Crunch Time (13 page)

Charlene got the idea for her business while visiting the church, when she’d seen other single mothers lining up for food for their families. If the mothers’ children were in school, Charlene figured, why not see if the ladies could be plugged into gaps in the business world in Aspen Meadow? She’d started Do It! and found work for office assistants, bookkeepers, and office managers, and after that, personal organizers, house cleaners, pet sitters, nurses, and paralegals.

I took the bowl of batter from the walk-in and carefully scooped out twelve balls of dough, which I gently flattened before putting into the oven. I set the timer, booted the kitchen computer, and popped online. Bingo. Charlene Newgate and Do It! had a website and a phone number. Best of all, her e-mail address was also included.

After some thought, I sent an e-mail to Charlene, making up some BS about catering a party for a doctor and wondering if her secretarial service would be willing to address and stamp invitations. It was the best I could do on short notice.

I finished cleaning up after myself and realized I needed another coffee. I steamed some whipping cream, poured it into a china cup, and pulled two double shots of espresso on top. While I drank it, I cleaned up the pantry. The sheet of cookies came out, and after letting them set up for a couple of minutes, I moved them over to a cooling rack.

A moment later, the computer made that little
bink!
noise that indicates you have mail. I was sure it was an ad for Viagra—I get a lot of those, and trust me, that’s the last thing Tom needs—but I was curious. It was twenty after five in the morning, Mountain Time. Who would send me an e-mail at that hour?

Charlene Newgate, that’s who. She wrote,
I’ll be at the physicals today at Christian Brothers High School.
Otto is a student there and trying out for sports.
I knew you were catering the lunch, because Otto brought home a notice about it.
How’s noon?
She concluded by giving me her cell phone number, in case that time didn’t work.

Before I could think about it, I wrote,
Sounds great.
See you in the gym.
After I’d sent the message, I wondered if Tom would approve. Still. Why wouldn’t he? What was Charlene going to do in a crowded gymnasium, throw a file cabinet at my head? She ran a secretarial service, and if she had hired out a temp for Drew Parker, the cops were going to discover it anyway. The worst she could do, I thought, was refuse to talk to me, once she discovered the doctor’s-party bit was a sham.

I picked up one of the cookies, bit into it, and entered heaven. The crunch of toasted pecans combined with the soft chocolate and chewy texture of baked toffee bits made me swoon. And of course, it went so well with the coffee. I made a latte for Tom, put a couple of cookies on a plate for him, and zipped back up the stairs.

It was just before six, and Tom was making his usual shaving noises in the bathroom. There was water running somewhere else, too, I realized, but I couldn’t figure out whether someone downstairs was having a shower or Yolanda was in the basement, doing a load of laundry. Clearly, having a couple of extra females in the house would take some getting used to.

I placed my load on a night table, sat on the floor, and closed my eyes. Very slowly, I began my yoga routine. My muscles were tight, either from getting up early to bake and think or from all the stress they’d undergone escaping from the inferno at Ernest’s place. My backside was sore, too, no doubt from the tumble I’d taken down the steps to his basement.

I breathed, stretched, and endeavored to relax. Unfortunately, now another question came squirming to the front of my mind.
Why
set up Ernest by moving a dentist appointment?

Maybe the killer had not even known Ernest would walk into town. Maybe he or she had thought to follow Ernest at a safe distance, then shoot him by his dentist’s empty office.

But then why burn down his house the following day? If you wanted to kill Ernest, why not just set the house on fire and be done with it?

I stopped midstretch. Of course, Ernest had had excellent fire alarms, and Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and I had made it out, along with nine puppies.

Nothing made sense. And before I could ponder the situation any more, the doorbell rang. I was about to stop my routine and go answer it when there were voices: Boyd was out on our front porch talking to Yolanda. They started laughing, and then she invited him inside.

A moment later, there was mad yipping from the puppies, accompanied by Jake howling his head off. Scout the cat streaked into our room and slid under the bed.

Let’s see: I had company to entertain, a crazed cat, six extra dogs plus the one we already had . . . and I hadn’t even gotten through the Salute to the Sun.

Tom appeared at the bathroom door and eyed the plate with the cookies beside his coffee cup. “You’ve been busy.” He leaned down and kissed my head. “Did I just hear Boyd arrive?”

