Crunch Time gbcm-16

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Goldy the caterer. Making the link between pastry and paleontology, eh?” she asked, a smile in her voice. “Sounds more like one of your crime-solving capers. I remember you found a body in the library once.”

  “Hey,” I said in protest, “it wasn’t my fault the guy was murdered there.”

  “And,” she continued, “you said the perpetrator of another murder was in the library at the same time.”

  “Aspen Meadow Library is a popular place.”

  “So what I’m asking, Goldy, is this: Are we going to need to be armed when we go on this expedition of yours?”

  I thought of Arch using the weeder on our would-be intruder. “Well, it might not hurt if we took some sharply pointed garden equipment. Just kidding. I think the perps have fled.” I rushed on to give details that she would have to promise not to tell the paper: that apparently, a couple had broken into an A-frame near her, to have sex, most likely, and I wanted to see if there was anything left that would help me aid the real estate agent in figuring out who they were. “The agent was on her way out there when I volunteered to make the trek,” I told her.

  “I know the house,” Sabine said. “The owner’s home-based business collapsed. He had to move his family back in with his wife’s parents down in Denver, where he’s working in a restaurant. Their house has been for rent for a while. People don’t like to commute to Denver from way out here.” She took a deep breath. “Yeah, sure, come on ahead.”

  I said I would see her in less than half an hour and turned the van in the direction of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. I knew there would be no wrath equal to Tom’s if I did not tell him what I was up to, so I put in a call to his voice mail. I informed him of everything Donna had told me and added the caveat that he couldn’t put it into the sheriff’s calls in the paper. And, I said, I had a friend who was going to go into the empty house with me. By the way, I concluded, had he been able to question Charlene Newgate? And did he have the canvass, time of death, and ballistics and accelerant results back from Ernest’s murder and the arson? “Just curious,” I said, “trying to help.” I could imagine Tom shaking his head.

  I drove down to Aspen Meadow Lake, which blazed with sparkles from the afternoon sun. Vestiges of snow laced the water’s edge. There was no traffic, so I pulled over. Something was niggling at the back of my brain after the call to Tom. Oh, yes, the informal dinner gathering at the Bertrams’ place on Thursday, so everyone could remember Ernest. I wanted to help.

  I dialed SallyAnn Bertram’s number and put the phone on speaker. As her number rang, I turned right onto Upper Cottonwood Creek Road. When my tires skidded to the left, I inhaled sharply. Slowly, I started up the winding road. I needed to be on the lookout for black ice as well as snow that might have blown over it. An innocent-looking swath of white stuff could conceal a hazard that flipped your vehicle.

  When SallyAnn answered, I identified myself and said I wanted to help out with the potluck supper on Thursday night, when the department was going to gather to remember Ernest. What did she need me to bring?

  “Oh, Goldy, you’re a dear! I don’t know what to tell you, because I haven’t even started to organize this thing, but I do know somebody is bringing hamburgers, because John wanted us to have this outside, so we can grill. But now I worry that it will snow again, or even rain, and if it rains or snows, everyone will have to come inside. That’s really terrible, because this place is such a wreck, I hate to imagine what everyone’s going to think when they walk through our doors. I think John has that disorder, you know, where someone hoards stuff? He built a six-car garage on our property, and it has one truck in it, plus a bunch of junk, including the lawn furniture that we never did bring out this summer. But John, you know? When he can’t find something in the garage? He buys a new tool or other thingamajig, and puts it into one of the closets in the house. So our closets are all spilling over with stuff. What’s supposed to be our living space is now filled with junk, and we don’t have room for these people that he invited over here without even telling me—”

  “SallyAnn, wait a sec.” I had to interrupt her, because not only was she having a panic attack, she was about to give me one. And anyway, I’d just cleaned out Donna Lamar’s refrigerator. That was all the mental space I could give to decluttering in one day. “One thing at a time,” I said slowly. “Can you get a pen and paper?” When she rummaged for those, I heard what sounded like pots falling onto the floor. Maybe John wasn’t the only one with a hoarding disorder. “First of all,” I said, “let me bring something hot, because the weather has turned cool. If one of the guests is bringing hamburgers, then how about if I bring homemade cream of mushroom soup? Everyone seems to like it, no matter what the weather.”

