Crunch Time (3 page)

“Of course you were.”

“Weird stuff started happening. Twice, at night, Ferdinanda and I thought we saw someone looking in our windows. I talked to the owner, who also acted as the rental agent. She said nobody had asked who was in the house, and she had no idea who would be looking in the windows.”

“Did you call the police?”

“After the second time, I did. A cop came out to talk to me, and that was it.” Again she brushed the curls off her forehead. As I looked closer, I could see bags under her eyes and new wrinkles between her brows. When she felt me staring at her, she looked away. “I couldn’t afford to move, because Donna Lamar—that’s the owner/agent—said she didn’t have anything cheaper. Sales are down and rents are up, according to Donna.”

I groaned. After years of double-digit gains, the real estate market in Aspen Meadow had gotten very bad, very fast. My godfather, Jack, who’d sadly passed away the previous month, had owned the house across the street from us. The real estate agent had told us it could take up to two years for the house to sell—and that it would probably be at a loss. Jack had torn out the cabinets and closets with the idea of fixing it all up, but he hadn’t had the chance to finish what he started. If Yolanda’s rental wasn’t working out, I couldn’t imagine her being able to afford paying the unused part of a lease, making a deposit on another place, then picking up stakes, moving Ferdinanda, herself, and all their stuff yet again.

“So, are you still in the rental?”

Yolanda shook her head. “Besides working with you, I, uh, have another job.”

I didn’t follow. I hadn’t asked if she had another
job;
I’d asked if she was still in the
rental
. This was a crucial miss on my part, but at the time, I glossed over it. Yolanda rushed on. “Ernest McLeod, do you know him?”

“Oh, of course. We adore Ernest,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too enthusiastic, because I wasn’t sure how much Ernest had divulged of his history to Yolanda. Despite excellent, long-term work for the sheriff’s department, a bad divorce and a slide into alcoholism had led Ernest to rehab and forced retirement. He’d told Tom and me at the last department picnic that being a private investigator “isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds,” which had made us laugh. To Yolanda, I said, “What are you, ah, doing for Ernest?”

Yolanda licked her lips, and her tone changed.
What’s going on here?
I wondered. “I, you know, oh, for a while I was just doing his dinners for him,” she said without looking at me. “He hired me because he . . . wasn’t eating right, and, you know. Oh, I might as well tell you, he didn’t say I couldn’t. Ernest is in AA. He said his sponsor—or maybe it was his doctor? Anyway, this person said she was worried about how Ernest wasn’t eating right, so she told him he should pay someone to cook for him.” Okay, so Ernest
had
told Yolanda his story, or at least the part about being an alcoholic. Yolanda went on. “So when the strange things started happening in the rental, and it was clear the cops weren’t going to do anything, I asked Ernest if I could do his cleaning for him, too . . . in exchange for Ferdinanda and me moving in with him. It wasn’t, like, a sexual thing—”

“I didn’t think it would be,” I said hastily, although, why not go that way, if it worked for you? Maybe because Yolanda was so pretty, folks assumed that she got
stuff
in exchange for sexual favors. Still, she probably wouldn’t entertain the thought, at least not right off the bat. There was that Catholic thing.

Yolanda continued. “Ernest said yes. When I told him our story, I think he felt sorry for us. Well, anyway. Then once we moved in, I remembered he was a neat freak and that of course he wouldn’t need me to be his housekeeper. So I felt guilty all over again and offered to do laundry or whatever he needed. He said just doing dinners every night would be fine, plus running errands now and then. He said he needed to work with his hands. He liked to clean, he liked to putter around his garden in the summer, and in winter, tend plants in his greenhouse. He said those activities kept him sane and sober.”

I said, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, but yes, Ernest is great.”
And yes, he’s a neat freak,
I added mentally. “He used to be partners with John Bertram, who’s still on the force. John bought the land below Ernest’s property, then built a place for himself and his wife.” I thought, but did not say,
And John Bertram is no neat freak, trust me.
“The two of them, Ernest and John, worked for Tom.” When Yolanda said nothing, I prompted her. “So . . . you moved in with Ernest? When? It must have been recent, since you just broke up with Kris.”

