“Trudy didn’t see anything.” He sounded discouraged. “We asked her—”
“She can’t see our garage from her place,” I interrupted. “Did she tell you any more about the three people?”
“Just a description. Older couple, both brown-haired, with a gray-haired woman who said she was a real estate agent. But she wasn’t wearing a badge and wouldn’t give Trudy a card. They were only interested in talking to you, but they wouldn’t say why.”
I let this sink in—again. “Can you find out who bought Jack’s house?”
“I can try. Sometimes that kind of thing takes a few days, though, if the agent gives us a hard time or the sale hasn’t closed. Anything else?”
“Well, I wanted to let you know an odd thing that happened.” I waited for him to say what he usually did, which was that odd things were always happening to me. But he didn’t, so I related the story of Yolanda going Chernobyl with Father Pete at the ethnic grocery. “He thought she was certifiable,” I concluded. “Poor thing. She’s been through too much.”
“After the surprised way Kris Nielsen acted this morning when you confronted him?” Tom said. “Does this second incident make you even wonder if Yolanda might be exaggerating the stalking phenomenon? I mean, I know, he was unfaithful and gave her a sexually transmitted disease and hit her with a broomstick. And those things are awful. But—”
“If somebody did all that to me,” I said, “I’d be scared to death.”
“You’re right. But . . . do you believe her?”
“Yes,” I said, but I could hear the uncertainty in my voice. “You?”
“I never believe anyone, Miss G. But I can hold both possibilities in my head. Yolanda is exaggerating and stretching the truth. Yolanda is telling the truth and we’re dealing with a dangerous guy.”
I considered this. “There’s something else I want to tell you. This Peter kid Arch mentioned? The one with leukemia?”
He pulled me close. “Yeah?”
“It made me think, Tom. Ernest was getting thin. He hired Yolanda to cook for him. He invited her to stay in his home, and in exchange all he wanted was meals. He was growing marijuana in his greenhouse. He changed his will all of a sudden, leaving the place to Yolanda—”
“You’re on the right track, Miss G. Our preliminary autopsy indicates he had esophageal cancer.”
Ice formed in my chest. “That poor man. Why do you suppose he kept on working, doing investigations?”
“Some people don’t want others to know they’re terminal, because they don’t want pity. The investigations were probably what was keeping him alive. They were giving him a sense of purpose.”
“And we don’t know where his files are.”
“Except for the one with his will, they burned, Miss G. Forgot to tell you. The fire guys said Yolanda’s seventeen K is toast, too.”
I sighed. “Still, I know that money’s an issue. Why Humberto gave it to her, and what she’s going to do now, besides work for me. But with the filing: Wouldn’t Ernest have had a backup system of some sort?”
“Not necessarily. Ernest was old-school.” Tom exhaled. “Speaking of which, his former partner, John Bertram, isn’t in very good shape. Not because of Ferdinanda whacking him, but because he didn’t know Ernest was sick. He’s having a hell of a dose of survivor’s guilt, I can tell you. We’re having a get-together at their house on Thursday night, you know, the way we do. We’re going to share our recollections of Ernest—”
“I want to help,” I interjected. “And I’m sure Yolanda and Ferdinanda will want to, too. Did John Bertram even know that two women were living in Ernest’s house?”
“Nope. But remember, Yolanda and Ferdinanda hadn’t been there that long.” Tom exhaled. “You might as well know the rest. It looks like Ernest’s body was moved. He was shot in the chest, near the fire road that goes behind John Bertram’s garage. Then he was pulled out of sight of the main road, behind a boulder. As far as we can tell, Ernest wasn’t armed.”
“What was he doing back there?”
“We don’t know. There’s no path going from his house to where we found him. Our theory is that he heard or felt someone following him along the main road, so he ducked down the fire department’s wide dirt trail, which most people don’t even know about. Then when he thought he was safe, he started walking back toward the main road. Whoever was waiting for him jumped out and shot him with a thirty-eight.”
“Shell casings?”
“They’re working on a match now.”