  “Okay, but I don’t know what to do about all the mess—”

  “No problem there, either. I’ve already arranged a cleaning lady who owes me a favor to do some extra work. I’ll pay her to clean up your house Thursday. How about that?”

  “Oh, would you?” SallyAnn’s stressed-out tone went from agony to relief. “Does she have a whole team? ’Cause that’s what we’re going to need.”

  “We’ll work it out. How many people have said they’re coming?”

  “So far, about twenty, although I haven’t been keeping a list. I suppose that I should, now that I’ve found the paper, although I’m having to use an old tube of lipstick to write down what you’re telling me. But listen, we’ll probably have double that number, at least. I don’t want to run out of food, and if everyone decides to bring salads, then we’ll really be in a mess. . . .”

  A new worry. Could SallyAnn’s doctor prescribe her a tranquilizer?

  “Find a pen and keep it, with the paper, by the phone,” I said sternly. “When people call, write down their names. Ask them to bring potato salad or dessert. Everybody loves those dishes with hamburgers, and if you want, I can bring a large tossed green salad with the soup.”

  “Omigod, Goldy, you’re saving my life, thank you so much.” Her breath caught. “I suppose I shouldn’t be going on about my own hostess problems when Ernest . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought.

  After a pause, I reassured her. “The sheriff’s department will figure out who did this, don’t worry.”

  “But he’s gone,” she wailed.

  “I’m sorry, SallyAnn, I didn’t realize you were close.”

  “We weren’t—I mean, we used to be, but after he had to leave the department, we sort of drifted apart, even though his house is up the hill. . . . Now I feel awful.”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Did Ernest seem sick to you?”

  “Sick, you mean, like the cancer? We didn’t even know he had cancer until he was dead. You see, after he became a private investigator, we didn’t get together with him too often. But come to think of it, last time we saw him, he looked a little thin. He said it was getting sober, you know. But don’t most people eat more when they’re recovering from alcoholism? Well anyway, I guess he didn’t, because the last time we saw him, he said he was hiring someone to fix dinners for him a few days a week. I offered to bring food over, but he knows my cooking, so he, you know, declined. Nicely, but still. Anyway, the last time we saw him was a couple of weeks ago. He really seemed to like that gal—oh, you’re not supposed to call anyone a gal anymore, but anyway, he was excited about having her cook for him. He liked her, and that seemed to brighten up his mood, you know?”

  “He liked her?”

  “Well not like he was falling in love with her, but then again, maybe he was, and he just didn’t tell us, the way he didn’t tell us about the cancer. Wait. Is this the woman who was living in the house when it burned down? The one whose aunt or whoever she is whacked John with her baton?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are they coming to the party?”

  “Not if you don’t want them to, but the women have been through hell. Boyd has been staying with us, to . . . provide extra protection for them, since someone
torched Ernest’s house. Tom and Boyd don’t think they’re safe anywhere else. So, if you want Boyd at the party, the women will have to come. Yolanda caters with me, and her great-aunt really is a lovable old bird, once you get to know her. Tough, but not without charm.”

  “Well, I do want Boyd at the party,” SallyAnn said, sounding uncertain again. “Ernest really liked Boyd. Everyone likes Boyd. So I suppose we have to have the women, too.”

  “Great.” I slowed before a hairpin curve. “I’ll send the cleaning lady over. We’ll be there with soup and salad. Say about six?”

  “Thanks, Goldy, thanks. Sorry to be so disorganized about all this, it’s just that Ernie’s death threw us for a loop.”

  “Ernie?”

  “Well, Ernest. In the department? John was the only one Ernest allowed to call him Ernie. Ernest called John ‘Bert,’ so they could be Bert and Ernie. It was their little joke. You know how cops need their humor.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  We signed off, and I carefully negotiated the turn. Once again my wheels skidded sideways. I wanted to call Penny Woolworth, the spying cleaning lady, to talk about this new gig. But I didn’t want to be distracted.

