Tom steered carefully around a hairpin turn. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Why?”
“I’m just trying to connect the dots,” I said as we drew into a paved oval where an old Toyota was parked next to a red VW bug. The VW had a window sticker that read, Massachusetts Institute of Technology: Lolly’s.
Maybe Tom did need to call the county zoning officials. Why? Because if there was a law against out-of-style residences, Humberto’s huge white Caribbean-style mansion would get the first citation. My mouth actually dropped open. The previous year, I’d seen two photos of the house in the Mountain Journal, and they had both been taken inside. How could anyone have a white stucco house in the mountains? The dust all summer, and snow all winter, would make it impossible to keep clean. Oh, well, I thought as Tom parked his car next to Ferdinanda’s van. At least I didn’t have to clean the place.
Tom hurried around to Ferdinanda’s side, where the irrepressible older woman was already settling herself in her wheelchair. Tom pushed her up to the front door. I brought the quiche.
A silent, uniformed maid greeted us with a nod, took the foil-wrapped pie, and ushered us into the living room. It was the size of a small gym, but with a red tile floor. White marble fireplaces stood guard at each end. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows filled the opposite wall. The western view featured a sweeping vista of the Continental Divide, where snowcapped peaks were tinted pink by the setting sun.
Tom said, “Wow. No wonder he bought this piece of land.”
The smell of paint made my nostrils itch and my eyes tear up. I didn’t know what kind of redecorating Humberto had done, because care had been taken to make everything look old. Gilt-framed oil paintings of hunters carrying dead game hung above the fireplaces. Armchairs on either side of the hearths were upholstered in tapestry prints featuring hunting dogs carrying dead birds in their mouths. Several couches set between mahogany tables were upholstered in dark leather. The walls were tan. Instead of crown molding, woodworked arches surrounded the room. Overhead, aged timber beams—like the arches, these performed no actual support function—gave a hacienda feel to the place, as did wrought-iron wagon-wheel light fixtures. The whole place was laughably over the top. Still, I was sure Norman Juarez wouldn’t have found it funny.
“Hello, hello!” trilled Lolly as she rounded a corner teetering on silver stilettos. She wore a silver tube-type dress; her black and blue hair had disappeared under another platinum wig. The hairpiece was on slightly crooked, I noticed with dismay. “Remember me? I’m Odette. I’m Humberto’s, uh, date,” she told Ferdinanda as she shook the older woman’s hand. Lolly then cast her eyes downward as she shook hands with Tom, who looked at her suspiciously. Lolly quivered as she came forward to hug me.
“Can you show me the bathroom, please?” I asked, a bit too loudly. Again Tom’s hawk’s eyes missed nothing.
“Too heavy on the T,” Lolly whispered as she led me down a hallway featuring more hunting pictures. “Photocopy is in bottom of tissue box in bathroom. Maid’ll be in kitchen through dinner. New surveillance everywhere. Watch out.”
“Tom wants to talk to you.”
Her shoulders sagged. But after a few more teetering steps, she whispered, “All right, but you’ll have to get rid of Humberto first.”
“Your wig’s on crooked,” I whispered back.
She cursed and said she would fix it.
As surreptitiously as possible, I checked the white-tiled bathroom for a surveillance camera. A tiny red light, glimmering high up in the corner opposite the toilet, made me feel distinctly violated. I fake-sneezed once, then again, turned my back to the camera, and leaned over the sink. My fingers trembled as I dug down into the white tile tissue box beside the faucet. I pulled out several tissues along with Lolly’s piece of paper. I sneezed once again for good measure, honked into the tissue, then slipped the folded paper and the tissues into my pocket.
When I returned to the living room, Humberto was making his entrance. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, as usual. He was impeccably dressed in a tan-colored suit, white shirt, and red tie. But his eyes were heavily lidded and he truly did look as if he’d just awakened from a too-deep nap. Too heavy on the temazepam, indeed.
“What may I prepare for you to drink?” he asked, bowing toward Ferdinanda and me. “Oh dear, and how is Yolanda? I should have asked after her welfare first.”
