Otto Newgate and his grandmother were among the last to leave. Charlene had expertly wrapped a scarf around her head. She lifted that chin of hers and pulled her fur around her, Tallulah Bankhead bidding me a grand farewell. Otto held on to his wide stomach. He looked absolutely miserable.
Outside, the rain had completely turned to snow. An astonishing six inches had already accumulated on the school’s football field. The pavement, which had been slightly warmer, only had about four inches of white stuff, but the snow was falling even harder than it had been when we came down from Aspen Meadow.
“We’d better hurry,” Yolanda said as she heaved one of our boxes into the van. “I’m worried about Ferdinanda.”
Ferdinanda! “Oh, dear,” I said as I pushed in my last box. “I promised her I’d go to an ethnic grocery store and get her some guava marmalade, or preserves, I can’t remember which. Do you know?”
Yolanda said, “I sure do. Want to let me drive?”
With a check from the school stuffed into my pocket, I relaxed, finally, in the passenger seat. Yolanda revved the van engine and got in line to exit the school parking lot. I was stunned by the amount of snow we were getting, but knew there was nothing we could do about it. It was while I was looking out the window that I saw something else that astonished me. Charlene and her grandson were getting into a car, hers, apparently, because she was easing herself into the driver’s seat. The bumper sticker read, SECRETARIES DO IT BEHIND THE DESK.
It was a 7-series BMW. That was some boyfriend.
It took longer than either Yolanda or I would have imagined to get to the Capitol Hill area of Denver and the ethnic grocery store. Even though Denverites are used to driving in snow, the first snowfall of the season, whether it comes in September, October, or even November, invariably paralyzes the city. Plus, since it was technically still summer, I doubted most folks had given a thought to snow tires, which slowed them down even more. Still, we eventually arrived at the store, which was called merely Ethnic Foods. Their parking lot was almost full. This told me that people had convinced themselves that they absolutely had to have their picante sauce and caviar if they were going to be snowed in, whether it was for a day or a week.
“Was it near here that Ferdinanda was hit?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Yes. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Yolanda pointed me in the direction of the jams and said Ferdinanda liked guava marmalade. She said she needed sour pickles and would meet me at the front. I snagged a basket, found guava marmalade, and put it in my basket. Mission accomplished, I headed toward the row of cash registers, eager to get home before rush hour.
And we would have made it, maybe, if a huge crash, shattering, and tinkling of breaking glass, plus a lot of screaming, had not emerged from one aisle over.
“Get away from me!” Yolanda screamed. “Who sent you? Why did you bump into me? To scare me? Did Kris send you to hurt me?” There were more explosions and splinterings of glass. I rushed toward the ruckus.
“Stop it!” a male voice pleaded. Wait, that was a voice I knew, didn’t I? “You’re not acting logically,” the man said, his voice raised. “Stop hitting me! I don’t want to hurt you!”
“I’m calling the police!” Yolanda shrieked.
I raced toward the source of the racket. It was hard to see what was going on, because light reflected off a field of glass shards. The acrid scent of brine made me pull back. What looked like at least twenty broken jars of pickles and olives were strewn everywhere. Yolanda, stricken, was holding herself flat against the pickle shelves. And on the floor, disheveled, drenched in pickle juice and olive brine, his face red with mortification, was the man who loved to cook with genuine kalamata olives, our very large, very Greek, Saint Luke’s parish priest, Father Pete.
“Yolanda, it’s all right,” I said soothingly. “This is our priest. Our rector. It’s okay.” I realized I was still gripping my basket, which I put on the floor.
“He pushed me. He bumped into me hard, on purpose,” she said. She pressed her lips together, perhaps realizing that a priest would not intentionally hurt her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you,” said Father Pete. “I was reading a label, and I thought I barely touched you. Okay, look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. I’m absentminded. Mea culpa.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Yolanda, her voice still trembling.
“I can vouch for this man,” I said to Yolanda as soothingly as possible. I turned to our poor rector, who was, indeed, absentminded, and renowned for trying to do two things at once, like backing up and reading a label. Usually, like this time, he failed at both undertakings. “Father Pete, are you all right?” I swallowed. “Can I help you get up?”
