Crunch Time

catering, she hadn’t mentioned that she had moved in with Ernest or that he had undertaken problematic investigations, especially Humberto Captain versus Norm Juarez’s claim to stolen gold and gems.

And of course, she hadn’t said anything about dope, beagles, or inheriting a house.

When Tom returned, he said, “It was just Ferdinanda.”

“She’s probably like me. When she’s trying to figure something out, she cooks. Listen, Tom. Maybe Yolanda didn’t know she was inheriting Ernest’s house. That happens, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does. But think of this another way. Maybe Yolanda went through Ernest’s files and found, then read, the new will. And maybe she was helping somebody. Humberto, say. Humberto wanted her to discover what Ernest had on him. Maybe Humberto or somebody else had promised Yolanda a big payout if she could come up with information. Maybe this person had said he’d chip in to build Yolanda a new house on that site that Ernest had promised good old Portia he would never develop. Plus, we don’t know how much Ernest had insured the place for, but with all the adding-on he did, you’re probably looking at three, four hundred thou. And the property, with unobstructed mountain views, but close to town, is worth at least ten times that. Maybe the prospect of a big payday is why she’s been crying. Tears of guilt. Or maybe they’re tears of joy, over her big inheritance.”

I said quietly, “At the moment, Tom, she’s sad. Plus, I have to say that in all the time I’ve known Yolanda, she has never been anything but honest and upright.”

“I know she’s your friend, but I have to treat her just the way I would treat anyone else in a murder case. I can’t just take her word for everything. But I understand if you do, with that big heart of yours.”

I said softly, “You have a big heart, too. And I miss you.”

He put his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. Then he made love to me so tenderly, so lovingly, that afterward—around midnight, I suppose, when the house was finally quiet—unexpected tears of gratitude slid down my own cheeks.

7

Monday morning, I awakened well before the alarm went off. Tom was still asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb him. But a thought had niggled my brain to full consciousness. I glanced at the clock: It was half past four. Problem was, I wasn’t quite sure of the nature of the question, if that was even what it was. I looked outside and frowned. A hard frost had iced the trees. Thick fog enveloped the streetlight near our bedroom window. I closed my eyes. What was that idea that was just out of reach? The more I tried to grab for it, the more it eluded me.

I eased out of bed and tried to relax my way into whatever the bothersome notion had been.

Before Arch became a teenager, and thus too cool for such pursuits, I used to take him fishing in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. My job was to hold the net and collect the squirming trout, so I could take my son’s picture, with him proudly holding his catch aloft. All this would have to be done quickly, because Arch always threw back his haul. Now, it seemed, I was thrusting wildly with the net, but whatever I was trying to snag remained maddeningly out of reach.

There was only one thing to do in this kind of situation, I thought as I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and walking shoes. Cook. I’d been told that working with your hands to prepare food engages your left brain. So, the reasoning went, your right brain was free to wander around and capture intuitions. It had happened to me enough that I trusted the process.

I crept down to the kitchen. I didn’t expect the household to start moving for at least a couple of hours. I looked forward to savoring the quiet, the time to think and—

Someone was crashing around in our pantry. I simultaneously pulled the pantry door open and screamed bloody murder.

“Dios mio!” cried Ferdinanda, her hand clutched to her heart. “What are you yelling about?” Instead of answering her, I stared at the pantry shelves, which were all jumbled. She had cleared off one whole area and now had a dozen cans in her lap.

Tom, wearing his undies, appeared at the door to the pantry. He was holding his .45 in both hands. When he saw us, he lowered it and said, “Uh, ladies?”

Yolanda, her face full of fear, stood shivering in the doorway to the dining room. “What happened? Did someone try to break in?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I apologize, everybody. Please go back to bed. I heard someone and hollered. It was just . . . Ferdinanda.” Yolanda disappeared back into the dining room. Tom, his gun lowered, shuffled across to the desk and pulled out the remote control to the garage, which was where he stored the .45, in a hidden compartment. But he had not gone outside to get it. He just happened to have it upstairs? I knew better than to ask him about his weapon while others were around. Tom, for his part, shook his head, put the remote back down, and left the kitchen. A moment later, I heard him clomping upstairs.

“Goldy,” Ferdinanda scolded, “what are you doing up so early? Weren’t you tired from last night?”

“Ferdinanda, what were you looking for? Why are you up at this hour?”

She wheeled herself out of the pantry. “Guava marmalade. And I’m awake now because I always am. During Batista’s time? I worked in a cafe in the mornings. I had to show up at four o’clock and make the bread. I’ve got our breakfast almost ready. I just needed some good jam to go with it.”

“Is this what you were doing last night?” I asked. The kitchen was empty, clean, and cleared of cooking utensils, except for a mixing bowl and a beater turned upside down to dry on the counter.

“Yes. When Tom came down to see what the noise was.” Ferdinanda rolled herself to the kitchen table, where she deposited the cans. Then she took off for the walk-in. She said over her shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here, you can help me.”

My shoulders slumped. I was so looking forward to having this time to myself. “What do you—”

I was interrupted by Tom, who’d pulled on sweats and now reappeared in the kitchen with his gun. He picked up the garage remote and disappeared, then came back a moment later. “Goldy? How long has this remote been dead?”

“Uh,” I said, trying to remember something, anything, about our supply of batteries. While Ferdinanda continued to crash around in the walk-in, I searched my brain. I had no idea where the batteries were or even if we had any. “Why did you even have the forty-five in the house, anyway?”

“Target practice yesterday,” said Tom. After a fruitless rummage through the desk drawer, Tom whispered, “All right, didn’t you just change the code for the panel?” Our detached garage was a remnant of the time when our brown shingle house had been built, in the twenties. There were two entries to it: the main one facing the street, and another on the side, a regular door which we kept locked with a key. The main door could be opened by either a remote—one that worked—or a numbered panel on the side.

“The panel code is Arch’s birthday,” I replied.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Tom. “Tax day.” He tossed the dead remote back into the desk and shuffled off. A moment later, the garage door rumbled open.

“Here we go!” cried Ferdinanda, triumphant. She emerged from the walk-in with a plastic-covered glass pan in her lap. “This is a bread pudding that sits overnight. I’ll make a rum sauce later. That’s as good as marmalade.”

“This is all very sweet of you,” I forced myself to say as I peered around her into the walk-in’s dark interior. Make a rum sauce out of what?

“Just leave the pudding on the table for a while,” Ferdinanda said as she piled large cans of beans and broth back in her lap. Outside, the garage door thundered closed. I certainly hoped we hadn’t awakened any of the neighbors with all the screaming and clanking. Ferdinanda gave me an expectant look. “Can you push me into the dining room? I need to do my exercises.”

“Sure,” I said. Tom reentered the house, reset the house alarm, and walked upstairs. I felt a shudder of guilt for getting him up so early.

“Goldy?” asked Ferdinanda.

“Right.” I pushed the wheelchair through the swinging door to the dining room, which Ferdinanda could have easily opened herself, and clearly already had when she came out there. As Ferdinanda placed most of the cans on