She stirred her coffee, which she had stopped drinking. “Couple of weeks ago. Ferdinanda adores him. So do I, actually. It’s been a long time since I had a man who was a real friend, you know, not trying to get something from me. And Ernest, well, he has that big house that he ended up getting in the divorce, so it’s good for him, too, I suppose.”

“You suppose? Don’t you know?”

Yolanda swallowed some coffee. “Ernest’s house is scary, too.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice low, although no one was around except for our dog and cat, and I had no idea where they were.

“His clients.” She looked around the kitchen, as if someone who had hired Ernest were about to jump out of the pantry. “He doesn’t tell me much about them, but they frighten me.”

“Why?”

Yolanda shivered. “Well, somebody’s going through a bad divorce, and Ernest needs to get proof about something with that. We have no-fault divorce in this state. Why do you need proof of anything? Then, you know, maybe I’m just paranoid, but it seems to me that unfamiliar cars are always driving past his house and slowing down.”

“You think this is someone from the divorce case?”

“I don’t know. Ernest also has an animal-activist lady who wants him to look into a puppy mill. Why didn’t she just call the cops? You know, Furman County Animal Control? Or the SPCA?”

“Because
those
people need proof,” I said, as I picked up my knife and started slicing tomatoes again. “They need evidence if they’re going to move in and close somebody down. And anyway, don’t worry. Ernest can take care of himself. Did he tell you he was investigating anything that would put him in danger? Or put you and Ferdinanda in danger?”

Yolanda shuddered. “He says he’s looking for something for someone.”

“Looking for something for someone? Looking for what, and for whom?”

She said, “I’m not sure, Goldy.” Something about her tone of voice made me stop slicing and turn around. No one was there. When I faced her again, her big brown eyes were round. “Ernest didn’t come home last night.”

I asked, “Is that unusual?”

“Yes,” Yolanda whispered. “He said he’d be back in the afternoon. I was fixing him seafood enchiladas for supper, and he said he couldn’t wait. And then he didn’t show up. I couldn’t reach him on his cell. With his cases and his clients and my worry about Kris, I had a bad feeling. So did Ferdinanda. You know, she believes in Santería
.
”

“I thought she was a communist.”

“No! She’s a Catholic.” Yolanda continued softly. “It’s not something you can explain. It’s not like that.”

I had to lean toward her to hear what she was saying. I was saying, “Not like what?” when Jake, our bloodhound, started howling.

Yolanda tensed, then hugged herself. “Does your dog always go off like that?”

Before I could answer, Tom and John Bertram, a fortyish, well-built cop with a head of close-cropped fair hair, came around the back of the house. Tom’s gaze penetrated the row of windows he’d put up along the rear wall of the kitchen. John Bertram, Ernest McLeod’s ex-partner, saw only me. When he waved, I waved back with my free hand. Then his gaze snagged on Yolanda, and his arm fell. Yolanda got up, walked over to the sink, and stared into it.

I pointed the knife at the ceiling and gave Tom a what’s-up gesture. He ignored me. He kept his eyes on Yolanda as he came through the back door.

“Tom!” I said. “John! It’s so good you’re here early, because we’ve made a lot of food, and you can taste-test—”

“Miss G., I’m working,” Tom said.

“It’s Sunday. Can’t you just stay for a little while?”

Tom said flatly, “Ernest McLeod is dead. Yolanda, you need to come with us.”

2

I
dropped my knife. Ernest McLeod was
dead
?

“Wait,” I said.

Yolanda did not wait. She bolted for the bathroom again, where she turned on the fan.

Tom slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. I raised my eyebrows at him, but he just shook his head.

John Bertram rubbed his temples. After a moment, he crossed his thick arms. He started to say something, then ducked his chin and choked up. I picked up the knife, tossed it into the sink, and handed John a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

John shook his head once, wiped his face, and stuffed the tissue into his pocket.

“Tom?” I said. “How did Ernest die?”

“He was shot.”