Father Pete grunted. “I’m fine. I can get up on my own.” He brushed his dark, curly hair away from his face and groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. He then tried to step around the olives and pickles littering the aisle. A clerk appeared, a cell phone in one hand and a mop in the other. She looked from one person in our little trio to the other, waiting for direction.
“It’s all right,” I told her, trying to sound authoritative. “We had a little mix-up here. Sorry about the mess.”
“If everyone would just leave the aisle,” she said miserably, “I can clean up.”
So we did, and Father Pete, who looked much worse than Yolanda, wanted to know if we were all right. Father Pete seemed particularly concerned about Yolanda, whom he tried to help away from the pickles, where she remained flattened. She bristled at his touch.
“I’ve known Father Pete myself for several years,” I murmured to her. “He’s a good man. Please come out of the aisle, so the grocery lady can clean up.”
Yolanda moved away, finally, after picking up her brine-soaked purse and taking two jars of pickles, which she clutched in each hand like weapons. I nabbed my basket and headed toward the cash registers. Father Pete abandoned his cart.
While Yolanda paid for her merchandise, Father Pete whispered to me, “I promise, Goldy, I didn’t hurt her.”
“I know, Father Pete,” I replied. “She’s a little touchy these days.” While Yolanda talked to the cashier, I lowered my voice even further, thinking I would try to explain the situation to Father Pete. “Do you happen to know Kris Nielsen?” I asked. Oops, I thought. I had not received Yolanda’s permission to talk about her problems with Father Pete.
“Oh, Kris is wonderful.” Father Pete’s tone was suddenly warm, and he gave me the benefit of his benevolent brown eyes. “He’s been very generous to the parish, and he’s always trying to help those in need. Why?”
“He’s a member?” I had never once seen Kris Nielsen at Saint Luke’s. I looked up at Yolanda, who was watching me talk to Father Pete. I signaled that I’d be there in a moment, and she went back to talking to the cashier.
“He’s not officially a member,” Father Pete replied. “He travels a lot with his work, so he can’t come on Sundays.”
What work? I wondered. Kris didn’t work. Maybe he wanted to sleep in on Sundays. I said, “And what do you mean, Kris is always trying to help those in need?”
“Oh, my! He outfitted our Sunday school rooms with all new furniture. He bought a lovely rug for the parish meeting room—”
“You said he helped those in need,” I reminded him. “Like, people.”
Father Pete straightened. “Yes, yes. A couple of months ago, he called because he was looking into convalescent facilities in Denver. I can tell you about this, without giving any names, since you ask. Anyway, Kris said he knew an elderly woman who belonged in a nursing home. He was willing to foot the entire bill. But this woman’s great-niece, who was a dear friend of his, could not see the problem. So Kris said he needed me to step in. I asked him if the elderly woman was of sound mind. Kris said she was not. I asked if a doctor would sign off on the elderly woman’s mental incompetence, and Kris said, ‘Oh, well, she’s very clever, she could fool anyone.’
I told him I probably couldn’t aid him, then, and he was saddened by that, because he clearly wanted to help his friend, the great-niece.”
I said, “Clearly.” Yeah, right. I wanted to tell him about the venereal disease, about the broomstick attack, about the possibility that Kris had been stalking Yolanda. But I knew that both Yolanda and Father Pete would not want me to. “Father Pete, I wonder if you could keep this whole incident in the grocery store between us? You, me, Yolanda, the pickles, and the olives?”
Father Pete’s look of puzzlement was replaced by what I thought of as his smooth, pastoral expression. If I wanted him to keep something quiet, that was exactly what he would do. “Do you and Tom still want me to take in some rescue puppies?”
I rocked back on my heels. I’d forgotten that Father Pete was our last adoptive parent for Ernest’s dogs. “Yes, please, oh, yes.” I looked outside at the snow, now a raging blizzard. We’d be lucky to get home without incident. “Will tomorrow be all right?”
