Crunch Time (47 page)

Yolanda looked tired. The burns on her bandaged legs still made movement difficult for her, and standing was also a challenge.

“I want a bath,” she said ruefully, “but, Goldy, what about the soup? Do you want me to—”

“What are you complaining about?” Ferdinanda said, chiding her. “Bath? Bath?” She dismissed this with a wave. “When I was a sniper in Castro’s army, up in the jungle? We only got to wash in streams.”

“Goldy,” said Yolanda, ignoring Ferdinanda, “I want to start on the soup. I mean, if you do.”

I glanced ostentatiously at my watch. “Why don’t you have that bath now? You look exhausted.”

“I had a restless night.”

“You don’t have to cook,” I said.

“No,” she replied stubbornly, “I want to.”

“Tell you what,” I said as I clutched the bag tightly to me. “Can we talk in the kitchen, just the two of us?”

She looked downcast, but followed me. I carefully closed the kitchen door.

I said, “Ernest had already begun investigating Kris.”

She immediately looked away. “Oh, God—”

“Yolanda, please. Are you sure that Ernest never said anything about Kris? Or about finding something in Kris’s house?”

Yolanda again began to tear up. “Ernest did tell me he was looking at Kris. I . . . didn’t want to tell Tom, because . . . I was afraid,” she whispered.

“Of Kris?”

“Yes, of course.” Her voice was still low, as if she were sure Kris could hear her. “But also, Tom was so suspicious of me. Like he didn’t believe me.”

“In a murder investigation, Tom has to suspect everybody. So, did Ernest find anything at Kris’s place?”

“He had a lead. That was all he told me.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“Ferdinanda told me she informed you that Humberto had hired me to spy and paid me the seventeen thou that went up in smoke. I never did any spying. I loved Ernest.”

“I know. And Tom knows.”

Yolanda shook her head. “We never should have stayed here.”

“No, no, don’t say that.” I put down my bag. “You may feel crazy now, but you’re going to be fine. Look, I went through this breaking-up thing with my ex. In spades. Come on, give me a hug.” She obliged, and then I pulled away. “Tell you what. Could you go back out to the living room and tell Boyd what you just told me, about Ernest and Kris? Try to remember details. Then ask him to call Tom.”

She nodded her assent, turned away quickly, and pushed through the kitchen door.

I tried to focus. When Yolanda had arrived at the house, she had not told me the whole truth. She had been afraid. And given my history, I didn’t blame her.

In the living room, I could hear Boyd on his cell phone. I stared at our landline, which was blinking. I pushed the button for voice mail and was told I had one message.

“Oh, Goldy, thank God your machine picked up!” SallyAnn Bertram’s breathless voice announced. “I don’t have your cell number, or if I do, I can’t find it. When is that cleaning lady coming over? I can’t remember, and I can’t find my calendar, and when I started tidying up, I realized that there was way too much for me to . . . well, actually, I feel overwhelmed. John promised he’d be home early, but he just called and said he thought we needed some more propane, plus he’s borrowing a grill from somebody—” The machine cut her off. She’d called an hour ago.

When was Penny due at the Bertrams’ place? In my current mental state, I could not remember. It seemed to me she’d indicated she was going straight from Kris’s house. My watch said half past one. I did not dare call her cell, in case Kris was nearby and saw the incoming number. If I used Boyd’s cell, Penny might answer. Even though she blamed the Furman County Sheriff’s Department for all her husband’s woes, with her husband getting out of jail the next day, wouldn’t she pick up?

I was worried about her. That trumped everything.

I picked up my bag and found Boyd back in the living room. He was off the phone. Yolanda and Ferdinanda had retreated to the dining room.

“May I borrow your cell, Sergeant?”

“What happened to yours?”

“Just—please?”

Boyd said, “You have to stand right here while you use it.”

“Thanks. A friend of mine cleans for Kris Nielsen, and I want to make sure she’s okay.” I added, “She’s worked for him for a while. I don’t think this is a big deal.”

Boyd shook a carrot-shaped forefinger at me. “That’s what you always say.”

Penny answered on the first ring. “Zeke? Did they let you out early?”

“No, it’s Goldy. Sorry.”

