The doorbell rang, startling both of us. Boyd looked in from the deck, held up his hand for us to stay put, then rolled Ferdinanda into the kitchen.
“This is too much,” she muttered, but opened her eyes in admiration when Boyd drew his gun and walked carefully down the hall.
He called to our visitor to identify himself.
Father Pete yelled back, “I’m Goldy’s parish priest! Why don’t you identify yourself?”
“Look here, Father,” Boyd called through the door.
“And furthermore,” Father Pete hollered, “I am not afraid of you! In fact, I’m calling the sheriff’s department!”
“It’s okay,” I said to Boyd, who was looking through the peephole.
Boyd, still defiant, holstered his weapon and opened the front door. “I am the sheriff’s department,” he said to Father Pete, who was punching numbers into his cell phone. “We had an incident here last night.”
Father Pete pocketed his phone and passed by Boyd. The priest gave the cop a decidedly frosty look. Father Pete, who had been a boxer in his younger, thinner days, had twice won the Golden Gloves. He might have been a match for Boyd at some point in his life, but not today, when he came striding down the hall, unafraid, but burdened by a large cardboard box.
Before he got to the kitchen, Father Pete asked me, “What kind of incident, Goldy?” But then he caught sight of Yolanda, who was holding the door to the kitchen open. Father Pete’s mind made an unfortunate leap. “Mistaken identity again?”
Yolanda turned on her heel and shut the kitchen door in our faces.
“Let’s go into the living room,” I said to Father Pete. To Boyd, I said, “Could you bring us the remaining puppies, please?”
“Goldy,” Father Pete whispered to me, “what is going on?” Then he glanced around the living room. Boyd had neatly stacked his pillow and sleeping bag at one end of the couch. The makeshift curtain between the living and dining rooms was pulled back, revealing the cots. In the kitchen, Yolanda and Ferdinanda were again speaking Spanish in fierce, low tones. Father Pete said, “Is that woman staying with you? Who else is at your house?”
I sighed. “That other cot in the dining room is for her great-aunt. Did you hear about Ernest McLeod’s house burning down?” When Father Pete nodded, I said, “They were staying there, and now they’re spending time with us. The sheriff’s department deputy who greeted you at the front door is bunking on the couch. We had a—” Well, what had it been, exactly? “We had an attempted burglary last night. It’s possible it was the same man who burned down Ernest’s place.”
“Goodness gracious.” Father Pete sat in one of our wing chairs and put his box on the floor. “Is there any way I can help?”
I rubbed my temples and tried to think. In the kitchen, Boyd was talking to Yolanda. He clearly had the puppies, because their whining was louder. I asked Father Pete, “Do you know where Hermie Mikulski is staying?”
Father Pete lifted his wide chin. “I do, and she is fine. I cannot, however, tell you where she is. I mean, I promised her.”
I sighed. Maybe Boyd would be able to get it out of him. I said, “Well, do you remember Charlene Newgate?”
“With the secretarial service? Yes. She hasn’t been around the church in a while. Of course, the food pantry is at Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach now . . . why? Does she need food?”
“No, I don’t think so. But do you happen to know . . . if she has a rich new boyfriend?”
“That bald fellow? Is he her rich boyfriend? I saw them at the Grizzly one time, when I was trying to help an alcoholic parishioner—” He stopped talking when he saw my shock. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
I almost couldn’t get the words out. “Do you know the bald fellow? Do you know his name?”
At that moment, Boyd came into the living room carrying a puppy in each arm. Yolanda was right behind him, snuggling the last one to her chest. They wordlessly deposited them in Father Pete’s box.
Yolanda said, “I’ll go get a can of food.”
“That’s not necessary,” Father Pete said. “I already have puppy chow.” He squirmed a bit in his chair, as if he were having a change of heart but couldn’t find the words to match. “Young lady—”
“My name is Yolanda,” she said, brushing her tumble of russet curls away from her lovely face.
“Yolanda,” Father Pete said warmly, “I am sorry you are having so many difficulties. If you need the church in any way, we are prepared to help you—”
“Thank you,” Yolanda said stiffly. “I am fine now.” She patted the puppies one last time, then left.
