Crunch Time

Father Pete pocketed his phone and passed by Boyd. The priest gave the cop a decidedly frosty look. Father Pete, who had been a boxer in his younger, thinner days, had twice won the Golden Gloves. He might have been a match for Boyd at some point in his life, but not today, when he came striding down the hall, unafraid, but burdened by a large cardboard box.

Before he got to the kitchen, Father Pete asked me, “What kind of incident, Goldy?” But then he caught sight of Yolanda, who was holding the door to the kitchen open. Father Pete’s mind made an unfortunate leap. “Mistaken identity again?”

Yolanda turned on her heel and shut the kitchen door in our faces.

“Let’s go into the living room,” I said to Father Pete. To Boyd, I said, “Could you bring us the remaining puppies, please?”

“Goldy,” Father Pete whispered to me, “what is going on?” Then he glanced around the living room. Boyd had neatly stacked his pillow and sleeping bag at one end of the couch. The makeshift curtain between the living and dining rooms was pulled back, revealing the cots. In the kitchen, Yolanda and Ferdinanda were again speaking Spanish in fierce, low tones. Father Pete said, “Is that woman staying with you? Who else is at your house?”

I sighed. “That other cot in the dining room is for her great-aunt. Did you hear about Ernest McLeod’s house burning down?” When Father Pete nodded, I said, “They were staying there, and now they’re spending time with us. The sheriff’s department deputy who greeted you at the front door is bunking on the couch. We had a—” Well, what had it been, exactly? “We had an attempted burglary last night. It’s possible it was the same man who burned down Ernest’s place.”

“Goodness gracious.” Father Pete sat in one of our wing chairs and put his box on the floor. “Is there any way I can help?”

I rubbed my temples and tried to think. In the kitchen, Boyd was talking to Yolanda. He clearly had the puppies, because their whining was louder. I asked Father Pete, “Do you know where Hermie Mikulski is staying?”

Father Pete lifted his wide chin. “I do, and she is fine. I cannot, however, tell you where she is. I mean, I promised her.”

I sighed. Maybe Boyd would be able to get it out of him. I said, “Well, do you remember Charlene Newgate?”

“With the secretarial service? Yes. She hasn’t been around the church in a while. Of course, the food pantry is at Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach now . . . why? Does she need food?”

“No, I don’t think so. But do you happen to know . . . if she has a rich new boyfriend?”

“That bald fellow? Is he her rich boyfriend? I saw them at the Grizzly one time, when I was trying to help an alcoholic parishioner—” He stopped talking when he saw my shock. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

I almost couldn’t get the words out. “Do you know the bald fellow? Do you know his name?”

At that moment, Boyd came into the living room carrying a puppy in each arm. Yolanda was right behind him, snuggling the last one to her chest. They wordlessly deposited them in Father Pete’s box.

Yolanda said, “I’ll go get a can of food.”

“That’s not necessary,” Father Pete said. “I already have puppy chow.” He squirmed a bit in his chair, as if he were having a change of heart but couldn’t find the words to match. “Young lady—”

“My name is Yolanda,” she said, brushing her tumble of russet curls away from her lovely face.

“Yolanda,” Father Pete said warmly, “I am sorry you are having so many difficulties. If you need the church in any way, we are prepared to help you—”

“Thank you,” Yolanda said stiffly. “I am fine now.” She patted the puppies one last time, then left.

“Sergeant Boyd,” I said breathlessly, “Father Pete knows where Hermie Mikulski is. He can’t tell me, but he may tell you.”

“I cannot tell either of you,” said Father Pete.

I shook my head. “Father Pete has also seen a bald fellow who may be our perp. He was with Charlene Newgate.” I didn’t know if Tom had filled Boyd in on Charlene’s background, and I didn’t want to do it now.

Boyd looked at me skeptically, but he sat in the other wing chair. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket and nodded at Father Pete. “Tell me what you know, please.”

Reluctantly, I left the living room. I wished I could hear what they were saying, but the crying of the beagles drowned them out.

12

Back in the kitchen, I couldn’t help it. I called Tom. He wasn’t at his desk yet, so I announced into his voice mail that Father Pete knew where Hermie Mikulski was. Father Pete also had seen Charlene Newgate’s new, rich boyfriend, who might be our bald perp. Emphasis on the might, I added.

I then tried Tom’s cell, but he must have been in one of those folds in the mountains that prevented reception. I repeated my message anyway and hung up. In the living room, Boyd and Father Pete were still conversing in low tones.

“What is it?” Yolanda asked as I held myself next to the kitchen door.

Ferdinanda gave me a steely stare. “Why are you listening? Is the father hearing the cop’s confession? If so, you are doing something very bad.”

“No, no, no,” I said impatiently, “Father Pete isn’t performing any sacraments. He’s talking to the policeman because he might know something about what’s been happening to you two. But if I can’t eavesdrop, I can’t tell what the priest is telling the cop!”

Ferdinanda’s gray eyebrows shot up. “Does the father know who burned down Ernest’s house? Was it the same man who was here last night?”

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe.”

At that moment, the front door opened. The puppies’ whining decreased as Father Pete went through. That was it? Fewer than five minutes of questions?

Still in the living room, Boyd got on his cell. Ferdinanda announced she was going into the dining room to rest. Uh-huh. I wondered if she wanted to do some eavesdropping herself. Yolanda moved to the pet-containment area and poured food into Jake’s bowl. Ordinarily, our bloodhound noisily gobbles up his food, but this morning, he wouldn’t look at us. There was a resolute silence from his bed.

“What do you suppose is the matter with him?” Yolanda asked me as I tipped out kibble for Scout the cat, whom I had seen exactly twice since the puppies came on the scene.

“He’s sulking,” I said. “He misses the puppies.”

While we were dutifully washing our hands, Boyd came back into the kitchen.

“The priest is going to call Hermie.” He held up a card. “I have her cell number here and just tried it. No answer.”

I shook my head. Hermie had told me to have Tom call her, but she was in hiding? What gave?

Boyd went on. “And as far as that woman and the bald guy? The priest doesn’t know anything. He can’t even remember when he saw the two of them. About two weeks ago, he thinks. I’ll call the bartender at the Grizzly, but it does get crazy busy in there sometimes. There’s no surveillance, and if it was two weeks ago, the saloon isn’t going to have a credit card receipt. Still, it’s worth a try. Let me call Tom.”

I was grateful that Boyd had brought us up to date but frustrated that he hadn’t learned more. He returned to the living room while Yolanda told Ferdinanda about her appointment that afternoon.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Ferdinanda said. “I can skip one appointment.”

“No, you can’t,” Yolanda replied with equal firmness. “He is the one doctor who will see you with your Medicare. You’re going.” I’d never seen Ferdinanda back down, but this time, she did.

When Boyd rejoined us, he said he hadn’t been able to reach Tom, but he’d left a voice mail. He pressed his lips together, then said, “Give me some duties here.” I handed him a printout of our prep schedule. I cited unnamed errands I had to do myself that afternoon—the exact nature of which I did not want to share—and said I wanted to be done by eleven.

“We can do this,” I said, encouraging them. There was no grumbling.