Crunch Time

memory. Humberto’s pale suit seemed to match the light window casement. His tanned skin looked bizarre. His pearly whites were more brilliant than the chandelier he’d been standing under. I asked, “What does this guy have to do with Yolanda?”

“Everything, I’m sorry to say. Humberto is a thief, and Ernest was working on the case. You’re going to have to let me tell you more about it later.”

“But you think Yolanda is working for Humberto?”

“Yes.” Tom ticked off the points on his fingers. “Ferdinanda is beholden to the Captain family for bringing her to this country. And Yolanda has covered for Humberto in the past. He had a big dinner for his cronies, including someone we were looking for, a smuggler. She catered it, but she would not say Word One about who was there, even when we showed her a photo array. We got the guy eventually. But Yolanda was singularly unhelpful.”

“Why would she act that way?”

Tom cocked his head at me and raised his eyebrows, his gesture when he thought I was being naive. “She keeps saying how scared she is? I think she’s afraid of Humberto, Goldy.” He ticked off another point. “She won’t tell us where she got that cash under her mattress. Oh, and did she tell you why she had to leave her rental?”

“She was afraid of her ex-boyfriend.”

“Yeah, right. The rental house burned to the ground.”

“What?”

Tom shook his head. “Yeah, funny how she didn’t mention that, huh? The fire was set, as in arson, okay? Accelerant was all over the place. Luckily, Ferdinanda and Yolanda were at the doctor. And near the house? We found a green and yellow Unifrutco oil can, the kind the United Fruit Company used to store fuel for their vehicles. It’s also the kind of can Fidel and Raul Castro, and their people, filled with oil and dumped on the sugarcane fields of their American oppressors, before burning the cane to the ground.”

I stared at him. “You really can’t believe Yolanda burned down the house she was living in, can you? I mean, if Ferdinanda came over in a little boat from Cuba, why would she make sure to bring an oil can with her? And keep it all these years? That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, Goldy,” Tom said patiently. “We don’t think Ferdinanda in her wheelchair burned down a rental when she was at the doctor. But we do think Humberto burned the place down.”

“Why would he do that?”

Tom glanced at the kitchen door. “Our theory is that Yolanda wouldn’t play ball and go spy on Ernest, whom she was making dinners for. Ernest, for his part, was working on a missing-assets case I’ll tell you about later. That’s what he was looking for, that Yolanda is being so vague about. As a private investigator, not a sheriff’s department employee, Ernest wouldn’t have had to bother with intrusive things like search warrants. Yolanda was already involved with Ernest in the dinner-making enterprise, so Humberto Captain must have figured, why not get her to do more? Why not have her ask Ernest if she could live there with Ferdinanda? And why not tempt her with cash in the bargain?”

“But then—”

Tom held up his hand. “We think Humberto found out Ernest was onto him. Humberto may have had Yolanda lift the file, destroy evidence, who knows what. Then, we think, Humberto killed Ernest.”

“That’s just beyond—”

“Beyond what?” Tom asked. “Let me tell you, Miss G. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear from Yolanda Garcia.”

3

Tom walked out of the living room.

“Tom!” I called after him in a harsh whisper. “Why didn’t you ask her about Humberto Captain?”

“I’m trying to, if I ever can get back to the kitchen.” He paused. “Tell me about this Breckenridge character.”

“He wanted to know if you were here, then he wanted to know about Ernest McLeod. Has it been on the news?”

“Yeah, ’fraid so.”

“Look, what if Yolanda stayed here with us? And brought Ferdinanda? It isn’t really safe for her to be at Ernest’s place now, do you think? I mean, you don’t know exactly how this was set up and you don’t have a motive. So . . .”

Tom put his hands in his pockets. He said, “You want Humberto to come gunning for us, here?”

“Of course not. I just want Yolanda and Ferdinanda to be in a place that’s safe for them, that’s all. The rental’s gone, Ernest’s house will be off-limits for a while, and they certainly can’t afford to stay in a Denver motel.”

“With all the cash we found? They can afford the Ritz.”

“Tom. I doubt she’ll want to cater with me tomorrow. Arrangements will have to be made for Ernest. His AA group will have to be called. Someone will have to phone a church and plan a memorial service. All I’m saying is, we have more alarms on our house than a bank does. I want Yolanda and Ferdinanda to be safe. Please?”

He considered, then said finally, “Let me talk to my captain.” He turned and pushed through the front door. Outside, the wind whipped the ornamental grasses Tom had put in. Another gust bent the Boulder Raspberry bushes, their white roselike blooms long gone. At the side of the house, wind-tossed pine branches slammed the shingles. Tom, who never seemed to be bothered by weather, pulled out his cell, punched in numbers, and began to walk up and down the porch as he spoke.

As Tom continued to pace, I watched him carefully, trying to figure out how the conversation was going. Tom looked into the living room. When he saw me glaring at him, he turned away. The kitchen was quiet, so I turned my attention back to Tom, who was stabbing the air with his free hand as he talked. Eventually he came inside and gave me a thumbs-up.

Only ten minutes had gone by, but it was now five o’clock. In the kitchen, Yolanda looked wrung out. Her normally glowing skin appeared ashen, papery, with a darkness under her eyes like bruises. She seemed fragile, very unlike the commanding presence she’d been in the Gold Gulch Spa kitchen.

Yolanda announced, “I really need to go get Ferdinanda. She worries about me.”

“Just a couple more questions, Yolanda,” said Tom. To John Bertram, he said, “Could you call the Catholic church and tell the priest we’ll be picking up Yolanda’s aunt presently?”

“You have to call his private line.” Yolanda again rummaged in her purse, an intricately knotted beige bag, until she located another card, which she handed to John. “Please,” she implored Tom, “don’t make me stay here and talk to you. Ferdinanda may seem tough, but she’s . . . not. She’s easily disoriented. She claims she doesn’t hear well, either, and I know her body has weakened since she’s been in the wheelchair. I don’t want you to scare her, the way—” She clamped her mouth shut. The way you’ve scared me hung in the air. She said suddenly, “You don’t suppose Ferdinanda has heard from someplace else that Ernest’s been killed, do you? Has it been on the news, I mean? She loves television and the radio. . . .”

“If she’s visiting with the priest, she won’t be watching TV or listening to the radio. Will she?” asked Tom.

“They might be watching television,” said Yolanda. “He and she do that sometimes, when she’s worn him out.”

“I’m sorry, but the newspeople do know,” said Tom, his tone a bit kinder. “Ernest’s only kin is his ex-wife, who lives with her new husband in Denver. The news outlets wanted information, and once we notified her, they got it.”

“Oh, God,” Yolanda whispered.

Tom turned the recorder back on. “You don’t know of . . . anything that had been going on between Ernest and his ex-wife, Faye?”

“What do you mean, ‘anything that had been going on’?” Yolanda asked. Her shoulders slumped.

“I mean, anything that would make her a suspect in his death,” Tom said, his tone matter-of-fact. He brought his face a fraction closer to Yolanda’s, which made her shrink back. “Did they talk? Did they argue? Like that. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”