“Of course,” said Father Pete, brightening. “I have a four-wheel-drive vehicle, if this snow becomes too much.” He held his hand up to Yolanda, as if to bid her a fond farewell. Then he leaned into me, while he continued to smile at Yolanda. In his low voice again, he said, “I think your friend needs professional help.”
10
I tried to keep my teeth from chattering as we dashed to the van. Neither of us had worn a jacket that was thick enough. It was my fault; I should have packed us each a down parka and a pair of waterproof boots. I guess I really hadn’t believed that a storm of this magnitude could happen in the middle of September. Clearly, I’d been in denial.
There was no denying this, though: Heaven was blowing snow down on us with unmitigated ferocity. I piloted the van to Eighth Avenue and headed west. Traffic was heavy. It was just past five, so we were in the full grip of rush hour. All around, taillights glowed like rubies in the mist.
Every now and then, the snow would sift downward in a straight, fast-falling curtain. Most of the time the wind buffeted the tiny flakes crazily, first from one side, then from the other. The drivers around us braked carefully, even allowed people in when they turned. In general, Coloradans try to help one another during storms, for which I was thankful.
I asked Yolanda if she was all right, and she said she was fine. She was shivering, though, so I insisted she snuggle under an old blanket kept stashed in the van’s back. She nabbed it and wrapped it around herself.
The radio announced that a genuine winter storm was upon us. Gee, d’ya think? Denver was due to get high winds and up to a foot of snow by midnight. Up to eighteen inches was predicted for the mountains, including Aspen Meadow. People with four-wheel-drive vehicles were asked to bring doctors to local hospitals, in case they were needed. Some ski resorts, the announcer breathlessly concluded, were hoping to open in October. At least some people were happy.
The van inched westward. I gripped the steering wheel while trying to make out the shapes of the cars around us. I hoped, but did not really believe, that Gus’s grandparents would cancel the dinner they’d planned for the boys. I tried Arch’s cell but was connected to voice mail. I left him a message asking that he call when he was on his way home.
“Would it be all right if we phoned Ferdinanda?” Yolanda asked.
“Of course.” I handed her the cell.
A moment later, Yolanda was talking to Ferdinanda, once again in Spanish. I understood “¿Cuándo?” and “¿Marla?” and “Tres,” and that was about it. Eventually, she promised we’d be home in about an hour, if we were lucky, two if we weren’t. Or at least, that’s what my limited command of the language made out.
“Ferdinanda’s fine,” Yolanda informed me. “So are the puppies. When it got cold this afternoon, she brought them inside and cuddled them in her lap. Oh, and three people came to your house.”
“Three people? All together? Or one after another?”
“I got the impression they were all together. Judging from the way they were dressed, she thought they might be from a real estate agency. But she wasn’t sure. Anyway, she didn’t answer the doorbell, because she was afraid that if they were bad people—her words—they could overpower a person in a wheelchair and come inside and rob the place.” I glanced over. Yolanda was rubbing her forehead. “I know, I know. She’s paranoid.”
I thought, She’s not the only one, O smasher of pickle jars, but said only, “Somehow, I think Ferdinanda could handle three people. Was there something in there about Marla?”
“Yes, she called, and Ferdinanda answered that one. You’re supposed to return the call ASAP. Ferdinanda says there might be other messages on your machine, but she’s afraid to mess with voice mail. She’s not exactly a technological whiz,” Yolanda said apologetically.
“Don’t worry about it.” I asked her to hit the speed dial for Marla, and a moment later, I felt relieved to be connected with my best friend. But if I expected succor after my long day of running around, catering, and surviving an ethnic grocery donnybrook, I was mistaken.
She began with, “Where the hell have you been all day?”
“Down in Denver at Arch’s school, then at an ethnic grocery store, why?”
“An ethnic grocery store? Buying what?”
“Guava marmalade and sour pickles, Marla. Now, what’s going on? If you have an emergency, why didn’t you call my cell?”
