Crunch Time (17 page)

Arch leaned over the salad bowl. “I don’t need to look. It’s Otto Newgate, and he was a year behind me at Aspen Meadow Elementary. I tried to talk to him, you know, welcome him to CBHS, but he said he didn’t want to be here at all, that his grandmother insisted he come. And get this. His grandmother wants him to try out for the basketball team, so he’s getting his physical. This school won the state
championship
last year. One member of the team is thinking of skipping college and going straight to the pros. Even CBHS’s
junior
varsity beat other
senior
varsities. Otto has exactly no chance of making either basketball team.”

“Oh, no.”

Arch said, “I mean, I feel sorry for Otto. I do. But if he doesn’t want to be here, then he should just tell his grandmother, no dice. Can I go now?”

“Yes, buddy. Thanks.”

Charlene Newgate! It was ten minutes after noon, and I’d been so busy worrying about Arch’s sick teammate, and dealing with the buffet, I’d almost forgotten I was due to meet her. And I certainly hadn’t put much thought into what I was going to say when I saw her, beyond bluffing about invitations to a doctor’s catered event. I knew I needed to ask questions that wouldn’t scare her off or do anything else to upset Tom.

I asked Yolanda to take over, which she did. I scanned the gym bleachers for Charlene. Would I even recognize her? I wondered.

Finally I caught sight of her, up high, wearing a fur, yes,
fur
coat that she had wrapped tightly around her. It wasn’t particularly cold in the gym, either. What with all the animal lovers in the Denver area, Charlene was running a risk wearing real fur anywhere outside her house. Still, the CBHS kids were not, I thought, the paint-throwing types. At least, I hoped they weren’t.

To the best of my knowledge, Charlene hadn’t come through the line, so I made her a sandwich and put large servings of Caprese and potato salads next to it. Then I double-timed it to the top bleacher.

“Charlene!” I greeted her, gasping from the exertion of climbing. “Sorry I didn’t make it right at noon. Please have some lunch.” I handed her the plate.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d remembered, Goldy.” She shrugged off the coat. Charlene looked older than someone in her fifties. No doubt, the stress of being both a single mother and a single grandmother had taken their toll. Like her grandson, she had thin, light brown hair that formed uneven tufts around her head. She was a bulky woman, but instead of the jeans and T-shirt I’d always seen her in, this day she was dressed stunningly, in charcoal wool slacks with a matching sweater. Her thick ankles were swathed in black leather boots.

“Charlene,” I said, “you look like you’ve won the lottery.”

She spooned a bite of salad into her mouth, taking care not to get any on her clothes. She chewed, nodded her approval, then said, “I have a new boyfriend.” Her whole face seemed to twinkle as she smiled at me. “He’s good to me.”

“How nice.” I meant it. “Is he here? Can I meet him?”

Distrust flared in her eyes. “No. He has lots of business projects. You wanted to talk to me about those invitations you need addressed?”

“Well, actually,” I said, improvising, “it was a Halloween party, for a dentist? Drew Parker? He called just as we were leaving the house to come here. He’s in Hawaii—it must have been the middle of the night there—anyway, his practice isn’t doing so well, so he’s not having me cater the party after all. In fact, he’s not even going to have a party.”

Charlene snorted and looked away. “All these years, I’ve been slaving away running a secretarial service. I’ve watched the doctors, dentists, lawyers, and businessmen I work for get richer and richer. Now I’m the one doing well, and I have no sympathy.”

I ignored her very palpable resentment, sat down next to her, and pretended to focus on the kids in the gym. “It’s so good your business is doing well. So, do you know Drew Parker? I mean, do you ever do work for him?”

She eyed me again, and I put on my most innocent-looking face. She trained her gaze on the gym floor. “I’ve already talked to the police, if that’s what you’re getting at—”

“Oh, no!” I lied. “The police? About what?”

Charlene looked away. “My service has worked for a lot of professionals in Aspen Meadow. Practically all of them, if you want to know the truth. I told the police, Drew Parker’s name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I understand. I have a
lot
of clients, too. By the time I’ve finished serving dessert? I can’t remember half of their names.” I paused. “My business is suffering, though. I’m glad yours is doing well.”