I said, “Were there defensive wounds? I mean, if Ernest struggled with our bald guy, and the bald guy wanted to know what Ernest was up to or what he had discovered, maybe the perp would have tortured him.”
“No defensive wounds. His wallet and anything else he had on him are gone. But it wasn’t a burglary, apparently, or somebody wouldn’t have thought to come back to torch his house. We’re thinking the motive was to shut him up. About what, we don’t know yet.”
“What about Humberto? Does he have an alibi?”
“More or less. His guards are vouching for him, but our guys who interviewed them say they had rum on their breath, and it’s clear they spend most of their time down in the gatehouse that’s outside the high fence surrounding Humberto’s property. So that may not mean much. No matter what, there’s not evidence for a warrant. Kris Nielsen claims he was having brunch in Denver. He paid cash and kept the receipt.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Something else about Kris Nielsen. This summer, he called Father Pete and said he was trying to get an elderly woman involuntarily committed to an institution. The woman sounded like Ferdinanda, and it made me wonder more about Kris Nielsen.”
Tom exhaled. “He has financial resources, no question. As does Humberto Captain. We just don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Plus, we don’t yet know if Marla’s story about Brie Quarles is true, but we’re going to talk again to Brie. Our guys are still checking the scene and Ernest’s house, or what’s left of it. Maybe they’ll find something.”
“I hope so.” A cramp had spread from my chest to the pit of my stomach. Ignoring it, I asked, “How about the pictures you took of the puppies? Did you get any information from one of our town veterinarians?”
Tom sighed. “This past summer? A hiker brought a small beagle puppy that was bleeding into one of our local guys. The puppy was female but hadn’t been spayed.” Tom paused. “The puppy had some buckshot in its backside.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, the little gal made a full recovery. The veterinarian offered to put it up for adoption, but the hiker said he wanted to adopt the thing, that it was karma. Or dogma, whichever you prefer.”
“Who would shoot a puppy?” I asked.
“There are bad people out there, Miss G., in case I need to remind you. My question is, what was a puppy doing out on a remote hiking trail? If the hiker hadn’t found her, she would have died, that’s for sure. The vet said the hiker was a real animal lover, and that he went back to the same trail the next day, looking for more casualties. He didn’t find any, but he did hear gunfire.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” My stomach clenched again.
“Miss G., relax,” said Tom, reading my mind. “The vet is going to look through his files to see if he recorded who this hiker was and where he lives. We’ll talk to him.” Tom pulled me closer. “And for now? We’re in our own house, the security system is set, and there are two cops under this roof.”
“I think Boyd is developing an attachment to Yolanda,” I whispered. “That’s not going to screw up the investigation, is it?”
“It didn’t hurt the investigation when I developed an attachment to you when there was an attempted poisoning at a party you catered, now, did it?”
The next morning, we were awakened by the sound of water trickling through our gutters. As quickly as it had come, the evidence of the blizzard was disappearing. I pulled back the curtains and looked outside. The sun shone
through sprays of drops, spangling our bedroom wall with rainbows. Melting clumps of snow were already dropping from our street’s pines and aspens, and a recognizable thump on our deck indicated the load of snow on our roof had thawed enough for the whole thing to slide off. Shining rivulets of water snaked down the middle of the street. I was pretty sure Arch would have school. Would Brad be there? Would Tom be able to find Hermie? I wondered.
I also wondered how the fencers’ bald looks would go over.
I didn’t dwell on these thoughts. Instead, more sinister worries surfaced, like memories of nightmares: In the darkness, did the cops get a good enough photo of our would-be burglar’s boot prints to match them absolutely to the ones at Ernest’s house? Did that same guy break into our garage and steal Tom’s gun? And how would the guy know where Tom kept the gun? Who were the three people who came to our door yesterday, and what did they want? And in a buyer’s market, who would purchase the house Jack had gutted, when he’d intended to remodel it and it looked horrible? The house has only been for sale for a few weeks. So what gives with that?
Am I being paranoid, or does someone want to keep an eye on us? If so, why?
The answers to none of these were forthcoming. I allowed the thoughts to drain away as I moved through my yoga routine. The scent of ham drifted up the stairs.