I said, “Are you arresting Yolanda? Let me just say, she loved Ernest. She was telling me—”

“Goldy,” Tom asked, his voice gentle, “would you please stay out of this?”

“No,” I said. “And if you aren’t arresting her, you can
not
make her go with you.”

We were all quiet for a few minutes, except for Yolanda, who again was sobbing. I washed the knife and my hands and looked at the tomatoes. But I couldn’t concentrate.

Our bloodhound scrabbled at the back door. Desperate to have something to do, I covered the food we’d been working on, except for the bread, pork, and tomatoes, which were still rising, roasting, and awaiting slicing. I put the wrapped dishes into the walk-in, then let Jake in. He snuffled wildly around John and Tom, then cocked his ears when he heard Yolanda crying. In sympathy, the dog again started to howl.

“Jake, be quiet!” I hollered.

Jake shushed, but raced to the bathroom door and started scratching on it. Tom and John waited.

I didn’t know what to do. Finally I washed my hands, picked up the knife, and began slicing the tomatoes again. “Is somebody going to tell me what is going on?” I asked, impatient.

Tom nodded at John. John said, “Near as we can tell, Ernest was killed less than a quarter-mile from his house. Our guys are combing the scene, which isn’t far from my, from our”—he choked up again, then composed himself—“property line. Ernest must have been . . . I don’t know, walking into town, hiking. . . . Our house is about a third of a mile from his, just above the back entrance to Aspen Hills.” John crossed his arms again. “That section of Aspen Hills is pretty deserted, because most folks don’t know about that way in, and if they do find it, they usually give up, because the road winds a bit.”

I thought of Yolanda saying strange cars had been driving by and slowing down. Had she gotten a license plate?

John swallowed. “Ernest has, had, fifteen acres. I bought a couple of lots below his, so I could build our house and a big garage to work on my cars and trucks. There’s a whole field of boulders just above the garage, below the forest service road. I didn’t want somebody coming in and blasting, then putting in a house. . . .” He paused and, without embarrassment, tugged the tissue from his pocket and wiped tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“How has Yolanda seemed this morning?” Tom asked me.

“Her ex-boyfriend is driving her nuts. Plus, she was scared of Ernest’s clients. She’s a wreck.”

“A wreck, huh?” Tom said. “You think it’s because of the clients or because of the ex-boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. She’s just nervous. As I told you before, she doesn’t have any money and she has to take care of her great-aunt. Any one would be a catastrophe.”

“I suppose,” he replied. His green eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “I do think she has money, though. We found seventeen thousand dollars, cash, under a mattress in the guest room at Ernest’s house.”

“Seventeen thou— Wait. You searched a guest room when it was obvious someone was staying there?” I asked. “Did you have a warrant?”

“Miss G.,” said Tom, “don’t start. And don’t mention it to Yolanda, please. We know it’s inadmissible, if it comes to that. I’m just telling you, she has money. We were looking for a weapon. And anyway—” Before Tom could elaborate on one of his favorite topics, which was that people should never keep valuables in the freezer, the back of their closet, or under their mattress, because those were the first places someone looking for weapons or valuables would search, Yolanda returned to the kitchen. She clenched a handful of tissues.

“Yolanda,” Tom said, his voice kind, “please come with us down to the department, just to answer a few—”

“I can’t,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. “Aunt Ferdinanda is at the church, and I told the monsignor I’d pick her up at five. I have to . . . I want to . . . I mean, if Ernest is dead, then his friends need to be called, and then I . . .” Words failed her. After a moment, she said, “I should finish with Goldy, then get Ferdinanda, then go back—” Her mouth hung open and she blinked.
Then go back where?
She straightened with newfound resolve. “I have to go back to Ernest’s to take care of his puppies.”

“His
what
?” I said. Yolanda hadn’t mentioned any puppies.

Tom gave me a be-quiet look. “Yeah, we saw all those dogs.” He didn’t elaborate, but seemed to be considering Yolanda. “Okay, look. We won’t make you go down to the department. But we need to ask you some questions.” He pulled a recorder out of his pocket. “And I need to tell you, anything you say can and will be used against you . . .” By the time he’d finished the whole Miranda speech, I thought I was the one who was going to run to the bathroom.