“Sergeant Boyd,” I said breathlessly, “Father Pete knows where Hermie Mikulski is. He can’t tell me, but he may tell you.”
“I cannot tell either of you,” said Father Pete.
I shook my head. “Father Pete has also seen a bald fellow who may be our perp. He was with Charlene Newgate.” I didn’t know if Tom had filled Boyd in on Charlene’s background, and I didn’t want to do it now.
Boyd looked at me skeptically, but he sat in the other wing chair. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket and nodded at Father Pete. “Tell me what you know, please.”
Reluctantly, I left the living room. I wished I could hear what they were saying, but the crying of the beagles drowned them out.
12
Back in the kitchen, I couldn’t help it. I called Tom. He wasn’t at his desk yet, so I announced into his voice mail that Father Pete knew where Hermie Mikulski was. Father Pete also had seen Charlene Newgate’s new, rich boyfriend, who might be our bald perp. Emphasis on the might, I added.
I then tried Tom’s cell, but he must have been in one of those folds in the mountains that prevented reception. I repeated my message anyway and hung up. In the living room, Boyd and Father Pete were still conversing in low tones.
“What is it?” Yolanda asked as I held myself next to the kitchen door.
Ferdinanda gave me a steely stare. “Why are you listening? Is the father hearing the cop’s confession? If so, you are doing something very bad.”
“No, no, no,” I said impatiently, “Father Pete isn’t performing any sacraments. He’s talking to the policeman because he might know something about what’s been happening to you two. But if I can’t eavesdrop, I can’t tell what the priest is telling the cop!”
Ferdinanda’s gray eyebrows shot up. “Does the father know who burned down Ernest’s house? Was it the same man who was here last night?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe.”
At that moment, the front door opened. The puppies’ whining decreased as Father Pete went through. That was it? Fewer than five minutes of questions?
Still in the living room, Boyd got on his cell. Ferdinanda announced she was going into the dining room to rest. Uh-huh. I wondered if she wanted to do some eavesdropping herself. Yolanda moved to the pet-containment area and poured food into Jake’s bowl. Ordinarily, our bloodhound noisily gobbles up his food, but this morning, he wouldn’t look at us. There was a resolute silence from his bed.
“What do you suppose is the matter with him?” Yolanda asked me as I tipped out kibble for Scout the cat, whom I had seen exactly twice since the puppies came on the scene.
“He’s sulking,” I said. “He misses the puppies.”
While we were dutifully washing our hands, Boyd came back into the kitchen.
“The priest is going to call Hermie.” He held up a card. “I have her cell number here and just tried it. No answer.”
I shook my head. Hermie had told me to have Tom call her, but she was in hiding? What gave?
Boyd went on. “And as far as that woman and the bald guy? The priest doesn’t know anything. He can’t even remember when he saw the two of them. About two weeks ago, he thinks. I’ll call the bartender at the Grizzly, but it does get crazy busy in there sometimes. There’s no surveillance, and if it was two weeks ago, the saloon isn’t going to have a credit card rec
eipt. Still, it’s worth a try. Let me call Tom.”
I was grateful that Boyd had brought us up to date but frustrated that he hadn’t learned more. He returned to the living room while Yolanda told Ferdinanda about her appointment that afternoon.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Ferdinanda said. “I can skip one appointment.”
“No, you can’t,” Yolanda replied with equal firmness. “He is the one doctor who will see you with your Medicare. You’re going.” I’d never seen Ferdinanda back down, but this time, she did.
When Boyd rejoined us, he said he hadn’t been able to reach Tom, but he’d left a voice mail. He pressed his lips together, then said, “Give me some duties here.” I handed him a printout of our prep schedule. I cited unnamed errands I had to do myself that afternoon—the exact nature of which I did not want to share—and said I wanted to be done by eleven.
“We can do this,” I said, encouraging them. There was no grumbling.