“You did. I think Yolanda’s showing him the puppies. Please taste a cookie and have some coffee.”

Tom chewed thoughtfully, then smiled and pronounced it excellent. He drank the coffee in just a couple of gulps—working in the sheriff’s office makes you impervious to the heat of drinks—and glanced outside. “Boyd said he would bring wood for the ramp, which was awful nice of him. He said he was bringing a ham, too—”

“Another
ham
? Why?”

When Tom grinned, the skin on each side of his sea-green eyes crinkled. “Aw, don’t get after him. He’s had a thing for Yolanda ever since he came out to the spa to keep an eye on you. When I talked to him last night? He said he was going to pick up something for breakfast. I thought he meant cinnamon rolls. But then he said he was bringing a ham. Maybe he wants to come back for dinner. We could have a hamboree.”

“Not funny. Please don’t invite him. Yolanda and I have enough on our plate today already.”

“Listen to the caterer: enough on her plate. Know the definition of
eternity
?”

“Tom? Please.”

He said, “A ham and two people.”

“We’re not two people, though, are we?”

“Do your yoga, Food Woman, see if it improves your mood.”

“Well, I do have some news in the food department. Guess who’s making breakfast?”

“Ferdinanda.”

I smiled up at him. “Correct. Remember how Yolanda said her aunt was an early riser? That she used to work in a café before Castro’s revolution? Well, the noises we heard last night were Ferdinanda making a breakfast dish that has to sit overnight in the refrigerator. She’ll probably love serving it with the ham.”

“She survived being screamed at while she was in the pantry?”

“She made a mess of the place, moving things from one shelf to another. Looking for guava preserves, she said. She had her lap full of cans, too. They were for her workout.”

Tom shook his head. “Glad I didn’t scare her with the gun. How long does she have to stay in the wheelchair?”

“Probably until Thanksgiving, Yolanda told me.”

Tom eyed the empty plate and coffee cup. “Want me to bring you a latte?”

“I’ve had one too many espresso drinks already this morning. Better make it decaf. And thanks.”

I moved through an abbreviated yoga routine while Tom steamed more milk and pulled the shots. I could hear him talking to Ferdinanda, who must have finished her strength exercises. I wondered if I should tell Tom about the fact that I’d set up a time to talk to Charlene. Maybe he could give me some tips on subtle interrogation. Plus, our talk about Ferdinanda reminded me of something else I wanted to know.

“Here you go,” he said. He placed my steaming mug on one of the needlepoint coasters he’d ordered with the Adirondack chairs for our front porch. “And get this: Ferdinanda has preheated the oven and poured the juice.”

“Thanks a million.” I got up on the bed and took a sip. The creamy beverage shot across my taste buds. “And it is yummy, too.” Scout the cat cautiously pawed his way out from his hiding place, then leapt up on the bed and snuggled next to me. I patted his back and said, “It’s a shame about Ferdinanda’s accident. A broken leg can heal, but it sounds as if hers is going to take forever.” I shook my head. “Did the Denver cops investigate the hit-and-run?”

Tom groaned. “Yup. No reliable eyewitnesses, no license plate, just a few mentions of a big black SUV.” He looked out the window that had a view of our street. “The Denver guys’ question to me was, ‘Do you know that old woman would not tell us why she was down here in the first place?’ There was a small ethnic grocery store nearby, and the proprietor said he recognized her. He said she doesn’t like to say what she’s doing or why. After the accident? She told the grocery store proprietor, this country has freedom of speech, and freedom of no speech, and that was what she was doing.”

The stairs creaked, and I jumped. “Who’s that?”

Tom gave a half grin. “Just Boyd. I recognize his step.” He started to leave.

“Wait. Tom, I looked something up on my kitchen computer this morning.” I rushed forward before he could object. “I was thinking about Ernest’s appointment being changed, and Dr. Parker saying he couldn’t remember the name of the secretarial service he hired. Well, there’s only one secretarial service in town, and it’s run by a woman I know from Saint Luke’s, or at least from when she used to come to the food pantry. Her name is Charlene Newgate. I’ve already sent her an e-mail, and we’re going to see each other at the physicals today. Her grandson is a student at CBHS. He must be new because I haven’t seen him at any school functions—”

“Miss G., what are you saying to me? You want to know if she worked for Dr. Parker? You want to question this woman about Ernest’s appointment? And wait, you want to wear a wire, too?”