“Christ, Goldy!” There was the quick crash of a door slamming. “I’ve been over at your friend’s house for half an hour, and the place is a frigging rats’ nest! You could take half the stuff out of here and have enough for
two
garage sales!”

“Well, I’m sorry—”

“Why are you calling me from the sheriff’s department?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not at the department, I’m borrowing a phone. Did you finish at Kris’s place okay?”

“Yeah, I suppose. He didn’t seem to suspect anything. I was so nervous I thought I was going to pee while he wrote out my check. Did you put everything back just the way you found it?”

“Well, not exactly. But if he didn’t notice, then we both should be fine. Listen. There was a message for me at home from SallyAnn, and I wanted to make sure you got there.”

“When I got here, that woman was having a
major
meltdown. She kept following me from room to room, until I finally handed her a gigantic trash bag and said, ‘Here, fill this with everything you haven’t used in the last year. When you have one bag full, start on another one. When I finish here, if I ever finish here, I’ll take them all to Evergreen Christian Outreach.’ Do you know, that woman’s on her
third
bag?”

“Good, then—”

“Listen, Goldy, I’m
here,
but I’m not sure I can get through all this. I think I’m gonna need
help
.”

“How’s three o’clock? I’ll try to bring helpers.”

“Better than nothing.” She disconnected.

I gave Boyd an imploring look. “Can we—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just remind your son to go over to somebody else’s house for dinner. And to stay there until we call him.”

I promised I would, then raced upstairs with my bag. I grabbed four hundred dollars from my underwear drawer, which was where I stowed emergency cash. I stuffed it into my wallet, for Penny.

I picked up my canvas bag and tiptoed to Arch’s room, where I closed the door. I dialed his cell—which the CBHS kids were not allowed to answer during school hours—and left a message asking if he could please eat dinner over at Gus’s and call me when he was done. Then I apologized and said I would explain it all to him later.

I nipped over to his desk, booted his computer, and pulled out the things I’d stolen from Kris’s. I began with the
Miscellaneous
file, since it was far thinner than the one marked
Mother
. With any luck, I would be able to take good notes on the contents, then return both files to Penny that night, so she could replace them the next time she worked at Kris’s.

The
Miscellaneous
file was indeed sparse: It contained only two pages, each with three columns. Had I dropped something? I certainly hoped not. Two pages I could photocopy and figure out later. I raced down to the basement, avoiding contact with Boyd and our houseguests, and copied both sheets.

Back upstairs, I did a cursory study of the pair of papers. Along the left side of each were dates. I blinked at the papers and told myself to concentrate.

The dates along the left side of the first page began in June and went through July; the second page covered August and went through the previous day, September the sixteenth. Today had not been entered yet.

Every date in June was not noted, but there was one D, with a check mark. The far-right number corresponding to the D had four digits; the others all had three. July, on the other hand, contained many S’s and two B’s. Most of the S’s had check marks, some had X’s. The B’s had check marks. In July, every date was noted.

It was the same for August, a pattern of S’s and B’s. All had check marks with three digits in the right-hand side. For September, there were also three I’s, two F’s and a K. The K corresponded to a five-figure number, and each F and I matched a four-figure number.

Back on the first page, I wondered why there was only one D there, and then I looked at the date: June the fifteenth.

Hadn’t Yolanda told me Ferdinanda had had her accident in mid-June? Since I’d seen a black SUV over at Stonewall’s, I wondered again if he’d been involved in the accident, and if so,
why
. I would have to get the exact date of the accident from Yolanda.

The dates and figures swam before my eyes. They could relate to anything in Kris’s life. I for Investments, S for Sell, B for Buy.
Crap.

In the back of my mind, I could hear Penny’s voice saying she needed me to come help her clean up the Bertrams’ house. We had a party to do that night, and I had no idea whether the pages in front of me—papers I had obtained illegally, no less—meant anything or not.

I opened the packed
Mother
file. It contained the last will and testament of one Rita Nielsen. A coroner’s report, dated the fifteenth of January, two years and eight months ago, indicated Rita Nielsen had died between the twentieth and the twenty-sixth of December, from carbon monoxide poisoning. I went through bank account slips and statements from mutual funds. It looked as if Kris Nielsen had inherited twelve million dollars, as he’d drunkenly admitted to Penny Woolworth. So the “making money starting up a computer company” was bunk, as Lolly Vanderpool had suspected.

