Crunch Time

The van crunched through ice as I pulled onto the interstate’s shoulder. I called Information again, got Donna’s number, and punched buttons.

“This is Donna Lamar, owner of Mountain Rents,” her recorded voice announced. Honestly, did anyone answer their own phone anymore? “I’m with a client now, but if you care to leave a message, you may. Or you can come visit me at my beautiful new office, suite two hundred in the Captain’s Quarters.”

“This is Goldy Schulz,” I said in as authoritative a tone as I could muster. “I absolutely must know about a rental as soon as possible.” I gave my cell number, hung up, and hoped that would do the trick.

I stared at the phone. The Captain’s Quarters? Holy cow. I remembered when Donna—a renowned cheapskate who was also, for better or worse, the Saint Luke’s treasurer—had operated a tiny storefront, Mountain Rents, on Main Street, above Frank’s Fix-It. I’d just learned from Yolanda that Donna actually owned many of the houses she rented. And now, in an economic downturn no less, Donna was operating out of the swankiest new office building in Aspen Meadow? What was with that?

Determined to find out, I pulled the van from the shoulder back to the highway. Ten minutes later, I was signaling to turn into the parking lot of the Captain’s Quarters, a stunning stucco and red tile–roofed office building that overlooked manmade fishing ponds. Beyond was a sweeping vista of Flicker Ridge. The Captain’s Quarters was gorgeous, and leasing an office in there must have been mega-expensive. Even with one of Donna’s properties burning to the ground, dealings in rentals must have been great.

I hopped out of my van and took a deep breath. The melting snow gave the chilled air a bracing scent. Still, I wanted summer back. This was September, for crying out loud, not January. I blinked up at the Captain’s Quarters. No expense had been spared on roof tiles and copper trim. I’d never been inside and was curious to see it. Back when business was booming all over Aspen Meadow, I had occasionally catered breakfasts and lunches for law firms and stockbrokerage businesses. But most of the stockbrokerages had gone under. The few remaining law firms had cut their staffs in half, and all catered meals had been canceled for the foreseeable future.

Donna Lamar, though, well . . . who knew what was going on with her? There was only one car in the lot, a late-model silver Saab station wagon with the license plate MTN RT. It looked as if Donna—who’d always used that vanity plate—had traded in her muffler-dragging, once-red Saab station wagon so in need of paint it looked like a used pencil eraser, for a new one, with no muffler in sight. She was parked in front of an oversize sign: CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS—PREMIER OFFICE SPACE TO LEASE. Under that was DEVELOPED BY HUMBERTO CAPTAIN.

Well, well. In addition to his import-export business, Humberto Captain was dabbling in real estate. I wondered how many of the offices he’d leased. With only one car in the lot and the economy in the tank, I doubted he’d leased many.

As I put the cake, thermos, and paperware into my all-purpose catering tote, I wondered if Donna would spill any details of her office-rental arrangement to me. I took the inside steps two at a time. At the top, I bumped into none other than Donna Lamar.

I blinked. In her late thirties, Donna had a very attractive face that I’d seen impeccably made up, as it was today, only at Saint Luke’s and at parties. Gone were the jeans and sweatshirt. Now she wore a beautifully cut chocolate-brown business suit. Instead of sneakers, she had on heels that were so high I would have fallen over putting them on. Her thick, puffy blond hair, instead of being pulled back in a raggedy bun, was cut attractively and curled in layers to the tops of her shoulders. Her skirt was short and not what I would have called businesslike. Still, I’m sure it helped when her business was with males. She was leaving her office in a hurry and was fumbling with a bunch of keys.

“Gosh, sorry,” I said. “I was just coming to see you. I called?”

She narrowed her eyes at me in confusion, then clanked her keys. “I’m sorry, I’m just not remembering a call from you, Goldy.”

“Well, I did,” I said with exaggerated patience. “It’s important. A business matter.”

I held out my hand, and she shook it limply. Then she eyed me up and down, which gave me the chance to do the same to her. I was again struck by how spiffy she looked. New clothes, new car, new digs. As with Charlene Newgate, I wondered, Where is all this sudden wealth coming from? She was probably wondering, What kind of business matter could Goldy the caterer want to discuss?

She still regarded me with puzzlement. “Did my assistant set up an appointment for you?” she asked. “She’s new, and she doesn’t quite understand my business.” Donna looked longingly down the steps, as if they could pull her away from me.

“I called because I want to talk to you about a rental.” I assumed an anxious look. “I’m pretty desperate.”

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go into my office.”

“Did you not realize I was coming?”

“No, I didn’t.” She put a hand on my arm, and I noticed beautifully manicured, scarlet-painted nails. “Wait. Goldy. Okay, we can discuss a business matter, if you want, but don’t you sometimes get involved in solving crimes?”

“Actually, yes—”

“I wish you could help me solve one particular kind of crime,” she said fiercely.

“Do tell,” I said, a mite too eagerly.

She ignored this, let go of me, and headed to her desk, where she slapped her brown leather purse onto a stack of papers. She put her hands on her hips, again lost in thought.

I didn’t want to step into whatever stream Donna’s consciousness ran in, so I looked around. The office was sparsely decorated, but on one wall was a letter framed with a photograph and a newspaper article. I inched over to the wall, to see what Donna had found suitable to hang. It was a thank-you note from a local elementary school, in gratitude for Donna coming in to talk about businesses run by women. The students surrounding Donna had given bored looks to the camera, but Donna herself was beaming. A Mountain Journal article accompanied the letter and photograph. The title screamed, LOCAL AGENT/OWNER SUCCESS! There was no byline, and the laudatory paragraphs sounded suspiciously as if they had been written by Donna herself.

I moved some brochures from an uncomfortable-looking side chair and sat down. “Donna, you really are an achiever. I’m so impressed with how well you’re doing!”

“Yes.” Her smile was frigid.

“So, do you want to talk about a certain kind of criminal activity?”

She assessed me. “Did you say you were looking for a rental?”

“I am looking for a rental,” I lied. “That’s why I’m here. I just thought, since you mentioned it, if you needed me to help you with something, I mean, like something with a property, a problem that might hurt your reputation as a female entrepreneur—”

Donna Lamar took a seat and flipped her blond hair off her shoulders. “Do you have an area or price range in mind?”

I cleared my throat. “I have two women staying with me. They need a place. We can’t go on, all in the same house together, much longer,” I said ruefully, wondering if the pity angle would work where the flattery one hadn’t. “It’s just too much for all of us in one place.”

“Price range? Location?”

“In Aspen Meadow,” I replied thoughtfully. “It needs to be inexpensive, and it needs to be all on one story, because one of the women is in a wheelchair.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Donna Lamar. She shook her head and gazed at the ceiling. “As if I didn’t have enough problems. Don’t tell me it’s those two Cuban women.”

“Hmm.” As she glared at me, I said quietly, “Discriminating against potential renters based on their ethnic background is against the law. Not to mention that Father Pete wouldn’t approve.”

She tucked in her chin. Her shadowed eyes widened. “I don’t care about ethnic whatever! Father Pete can think whatever he wants. That crazy old woman drove me nuts! She was always going on about how she was in Castro’s army. You’d think she single-handedly turned that island into a haven for commies. Plus, if Cuba was so wonderful, why didn’t she stay there? I ask you.”

“I think you’d have to ask her.”

This time, Donna hunkered down under her blond hair, as if it were a hood. She said, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, I’m gently reminding you that you can’t refuse to rent to people just because they’re Cuban-