When Tom finished shaving, he came out and sniffed. “Sure smells like someone’s cooking a super breakfast again! When Ferdinanda gets out of her wheelchair, maybe we could move her and Yolanda into our basement.” He winked. “Not that your breakfasts aren’t fabulous, Miss G. It’s just good to have a break now and then.”
“From me?”
“You need a break from cooking. I thought I heard Arch moving around.” His forehead furrowed. “Wonder if anyone woke up Boyd?”
But someone had. In the kitchen, the newly bald Arch sat next to Ferdinanda and across from Boyd and Yolanda. In front of my son was a plate of ham, eggs, and a slab of toasted Cuban bread spread with guava marmalade. He was forking in food while asking Ferdinanda questions.
“So you don’t really inhale the cigar smoke?” he said around a mouthful.
“You inhale it a little,” Ferdinanda replied. “You gotta get the taste.”
Rather too loudly, I said, “Hello?”
“I’m just asking her, Mom.” Arch shoveled in more food, then announced, “I checked online, and we do have classes today. There wasn’t enough snow to close a school of fish. Speaking of pets, how cool are those three puppies, Mom? Why didn’t you tell me about them?”
“We were being foster parents for a day. Father Pete’s coming to get them this morning. Speaking of which, did anyone take care of them this morning? Food, water, and the rest?”
Arch said, “I did, Mom. And Sergeant Boyd came outside with me while we were in the backyard.” My son turned his attention to Tom. “I can’t drive my car, though, right? I mean, isn’t the garage still a crime scene?”
“Yes, it is. Sorry, buddy. It’ll probably just be for today. I can drive you down there, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Arch replied. “I’ll manage. Wait, I can call Gus. His grandparents felt really bad that they couldn’t get their car up our hill, so I know they’ll want to take me.” He turned to Ferdinanda and Yolanda. “Thanks for breakfast. It was super.” And then, bringing joy to my heart, he hugged first Yolanda, then Ferdinanda, who both grinned widely.
When the Vikarioses arrived, Tom walked Arch out to their van. Boyd rubbed the top of his unfashionable crew cut. For a moment, I wondered if he, too, wished he were bald. But Boyd said only, “You’ve got a good kid there, Goldy.”
Yolanda said, “You’ve got a great kid.”
“Hoh-kay,” said Ferdinanda as she wheeled toward the stove. “Next shift. And I don’t want anybody getting in my way!”
Since arguing with Ferdinanda never got me anywhere, I merely fixed hot lattes for everyone else. I usually didn’t change from iced caffeinated drinks to hot ones until October, but since cold and snow had made an early appearance, I thought it was time. When Tom returned, he and Boyd told Yolanda, who again looked exhausted, to stay put while they cleared Arch’s detritus and set the table for the five of us. While the ham and eggs cooked, I spooned a bit of guava marmalade onto my plate and tasted it. It was sweet. But it had a distinctive taste, and I thought I could use it in an American-style coffee cake. I wanted to experiment, because I had some thinking and phone-calling to do, and I did those best while working with food.
Ferdinanda’s scrambled eggs were studded with chopped ham and sliced, caramelized onions. She’d added something else to them—whipping cream, I thought, or butter—that gave them an ineffable creaminess. She’d used the last of the Cuban bread to make a crunchy toast that she’d cooked in a frying pan—in some more butter. Every bite was heaven. I told her that the whole point of being the guest in someone’s home was that the host took care of the guests, not vice versa. She said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and asked me for the marmalade.
“Now I’m going on the porch to have a cigar,” she said as she pushed away from the table. “You don’t want me to do the dishes, I won’t.”
“I’m coming with you,” Boyd announced. He stood up.
“Nah, I don’t need you!” she called over her shoulder. “I’m ready for anything, I told you! Do you think I survived with Raul and the army, up in the mountains, because I was a wimp?”
“I’m just keeping you company,” said Boyd mildly as he opened the front door for her.
We called our thanks to her as she rolled outside.
“When does she see the doctor again about her leg?” asked Tom, sotto voce.