“I have nothing to hide,” said Yolanda, lifting her chin.

Tom tapped the recorder. “I need your permission to use this.”

Yolanda looked miserable again. She used a tissue to wipe her face.

I pressed my lips together and said, “Yolanda, please remember what Tom said. You don’t have to tell them anything. You can ask for a lawyer. These things are important.”

Tom said, “Goldy? Do you mind?”

Yolanda shook her head. “Sure, go ahead with the recorder.” She made a point of glancing at the clock, which read five to four. “I just have to, you know, get Aunt Ferdinanda.
On time,
” she added.

Tom started the recorder and spoke into it, the usual drill of who was there, where we were, and the date. Then he pulled out his own notebook, as he distrusted technology. “We found nine beagle pups at Ernest McLeod’s house. Where did he get them, Yolanda?”

Yolanda rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. The dogs were part of a case he was working on. A woman wanted a puppy mill closed.”

“And how long had Ernest had these dogs?” Tom asked.

Yolanda said, “I, uh, how long? Let me think.” She paused to compose herself. “He got them, let’s see, today’s Sunday . . . he brought them home late Friday night. He said they were important to the case,” she repeated, her voice becoming distant. “Saturday morning, before he left for the dentist, he showed me how to feed them, give them water, and clean up the room where he’d put them. He said it was important, if he was ever away, and couldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Tom said, “And you have no idea where he got them, or why he picked up nine of them?”

“I don’t believe this,” I interjected, which brought another fierce look from Tom. I thought,
Who needs nine puppies for an investigation?
And picks them up at night?
And why get nine, instead of, say, one?

“I told you,” Yolanda said, her voice bleak, “it had something to do with one of his
cases
. He was helping a lady who thought there was a puppy mill in Aspen Meadow.”

There was quiet for such a long time in the kitchen, I thought Tom and John were waiting for Yolanda to say something more. But she didn’t, and I knew better than to open my mouth again. Instead, I convinced Jake to go back outside. The meat thermometer beeped, so I brought the pork out to rest, then washed my hands and set the risen Cuban bread in the oven. I finished slicing the last of the heirloom tomatoes. Their juice filled the gutters of the cutting board.

“Yolanda,” Tom said at length, “do you own a gun?”

I looked up in time to see Yolanda blushing deeply. “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Why of course not?” Tom pressed. “When you were living in your rental, you made a sheriff’s department report that someone was looking in your windows.”

In the silence that followed, I urged Yolanda, “Tell him about Kris.”

Yolanda’s voice was flat. “Kris Nielsen is my ex-boyfriend. He has a house in Flicker Ridge. Ferdinanda and I were living with him until a few weeks ago.” She exhaled. “He knows how to shoot. He told me so.”

Tom said, “He keeps a gun?”

Yolanda said, “Yes.”

“You’ve seen it?”

Yolanda nodded in despair. “He insisted on showing it to me. I think he wanted to scare me. It worked.”

“Do you know what type of gun it was?” Tom pressed her again. “The make? The caliber? Where he keeps it?”

“Tom,” she said, “I don’t know any of those things. I’m not even sure that it was his gun.”

“This Kris, he’s dangerous?”

“I’d say so. He was a very possessive boyfriend. Since we broke up, he’s been driving me nuts. Calling and hanging up, driving his Maserati past the house where we used to live. Two times, my aunt and I glimpsed someone peeking in our windows—”

“Did you get a look at this person?”

She shook her head. “No. But we thought it was either Kris or someone Kris had hired. He has tons of money and can afford to hire people to do . . . whatever. I filed a report a couple of weeks ago, before we moved in with Ernest. The department should have it.”

“And did Kris drive his Maserati past Ernest’s house?”

“Not that we saw. But the past few weeks? There
were
strange cars driving past Ernest’s house.”

“Can you describe the cars?”

“One was silver, like a luxury car. It came past once, real slowly. But I didn’t get any license plates.”

