Crunch Time (43 page)

“So someone was trying to hurt her. Or me.”

“Someone was trying to hurt
somebody
.”

“Sean knew Rorry would be in the kitchen, which she usually wasn’t, and he didn’t know that Rorry had changed her will. Maybe he was hoping to kill her or scare her.”

“It’s possible. That’s why I suggested she not stay in the house last night.” Tom’s voice was calm as he sped to catch up with Ferdinanda, who had turned onto a dirt road north of Aspen Meadow.

“Something else,” I said. I told him about running into Sean and Brie at the church, and their acrimonious exchange. There had also been Brie’s shrill reproach of Sean, left hanging in the air:
When I think of all I’ve done for you. . . .

“Brie as Ernest’s killer?” Tom’s tone was doubtful. “She just sounds like a garden-variety gold digger.”

We were still bumping over the gravel. I said, “And what do you make of Kris at this point?”

Tom shook his head. “He probably came over to our place tonight because we questioned him this afternoon about his buying Jack’s house. He’s very insistent to anyone who will listen that he purchased it solely as a renovation project for his new girlfriend, the lovely Harriet, and not because his ex is currently living across the street.”

“Baloney. What more proof do you need that he is stalking Yolanda?”

“A lot more, as it turns out. She didn’t report the assault with the broom handle; she just says when he gets angry, he becomes violent. She won’t give us the name of the doctor who treated her for venereal disease. Not that that’s a prosecutable offense, but don’t you think she’d at least give us the doctor’s name?”

“Not necessarily.”

Tom drew up behind Ferdinanda, who’d stopped ten feet in front of a large iron gate. The entire property was surrounded by a tall fence composed of iron spikes nailed to metal rails at six-inch intervals. Two uniformed men came out of a guardhouse to greet Ferdinanda. Tom put down his window, and we could hear Ferdinanda merrily talking to the men in Spanish. She did not protest when they asked to see her driver’s license. After that, they slid open the van’s big door to examine the interior.

“There is no way I’m letting them into my trunk,” Tom said. “We’ll go home first.”

“What about the gun? Does the department have any idea who killed the gas station attendant in Fort Collins?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

I’d been convinced that Osgoode had killed Ernest, then burned down his house to conceal evidence. Every other person Yolanda had told us about or that we’d learned about—Kris, Hermie, Sean, Brie, Humberto—did every single one of them have an alibi for killing Ernest?

“And you haven’t found the gun,” I said.

“Again, Miss G., not yet.”

“Are you rechecking—”

“Yes. Everyone’s alibi for the time we think Ernest was killed.”

Ahead of us, Ferdinanda had been let through the gate. Tom pulled up and got out of the car. He’d closed his window so that I wouldn’t hear what he was saying to the guards, which I found very annoying. No doubt he was thinking of my habit of butting into conversations, or at least of eavesdropping on them. How bothersome to have a husband who knew you so well.

Tom showed his identification and talked to the guards. He then, apparently, asked for their identification. The guards’ swaggering confidence turned to general consternation, a panicked search for wallets, and the handing over of cards. Tom held each ID up to the setting sun—what he was looking for, I knew not. Then he handed them back their cards, pointed to the gates, and made a sweeping motion with his right hand to indicate the spiked fence. The guards nodded seriously, then motioned for Tom to go through. There was no check of Tom’s trunk.

“What in the world was that about?” I asked as Tom accelerated through the gates and waved to the guards.

“I told them they had an illegal fence,” Tom said mildly. “The county permits them if they’re six feet or lower. Humberto’s spikes are about ten feet high. I told them I was sure they didn’t want to have county officials driving up here tonight with jackhammers to take down a metal fence. Not while Humberto was having dinner guests. And, I added, sometimes county officers bring along representatives from immigration.”

“There is no way any county official—” But then I caught Tom’s grin. “You are mean.”

“I’m not. Every single thing I told them was true.” His tone was all innocence. “The fence is illegal. I was sure they didn’t want county administrators driving up here tonight. Sometimes immigration officials accompany county bureaucrats. All true.” His smile widened. “Most of the time it’s damned hard to work for the government. That, on the other hand, was fun.” Ahead of us, Ferdinanda began the steep climb of first one switchback, then another, to ascend the hill to Humberto’s place.

I said, “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Yeah. There was a safe in Osgoode’s house. Our guys finally drilled into it and found a hundred thou, give or take, in cash. No papers or files, unfortunately, and there was no checkbook conveniently placed in his desk. But the marijuana out at the grow hadn’t been harvested. So what we’re wondering is, how did Stonewall make money to bankroll his rental, purchase seeds online, buy dogs to breed, and support Charlene? That’s what we’re trying to figure out, without Charlene’s help.”

“Who’s her lawyer?” I asked.

“Jason Allred,” said Tom. “Aspen Meadow all-purpose attorney.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Goldy, you’ve probably catered for him. He does lots of business in Aspen Meadow.”

Allred, Allred.
I asked, “Wasn’t he the one who drew up Ernest McLeod’s will, that left everything to Yolanda?”

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 forehead. “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!