  I turned right onto the long dirt road that led to the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. The byway had been plowed once, but now snow, mud, and ice had combined into a frozen sludge that my tires chewed through sometimes and skidded through other times. I sighed. It was already just past one. I absolutely had to be home by three at the latest, so Yolanda and I could pack up for the Breckenridges’ dinner.

  I was startled when a car raced up behind me and then overtook the van. It was a silver BMW that must have had four-wheel drive and snow tires worthy of a Sherman tank. Snow spewed over my windshield, and I was forced to slow.

  I turned on the wipers and shouted, “Thank you very much,” but of course the driver couldn’t hear me.

  As the wipers swept snow from the glass, I saw something. Or thought I saw something. It was a bumper sticker, a familiar one. Had it been Secretaries Do It Behind the Desk? I hurried up and sent the van into a one-eighty skid that left me cursing. I hadn’t been able to see who was driving the BMW, but it had taken every bit of growing-up-in-Jersey driving to keep from landing in the snow-covered pasture that lay to my right.

  I turned back around with the idea that maybe I could catch up with Charlene’s vehicle, if that was what it had been. But the driver was zipping along at a clip my van would have had trouble managing going downhill, on dry pavement. And anyway, now the road was headed uphill. Where could the BMW have been going? That was the question, and not an easily answered one.

  Before Furman County bought the enormous ranch that made up the preserve, people had built everything from gigantic houses to log cabins on the property surrounding the ranch. Either the rich had wanted the mountain view or folks wanted to farm or ranch. Taking into account Charlene’s fur, car, grandson in parochial school, and altogether new lifestyle, I would have guessed her boyfriend was in that big-house-with-a-view category.

  When I crested the hill, the BMW had disappeared. I motored along past five dirt roads going right, left, and sideways, with no clue as to where the silver car had turned. Unlike Sabine, I was no expert at tracking, and numerous vehicles had left their tire prints in the snow. I cursed silently and encouraged the van along to the turnoff for Sabine’s.

  She met me at the bottom of her driveway. Tall, with a commanding presence, she wore a cap that I was sure she had knitted herself, from wool she’d spun from her own sheep and dyed using vegetables she and Greg had grown. She wore thick, unfashionable specs with shades she flipped down when she needed sunglasses, like now. Her frizzy hair radiated like a gray halo from a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her ankle-length olive-green overcoat looked as if she’d bought it from an army veteran who’d survived the Nazi assault on the Ardennes forest. She’d apparently taken seriously my quip about using sharply pointed garden equipment as weapons. At arm’s length, she held two long-handled garden spades. Sabine Rushmore, pacifist, prepared for battle.

  “There you are!” she said brightly when I hopped out of the van. She eyed me up and down. The skin at the sides of her eyes crinkled with worry. “You need boots and gloves? I’ve got some up in the house.”

  Knowing her home lay half a mile up the murderous incline behind her, I demurred. “But thank you for setting out on this expedition with me. Do you want me to get the address, or do you know exactly where this place is?”

  “I know it.”

  I set off behind her. She insisted on carrying both “weapons,” as she called them. Even though I was wearing sneakers and lighter clothing, was bearing no arms, and was more than thirty years younger than my compatriot, she left my butt in the dust. Or in this case, in the snow. I huffed along and finally called to her to stop.

  “Is it much farther?” I panted, bending over to deal with the stitch in my side.

  “Just around the next bend. Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s all that high-fat-content food you make, Goldy. It’s slowing you down.”

  Since the last thing I needed at this point was a nutrition lecture, I said merely, “Lead on.” She smiled before trotting away.

  After a few more minutes of muscle-squealing agony, I followed her up a driveway that had not been plowed but that had a set of tire prints in it—going in and coming out. I wondered if the lab at the sheriff’s department could or would trace them. I doubted it. Tom had more serious crimes to investigate at the moment. And anyway, if the break-and-enterers were also adulterers, Father Pete would have pointed out that adultery wasn’t a crime. It was a sin.

