“Arch!”
“Mom!” When he tossed his silverware into the dishwasher, the metal clanked explosively. “I’m worried about Yolanda, too, you know! First some guy tries to break into where she’s sleeping, then somebody tries to burn her.”
I said softly, “Arch, please.”
“I’m just saying what we all know.” His tone was stubborn.
“Tom, Boyd, and the whole sheriff’s department are working on it,” I replied, keeping my tone even.
Arch muttered something under his breath and stomped out of the kitchen. I was about to holler after him to come back and apologize when Boyd held up a soapy hand.
“Goldy?” he said. “He’s been traumatized. Give him a break.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I overreacted.”
“Sit down, Goldy.” Ferdinanda poured batter into a sizzling sauté pan on the stove. “I want you to eat some of my pancakes, tell me how good they are with guava jam. And what your son said before he left the kitchen? He told me how much he liked my pancakes.”
I was quite sure that was not what Arch had said under his breath, but I was touched by hard-of-hearing Ferdinanda wanting to cover for him. When she placed a plate with three steaming pancakes—each with a dollop of melting butter sliding sideways—in front of me, I thanked her.
“I make them with sour cream. Now spread guava preserves on top. I’ll make you some espresso.”
Boyd took the frying pan from Ferdinanda and placed it in the soapy water.
“Eat, eat!” Ferdinanda commanded me. “You want them to get cold?”
I obliged. The featherlight cakes had a heavenly tang that was perfectly complemented by the sweet, thick preserves. I groaned with pleasure. “I’d forgotten how good food tastes when it’s made by somebody else. Thank you again. Ferdinanda,” I added, “you’re great.”
“Not so great,” she said darkly. “Cooking I know. How to get rid of Kris I don’t know.”
“Okay, ladies, that’s enough of that kind of talk,” said Boyd.
Yolanda sighed. “Are you staying home today, Goldy? Or going out?”
I rubbed my forehead. How was I supposed to say that I was off to look for Humberto’s girlfriend? Oh, yes, and that I intended to keep trying to talk in depth to one of Ernest’s clients, Hermie Mikulski?
“I still want to talk to Hermie Mikulski some more,” I said, deciding for now to omit any mention of Humberto.
Boyd, still drying dishes, turned to me. “I’m telling you, Goldy, Mrs. Mikulski is in the wind. We’ve left messages for her and cannot find her. The location Father Pete gave us was a bust.”
I made my voice placating. “Fine. So is there any harm in my attempting to talk to her about Ernest? She’s a fellow CBHS parent, and I saw her son get his nose whacked when a kid opened a locker. Maybe I just want to check up on him.”
Boyd shrugged, wiped the now-clean pan, and put it away. “Ready for a trip to the ladies’ room, Yolanda? You want Ferdinanda with you?”
“Naw, she’s okay with just you there,” said Ferdinanda, waving toward the dining room. “I only get in the way. Just wait outside the door till she’s done.”
Yolanda scraped her chair back, then put her arm around Boyd’s wide shoulders. He delicately lifted her around the waist and carried her into the adjoining room.
“Listen,” hissed Ferdinanda. “I gotta talk quick. I told Yolanda she can’t go tonight to Humberto’s, on account of her burns.”
“I figured—”
“But I’ve been thinking,” Ferdinanda interrupted. “Maybe it’s not Kris doing all this. Maybe Humberto’s the one who put that broken ’lectric skillet in the Breckenridges’ kitchen.”
“Why would you think—”
“Humberto came over,” Ferdinanda said, interrupting me again. “To the rental, after Yolanda lost her job at the spa. He said he wanted to help her. She said she didn’t need him. Right after that, our rental burned down. Humberto came back. He took Yolanda aside, said he wanted her to spy on Ernest—”
“We know this,” I said. “Humberto paid her seventeen thousand bucks, which burned up in the fire. And by the way, what are you going to do without that money? Rorry Breckinridge gave me four thousand in cash for you—”
“Let me finish, Goldy!” Ferdinand said, interrupting. “So Yolanda took Humberto’s money, and we moved in with Ernest. But Yolanda liked Ernest so much, she didn’t do it. Spy, I mean. So she told Humberto she was reneging on the deal and that he could have his money back. He was furious!”
