Crunch Time

T-shirts and torn jeans. They eyed me, and I pressed my lips together in a no-nonsense manner.

A tall Hispanic male, his curly black-and-gray hair cut very short, left his work at the bar and came up to me. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Help you?”

“A Heineken and two cheese enchiladas, please.” I tried to sound normal, but drinking beer and eating Mexican food when you have a big dinner to cater in the evening wasn’t exactly what you’d call normative behavior. For me, anyway.

He brought the Heineken first, then said it would be a few minutes for the enchiladas, as his wife had just made a fresh batch of tortillas. I said that sounded fantastic.

I sipped the Heineken as slowly as possible, but I still had to order a second one, because the enchiladas were taking some time. Okay, I really couldn’t have more than two beers before catering the Breckenridges’ gig, or I’d fall on my face in their kitchen. Maybe I should have ordered water, I thought, but then realized that it was less likely the bartender, if indeed he was Norman Juarez, would talk to me.

I signaled to him after I’d had a few sips of the second beer. He ambled over.

“So, your wife makes the tortillas? I’m impressed.”

He nodded. “They are incredible.” He had a slight accent.

I went on. “So, are you from Mexico?”

He snorted. “I am from Cuba.” He pronounced it the way Ferdinanda did, “Koo-bah.”

“My goodness,” I said, trying to think of how to engage him in a conversation. “I should have ordered a Cubano.”

He was drying a glass with a dish towel, but stopped. “Do you want a Cubano with your enchiladas?”

“Maybe next time,” I said cheerfully. “You know, that’s so interesting that you’re from Cuba, because I’m having dinner tonight with a Cuban man—I mean, actually, I’m catering a dinner where he will be a guest. His name is Humberto Captain? Have you heard of him?”

Norman Juarez’s face darkened immediately as my question hit its target. He carefully put down the towel and glass, then gave me a penetrating look. “I hope Humberto has already paid you for the dinner.”

I slugged down some more beer, then said, “Why would you say that?”

A short, pretty Hispanic woman appeared with a plate of steaming enchiladas and placed them in front of me. I nodded my thanks, and she smiled. When she looked up at her husband, she knew something was up. As she scurried away, I waited for Norman Juarez to give me an answer.

I said, “It’s a fund-raiser for our church. Do you think we shouldn’t have taken his check?”

“Humberto Captain is a thief.” Norman Juarez emphasized each word. “If he ever comes in here, I will throw him out.”

I opened my eyes wide in mock amazement. “Was there a time when he didn’t pay his bill?”

Norman Juarez’s laugh was bitter. “So this is a charity dinner? He does a lot of those, gets his picture on the society page with one girlfriend or another. He tries to convince people he is a good man.” He eyed my half-empty beer glass. “You want another?”

I said, “Sure,” because I wanted Norman to keep talking. The crowd at the bar had thinned, and after a cursory glance at the remaining customers, Norman sauntered to his refrigerator and pulled out another bottle. There was no way in hell I was going to drink it, but never mind. I forked in a mouthful of enchilada. It was out of this world. There is simply nothing as divine as freshly made tortillas baked with Mexican queso and homemade salsa.

Norman opened the new bottle and topped up my glass. “Is this for a church in Denver or Aspen Meadow?”

“It’s for Saint Luke’s Episcopal in Aspen Meadow.” Norman looked at me expectantly, so I took the tiniest imaginable swig of beer. “With everything going south in the economy, we’re having trouble meeting our budget. Two generous parishioners agreed to host the event at their house. Each of the guests is paying a thousand dollars.”

Norman expelled breath again in a signal of disgust. “Make sure the church cashes Humberto’s check first.”

I took another teensy sip of beer, to appear companionable. “Now you’ve got me scared. Did he steal something from you?”

Norman looked away and sucked in his cheeks. At length he said, “A long time ago, he stole my family’s entire life savings. In today’s market? Worth about ten million dollars. Maybe more.”

I choked. “Ten million dollars?”

“Give or take.”

“How in the world did he do that?” I asked, then took a big bite of enchilada.

Norman walked away without warning, and I thought he was done talking to me. But he was only checking on the other drinkers. A couple needed refills, so after he’d tended to them, he walked back to me.

“How’re those enchiladas?”

“Unbelievable,” I replied truthfully. “I’m going to have to come back here. My husband works for the sheriff’s department. He and his pals love Mexican food.”

At the mention of the sheriff’s department, Norman’s face again grew gloomy. “What does your husband do at the department?”

“He . . . investigates serious crimes, like homicides.”

“I had a friend who used to work for the sheriff’s department.” Norman turned over a paper napkin wrapping cutlery. “My friend was killed a couple of days ago. I hope the department does a better job investigating his death than it did looking into the theft of my family’s savings.”

I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. I really could not spend more time talking to Norman, at least not now. Norman, for his part, asked, “How does one get tickets to this dinner?”

“You, uh, call the church. But I already have the menu set and most of the food made—”

“We will bring food. You like the enchiladas? Isabella and I will bring a pan of them.”

“That’s very nice, but—” I looked around desperately, trying to think. I didn’t want Norman Juarez to pay two thousand dollars to come to a church dinner where he might get into a fight with Humberto Captain. Plus, we already had too many guests at this dinner. Maybe some people would cancel. One could hope. How had I gotten myself into this situation? And of course I could hear Tom’s voice in my ear: You’re always getting yourself into these situations.

“You need to go?” Norman asked. “You want me to wrap up your food?”

“I do need to take off,” I said. “I’m sorry, I can’t take the leftovers. If you come tonight, though, I’ll get to taste more enchiladas. But, please . . .”

“Don’t stab Humberto with one of your kitchen knives?” He gave me a wry smile. “I won’t.”

I didn’t drink any more beer. I thanked Norman and asked him to tell his wife she was a superb cook. Then I paid my tab and left a huge tip.

On the way back up the mountain, I reflected on my conversation with Norman Juarez. That poor guy. He’d worked his way to running his own business after losing a family fortune worth ten million dollars? I wondered how long ago he’d hired Ernest, how much Ernest had found out, and in particular, what it was that Ernest said he had recovered. Part of that ten mil, or did Norman even know?

Presumably, the cops had asked Norman these questions. From my perspective, the theft of his family’s gold and jewels, plus Humberto’s apparent desperation to find out how much Ernest had discovered about him, made Norman a good person to know about. Maybe at some point he’d tell me more about his loss. And despite Norman’s assurances, I was still worried that he and Humberto might get into a fight at the party that night.

As my van strained up the interstate, I tried once more to go back to the question of when all this mess had started.

Okay, there was the fact that someone may have been peeping in the windows of Yolanda’s rental. Then the house had burned down, and not by accident. The presence of the oil can and accelerant at the scene pointed conclusively to arson.

Yolanda had told me that the owner was Donna Lamar. Had the police talked to her since Ernest’s house had burned down? I wondered.