“She is fine.” Ferdinanda took hold of Humberto’s proffered hand and tugged down on it. Humberto, who was having a bit of trouble maintaining his balance anyway, cascaded forward, nearly losing it altogether. Undaunted, Ferdinanda pulled on Humberto’s hand again. Only Humberto’s grasp of a nearby table kept him from going ass-over-teakettle. “Yolanda is strong,” Ferdinanda said menacingly. “Like me.”
“Yes, Ferdinanda,” said Humberto. He groaned as she maintained her iron grip on him. “I know you are both proud”—here he moaned—“uh, Cuban-American—ack—ah, women.”
“Yes,” said Ferdinanda, “we are. Last night, did your puta loosen the bolts on the electric skillet?”
“I, uh, agh! You’re killing me! And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t hurt Yolanda, or you’ll have me to answer to,” said Ferdinanda, with her death-steel grip still on Humberto.
Humberto gasped with pain. “I, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.” Ferdinanda let go of Humberto’s hand so swiftly that he had to grab the back of one of the hunting-dog chairs to keep from falling into the fireplace. “As long as we understand each other.”
“This is interesting,” Tom said to me in a low voice. “I wouldn’t want to tussle with Ferdinanda in a dark alley, wheelchair or no wheelchair.”
I said, “Nor would I.”
The silent maid came and bustled about pouring drinks. Ferdinanda asked for a Cuba libre. Humberto shook the hand that Ferdinanda had been squeezing to restore feeling in it. He said that he, too, would like a Cuba libre. Lolly said she would give booze a pass, thanks, and just have water. Tom and I opted for white wine. The maid filled the drink orders, then came through with appetizers on individual plates with tiny forks: hot Cuban sandwiches cut into tiny triangles, a myriad of olives on toothpicks, and squares of the heated spinach quiche. It was all delicious, and I made another mental note to ask Ferdinanda for her quiche recipe.
Ferdinanda and Humberto began to discuss Cuban politics, with Humberto blaming President Kennedy for Castro’s getting a stranglehold on Cuba, and Ferdinanda blaming Castro for putting on the stranglehold in the first place. Lolly remained silent while Tom and I tried to make polite but nonpolitical comments. As the discussion turned into a heated argument between Humberto and Ferdinanda over whether any ruler should be allowed to suspend freedom of speech or the press, or restrict dissent in any form, I feared our dinner was in jeopardy. Ferdinanda had more examples at her disposal, while Humberto, full of bluster but intellectually lazy, seemed to become more and more frustrated by Ferdinanda’s interrupting him. If push came to actual shove, I didn’t doubt Ferdinanda’s ability to arm-wrestle Humberto to the floor.
“Humberto!” I shrieked as I jumped up, startling everybody. “Tell me about your view here!” I walked over to the windows. “I remember seeing this in the newspaper. How did you find such a magnificent piece of property?”
Humberto, his face flushed, gave Ferdinanda a final fierce look, then attempted to smooth his expression. “Ah, thank you for asking. I looked a long time for this land. The whole thing was very expensive.”
“I’m sure it was,” I said, smiling. “Can you tell me which mountain is which?”
Of course I knew which peak was Mount Evans, which was Longs Peak up north, and how on a clear evening, which this was, Pikes Peak was visible way down south. Humberto, who seemed not to have memorized his mountains, gave me a confused look, so I said, “I know you’re acquainted with my friend Marla. Did you know one of her puppies was very ill?”
Humberto rubbed his orangey-tan forehea
d. “I didn’t know she had puppies.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, and Humberto jumped. “She got them from . . . a friend of a friend. But it looks as if the puppies came from a mill. Run by a guy named Osgoode? Does this ring any bells?”
Humberto frowned at me and seemed to welcome the maid ringing an actual bell, the one announcing dinner. Dang!
On the way into the dining room, which also faced the Continental Divide, I whispered to Tom, “You need to get Humberto out of here so we can talk to Lolly. Have your people interrogated him about Osgoode?”
“Yes, Miss G.,” he said. He gave me a sideways smile. “Like you, they came up empty. But don’t worry, I can get rid of Humberto.” Tom excused himself to make a cell phone call, outside.