“Have you told Tom—”
Ferdinanda waved this away. “I told him last night. But when I got onto the cot, I was thinking, maybe Humberto burned down the rental, and maybe he paid someone to burn down Ernest’s house. Yes, to destroy the files, but maybe to destroy Yolanda. And maybe he sabotaged that kitchen last night, too. As punishment, for not doing what he wanted. That would explain why whoever burned down Ernest’s house waited until Yolanda was back there. It would explain the hot oil accident. If you saw what I saw in Cuba? You would say, ‘It could happen.’ ” From the dining room, Yolanda called for Ferdinanda. “Listen, I want to go shop for groceries today. Alone. Boyd will help me get into Yolanda’s van.”
I said, “That’s a very bad idea. Why don’t you tell me what we need, and I’ll do the shopping—”
Ferdinanda shook a gnarled finger at me. “Don’t you try to stop me! I’ve got my baton. I can take care of myself! If I want to shop, I’m gonna shop.” She wheeled smartly away.
“For God’s sake,” I said to the air. I felt the same blankness I’d felt in bed the night before. Tom had checked out Humberto’s alibi for Ernest’s death and the two fires, and Humberto was in the clear, even if the guards were more blitzed than fraternity boys at Mardi Gras. Lacking an eyewitness or some forensic evidence that pointed to Humberto, this theory of Ferdinanda’s was dead in the water. Still—
“Mom?” said Arch. He had entered the kitchen so quietly, I hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry I got angry this morning. I’m just bummed out, with Yolanda getting hurt so badly at your dinner last night.”
“We’re all bummed out, hon—”
“Look, I have to go. Tom said I could drive the Passat, and that the tires were okay. Boyd’s going to watch me back out.” He handed me a slip of paper. “This is Lolly’s cell phone number and address.”
I stared at the piece of paper in my hand. “How in the world did you get this?”
Arch rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I entered ‘math tutor Aspen Meadow Colorado’ into Google, and she was the first name that popped up. I’m surprised she’s here, though. She was the first person to get into MIT from Elk Park Prep in a long time. She should be back there now.”
“I don’t know why she’s here. But thanks, Arch. Listen, one more thing. Could you send her a text from your phone, asking for an appointment today at”—I glanced at the clock—“ten? Say you’re having trouble with calculus and was wondering if she was free.”
“She’s going to wonder why I’m not in school.”
“In the message, tell her you have the day off from the Christian Brothers High School, but you have a calc test tomorrow.”
Arch exhaled impatiently but maneuvered his thumbs at light speed to send the text. “Lolly’s smart,” he said when he was done. “She’s going to know it’s you.” He glanced at his cell. “Oops, here she is. She says she’s full up with tutoring clients, sorry.”
“Tell her you’re desperate and that you’re coming over anyway.”
Arch shook his head. “She’s going to know it’s you.” But again his thumbs flew. A nanosecond later, Arch showed me her reply: “Tell yr ma 2 go f herslf.” Well, great. From behind me, Arch said, “You know, Mom, you could call her, to let her know you want to see her, or that you’re coming over, or whatever. You keep this up, I’m going to be late for school.”
“Not to worry, kiddo, you can go. And thanks for—”
But
Arch was already gone. He still had that ability to appear and disappear silently.
Which was what I was going to do, I thought as I put my own dishes and flatware into the dishwasher. Or at least, that was what I had wanted to do: to show up at Lolly Vanderpool’s without making any noise. I hadn’t planned on letting her know that I wanted to see her, or come over, or, as Arch would say, whatever.
Still. Apparently, she already knew I wanted to see her. I would have to think of some way to win her over, some way that did not involve surprise. I would, in investigator parlance, need to find a way to flip her.
Fifteen minutes later, Boyd stepped onto our porch and looked in both directions, then carefully scanned the area across the street. For a few moments, he glared at the house I still thought of as Jack’s. There was no sign of Kris Nielsen, his Maserati, or his girlfriend.