“It’s not really an emergency. Or group of emergencies, rather. I just kept thinking you’d be home. Well, first. I wanted to tell you I’d given Yolanda’s location to Humberto Captain. I’m so sorry. He woke me up early this morning, and the phone discombobulated me. He insisted he had some things for Ferdinanda and Yolanda, and that he just couldn’t wait. Was that okay?”
“The ship on that one has sailed, Marla. He did come over this morning. Early. But Tom was still there. And what he had was a care package.” I eyed Yolanda, but she was looking out the window at the falling snow. “Please, please don’t tell anyone else she’s staying with us.”
“All right, all right. Sorry,” Marla mumbled.
“While we’re on the subject of this person, ah, that you just mentioned—”
“Oops! You’ve got Yolanda right there next to you?”
“Yes. I need you to find out what he does for a living. Where he gets his money, to be more exact.”
Marla said, “I thought he owned a little export-import business.”
“Besides that, if anything.”
“Ooh, juicy. I’ll work on it. I thought he didn’t do anything, really, besides just, you know, acting rich. Well, never mind, I’ll dig into it.”
“Thanks.”
She went on. “Couple more things I need to talk to you about. Rorry Breckenridge called me. She only has your home phone number. I figured you’d be mad at me for telling Humberto where Yolanda was, so I didn’t give Rorry your cell.” Marla waited to be congratulated for this odd bit of illogic. When I said nothing, she rushed on. “Rorry’s frantic. She’s had to add four people to the dinner tomorrow night, you know, the one that raises money for the church? She wanted to make sure that was okay.”
“Does this include the two extra people that Sean already told me about?”
“Don’t know. She said it would be eighteen people total.”
“Omigod.” This did include the two Sean had added. So now we were up to eighteen people for the church’s fund-raising dinner, and it was snowing like gangbusters, which would mean no way to get extra supplies. I groaned.
“You don’t sound happy,” Marla said.
“I’m not.” I mentally reviewed what I was making for the dinner. Back when we’d thought it would be held on a warm September evening—ha!—and that the twelve guests—ha! ha!—would be eating outside—ha! ha! ha!—Rorry Breckenridge and I had agreed on an assortment of cheeses, crackers, and fruit for a first course; lamb chops with garlic, mint jelly, salades composées, and hot rosemary focaccia for the main course; and a flourless chocola
te cake for dessert. I calculated what was in the walk-in. I could thaw some more lamb chops and stretch out the salad ingredients I already had on hand. But I’d have to make an extra cake and an extra loaf of bread. This was not my idea of fun.
“Goldy?” Marla said. “You there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking about how to readjust my menu.”
“No need for that. Rorry told me that Sean insisted that one of the guests was willing to pay an extra thousand dollars if you’d make Navajo tacos.”
“Navajo tacos?” I asked, incredulous. I said flatly, “Navajo tacos are not gourmet food. Besides, I don’t have a recipe.”
“Oh, so what if it’s not something a French chef would serve? And call Julian for a recipe. Didn’t he come from Bluff, Utah? Isn’t that in the middle of Navajoland?”
“Yes, but Navajo tacos have meat in them, and Julian’s a vegetarian—”
“Details, girlfriend.”
“All right, all right! I’ll figure out how to do it,” I said, “since it’s for the church.”
“That’s the stuff.”
I said, “Do you know the names of the people she’s adding, by any chance?”
“Well, the four she added today are Humberto Captain and a date, and Tony Ramos and his wife.”
“Who?”
“Goldy, jeez, are you not getting a cell phone signal down there? You didn’t think I’d have her tell me about four extra people, and that I would say I’d call you, until I knew who these folks were, did you?”
“Sorry to be grumpy. Is that it?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “I heard through the grapevine that Jack’s house sold today.”
“Jack’s—” I couldn’t breathe. I actually braked, even though we’d entered Sixth Avenue westbound, which was an expressway with no red lights. Luckily, no one honked, and I accelerated cautiously. If Jack’s house sold, then that would mean he was really gone. “Do you know who bought it?”
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