She gave me a look that would have curdled cream. “You have enough money to send your son here,” she rejoined. “Now Otto can have all the advantages that other kids have.” She lifted her wobbly, stout chin. “He’s going to do real well.” She opened her light brown eyes wide at me, and I blinked. She leaned in toward me, and I got a whiff of her powdery scent. “Who says money can’t buy happiness? Not me!”

Tony Ramos interrupted us with his bullhorn. He announced that the athletes had to finish their lunches and get their physicals, if they had not already done so, because the doctors and nurses needed to leave.

“Goldy Schulz!” A harsh female voice interrupted my visit with Charlene.

“Oh, Christ,” said Charlene under her breath. She picked up her plate and handed it to me. “Keep me away from that crazy woman, will you?”

I said, “What crazy woman?”

“Go!” Charlene told me. “Get out of here!”

I held the plate carefully with both hands, turned around so as to face the gym, and scanned the bleachers.

“Goldy Schulz!” the abrasive voice called again. The parents who sat all around, instead of paying attention to Tony Ramos, turned to look at me. Even some of the kids out on the gym floor stared upward.

At length I saw the woman calling me. My heart plummeted. Hermie Mikulski, her prematurely gray hair crimped in sharp curlicues all around her head, her tall, commanding body encased in a tube of pale gray wool, stood at the bottom of the steps, her hands on her hips.

“Coming!” I called weakly. I hadn’t seen Hermie Mikulski since the annual meeting of our parish, the previous January. Whenever I’d greeted her at church, I’d received a cold nod in reply, which I figured was just her way. But now she was screaming at me? Why? Was she blaming me for her son’s bloody nose?

When I reached the gym floor, I clutched Charlene’s plate between me and Hermie, like a kind of shield. To forestall a verbal attack, I quickly said, “Is Brad your son? I’m sorry that he—”

Hermie tossed her head. “I’m not here about Brad.” The area between her gray eyebrows furrowed. “Why were you talking to that woman?” When Hermie pointed up at Charlene, I noticed something that made my mouth fall open. Where two of Hermie’s fingers on her left hand should have been, there were only stumps.

“Hermie?” I asked. “When did—” In my mind, I could hear Arch’s voice saying,
Being nosy, Mom?
I had the presence of mind to say, “What woman would that be?”

“That welfare cheat, Charlene Newgate! Look at her up there, wearing a
fur coat.
I pity the animal who died for that woman. Oh,” she trilled, squinting and nodding ominously in Charlene’s direction, “Charlene’s got herself a sugar daddy now. Never mind that he’s a criminal.”

“A criminal? Who is he?” I asked breathlessly.

When Hermie turned her angry, trembling chin at me, I felt something like wool at the back of my throat. Hermie said, “I heard on the news that Ernest McLeod was dead. I take it your husband is looking into it?”

“Well—”

Hermie drew herself and her massive bosom upward, and took a deep breath. “Ernest was working for
me.
”

I swallowed. Was I supposed to let on that I already knew this? I said, “Oh? Doing what?”

“How far along is your husband in the investigation?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

“Have him call me,” Hermie said. With that command, she turned on her squat heels and marched away.

“You could always call him,” I said to empty air.

I had wanted to ask Charlene Newgate more questions, and I now certainly wanted to ask Hermie Mikulski more questions, such as
What happened to your hand?
But it seemed both women had dismissed me. I dashed across the gym to help with the cleanup.

Yolanda was already hard at work, washing the metal serving dishes. We’d used paper plates and cups, as the school didn’t want even the possibility of broken china or glass on their expertly sprung gym floor. The washing-up operation took less than an hour. A few stragglers were still in the gym, one doctor, three kids, and assorted parents. Sean Breckenridge had left. Brie Quarles was still there, and once again she was hanging on to Tony Ramos. What in the hell was going on with them? I wondered. Maybe Brie wanted
her
son to make the basketball team. Well, Marla would know.

Otto Newgate and his grandmother were among the last to leave. Charlene had expertly wrapped a scarf around her head. She lifted that chin of hers and pulled her fur around her, Tallulah Bankhead bidding me a grand farewell. Otto held on to his wide stomach. He looked absolutely miserable.