I sipped the coffee and tried to think. “No, I just want to know if it’s okay with you. That I talk to her, I mean.”

Tom shook his head and sighed. “Be very careful. And be nice—”

“I’m always nice.”

Tom chuckled. “Right. If she worked for Parker, we’re going to figure that out anyway. But don’t press her, got it? I want to hear what she has to say, and in particular, how she acts with you.”

Boyd knocked softly on our door. When Tom answered, Boyd said he needed to get into the garage to get the toolbox. Tom gave him the code, said he’d be right there, and came over to give me a kiss.

“See you, Miss G.”

“Thanks, Tom. You know I’m only trying to help Yolanda.” I sipped the coffee again. In a moment, banging began to echo up the stairs. “And one more thing—”

Tom slumped. “Only one more?”

“Is there a laptop up here? I don’t want to use your computer in the basement, and I don’t want to use the one in the kitchen. I want to use one up here.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “There’s that new desktop in Arch’s room.” When I didn’t mention why I needed it, Tom said, “Oh, man, Miss G., don’t I know you.” It was not a question. “You want to start a file, make a list of what’s happened, that kind of thing, right?” I pressed my lips together and looked out the window. Tom went on. “And you want to be up here to do it, not in the kitchen, because despite what you say about loving good old honest Yolanda, you want to keep what you’re putting down to yourself.”

I shot him a glance. “Yeah, okay, I’m just being, well, circumspect. Do you know how to password-protect a file? I don’t want to mess up Arch’s stuff.”

“Wouldn’t he just love you for that. Come on, I’ll show you.”

While Tom booted Arch’s Mac, I looked around my son’s room. His memorabilia crowded the shelves above his desk. There were pictures of Arch with Julian on a fishing trip, Arch smiling broadly with the Christian Brothers fencing team, another of him brandishing his new épée. Another photo showed him in front of a cake on his sixteenth birthday, flanked by his best friend, Todd Druckman, and his newfound half brother, Gus Vikarios. We called the trio the Three Musketeers. Most amazingly, to me, anyway, were the fencing trophies between the photos.
DENVER AREA FENCING CHAMPIONSHIP, THIRD PLACE. BOULDER FENCERS, THREE-TIME KING OF THE HILL. WESTERN REGIONAL RUNNER-UP, UNDER-EIGHTEEN ÉPÉE TOURNAMENT.

This was, all of it, a sea change from Arch’s life up to a few years ago. In elementary and middle school, he’d been steeped in misery—not unlike little Otto Newgate, who had taken his grandmother’s last name. Otto was even younger and smaller than Arch. For his part, Arch had been unathletic, bullied constantly, addicted to role-playing games, and torn apart by my divorce from the Jerk. But in a gradual change, he’d turned away from Dungeons and Dragons, secretiveness, and despair, and made friends besides Todd. At CBHS, he’d ventured into fencing. He’d focused and concentrated at school and, best of all, started to gain confidence, even joy. And then my heart twisted in my chest, because I realized at what point this change had begun to occur: It was when the man in front of me, now busily tapping on Arch’s keyboard, had come into our lives, and stayed.

“Thank you, Tom,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just a file. Here you go, Miss G.” He stood and held out the desk chair for me. “Your password is
Havana
. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if any of Ferdinanda’s breakfast dish is ready. Don’t be long, ’cause Boyd and I do have to do some work today, as in down at the sheriff’s department.”

“Wait. I have a quick question regarding Yolanda’s problem with Kris. If he was threatening her, and she could document it, couldn’t he be charged with menacing?”

Tom nodded. “She made a report, remember? But in order to sustain a charge of menacing, Miss G., we need
documentation
and
evidence
. Same with harassment. We have to have something to go on, and she didn’t even make a sheriff’s department report when he hit her with the broom.”

“And the investigation at Ernest’s house? When will you know about accelerant, what’s been destroyed, canvass of the neighborhood, ballistics on the gun that shot him, that kind of thing?”

“Today or tomorrow.”