  Ahead of us, tucked into a stand of lodgepole pines, stood a tiny red one-story A-frame. The deck out front needed paint. On either side of the small front door, white crisscrossing on the windows plus black shutters with cut-out heart shapes indicated the house had been built in the seventies, when trying-to-be-Swiss style was all the rage in Aspen Meadow.

  No one had shoveled the walkway to the deck. The place looked forlorn.

  “Following the tire tracks,” Sabine called, “it looks as if your lovebirds broke in around this corner.” She disappeared, and I was suddenly worried. What if something happened to Sabine? Tom would have my neck.

  The sound of breaking glass brought me quickly around to the side of the house. Why hadn’t I had the presence of mind to ask Donna Lamar for a key to this place? Sabine had used her garden implement to shatter what remained of the second window in the back door. The original breakers-in had smashed the first pane in the door. Sabine reached in and opened it.

  “I didn’t know if your husband would want fingerprints from that other windowpane,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Wait,” I said, pointing down. “They parked, then walked through the snow to this door, instead of the front door. They broke one pane of glass, and you broke the other. Why come back here?”

  “They must have thought their vehicle would be out of sight,” said Sabine. “Hello?” she cried into the interior, which echoed.

  “Sabine, wait,” I said. Again thinking of Tom and my fragile neck, I hustled ahead of her to make sure the place was empty.

  “You are not going anywhere,” Sabine said, holding out an arm like a crossing guard. “I am strong, fearless, and sixty-five years old.” She reached back through the door and picked up her garden spades, which she had leaned against the house. “Nobody messes with me.”

  Sabine ordered me to stay put while she traipsed through the two bedrooms, her gardening spades at the ready. She checked the two bathrooms and the closets while I pretty much stayed in the living/dining/kitchen area. At one point, I sneaked over to the kitchen and checked the cabinets and refrigerator. They were empty, except for an opened box of baking soda in the fridge.

  Back in the living/dining/kitchen area, we looked around for clues as to who could have broken in before we broke in. The
place was cold and dark, as A-frames tend to be. There was a solitary skylight, which let in some sunshine as well as water. Either Donna or the owners had put a bucket on the shag-carpeted floor to catch the trickle from the leak, and the melting snow made irregular plops.

  “Looks like they had a fire,” I said, eyeing the tiny, bleak fireplace.

  “You know Sherlock Holmes would go through those ashes,” Sabine announced. She put down her spades, picked up one of her bags, and hustled over to the hearth, where she got down on her knees. She began methodically sifting the gray dust, bit by small bit, over to one side of the hearth.

  I looked around. What was missing? Something, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Wait: the fire.

  “Where do you suppose they got their wood?” I asked Sabine, who was still intent on the cold ashes. “Could they have brought in an armful from their vehicle? Or several armfuls? I didn’t see any pieces of dropped bark between the driveway and the back door.” I remembered the sleeping bags and cheese wrappers. Was it possible these folks backed a truck full of supplies into each of their love nests whenever they went for a roll in the hay?

  “The home owners used to chop their own wood from their land,” Sabine said. “We do, too. All of us out here cut down some trees, to keep the fire danger down. That big wildfire out in the preserve? It started less than a mile from here.”

  “But . . . when we came in, I didn’t see a pile of firewood beside the house.”

  “Check out back,” she said without lifting her eyes from her ash sifting. “The owners’ store of wood should be covered with plastic. Up here, we tend to get more snow than in town. You have to keep the logs dry, in case you lose power and are completely dependent on your fire to keep you warm.”

  Off I went. Sure enough, once I rounded the back wall of the house, I saw a block the size of two cars—the woodpile. It was covered with green plastic. Huh . . . what would Sherlock Holmes do? He’d look down.

  The fresh snow had filled in old, deep boot prints, so I carefully followed them. The prints went to the woodpile, then back to the front side of the house, to the deck, where there was another door. Bark and kindling littered the path. So they had parked, smashed a window to get inside the back door, and then gone in and out of the front door with firewood.