The four of us got down to work. The focaccia dough had risen, so I spilled it into two sheet pans. With one hand, I pressed holes into the dough, while with the other I carefully dribbled pools of golden extra-virgin olive oil into the depressions. Then I sprinkled the top with crushed fresh rosemary, dried oregano, poppy seeds, and sea salt. These breads did not need another rising, so into the oven they went.
Yolanda drained the new potatoes and shocked the haricots verts in ice for the salades composées. “You have a vinaigrette you want to use?”
“Do something fun. Since we’re having Navajo tacos, we’ll call it a Mexican–Caribbean–Native American fusion.”
She smiled. “No problema, babe.”
We were due to arrive at the Breckenridges’ place at four. We would set up before the guests arrived for cocktails and Rorry’s assortment of fruit and cheese, due to start at five. If all went smoothly, we’d serve the salads around six, followed by the lamb chops, bread, and tacos. Folks could make their choice. Or they could have both. Once the snows started in Aspen Meadow, everyone became hungrier. For six whole months, there were no more swimsuits or tiny tennis dresses to mess with.
I was thinking about this as Yolanda, her brow corrugated, shook the vinaigrette she’d made.
“What is it?” I asked.
She whacked the jar down on the counter so hard, I thought it would shatter. “Maybe I should just move Ferdinanda away from Aspen Meadow. Too many bad things are happening. I don’t want you and Tom and Arch to be targets.” She tore off a paper towel and wiped up the splashed vinaigrette.
“Yolanda, don’t. Tom will figure this whole thing out, and you can be safe and happy again.”
She said, “I doubt it.”
“Don’t doubt it,” Boyd said tenderly. “We’re going to nab this perp.”
After that, we checked off all the items needed for the menu, then moved on to labeling and packing our equipment and the foodstuffs. Rorry had told me she was using “The Abundance of Fall” for her decorating theme and would have gourds, hay, and bunches of flowers in a big arrangement for her centerpiece. I packed the ingredients for the fry bread batter, the meats, minced garlic, chopped tomatoes, chopped lettuce, grated cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and schlepped it all into the walk-in. I was glad not to have to worry about the table.
There were those nagging questions I still had for Yolanda. She was labeling all the items for the salads. Maybe she didn’t know any more about Ernest’s investigations, but she hadn’t talked much to me about Humberto or Kris. I wanted to know everything about them. If Humberto was really dangerous, why did she seem to be protecting him? And was it possible he had burned down the rental and somehow forced her to ask Ernest to take her in? I wondered.
And if Kris was truly stalking Yolanda, then we were all in danger. Some famous general—Patton, maybe?—had said, “Know your enemy.” In this case, make that possible enemies.
Once we were done with the packing up, Yolanda announced she had to get Ferdinanda ready to go to the doctor. Since it was quarter to eleven, they would have to hustle.
“But when will you be back?” I called after her. “Should I pack up the van for the Breckenridges’ event myself?”
Boyd gave me a severe look. “You’re not packing up anything by yourself.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Whoever this bad person or persons are, I’m pretty sure it’s not me they’re after.”
“We should be back before four,” Yolanda said as she wheeled Ferdinanda back into the kitchen.
“I’m going with them,” Boyd announced levelly. “And I need to know exactly where you’re off to, Goldy, and when you’ll be back.”
“Just picking up a few things at the grocery store,” I lied. “No big deal.”
“Then I’m walking you down to your van. Where’d you leave it?” I told him, and while he checked the outside perimeter of the house, I rapidly packed up one of the guava coffee cakes I’d made that morning. I also pulled four shots of espresso and poured them, plus a judicious amount of whipping cream, into my thermos. Where I was going, it would help to have a food bribe.
Yolanda gave me a skeptical grin as I made these preparations. “Those people at the grocery store must love you.”
I put my finger to my lips. She grinned at me. I had no idea where she thought I was going, and actually, I didn’t have a completely clear idea myself. Yet.
Boyd accompanied me through the melting snow. The sheriff’s department had finished investigating our garage, and the yellow tape was down, as was the garage door. There was nobody around. In Aspen Meadow, folks tend to cocoon after the first big snow. A county snowplow was working our street, spraying enormous wedges of white stuff onto the curb opposite us.