Outside, the rain had completely turned to snow. An astonishing six inches had already accumulated on the school’s football field. The pavement, which had been slightly warmer, only had about four inches of white stuff, but the snow was falling even harder than it had been when we came down from Aspen Meadow.

“We’d better hurry,” Yolanda said as she heaved one of our boxes into the van. “I’m worried about Ferdinanda.”

Ferdinanda! “Oh, dear,” I said as I pushed in my last box. “I promised her I’d go to an ethnic grocery store and get her some guava marmalade, or preserves, I can’t remember which. Do you know?”

Yolanda said, “I sure do. Want to let me drive?”

With a check from the school stuffed into my pocket, I relaxed, finally, in the passenger seat. Yolanda revved the van engine and got in line to exit the school parking lot. I was stunned by the amount of snow we were getting, but knew there was nothing we could do about it. It was while I was looking out the window that I saw something else that astonished me. Charlene and her grandson were getting into a car, hers, apparently, because she was easing herself into the driver’s seat. The bumper sticker read,
SECRETARIES DO IT BEHIND THE DESK
.

It was a 7-series BMW. That was some boyfriend.

I
t took longer than either Yolanda or I would have imagined to get to the Capitol Hill area of Denver and the ethnic grocery store. Even though Denverites are used to driving in snow, the
first
snowfall of the season, whether it comes in September, October, or even November, invariably paralyzes the city. Plus, since it was technically still summer, I doubted most folks had given a thought to snow tires, which slowed them down even more. Still, we eventually arrived at the store, which was called merely Ethnic Foods. Their parking lot was almost full. This told me that people had convinced themselves that they absolutely had to have their picante sauce and caviar if they were going to be snowed in, whether it was for a day or a week.

“Was it near here that Ferdinanda was hit?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Yolanda pointed me in the direction of the jams and said Ferdinanda liked guava marmalade. She said she needed sour pickles and would meet me at the front. I snagged a basket, found guava marmalade, and put it in my basket. Mission accomplished, I headed toward the row of cash registers, eager to get home before rush hour.

And we would have made it, maybe, if a huge crash, shattering, and tinkling of breaking glass, plus a lot of screaming, had not emerged from one aisle over.

“Get away from me!” Yolanda screamed. “Who sent you? Why did you bump into me? To scare me? Did Kris send you to hurt me?” There were more explosions and splinterings of glass. I rushed toward the ruckus.

“Stop it!” a male voice pleaded. Wait, that was a voice I knew, didn’t I? “You’re not acting logically,” the man said, his voice raised. “Stop hitting me! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“I’m calling the police!” Yolanda shrieked.

I raced toward the source of the racket. It was hard to see what was going on, because light reflected off a field of glass shards. The acrid scent of brine made me pull back. What looked like at least twenty broken jars of pickles and olives were strewn everywhere. Yolanda, stricken, was holding herself flat against the pickle shelves. And on the floor, disheveled, drenched in pickle juice and olive brine, his face red with mortification, was the man who loved to cook with genuine kalamata olives, our very large, very Greek, Saint Luke’s parish priest, Father Pete.

“Yolanda, it’s all right,” I said soothingly. “This is our priest. Our rector. It’s okay.” I realized I was still gripping my basket, which I put on the floor.

“He pushed me. He bumped into me hard, on purpose,” she said. She pressed her lips together, perhaps realizing that a priest would not intentionally hurt her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you,” said Father Pete. “I was reading a label, and I thought I barely touched you. Okay, look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. I’m absentminded. Mea culpa.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Yolanda, her voice still trembling.

“I can vouch for this man,” I said to Yolanda as soothingly as possible. I turned to our poor rector, who was, indeed, absentminded, and renowned for trying to do two things at once, like backing up and reading a label. Usually, like this time, he failed at both undertakings. “Father Pete, are you all right?” I swallowed. “Can I help you get up?”

Father Pete grunted. “I’m fine. I can get up on my own.” He brushed his dark, curly hair away from his face and groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. He then tried to step around the olives and pickles littering the aisle. A clerk appeared, a cell phone in one hand and a mop in the other. She looked from one person in our little trio to the other, waiting for direction.