“I’m walking you to your van,” said Boyd. It was not a suggestion. He wore his service weapon outside his clothes, just so anyone watching would get the hint. I couldn’t remember any time I’d ever had an armed escort.
“Thanks,” I said as I stepped into my van a few moments later. “Listen, Ferdinanda wants to go shopping today. She’s adamant.”
“Christ, you women,” said Boyd. “I’ll try to talk her out of it. But I’m staying home with Yolanda,” he said, his gaze on the street. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the security alarm on.”
“Okay, good. And here.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wad of bills Rorry Breckenridge had given me the night before. “This is from Rorry. It’s to cover any extra bills Yolanda might have.”
Boyd stuffed the cash in his front pocket. “Anybody snapping pictures is going to think we’re doing a drug deal.”
“Oh, don’t get paranoid on me.”
I thanked him again and scooted my van in the direction of the inexpensive Aspen Meadow apartment building indicated by the address Arch had scribbled. I had a moment of panic: What if Lolly wasn’t there? If she was Humberto’s girlfriend, wouldn’t she be living with him? Somehow, I didn’t think Lolly Vanderpool was Humberto’s girlfriend. Clearly, neither did Arch.
Like all the other vehicles out that day, my car splashed through waves of water and slush. On Main Street, tourists who’d come to see the aspens turning yellow delicately picked through the blackened walls of snow the plows had churned onto the sidewalks. Unfortunately for these visitors, a major early snowstorm stripped most leaves from our deciduous trees. Town merchants who made big bucks off aspen-leaf-shaped pendants, earrings, and charms were not going to be happy.
Nor was I happy when my van encountered a bank of snow at the far entrance to Lolly’s apartment building. Any plans I’d had to slip surreptitiously into a parking space were for naught. I drove around to the other entrance, slid into a spot, and hopped out.
I glanced up at the windows that overlooked the lot. Lolly’s apartment was on the fourth floor. Was she watching me, or was I becoming delusional?
Rock music echoed through the door to her apartment, which I had reached via an ice-glutted outdoor staircase. It was not the kind of building to have a doorman, or even keys to the hallways, but each door did have an eyehole. When Lolly did not answer, I pounded on the door. A slippery sound indicated someone approaching. And then she must have reached the peephole.
“Aw, shit, I knew it!” her muffled voice exclaimed.
“C’mon, Lolly, let me in,” I called through the door. “I really, really need to talk to you. It’s about a friend of mine who was killed.”
After a moment of throwing bolts, she opened up. Instead of the blond wig, she had a severe pageboy that she’d dyed black with blue streaks. She wore an MIT sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and faded, threadbare jeans. I blinked. And then she really surprised me.
She opened her eyes wide and said, “I didn’t know Ernest McLeod was a friend of yours.”
I swallowed. “May I come in?”
She said, “Crap.” But she pushed the door open anyway and headed into her small living room.
The place was spartan and meticulously clean. A faded orange garage-sale rug adorned the brown linoleum floor. A small, sixties Danish-style sofa, covered with a wrinkled bedspread of much-washed madras, had been pushed against one wall. In front of the couch was a glass-topped coffee table that might have come from the same garage sale. Against the other wall were two mismatched chairs, one wicker, the other a maple ladderback. A large chipped black desk, red desk chair, plus a variety of old wooden bookshelves took up the rest of the wall space. A laptop, a cell phone, and a neat pile of sheet music sat pristinely on the desk. No musical instrument was in evidence.
I craned forward to read some of the titles on her bookshelves. There were chemistry and math texts, plus a number of books on something called string theory. I had a vague notion that this fit somewhere into the realm of quantum physics, although where, I’d been told, the quantum physics people couldn’t exactly say.
In this as in all else, Lolly had her own strongly held opinions. For the clutch of string theory volumes, in the place where a Library of Congress number would be, Lolly had made her own labels. On one: Crap. On another: More Crap. (Apparently this was her favorite word.) For the theory of super strings, careful printing on the label read, Super-Dooper Crap.
“So how do you like my place?” she asked as she disappeared. “Before you answer that question,” she called, “tell me if you want some coffee. I’m trying to be a hostess here, even if you are an uninvited guest.”