The dining room also smelled of paint. Like the living room, the floor was paved with red tile. Stone floors are hell on a caterer’s back, and I was glad not to be cooking and serving, although I did feel sorry for the maid. When Tom returned, my heart warmed when he pulled one of the leather-tooled chairs from the long trestle table to make way for Ferdinanda’s wheelchair. She loudly thanked him while glaring at Humberto.
Humberto proudly dimmed the lights on the chandelier, which he said he’d found in Paris on one of his travels. Like the ones in the living room, it was a ring of wrought iron topped with candle-shaped bulbs, but this one was at least more delicate than the wagon wheels. The dimmed lights gave the place a romantic feel. Lolly kissed Humberto’s cheek and said everything looked fabulous, and wasn’t he a smart fellow to find such beautiful decorations? He preened under her admiration.
The maid brought out a heavenly scented roast chicken surrounded with potatoes, carrots, yuca, and fried plantains. We talked and ate for twenty minutes without a single political comment from anyone, for which I was thankful.
We were halfway through luscious, creamy flans when Tom’s cell rang. He apologized to the group, went into the hall, then came back looking rueful.
“Humberto,” he said, “I’m sorry, but it looks as if there’s a team here to take you to the department for more questioning.”
“But we haven’t finished our dinner!” Humberto sputtered.
Tom shook his head. “I know, I tried to put them off, but they’ve got three cars down at your gates, and it’s the district attorney himself who ordered the interrogation. Some new evidence has come to light. And if you don’t go with them, they’re going to arrest your guards as material witnesses. We do have several interrogators who are Mexican-American, and they speak perfect Spanish. So unless you’re willing to hire individual lawyers for your guards at this late hour, then I’m afraid—”
“No, no,” barked Humberto. He waved his hands. “I will go. But I’m sorry, the rest of you will have to leave.”
“Leave?” said Ferdinanda, her mouth full of custard. She swallowed. “Now?”
“Yes, I am sorry,” Humberto said, his voice full of fury. “I cannot leave my house unguarded.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust us?” Ferdinanda demanded. “What have you got in here that’s so valuable you can’t allow your guests to finish their dinner?”
Humberto snarled something unintelligible. “Even the maid will have to go. Everyone must leave.”
Lolly did not look at us. Instead, she pushed back her chair and mumbled that she would go get her things.
Ten minutes later, Tom had helped Ferdinanda into her van, Lolly had loaded her overnight bag into her VW, and Tom and I were seated in his car. The maid came bustling out, furious, and slid into her Toyota, cursing at Humberto the whole time. He ignored her, opened his garage door with a remote, and drove out behind us in a silver Mercedes.
We made an odd procession snaking down the hill. The maid’s old Toyota belched exhaust. Ferdinanda fearlessly heaved the listing, rusted van from one side of the driveway to the other. Lolly followed cautiously in her lollipop-red VW, while Tom smoothly navigated his Chrysler and Humberto tailgated us in his ultraslick sedan. As we rounded the last turn, the commotion was apparent. Outside the illegal fence, three police cars, their lights flashing in the early dark, looked truly ominous.
“What did you have to do to get them here?” I asked Tom.
“Not much.” He gave me another of his Cheshire-cat grins.
“But you said Humberto had to be interrogated because there was a new piece of evidence.”
“No,” Tom patiently replied, “I said he had to be questioned. I also said there was new evidence, which there is. I didn’t say the two were linked.”
“You are a dog that is sly, Tom.”
The photocopied sheet was burning a hole in my pocket. Still, I thought it would look too suspicious to the guards if I turned on the interior light to read the sheet, which might, after all, contain nothing. I needn’t have worried. At the bottom of the hill, the guards all looked as if the police presence was making them wish they could disappear.
22
Outside the gates, Lolly swerved left behind Ferdinanda. But where Ferdinanda continued on Aspen Meadow Parkway to get to Main Street, Lolly turned on the road that would lead to her apartment building. I used the cell to phone Boyd, asking him to walk out when Ferdinanda arrived. I said we’d be along shortly and that he should tell her something that would sound plausible, like that we’d gone for ice cream since we hadn’t finished dessert.