I sifted through the many pages until I found the one that Kris had written
Jackass
across the top of. It contained a name, Joe Pargeter, and a number. I called it and was connected to the police department in Lake Bargee, Minnesota.

“Is Joe Pargeter in?” I asked.

“Oh, no, he’s out on a job,” a female with a midwestern twang replied. Then she probably remembered she wasn’t supposed to give out information to a stranger and became suspicious. “What do you need him for?”

I gave her my name and cell number and asked if Joe Pargeter could please call me as soon as possible. I said I desperately needed to talk to him about the death of Rita Nielsen.

The woman clucked. “You’re another insurance investigator?”

Insurance investigator?
I said, “No, I’m not. But I really, really need to talk to him.”

She said, “Yah, I’ll pass the message on to Joe.”

“Thank you.”

“You betcha,” she said, and signed off.

I had no idea whether Joe Pargeter would call me back. Ideally, Tom and the cops should talk to him if he did, but first I wanted to see if there was anything there, or if I was on another wild goose chase. Where was Lake Bargee, Minnesota? A place you could go on a wild Canadian goose chase?

I was due in the kitchen. I closed up both files and stowed them in my canvas bag. Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and I needed to make fresh cream of mushroom soup for the gathering at the Bertrams’ to remember Ernest.

My heart was still pulsing so loudly from my day of burglaries, I was sure I could hear it. Cooking would help me calm down.

Boyd was in the living room talking on his cell. Ferdinanda and Yolanda were already in the kitchen working. Yolanda was heating up the chicken stock. Ferdinanda narrowed her eyes at me, but I kept my mouth resolutely closed.

“Nobody tells me anything,” said Ferdinanda. She wheeled over to my portable CD player and slotted in a Tito Puente CD. Soon the first floor was reverberating with the sounds of Latin music.

I washed my hands. “The two of you started working without me.”

“We wanted to,” Yolanda replied as she melted butter in a huge stockpot. She kept her voice neutral, but she still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Why don’t you help Ferdinanda chop ingredients? I poured boiling spring water over some dried mushrooms, because I figured you’d want them in addition to the fresh ones.”

“And you were right,” I said, equally neutral. I drained the now-plumped mushrooms through cheesecloth and saved the water. Despite the upbeat music, Ferdinanda seemed angry with everyone. She muttered under her breath as she rolled herself into the walk-in. She emerged with the ingredients Yolanda had requested, then handed them to me. I gave her a cutting board with the plumped mushrooms and asked her to slice them.

Ferdinanda and I sliced and diced while Yolanda pulled out dry sherry and cream. Within minutes, I’d minced shallots and fresh mushrooms and scraped them into the butter. A scent that was both earthy and heavenly bloomed in the kitchen.

When the mushrooms began to release their liquid, Yolanda stirred flour into the stockpot. Once the mixture bubbled, she slowly poured chicken stock and sherry into the roux. She was not smiling. I wondered if our friendship would ever get back to normal.

What was normal when you’d just survived a breakup with a crazy-possessive ex-boyfriend, lost your friend and benefactor to murder, escaped an arson attack on your home, and suffered oil burns on your legs?

I blended glistening whipping cream into the soup and set it to simmer. Yolanda heated everything while I pulled out the remaining marinating pork tenderloin and slipped it into a zipped plastic bag. No matter what, it certainly was easier to cook for a big party when you had experienced chefs as houseguests.

Ferdinanda disappeared into the dining room to get herself ready for the party while I nabbed several packages of greens and Tom’s Love Potion dressing for a salad. Yolanda, Boyd, and I packed up. It didn’t take long. I had gotten to the point where I just wanted this party to be over.

After fifteen minutes of cleaning up and making sure we had everything, I puréed the soup and packed it up. Then I slipped upstairs to take a quick shower and change. I knew I’d probably need a much longer shower later, but hot water would help clear my head. I stowed my wallet with the money for Penny in the pocket of clean jeans and pulled on a polo shirt and a sweater. Then I heard an unfamiliar car stop on the street. I looked out our window.