Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I discovered random packages of fur-bearing cheese and moldy crackers, along with two boxes of leftovers bearing stickers from expensive Denver restaurants. The crackers and leftovers I dumped. I removed the cheese, then scrubbed the refrigerator’s small interior with wet paper towels and disinfectant. I washed my hands, trimmed up what turned out to be a chunk of cheddar, and placed a good-sized wedge on a plate. I stirred the boiling water into the powdered hot chocolate for Donna and put out two paper plates. I wanted to share a bit of cake with Donna and be sociable, even though I’d just plowed through two beers and most of a plate of enchiladas trying to do the same thing with Norman Juarez.

  Back in her office, Donna was still staring at the cake. I began to wonder if she needed medical attention.

  “Donna? Are you all right?” I asked softly. When she didn’t reply, I unwrapped the cake and sliced an enormous piece for her plate. I placed her makeshift meal in front of her, along with the steaming cocoa, its tiny marshmallows bobbing about merrily. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

  Startled out of her reverie, she nodded thanks, then sipped the cocoa and nibbled the cheese. She forked up a hunk of coffee cake, and as is often the case when one is sugar deprived and stressed out, the carbohydrates provided a jolt. “Thank you,” she said. “This is good.” Tears actually filled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to answer calls all morning, and I haven’t—”

  “Hey, I’m the caterer, remember? No excuses needed.” I sliced myself a small piece of cake, then sat down and took a bite. The guava gave the cake a pop that I would have enjoyed even more had I some decent coffee—but wait, I did. I pulled out my Thermos, poured myself a cup, and sipped.

  As we ate, I sent as many smiles Donna’s way as I could. I remembered what my father had told me, back when I was young, feisty, and driving my teachers crazy by talking back. Good old Dad had said, “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” Being vinegary by nature, I took considerable time to learn the lesson, if I ever had. But when I remembered Dad’s advice, I tried.

  “You know what?” I said kindly. “We really don’t have to find a rental for Ferdinanda and Yolanda today. With the sudden storm, you must have tenants calling every two minutes.” Actually, the phone had not rung since I’d been there, but never mind. And where was the assistant? Maybe driving around looking for takeout. “Tenants are probably driving you nuts,” I babbled on, “because they can’t find snowblowers, or snow shovels, or they don’t have heat. Over a foot of white stuff in September has discombobulated everyone, me included. Isn’t it bizarre?”

  “Yes, it is.” She sipped her cocoa and gave me a wary look. “But it’s not my tenants who are driving me crazy.”

  “Um,” I said thoughtfully, “not your tenants?”

  “No, it’s the people who aren’t my clients who are doing that.”

  “You know what?” I said, leaning forward in what I hoped was conspiratorial confidence. “Six people just got added to the dinner I’m catering tonight. And there might even be two more. None of these people were regular clients, either, but—”

  “I mean”—she interrupted me—“I like sex as much as the next person, but why do you have to ruin somebody’s business because you won’t go to a hotel?”

  “Has the economy gotten that bad?” I asked. “I thought they had nooner rates down in Golden—”

  “Oh, these people have money,” she said conspiratorially, taking another bite of cake.

  “The nerve!” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I sure wanted to find out. When she continued to eat cake, I asked hopefully, “Why would anyone ruin a business because someone refused to go to a hotel?”

  “I know how they do it, too,” she said without explaining the ruining-business part. She put down her fork and pointed a scarlet-painted nail at the ceiling. “One of them poses as a potential client. They ask for the cheapest rental houses available in the mountain area. Then they get my assistant to let them into the property, and then he or she says they’re not interested. My assistant even thinks they’re using disguises now.”

  “You’ve never seen these people?”

  “No. I usually just show the high-end homes.”

  “Can your assistant describe the—”

  “No. Believe me, I’ve tried to get her to tell me what they look like. But she needs new glasses, and she says I’m not paying her enough so that she can get them. When I say, ‘Well, then, how can you drive?’ she says she probably shouldn’t be driving, but anyway, she says these people are sort of young, sort of thin. As if that’s going to help me.” Donna shook her head and stopped talking.