“Our calendar burned up in Ernest’s house,” Yolanda replied. She looked at the ceiling. “Along with the seventeen thousand in cash, the fireman says. We were in too much of a hurry, with the fire and the puppies, I just forgot about the money.” She sighed. “I’m getting used to starting over. But anyway, I’m going to have to call the doctor and find out when Ferdinanda’s appointment is. It might even be today. I’ve been so frazzled, I haven’t kept track.”
Once Tom had left, Boyd stayed outside with Ferdinanda. Every now and then as Yolanda and I did the dishes, we would peek out at them. With Ferdinanda smoking, Boyd shoveled our sidewalk, the steps to the porch, and the ramp. When he came around back to clean off the deck, he rolled Ferdinanda in front of him. She complained the whole way. We could hear her through the walls.
When Yolanda and I finished the dishes, she asked if she could use our phone so she could try to reach Ferdinanda’s doctor. I replied that she could, and she didn’t need to ask. If she could just use the house phone, I said, I could keep the business line clear, in case clients called.
When she retired to the dining room with the phone, I removed the extra lamb chops from the freezer for the Breckenridges’ party. Then I checked that we had plenty of garlic and said a silent prayer of thanks that we did. So now I was going to think and cook.
I buttered and floured two pans and preheated the oven. Then I pulled out unsalted butter, sugar, flour, sour cream, leavening, vanilla extract, a lemon, an orange, and the guava marmalade. As I creamed the butter and sugar, I ran all the questions about the case through my head. Tom thought Ernest had been murdered to shut him up. With Ernest’s house then burned to the ground, whatever evidence might have been in there was gone—more shutting up.
I sifted flour, salt, and leavenings, then zested a lemon and an orange and minced the result. What had Ernest found out that would make him have to be killed to shut him up? There were lots of possibilities but no certainties. If the motive was to keep something quiet, did the shooter question Ernest, to see if he knew something? Because if so, you’d expect signs of a struggle, and there weren’t any. Maybe the shooter already knew what it was?
I stirred the vanilla, zests, and marmalade into the batter, then carefully folded in the dry ingredients. I divided the batter between the two pans an
d placed them in the oven.
Ernest McLeod had been a good man, in addition to being kind and generous. Somehow, I felt as if Yolanda was holding out on me, but I had no clue how to elicit information from her. She seemed like a deer perpetually caught in the headlights, and the stabbing of a Peeping Tom the night before was not going to make her any less nervous.
Yolanda returned to the kitchen and announced that as she feared, Ferdinanda’s follow-up doctor’s visit was that afternoon, just when we would have the big push for the Breckenridges’ dinner. In catering terms, this meant right now, it was Crunch Time.
We began in earnest on the menu for that evening’s dinner: Rorry was providing cheeses, crackers, and fruit for people to munch on while they drank wine, which was being provided by a parishioner. Thank goodness Marla was bringing beer to go with the Navajo tacos. We would have to do the fry bread for the tacos on the spot, Yolanda said, because that was how it tasted best. But we could sauté the ground beef and seasonings, plus chop the tomatoes and lettuce in advance. I thanked the Lord we had iceberg lettuce, and plenty of it, because I’d meant to use it to make lettuce cups for the Caprese salad but then decided not to at the last minute. The ingredients for the salades composées, along with the flourless chocolate cakes, were already in the walk-in.
Yolanda and I swiftly divided the prep duties. She would work on the ingredients for the composed salads. I pulled the focaccia dough out of the refrigerator and set it aside to rise. Next I minced the garlic in the blender.
With a sinking heart, I sautéed the ground beef with taco seasoning. Maybe it wasn’t haute cuisine, but a client’s eccentricities were not my problem, I always told myself. As the beef sizzled in the pan, I chopped a mountain of lettuce, another one of tomatoes, and a final one of scallions. Yolanda finished the salad ingredients and made a large bowl of guacamole. Finally, I grated so much cheddar I thought my knuckles were going to give out. Still, when we were done, Yolanda insisted we stand back and admire our work. It helped.
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