I said, “I’d love anything caffeinated, thanks.”
The kitchen was actually a kitchenette, I realized, just around the corner from the living room. Lolly had covered the entrance with another madras bedspread, hung from a wire. Water ran and microwave buttons beeped. I could not imagine the reason for Lolly’s “new crib.” Once again, I perused book titles. Accelerated Calculus. Neurological Science. Hydronics.
Maybe she’d flunked out of MIT. Somehow, I doubted it.
The microwave beeped again, and Lolly reappeared, holding two cups of steaming instant coffee. “I know it’s not your kind of drink, but my espresso machine is on the blink, sad to say.” She handed me a chipped mug and offered a wry smile. “Just kidding, I don’t have an espresso machine. I don’t have any milk, cream, or sugar, either, sorry.” She looked around her cheaply furnished apartment. “You haven’t told me how much you like my place.”
“Lolly—”
“Sit down,” she said, interrupting me, using her free hand to wave toward the bedspread-covered couch. “Here’s what happened. I got a four-point-oh at MIT first year. Since I was on a full ride, my parents were thrilled. So was I. And . . . I celebrated a bit too much when I came home. Got a DUI right on Main Street, next to Frank’s Fix-It. How come nobody ever busts him for smoking weed? Well, he wasn’t driving. Anyway, with me charged with DUI? At this my parents were not thrilled.” She put down her coffee and ran her fingers through her black and blue hair. “First they refused to pay for my lawyer. Not that they would have had that kind of money anyway. But then they kicked me out of the house. So here I am, taking a semester off, ‘for financial reasons.’ ” Her black-painted fingernails hooked quotation marks. Her blue eyes pierced me. “I was lucky, though. A friend gave me a loan. I mean, what bank is going to lend money to a drunk scholarship student, right? With that money, I paid my lawyer, got new tits, and started to work for an escort service. I’m gradually paying back my friend—”
“Lolly—” I said again.
“You’re interrupting me, Goldy,” she scolded, wagging a black fingernail in my direction. “But still. That’s the end of the story of how I became Humberto Captain’s whore.”
I said, “Oh my God.”
“I know what you’re going to say, because I’ve heard enough of it from Father Pete.” She put her hand on her chest in mock seriousness. “ ‘You shouldn’t go from drinking to prostitution, Lolly!’ ” Her dead-on imitation of Father Pete’s voi
ce and manner made me smile, even though I was trying to be serious. “At least,” Lolly said dolefully, “he’s still talking to me. Which my parents aren’t.”
“You have a nice friend, to have loaned you all that money,” I said conversationally as I leaned back on the couch.
“Why do you think I decided to open the door for you just now?” she asked. “I figure I owe you. This friend? He used to work for you. Julian Teller.”
I started at the sound of Julian’s name. I hadn’t seen him since Jack’s funeral. Julian had inherited a packet from his biological mother, who’d given him up for adoption, then tracked him down before she died. In spite of having money for the first time in his life, Julian continued to hold down jobs. He’d been going part-time to the University of Colorado while cooking at that vegetarian bistro in Boulder where the owner took August off. The restaurant had survived the recent downturn, thank goodness. When Julian had told me this, he’d also insisted that I hire Yolanda to fill his place as my assistant. She needed the money and he didn’t, he said. So here was Julian again, reaching out to women with financial difficulties and asking nothing in return.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Lolly. “Julian shouldn’t have loaned me that kind of cash.”
“I was thinking no such thing,” I said huffily. “And if you’re so good at mind-reading, why aren’t you in Vegas?”
“I tried gambling,” she said matter-of-factly. She sipped her coffee. “But you have to have a team. If you’re going it alone, there’s more money in whoring.”
“Good God, Lolly.”
She squinted at me. “Hey, I’m trying to redeem myself here! I’m going to repay Julian. I’ll go back to school. My parents and I will eventually work things out.” She frowned and looked out the dirty living room window. “But Father Pete said I had to do more.”
“Do more?” I felt completely at sea. “Do more what?”
“Do good, Goldy! Jesus, wake up! How do you think I got involved with Ernest McLeod in the first place?”
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