  “I promise you,” I said, “if my friends rent from you? They will be as pure as the driven—”

  “I have to catch these two,” Donna said, interrupting me again.

  “These two . . . ?”

  “That’s the only way. I’ve offered rewards to the neighbors of every single one of my unsecured listings. I mean, if the neighbors call me in time so I can catch the squatters.”

  “What are unsecured listings?”

  But she lapsed back into her reverie. Eventually, she uncurled herself from wherever her mind had taken her. She looked at me as if she were again trying to remember who I was. When she did, she took another bite of cake and nodded her approval. “If I tell you about this, you can’t tell the Mountain Journal.”

  “I wouldn’t tell the paper. But it sounds as if you can’t tell the paper either, because you don’t know who these two are.”

  “No, I don’t.” She drained her hot chocolate and clapped the cup on the desktop. “But I do know when they sneak into my rentals and have sex. Sometimes I don’t know right away, but I know, because they don’t clean up after themselves. It’s part of their, what do you call it, their MO.”

  I said, “Donna, breaking and entering is against the law. What did you mean by unsecured listings? Don’t your rentals have security systems?”

  “Only high-end homes have security systems. This couple prefers cozy little cottages, preferably deep in the woods. They break a window, open the back door, and let themselves in. They bring along their food and wine, and one time, two sleeping bags that could be zipped together. How cozy. I wanted to get the bags tested for DNA, but the cops wouldn’t do it. They said it was too expensive and sleeping bags that I had handled would not be evidence of a crime. Then I wanted to have the genetic testing done on my own. But when I heard how much it cost, I didn’t.”

  I thought about the couple who’d showed up at my door the other day, along with their real estate agent. Had they been casing Jack’s place? It wasn’t a rental. Then again, it didn’t have a security system.

  I said stubbornly, “You really should talk to the police again about the break-ins. If you have sleeping bags, they might be able to trace back—”

  She waved this away. “I just wanted them to do DNA testing. I don’t want the breaking-and-entering part to get out. You know how the sheriff’s calls always appear in the Mountain Journal. If I tell the cops I have squatters balling away in my rentals, then everyone will want to do it. And nobody, but nobody, wants to rent a place where squatters have broken a window and left wine bottles, plastic wineglasses, cracker crumbs, and cheese wrappers. Those things attract rodents. Nobody is going to rent a place where there are rodent droppings, and my assistant and I can’t check every single listing every day to make sure they’re clean.” Donna shivered. “The whole thing is disgusting.”

  “You could hire a private detective.”

  She shook her head again. “Actually, a nice investigator did come to see me. He had a client who was trying to track down a couple having an affair. His client thought the adulterers might be meeting in vacant rentals.” She took a bite of cheese. “But last night, on the news? I heard the guy died. So I have no idea if he discovered them.”

  I felt as if I’d been slapped. “The detective? It was Ernest McLeod?”

  �
�You knew him?”

  “I did.” I omitted the part about Yolanda and Ferdinanda living with him, fearing she might jump to conclusions. “Do you . . . know who his client was? The one trying to track down the people having the affair?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.” She rubbed her hands together and stood up. “Thanks for the cake. My assistant is showing a couple of properties and was supposed to bring back sandwiches, but who knows where she is now. Anyway, I was just going off to one of my listings, a small A-frame, when you showed up. A neighbor reported seeing a strange car there, so I was going to check. Whoever it is, they’re probably gone now.”

  I stood up, too, but was reluctant to leave. “Why don’t you let me do it? Ernest McLeod was a friend of mine, and I’d like to help you catch these people. Also, if you have some old cheese wrappers and plastic glasses they left, I might be able to figure something out. I am a food person.”

  She pointed one of those red-painted nails at me. “I don’t want this in the paper.”

