat trick to drown out conversation, because it sounded as if the space shuttle was taking off in the kitchen. Yolanda gave me a grateful glance while I pulled the shots. I quickly poured Penny’s latte into a paper cup, and was glad when Tom and Boyd tromped into the kitchen to say the ramp was done and they were leaving.

“Let’s us go, too!” I cried merrily as I used my non-latte-holding hand to grab Penny’s arm, the way that Tom had taken Humberto Captain’s. I stopped Penny in front of the hall closet, where she put down the box. I helped her into her coat. She gave a curious glance back at the kitchen before again picking up her box of dogs. “Yolanda,” I said over my shoulder, “could you open the front door so Penny can walk to her car without having to put down the box again? I don’t want to spill her coffee.” Yolanda did so, and soon Penny and I were outside, where the chill seemed to be deepening by the minute.

“Goldy, just tell me,” Penny said as she scrambled along beside me down our walk, “who had these dogs before you? I mean, why do you have so many? What’s the big secret?”

“There’s no secret.” I noticed she had no purse. “Where are your keys?”

“Coat pocket.”

I rummaged around in Penny’s pocket and pulled out a tangle of keys. After opening her Jeep door, I placed the latte in the cup holder, took the box of puppies from her, and laid them on the passenger-side floor. In back were all manner of brooms, mops, and vacuum cleaners. Once again, I felt immensely sorry for her. It wasn’t her fault her husband was a criminal; she’d been forced by his car kleptomania into a brutal schedule of housecleaning.

“All right, Penny,” I said. “They belonged to a friend who used to be a cop. He adopted them . . . and then he . . . died suddenly.”

“
That
sucks.” This seemed to satisfy her, as she got behind the wheel. “Well, I gotta go if I’m going to get these puppies home and then be at my first job.”

“Wait. Penny? I need to ask you something. What day do you work for Kris Nielsen?”

She tucked in her tiny chin. “Why?”

“I just want to know who will be taking care of the dogs that day.”

“Thursday,” she replied. “Look, Goldy. I work every day. The dogs will be fine in our fenced backyard over in Spruce. If it snows, I’ll put them in the basement. You don’t believe me, you can come over on Thursday and check on them. Kris usually does his shopping that day, so I can get finished in just a few hours.”