At my van, Boyd opened the driver’s door. “I want you to be watchful, do you understand?” When I nodded, Boyd said, “All right. I’ll set the alarm and close up the house.” I placed the wrapped cakes on my passenger seat and revved my van. Where was I going, exactly? I had to think.
I wanted to know who had burned down Yolanda’s rental. I wanted to know who had done the same to Ernest’s house. I wanted to know who had stolen Tom’s gun and then decided to make calls or shoot video, or send texts, or whatever, right outside our own place.
Somebody or somebodies were pressing in on our boundaries, and I was pissed.
As I eased my van through the ice and slush on Main Street, I reflected. When had this chain of events begun? I had not the slightest notion where the puppies had come from, even less of a clue as to where the marijuana Ernest was growing had originated. At the start of all this, Ernest’s dentist appointment had been changed. With Charlene Newgate now a definite person of interest, would Tom be upset if I tried to talk to her again? Probably.
I called Charlene Newgate’s number anyway, and was rewarded with voice mail. She was involved in this, I was convinced—although the evidence wasn’t there yet. Tom still hadn’t called me back, unfortunately. I asked Charlene to return my call and gave my cell phone number. I doubted she’d leave her new rich boyfriend long enough to attend to messages, but it was worth a try.
I drove up past Aspen Meadow Lake, which was an icy gray—not yet frozen, but filled with melting snow. It looked forbidding. I chewed the inside of my cheek and longed for the coffee I’d packed up. Was the change in Ernest’s dental appointment really the beginning of these horrid events? No, it wasn’t. Ernest had had some clients with big problems, and the one I knew about was Norman Juarez. Tom had said he owned a bar down near the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.
I called Information and, hoping against hope, asked for a search for bars called Norman’s, or Norm’s, on the state road that ran past the department. It was a long, hilly highway that eventually ended up in Boulder, although I certainly didn’t want to go that far.
She came up with nothing, as I’d expected. I asked her to try Juarez.
“I have one called the Juarez Bar and Grill,” the operator said doubtfully. “It’s listed a
s being on the highway. Want the address or the phone number?”
“Both, please.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the bar, which, even though it was small, was strung with green, red, and white flags. MEXICAN FOOD OUR SPECIALTY! a handmade sign blared. I wondered how hungry I was. I couldn’t just go in and start asking questions.
One of the things about being female is that if you go alone into an establishment that serves liquor, day or night, everyone assumes you’re looking for a pickup. I pressed my lips together, pulled the diamond ring Tom had given me around so it was in plain view, and bellied up to the bar.
At half past eleven, there were close to a dozen males—no females—sitting and drinking. There were booths and tables, all empty. I wondered about the men. Tom had told me that criminals often drink at bars during the day, so there are always a couple of undercover cops in there imbibing with them. The cops are always hoping to get some inside scoop, and often they do. The downside, unfortunately, is that more than one out-of-uniform police officer has become an alcoholic in the pursuit of his duty.
The guys at the bar ranged from scraggly-looking, with long gray hair and beards, to ruffian types, with tight T-shirts and torn jeans. They eyed me, and I pressed my lips together in a no-nonsense manner.
A tall Hispanic male, his curly black-and-gray hair cut very short, left his work at the bar and came up to me. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Help you?”
“A Heineken and two cheese enchiladas, please.” I tried to sound normal, but drinking beer and eating Mexican food when you have a big dinner to cater in the evening wasn’t exactly what you’d call normative behavior. For me, anyway.
He brought the Heineken first, then said it would be a few minutes for the enchiladas, as his wife had just made a fresh batch of tortillas. I said that sounded fantastic.
I sipped the Heineken as slowly as possible, but I still had to order a second one, because the enchiladas were taking some time. Okay, I really couldn’t have more than two beers before catering the Breckenridges’ gig, or I’d fall on my face in their kitchen. Maybe I should have ordered water, I thought, but then realized that it was less likely the bartender, if indeed he was Norman Juarez, would talk to me.
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