The four of us got down to work. The focaccia dough had risen, so I spilled it into two sheet pans. With one hand, I pressed holes into the dough, while with the other I carefully dribbled pools of golden extra-virgin olive oil into the depressions. Then I sprinkled the top with crushed fresh rosemary, dried oregano, poppy seeds, and sea salt. These breads did not need another rising, so into the oven they went.

Yolanda drained the new potatoes and shocked the haricots verts in ice for the salades composees. “You have a vinaigrette you want to use?”

“Do something fun. Since we’re having Navajo tacos, we’ll call it a Mexican–Caribbean–Native American fusion.”

She smiled. “No problema, babe.”

We were due to arrive at the Breckenridges’ place at four. We would set up before the guests arrived for cocktails and Rorry’s assortment of fruit and cheese, due to start at five. If all went smoothly, we’d serve the salads around six, followed by the lamb chops, bread, and tacos. Folks could make their choice. Or they could have both. Once the snows started in Aspen Meadow, everyone became hungrier. For six whole months, there were no more swimsuits or tiny tennis dresses to mess with.

I was thinking about this as Yolanda, her brow corrugated, shook the vinaigrette she’d made.

“What is it?” I asked.

She whacked the jar down on the counter so hard, I thought it would shatter. “Maybe I should just move Ferdinanda away from Aspen Meadow. Too many bad things are happening. I don’t want you and Tom and Arch to be targets.” She tore off a paper towel and wiped up the splashed vinaigrette.

“Yolanda, don’t. Tom will figure this whole thing out, and you can be safe and happy again.”

She said, “I doubt it.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Boyd said tenderly. “We’re going to nab this perp.”

After that, we checked off all the items needed for the menu, then moved on to labeling and packing our equipment and the foodstuffs. Rorry had told me she was using “The Abundance of Fall” for her decorating theme and would have gourds, hay, and bunches of flowers in a big arrangement for her centerpiece. I packed the ingredients for the fry bread batter, the meats, minced garlic, chopped tomatoes, chopped lettuce, grated cheese, guacamole, and sour cream, and schlepped it all into the walk-in. I was glad not to have to worry about the table.

There were those nagging questions I still had for Yolanda. She was labeling all the items for the salads. Maybe she didn’t know any more about Ernest’s investigations, but she hadn’t talked much to me about Humberto or Kris. I wanted to know everything about them. If Humberto was really dangerous, why did she seem to be protecting him? And was it possible he had burned down the rental and somehow forced her to ask Ernest to take her in? I wondered.

And if Kris was truly stalking Yolanda, then we were all in danger. Some famous general—Patton, maybe?— had said, “Know your enemy.” In this case, make that possible enemies.

Once we were done with the packing up, Yolanda announced she had to get Ferdinanda ready to go to the doctor. Since it was quarter to eleven, they would have to hustle.

“But when will you be back?” I called after her. “Should I pack up the van for the Breckenridges’ event myself?”

Boyd gave me a severe look. “You’re not packing up anything by yourself.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Whoever this bad person or persons are, I’m pretty sure it’s not me they’re after.”

“We should be back before four,” Yolanda said as she wheeled Ferdinanda back into the kitchen.

“I’m going with them,” Boyd announced levelly. “And I need to know exactly where you’re off to, Goldy, and when you’ll be back.”

“Just picking up a few things at the grocery store,” I lied. “No big deal.”

“Then I’m walking you down to your van. Where’d you leave it?” I told him, and while he checked the outside perimeter of the house, I rapidly packed up one of the guava coffee cakes I’d made that morning. I also pulled four shots of espresso and poured them, plus a judicious amount of whipping cream, into my thermos. Where I was going, it would help to have a food bribe.

Yolanda gave me a skeptical grin as I made these preparations. “Those people at the grocery store must love you.”

I put my finger to my lips. She grinned at me. I had no idea where she thought I was going, and actually, I didn’t have a completely clear idea myself. Yet.

Boyd accompanied me through the melting snow. The sheriff’s department had finished investigating our garage, and the yellow tape was down, as was the garage door. There was nobody around. In Aspen Meadow, folks tend to cocoon after the first big snow. A county snowplow was working our street, spraying enormous wedges of white stuff onto the curb opposite us.

At my van, Boyd opened the driver’s door. “I want you to be watchful, do you understand?” When I nodded, Boyd said, “All right. I’ll set the alarm and close up the house.” I placed the wrapped cakes on my passenger seat and revved my van. Where was I going, exactly? I had to think.

I wanted to know who had burned down Yolanda’s rental. I wanted to know who had done the same to Ernest’s house. I wanted to know who had stolen Tom’s gun and then decided to make calls or shoot video, or send texts, or whatever, right outside our own place.

Somebody or somebodies were pressing in on our boundaries, and I was pissed.

As I eased my van through the ice and slush on Main Street, I reflected. When had this chain of events begun? I had not the slightest notion where the puppies had come from, even less of a clue as to where the marijuana Ernest was growing had originated. At the start of all this, Ernest’s dentist appointment had been changed. With Charlene Newgate now a definite person of interest, would Tom be upset if I tried to talk to her again? Probably.

I called Charlene Newgate’s number anyway, and was rewarded with voice mail. She was involved in this, I was convinced—although the evidence wasn’t there yet. Tom still hadn’t called me back, unfortunately. I asked Charlene to return my call and gave my cell phone number. I doubted she’d leave her new rich boyfriend long enough to attend to messages, but it was worth a try.

I drove up past Aspen Meadow Lake, which was an icy gray—not yet frozen, but filled with melting snow. It looked forbidding. I chewed the inside of my cheek and longed for the coffee I’d packed up. Was the change in Ernest’s dental appointment really the beginning of these horrid events? No, it wasn’t. Ernest had had some clients with big problems, and the one I knew about was Norman Juarez. Tom had said he owned a bar down near the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.

I called Information and, hoping against hope, asked for a search for bars called Norman’s, or Norm’s, on the state road that ran past the department. It was a long, hilly highway that eventually ended up in Boulder, although I certainly didn’t want to go that far.

She came up with nothing, as I’d expected. I asked her to try Juarez.

“I have one called the Juarez Bar and Grill,” the operator said doubtfully. “It’s listed as being on the highway. Want the address or the phone number?”

“Both, please.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the bar, which, even though it was small, was strung with green, red, and white flags. MEXICAN FOOD OUR SPECIALTY! a handmade sign blared. I wondered how hungry I was. I couldn’t just go in and start asking questions.

One of the things about being female is that if you go alone into an establishment that serves liquor, day or night, everyone assumes you’re looking for a pickup. I pressed my lips together, pulled the diamond ring Tom had given me around so it was in plain view, and bellied up to the bar.

At half past eleven, there were close to a dozen males—no females—sitting and drinking. There were booths and tables, all empty. I wondered about the men. Tom had told me that criminals often drink at bars during the day, so there are always a couple of undercover cops in there imbibing with them. The cops are always hoping to get some inside scoop, and often they do. The downside, unfortunately, is that more than one out-of-uniform police officer has become an alcoholic in the pursuit of his duty.

The guys at the bar ranged from scraggly-looking, with long gray hair and beards, to ruffian types, with tight

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