Crunch Time

Americans.”

Donna enunciated each word carefully. “I. Am. Not. A. Racist. I don’t care if they’re from Mars. The last rental of mine they lived in burned to the ground. Correction: Somebody burned it to the ground, and dropped a Cuban oil can nearby.”

“But,” I replied thoughtfully, “the police didn’t blame the women for the arson, right? I mean, that’s what the women told me. Have you . . . had any other rentals burned by arson?”

“Of course I haven’t.” A piqued, lost expression washed over her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any one-story houses available.”

“Donna, please.” I knew that expression: It was the way a hungry person looked. “Let’s start over.” I reached into my bag and brought out the coffee cake, which I placed in front of her. It looked rich, buttery, and oh-so-inviting under its glistening plastic wrap. “This is a recipe I’m testing. You seem extremely hassled, and I’ll bet you haven’t had lunch.”

She slumped back in her chair. The combative lioness became a kitten I’d just pulled out of the lake. She placed each of her hands on her cheeks and stared at my offering.

“Donna,” I said softly, “would you like some espresso and cream? I brought a thermos—”

“Well, actually, could you make me some . . . instant cocoa?” Her voice was meek as she continued to stare at the cake.

“Absolutely,” I replied, although I never used the word instant in the same breath as cocoa. Be that as it may, Donna needed comfort and sustenance, stat. Plus, my curiosity was aroused. She’d gone from a ramshackle storefront to a plush office—leased to her by a Cuban- American, but I hadn’t pointed that out—and the place even included a kitchen. Instead of traipsing around in jeans and sweats, she now had the air and the car of a high-priced defense lawyer. All this transformation had taken place since the last time I’d seen her. Yet, as was usually the case, money hadn’t bought happiness. In fact, something was making her miserable. I was hoping I could discover what.

In the kitchen, I found a small pot, filled it with water, and turned on what looked like a brand-new, unused stove top. I discovered paper cups, paper plates, and packets of instant cocoa, freeze-dried marshmallows conveniently included. Her office fridge didn’t smell too good, so while the water heated, I decided to help Donna out, with the hope that she would do the same for me. You could be an Episcopalian and believe in karma, especially given our proximity to Boulder.

I discovered random packages of fur-bearing cheese and moldy crackers, along with two boxes of leftovers bearing stickers from expensive Denver restaurants. The crackers and leftovers I dumped. I removed the cheese, then scrubbed the refrigerator’s small interior with wet paper towels and disinfectant. I washed my hands, trimmed up what turned out to be a chunk of cheddar, and placed a good-sized wedge on a plate. I stirred the boiling water into the powdered hot chocolate for Donna and put out two paper plates. I wanted to share a bit of cake with Donna and be sociable, even though I’d just plowed through two beers and most of a plate of enchiladas trying to do the same thing with Norman Juarez.

Back in her office, Donna was still staring at the cake. I began to wonder if she needed medical attention.

“Donna? Are you all right?” I asked softly. When she didn’t reply, I unwrapped the cake and sliced an enormous piece for her plate. I placed her makeshift meal in front of her, along with the steaming cocoa, its tiny marshmallows bobbing about merrily. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Startled out of her reverie, she nodded thanks, then sipped the cocoa and nibbled the cheese. She forked up a hunk of coffee cake, and as is often the case when one is sugar deprived and stressed out, the carbohydrates provided a jolt. “Thank you,” she said. “This is good.” Tears actually filled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to answer calls all morning, and I haven’t—”

“Hey, I’m the caterer, remember? No excuses needed.” I sliced myself a small piece of cake, then sat down and took a bite. The guava gave the cake a pop that I would have enjoyed even more had I some decent coffee— but wait, I did. I pulled out my Thermos, poured myself a cup, and sipped.

As we ate, I sent as many smiles Donna’s way as I could. I remembered what my father had told me, back when I was young, feisty, and driving my teachers crazy by talking back. Good old Dad had said, “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” Being vinegary by nature, I took considerable time to learn the lesson, if I ever had. But when I remembered Dad’s advice, I tried.

“You know what?” I said kindly. “We really don’t have to find a rental for Ferdinanda and Yolanda today. With the sudden storm, you must have tenants calling every two minutes.” Actually, the phone had not rung since I’d been there, but never mind. And where was the assistant? Maybe driving around looking for takeout. “Tenants are probably driving you nuts,” I babbled on, “because they can’t find snowblowers, or snow shovels, or they don’t have heat. Over a foot of white stuff in September has discombobulated everyone, me included. Isn’t it bizarre?”

“Yes, it is.” She sipped her cocoa and gave me a wary look. “But it’s not my tenants who are driving me crazy.”

“Um,” I said thoughtfully, “not your tenants?”

“No, it’s the people who aren’t my clients who are doing that.”

“You know what?” I said, leaning forward in what I hoped was conspiratorial confidence. “Six people just got added to the dinner I’m catering tonight. And there might even be two more. None of these people were regular clients, either, but—”

“I mean”—she interrupted me—“I like sex as much as the next person, but why do you have to ruin somebody’s business because you won’t go to a hotel?”

“Has the economy gotten that bad?” I asked. “I thought they had nooner rates down in Golden—”

“Oh, these people have money,” she said conspiratorially, taking another bite of cake.

“The nerve!” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I sure wanted to find out. When she continued to eat cake, I asked hopefully, “Why would anyone ruin a business because someone refused to go to a hotel?”

“I know how they do it, too,” she said without explaining the ruining-business part. She put down her fork and pointed a scarlet-painted nail at the ceiling. “One of them poses as a potential client. They ask for the cheapest rental houses available in the mountain area. Then they get my assistant to let them into the property, and then he or she says they’re not interested. My assistant even thinks they’re using disguises now.”

“You’ve never seen these people?”

“No. I usually just show the high-end homes.”

“Can your assistant describe the—”

“No. Believe me, I’ve tried to get her to tell me what they look like. But she needs new glasses, and she says I’m not paying her enough so that she can get them. When I say, ‘Well, then, how can you drive?’ she says she probably shouldn’t be driving, but anyway, she says these people are sort of young, sort of thin. As if that’s going to help me.” Donna shook her head and stopped talking.

“I promise you,” I said, “if my friends rent from you? They will be as pure as the driven—”

“I have to catch these two,” Donna said, interrupting me again.

“These two . . . ?”

“That’s the only way. I’ve offered rewards to the neighbors of every single one of my unsecured listings. I mean, if the neighbors call me in time so I can catch the squatters.”

“What are unsecured listings?”

But she lapsed back into her reverie. Eventually, she uncurled herself from wherever her mind had taken her. She looked at me as if she were again trying to remember who I was. When she did, she took another bite of cake and nodded her approval. “If I tell you about this, you can’t tell the Mountain Journal.”

“I wouldn’t tell the paper. But it sounds as if you can’t tell the paper either, because you don’t know who these two are.”

“No, I don’t.” She drained her hot chocolate and clapped the cup on the desktop. “But I do know when they sneak into my rentals and have sex. Sometimes I don’t know right away, but I know, because they don’t clean up after themselves. It’s part of their, what do you call it, their MO.”