Crunch Time

did anyone take care of them this morning? Food, water, and the rest?”

Arch said, “I did, Mom. And Sergeant Boyd came outside with me while we were in the backyard.” My son turned his attention to Tom. “I can’t drive my car, though, right? I mean, isn’t the garage still a crime scene?”

“Yes, it is. Sorry, buddy. It’ll probably just be for today. I can drive you down there, if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Arch replied. “I’ll manage. Wait, I can call Gus. His grandparents felt really bad that they couldn’t get their car up our hill, so I know they’ll want to take me.” He turned to Ferdinanda and Yolanda. “Thanks for breakfast. It was super.” And then, bringing joy to my heart, he hugged first Yolanda, then Ferdinanda, who both grinned widely.

When the Vikarioses arrived, Tom walked Arch out to their van. Boyd rubbed the top of his unfashionable crew cut. For a moment, I wondered if he, too, wished he were bald. But Boyd said only, “You’ve got a good kid there, Goldy.”

Yolanda said, “You’ve got a great kid.”

“Hoh-kay,” said Ferdinanda as she wheeled toward the stove. “Next shift. And I don’t want anybody getting in my way!”

Since arguing with Ferdinanda never got me anywhere, I merely fixed hot lattes for everyone else. I usually didn’t change from iced caffeinated drinks to hot ones until October, but since cold and snow had made an early appearance, I thought it was time. When Tom returned, he and Boyd told Yolanda, who again looked exhausted, to stay put while they cleared Arch’s detritus and set the table for the five of us. While the ham and eggs cooked, I spooned a bit of guava marmalade onto my plate and tasted it. It was sweet. But it had a distinctive taste, and I thought I could use it in an American-style coffee cake. I wanted to experiment, because I had some thinking and phone-calling to do, and I did those best while working with food.

Ferdinanda’s scrambled eggs were studded with chopped ham and sliced, caramelized onions. She’d added something else to them—whipping cream, I thought, or butter—that gave them an ineffable creaminess. She’d used the last of the Cuban bread to make a crunchy toast that she’d cooked in a frying pan—in some more butter. Every bite was heaven. I told her that the whole point of being the guest in someone’s home was that the host took care of the guests, not vice versa. She said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and asked me for the marmalade.

“Now I’m going on the porch to have a cigar,” she said as she pushed away from the table. “You don’t want me to do the dishes, I won’t.”

“I’m coming with you,” Boyd announced. He stood up.

“Nah, I don’t need you!” she called over her shoulder. “I’m ready for anything, I told you! Do you think I survived with Raul and the army, up in the mountains, because I was a wimp?”

“I’m just keeping you company,” said Boyd mildly as he opened the front door for her.

We called our thanks to her as she rolled outside.

“When does she see the doctor again about her leg?” asked Tom, sotto voce.

“Our calendar burned up in Ernest’s house,” Yolanda replied. She looked at the ceiling. “Along with the seventeen thousand in cash, the fireman says. We were in too much of a hurry, with the fire and the puppies, I just forgot about the money.” She sighed. “I’m getting used to starting over. But anyway, I’m going to have to call the doctor and find out when Ferdinanda’s appointment is. It might even be today. I’ve been so frazzled, I haven’t kept track.”

Once Tom had left, Boyd stayed outside with Ferdinanda. Every now and then as Yolanda and I did the dishes, we would peek out at them. With Ferdinanda smoking, Boyd shoveled our sidewalk, the steps to the porch, and the ramp. When he came around back to clean off the deck, he rolled Ferdinanda in front of him. She complained the whole way. We could hear her through the walls.

When Yolanda and I finished the dishes, she asked if she could use our phone so she could try to reach Ferdinanda’s doctor. I replied that she could, and she didn’t need to ask. If she could just use the house phone, I said, I could keep the business line clear, in case clients called.

When she retired to the dining room with the phone, I removed the extra lamb chops from the freezer for the Breckenridges’ party. Then I checked that we had plenty of garlic and said a silent prayer of thanks that we did. So now I was going to think and cook.

I buttered and floured two pans and preheated the oven. Then I pulled out unsalted butter, sugar, flour, sour cream, leavening, vanilla extract, a lemon, an orange, and the guava marmalade. As I creamed the butter and sugar, I ran all the questions about the case through my head. Tom thought Ernest had been murdered to shut him up. With Ernest’s house then burned to the ground, whatever evidence might have been in there was gone—more shutting up.

I sifted flour, salt, and leavenings, then zested a lemon and an orange and minced the result. What had Ernest found out that would make him have to be killed to shut him up? There were lots of possibilities but no certainties. If the motive was to keep something quiet, did the shooter question Ernest, to see if he knew something? Because if so, you’d expect signs of a struggle, and there weren’t any. Maybe the shooter already knew what it was?

I stirred the vanilla, zests, and marmalade into the batter, then carefully folded in the dry ingredients. I divided the batter between the two pans and placed them in the oven.

Ernest McLeod had been a good man, in addition to being kind and generous. Somehow, I felt as if Yolanda was holding out on me, but I had no clue how to elicit information from her. She seemed like a deer perpetually caught in the headlights, and the stabbing of a Peeping Tom the night before was not going to make her any less nervous.

Yolanda returned to the kitchen and announced that as she feared, Ferdinanda’s follow-up doctor’s visit was that afternoon, just when we would have the big push for the Breckenridges’ dinner. In catering terms, this meant right now, it was Crunch Time.

We began in earnest on the menu for that evening’s dinner: Rorry was providing cheeses, crackers, and fruit for people to munch on while they drank wine, which was being provided by a parishioner. Thank goodness Marla was bringing beer to go with the Navajo tacos. We would have to do the fry bread for the tacos on the spot, Yolanda said, because that was how it tasted best. But we could saute the ground beef and seasonings, plus chop the tomatoes and lettuce in advance. I thanked the Lord we had iceberg lettuce, and plenty of it, because I’d meant to use it to make lettuce cups for the Caprese salad but then decided not to at the last minute. The ingredients for the salades composees, along with the flourless chocolate cakes, were already in the walk-in.

Yolanda and I swiftly divided the prep duties. She would work on the ingredients for the composed salads. I pulled the focaccia dough out of the refrigerator and set it aside to rise. Next I minced the garlic in the blender.

With a sinking heart, I sauteed the ground beef with taco seasoning. Maybe it wasn’t haute cuisine, but a client’s eccentricities were not my problem, I always told myself. As the beef sizzled in the pan, I chopped a mountain of lettuce, another one of tomatoes, and a final one of scallions. Yolanda finished the salad ingredients and made a large bowl of guacamole. Finally, I grated so much cheddar I thought my knuckles were going to give out. Still, when we were done, Yolanda insisted we stand back and admire our work. It helped.

The doorbell rang, startling both of us. Boyd looked in from the deck, held up his hand for us to stay put, then rolled Ferdinanda into the kitchen.

“This is too much,” she muttered, but opened her eyes in admiration when Boyd drew his gun and walked carefully down the hall.

He called to our visitor to identify himself.

Father Pete yelled back, “I’m Goldy’s parish priest! Why don’t you identify yourself?”

“Look here, Father,” Boyd called through the door.

“And furthermore,” Father Pete hollered, “I am not afraid of you! In fact, I’m calling the sheriff’s department!”

“It’s okay,” I said to Boyd, who was looking through the peephole.

Boyd, still defiant, holstered his weapon and opened the front door. “I am the sheriff’s department,” he said to Father Pete, who was punching numbers into his cell phone. “We had an incident here last night.”