  “I won’t call the paper,” I promised.

  “You’d better not.” She stared at me.

  What was with this woman? I wanted to ask her if she’d seen a stocky bald guy. I wanted to know what her relationship to Humberto was, if he gave her the office rent-free, if he had access to her rentals, and if he paid her to have that access. But Donna was both suspicious and hard to keep on track. Even though I was frustrated, I didn’t want her to become distracted again.

  “Um, Donna? If I have a list of your unsecured rentals, I might be able to do a better search.”

  She rifled through the papers on her desk and came up with a single sheet. “Ten listings without security systems.”

  When I asked, “Which one had the neighbor who called you?” Donna leaned down and put a red check mark next to one address. I said, “Did she get a description of the car, or a license plate, maybe?”

  “All this neighbor saw was a dark SUV in the driveway. I’m telling you, all this couple likes is cabins far from everything. Wait here a sec.” She went to a closet and pulled out a bag. “I don’t know why I kept this stuff, but I did. There are two sleeping bags in there, plus plastic glasses, some cheese wrappers, and an empty box of crackers. You ask me, these people are pigs.”

  I opened the sack and immediately closed it. Like in the refrigerator, the scent of moldy food was overpowering. I stood up to wrap the cake. “Would you like the rest of this?”

  “I’d love it, but I think it would just sit in my refrigerator, where I already have a bunch of old stuff. A cleaning crew was supposed to come through, but they didn’t. One more thing I have to deal with.”

  An assistant. A cleaning crew. A gorgeous new office. “Oh,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me. “Humberto Captain built this office space? It’s gorgeous. I know Humberto,” I added.

  Suspicion flared in her eyes. “Yes, he built this beautiful building. You see, I’m not prejudiced against Cuban-Americans.”

  “This place is really top-notch. I used to cater in offices like this.”

  She lifted her chin in defiance. “Well, he gave me a really good rate, so that somebody would be in here, you know, occupying the place.”

  How could I ask her if he had access to all her files and keys without her clamming up? How could I find out if Humberto was the one who’d been looking in Yolanda’s rental windows? Was it possible that anyone besides Tom suspected that Humberto might have burned down Yolanda’s rental so that she would have to make other arrangements, like living with a private investigator who was getting close to discovering the gold and gems Humberto insisted he’d never stolen?

  “Well, if you’re going out to that cabin, I guess I’d better make some calls,” Donna said. She gave me a solicitous look. “Actually, I’m thankful you’re doing this.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome.” I put the rest of the wrapped cake, my thermos, and the list of unsecured rentals into my tote and tried to think of a way to take advantage of Donna’s sudden gratitude. “Is Humberto, does he show the offices that are available?”

  “Goldy? You cannot put those two women into this office building. It’s against the law for people to live in an office building. And anyway, Humberto’s been great to me. Very generous. He would never agree to put them in here, and I would never ask.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said patiently. “Humberto adores Yolanda and Ferdinanda. He came over first thing yesterday morning, when he heard they were living with me. He wanted to help.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “They told him they were fine. And, uh, Yolanda is making money, by helping me cater tonight.”

  Donna shifted her weight to one foot and put her hand on her hip. Alas, the distrust was back. “I thought you were desperate to get these women out of your hair.”

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing. If any one-story rentals come up, I’d love to hear about them.” I hoisted up the plastic bag, then picked up my tote. “I don’t mean to delay you, but you know the party we’re catering tonight?”

  “The fund-raising supper. Thank you for doing that, Saint Luke’s really needs the money.”

  “Well,” I said, continuing blithely, “there are going to be some wealthy people at the dinner. Sometimes clients ask me questions, like ‘Do you know if there are any good deals on offices in town?’ And I thought, since Humberto will be at the Breckenridges’ place tonight, I could introduce him to—”

  “I’ll be at the dinner tonight, so if anyone wants to know about office space at the Captain’s Quarters, I can introduce them to Humberto.” Donna moved around her desk to give me the bum’s rush out of her office.