He chuckled and said it was no problem.
In her apartment parking lot, Lolly got out of her VW and came over to our car, where she climbed in the back. She’d taken off her wig.
“Nice do,” said Tom, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have black and blue hair.”
“I could dye it for you,” she replied, slamming the door.
“No, thanks.” Tom killed the engine and turned around to face Lolly. “Okay, Lolly, I want to hear it from the beginning.”
“I don’t want to be prosecuted for prostitution.”
“Who said anything about prostitution?” asked Tom innocently. “That’s not my department. Homicide is. So, tell me your story.”
Lolly obliged. She gave a quick summary of the DUI, her parents, Julian’s loan, her signing up with an escort agency, her liaison with Humberto, and wearing the necklace to a charity shindig. It wasn’t until she got to the bit about Father Pete telling her to do good, and her helping Ernest, that her voice faltered.
“I got him killed,” she said guiltily. “That damn Humberto.”
There was silence in the car.
“No, you did not get Ernest McLeod murdered,” Tom said firmly. “You helped him with a client’s needs. That’s all you did. So, you have no idea where the necklace is now?”
“Nope.”
“Is there anything else you want to share?”
Lolly told him about Humberto being furious that the necklace had been stolen, his suspicion of her, his guards tearing apart her parents’ house and Lolly’s apartment, and the subsequent cash payments. Then her eyes strayed to my face in the rearview mirror. I looked straight back with as blank an expression as I could muster.
We were thinking the same thing. It was one thing for Ernest to ask Lolly to do unlawful acts, which she was now confessing. It was quite another thing for the wife of a police investigator to ask her to drug her mark, do an illegal search, and photocopy receipts in the mark’s wallet. She knew she shouldn’t mention what she’d done today unless I told her to.
I didn’t. I figured, if I found something out from the wallet receipts, great. I’d tell Tom without mentioning my source. If I didn’t discover new evidence, well, then, no harm, no foul, and I would avoid being soundly scolded.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” Tom asked, his voice nonchalant.
“How’s this? Humberto still suspects me of something,” she lied smoothly. “I don’t know what. Earlier, I told Goldy that he’d redecorated, repainted, the works, after the break-in. He also installed security cameras, including in the
bathrooms. I mean, that’s illegal, isn’t it?”
Tom sighed. “No, I’m sorry to say. It isn’t against the law to spy on people in your own home. But it should be. Still, I want you to be extra careful. Humberto may be responsible for the murders of two, or possibly three, men. He may have killed them, or he could have had them killed. Has he ever mentioned anything to you about being in Fort Collins? One of the murders is of a gas station attendant up there.”
Lolly shook her head. “He doesn’t tell me that much about his life, except stuff that isn’t true.”
Tom shook his head. “Still, I’d feel better if you dropped out of sight for a few days.”
“No can do,” said Lolly, shaking the black and blue hair. “Humberto knows where my parents live, and even though I’m not on speaking terms with them, I don’t want Humberto coming after them. Don’t worry, I know how to handle Humberto.”
Tom thought about this for a moment. “All right. I just want you to call me if you find out anything, or if you think you’re in danger.”
“Oh-kay.” She sounded like Arch.
Tom grinned. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might be pertinent?”
“Your computer guy? Kris? He’s a fraud.”
I said, “You weren’t too nice to him on that USB port thing.”
“Nice?” said Lolly, her blue eyes wide. “Who cares about nice? A real data-processing geek would have known, in answer to my question, that I needed to buy a USB hub. That guy’s a liar. I don’t know how he made his money, but it wasn’t starting a computer business in Silicon Valley, or any other valley, for that matter. He’s from Minnesota. He knows something about chemistry, because he tried to jump in with an answer to the medical isotope question. But you could know that from high school, unless you’re Donna Lamar. Still, I’ll bet Kris built up his fortune selling farm equipment. It’s just not as sexy as a Silicon Valley start-up.”
“Lolly?” asked Tom. “You want to apply to work at the sheriff’s department? I’m not kidding, we need a mind like yours.”
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