Tom waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked John, “Could you go into the other room and have one of our guys visit Kris Nielsen?” John disappeared into the living room while Tom turned his attention back to Yolanda. “Could you take us through your movements, starting with Friday night?”

So she did. Ernest had gone out around half past eight, when Yolanda and Ferdinanda were watching a rerun of a
telenovela
on Ernest’s basement television. Tom asked her which episode was on and what had happened. She gave him a wry look, thought for a moment, then told him. Tom wrote in his notebook. When the program was over, Yolanda rolled Ferdinanda into the guest bathroom and helped her get ready for bed.

John Bertram returned to the kitchen and flicked a glance at Tom. Tom asked Yolanda, “Do you know where Ernest had been that day?”

“Uh,” Yolanda said, again discombobulated. “Friday? He was off doing investigating. I don’t know if that had to do with the puppies or not. He came home, said he’d gotten some good pictures, and then I gave him dinner.” She seemed unsure whether to go on. Maybe she thought someone was going to ask what food she’d made for Ernest.

“On Friday night, you gave him dinner?” Tom said, prompting her.

“That was my
job,
Tom,” Yolanda explained testily, her eyes lit with defiance.

Tom shrugged. He did not mention the seventeen thousand bucks under the mattress. Nor did he bring up the people Yolanda hung out with, those folks he didn’t like. Instead, he stood and walked into the hallway with John. Yolanda avoided my gaze.

When Tom returned, he smoothly picked up his earlier line of questioning. “So, Ernest said he got some good pictures?”

“Yes.” Yolanda wrinkled her forehead. “He always kept his digital camera with him, in his backpack.”

“His backpack?”

“Yeah, he kept his cell in there, too.” Yolanda took a deep breath. “I never saw him go out without his red backpack.”

“He didn’t have a backpack with him. Just his wallet. Why would he carry a backpack?”

Yolanda said patiently, “He was trying to get more exercise. Whenever he would go out for a walk, he would sling it over his shoulders.” Yolanda made an impatient movement with her hands. “I don’t know, maybe he left the camera in his home office.” When she stopped talking, there was another one of those long silences that were making me so uncomfortable.

I felt myself beginning to fidget, so I offered everyone coffee, even though it was twenty after four. There weren’t any takers.

“Drink, then?” I asked. “As in wine or—”

“Goldy, please,” Tom said. Then he asked Yolanda, “What did you make Ernest for dinner Friday night?”

“Grilled swordfish.” Yolanda brushed her hair back from her face. “You can check the trash if you want. I also made him guacamole and put it on tomatoes. He liked that kind of thing, Tex-Mex, even though he didn’t eat very much.” Her brow wrinkled. “After dinner, he said he had to go out, but that he’d be back that night, hopefully with some dogs.”

“Were you surprised by his mention of the dogs?” asked Tom.

“Nothing about Ernest surprised me,” said Yolanda. A smile lit her face for a moment, then faded. “I did think he was kidding about the dogs. And then around midnight, he rolled up in his truck with a bunch of beagle puppies in cardboard boxes. I heard them yapping. In fact, they woke me up. Ferdinanda, too.”

“Where exactly did you sleep in the house?” Tom asked, although I was sure he already knew the answer. He wanted to get it on the tape. He was up to something, I didn’t know what, but I didn’t like it, and my protective instinct toward Yolanda again flared up. I gave Tom a black look, which he ignored.

“We were in the basement guest room, I told you. We had to use that because of Ferdinanda’s wheelchair. In addition to a little living room with the TV, there’s a small kitchen. Why?”

Tom said, “You want to tell me about the seventeen thousand in cash under your mattress in that guest room?”

Yolanda’s cheeks reddened again. She said, “No, I don’t.”

“Did you steal it from Ernest?” Tom asked mildly.

“No!” Yolanda cried. “I would never do that.”

“But you didn’t want to put it in the bank. Why?” Yolanda closed her eyes and shrugged. Tom went on. “I’m guessing it’s because anything over ten thousand in cash gets reported to the federal government, since it might come from a drug deal.”