  I stood my ground. “Does Humberto himself show the offices? I mean, what if someone wants to lease an office right away? Does he have keys to all the offices?”

  Donna clip-clopped to the door. “Yes, he has keys, yes, he shows the offices. He’s got big offices and little offices in this building. I do appreciate your going out to help me with the people breaking into the rentals.”

  “Don’t worry, if I find out anything, I’ll call you. Maybe I’ll even figure out who your squatters are.”

  She didn’t offer a reward, but she did open the door for me. I smiled as I left, as if we were old pals and I really would call her if I figured anything out.

  Which, of course, I had no intention of doing.

  13

  Outside, the sun was shining, but the air was still cold. The plows had rammed dirty walls of ice onto the roadsides. Even so, the pavements were still swathed with thin blankets of snow. Driving would be treacherous, and I had enough problems without ending up in a ditch. I opened the side door of my van and carefully flung in my tote, followed by the plastic bag of detritus from one of Donna’s rentals. Maybe this evidence wasn’t technically from adulterers, maybe it was just from sort-of-young, sort-of-thin people, teenagers even, seeking a thrill. But it was something, and if Ernest had been investigating this couple, the evidence might be connected to his death.

  Once inside my van, I turned on the engine and wished I’d worn gloves. It was twelve forty-five, and I was unaccountably hungry. The enchiladas were a memory and the coffee cake was calling. I unwrapped it, broke off a hunk, and chewed thoughtfully while staring at Donna’s list. The one rental she’d checked, the one where the lovebirds had made their most recent nest, was way out by the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. I wasn’t sure I had the time, the tires, or the tolerance to find a house in that area. Worse, there was no way to find out if the plows had been through the vast labyrinth of dirt roads that lay around the preserve.

  I rewrapped the cake, poured myself some coffee, and stared again at the address. I knew Tom would be furious if I drove out there and poked around in an empty house, alone. But Donna had been on her way to do just that, right?

  I could hear Tom’s voice in my head saying, You’re not Donna.

  Wait a minute, I thought. I had a friend who lived in that area
, not far from the rental, if I was judging distances correctly. Sabine Rushmore was a librarian whom I had known for years. I’d catered the retirement party she’d held at her house. She was sixty-five, but you’d never guess it. Except for her long, frizzy gray mane, she didn’t look a day over forty. My theory was that she kept herself youthful with her work as a peace activist, her long treks to remote parts of Colorado and the Mountain West to hunt for dinosaur bones, and of course—of course—the labor she put into growing organic vegetables. To me, it all sounded exhausting, but Sabine thrived on the activity.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know Sabine’s home phone number. There was no way the privacy-obsessed staff at the Aspen Meadow Library would give it to me, even if Sabine needed a kidney and I had one on ice in the van. And anyway, I thought, as I punched the buttons for Information, what if Sabine’s number was unlisted? What if she lived so far off the grid that she didn’t even have a phone?

  Well, glory be. There was a Rushmore listed on the same county road as the rental. I punched in the number and couldn’t believe it when Sabine answered.

  “Goldy, wow, I can’t believe you’re calling,” she said, out of breath. In the background I could hear crunching noises, and I guessed she was digging out her driveway. “It’s so good to hear from you. Gives me a chance to give up on clearing snow.”

  I pictured her steep, rutted dirt driveway. “Don’t you have anyone to help you?”

  “Not at the moment. Greg’s taken the four-wheeler into town for supplies for our horses. I wanted to surprise him. Anyway, I’m almost done.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Good thing I brought my phone outside in my pocket, huh? Maybe I subconsciously wanted an interruption. What can I do for you?”

  I explained that I was hoping she could come with me on a bit of a hunt, sort of like one of her fossil-seeking expeditions.

  “It’s really exactly like looking for dinosaur bones. Only easier,” I said.