Crunch Time

maybe I’m just paranoid, but it seems to me that unfamiliar cars are always driving past his house and slowing down.”

“You think this is someone from the divorce case?”

“I don’t know. Ernest also has an animal-activist lady who wants him to look into a puppy mill. Why didn’t she just call the cops? You know, Furman County Animal Control? Or the SPCA?”

“Because those people need proof,” I said, as I picked up my knife and started slicing tomatoes again. “They need evidence if they’re going to move in and close somebody down. And anyway, don’t worry. Ernest can take care of himself. Did he tell you he was investigating anything that would put him in danger? Or put you and Ferdinanda in danger?”

Yolanda shuddered. “He says he’s looking for something for someone.”

“Looking for something for someone? Looking for what, and for whom?”

She said, “I’m not sure, Goldy.” Something about her tone of voice made me stop slicing and turn around. No one was there. When I faced her again, her big brown eyes were round. “Ernest didn’t come home last night.”

I asked, “Is that unusual?”

“Yes,” Yolanda whispered. “He said he’d be back in the afternoon. I was fixing him seafood enchiladas for supper, and he said he couldn’t wait. And then he didn’t show up. I couldn’t reach him on his cell. With his cases and his clients and my worry about Kris, I had a bad feeling. So did Ferdinanda. You know, she believes in Santeria.”

“I thought she was a communist.”

“No! She’s a Catholic.” Yolanda continued softly. “It’s not something you can explain. It’s not like that.”

I had to lean toward her to hear what she was saying. I was saying, “Not like what?” when Jake, our bloodhound, started howling.

Yolanda tensed, then hugged herself. “Does your dog always go off like that?”

Before I could answer, Tom and John Bertram, a fortyish, well-built cop with a head of close-cropped fair hair, came around the back of the house. Tom’s gaze penetrated the row of windows he’d put up along the rear wall of the kitchen. John Bertram, Ernest McLeod’s ex-partner, saw only me. When he waved, I waved back with my free hand. Then his gaze snagged on Yolanda, and his arm fell. Yolanda got up, walked over to the sink, and stared into it.

I pointed the knife at the ceiling and gave Tom a what’s-up gesture. He ignored me. He kept his eyes on Yolanda as he came through the back door.

“Tom!” I said. “John! It’s so good you’re here early, because we’ve made a lot of food, and you can taste- test—”

“Miss G., I’m working,” Tom said.

“It’s Sunday. Can’t you just stay for a little while?”

Tom said flatly, “Ernest McLeod is dead. Yolanda, you need to come with us.”

2

I dropped my knife. Ernest McLeod was dead?

“Wait,” I said.

Yolanda did not wait. She bolted for the bathroom again, where she turned on the fan.

Tom slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. I raised my eyebrows at him, but he just shook his head.

John Bertram rubbed his temples. After a moment, he crossed his thick arms. He started to say something, then ducked his chin and choked up. I picked up the knife, tossed it into the sink, and handed John a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

John shook his head once, wiped his face, and stuffed the tissue into his pocket.

“Tom?” I said. “How did Ernest die?”

“He was shot.”

I said, “Are you arresting Yolanda? Let me just say, she loved Ernest. She was telling me—”

“Goldy,” Tom asked, his voice gentle, “would you please stay out of this?”

“No,” I said. “And if you aren’t arresting her, you cannot make her go with you.”

We were all quiet for a few minutes, except for Yolanda, who again was sobbing. I washed the knife and my hands and looked at the tomatoes. But I couldn’t concentrate.

Our bloodhound scrabbled at the back door. Desperate to have something to do, I covered the food we’d been working on, except for the bread, pork, and tomatoes, which were still rising, roasting, and awaiting slicing. I put the wrapped dishes into the walk-in, then let Jake in. He snuffled wildly around John and Tom, then cocked his ears when he heard Yolanda crying. In sympathy, the dog again started to howl.

“Jake, be quiet!” I hollered.

Jake shushed, but raced to the bathroom door and started scratching on it. Tom and John waited.

I didn’t know what to do. Finally I washed my hands, picked up the knife, and began slicing the tomatoes again. “Is somebody going to tell me what is going on?” I asked, impatient.

Tom nodded at John. John said, “Near as we can tell, Ernest was killed less than a quarter-mile from his house. Our guys are combing the scene, which isn’t far from my, from our”—he choked up again, then composed himself—“property line. Ernest must have been . . . I don’t know, walking into town, hiking. . . . Our house is about a third of a mile from his, just above the back entrance to Aspen Hills.” John crossed his arms again. “That section of Aspen Hills is pretty deserted, because most folks don’t know about that way in, and if they do find it, they usually give up, because the road winds a bit.”

I thought of Yolanda saying strange cars had been driving by and slowing down. Had she gotten a license plate?

John swallowed. “Ernest has, had, fifteen acres. I bought a couple of lots below his, so I could build our house and a big garage to work on my cars and trucks. There’s a whole field of boulders just above the garage, below the forest service road. I didn’t want somebody coming in and blasting, then putting in a house. . . .” He paused and, without embarrassment, tugged the tissue from his pocket and wiped tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“How has Yolanda seemed this morning?” Tom asked me.

“Her ex-boyfriend is driving her nuts. Plus, she was scared of Ernest’s clients. She’s a wreck.”

“A wreck, huh?” Tom said. “You think it’s because of the clients or because of the ex-boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. She’s just nervous. As I told you before, she doesn’t have any money and she has to take care of her great-aunt. Any one would be a catastrophe.”

“I suppose,” he replied. His green eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “I do think she has money, though. We found seventeen thousand dollars, cash, under a mattress in the guest room at Ernest’s house.”

“Seventeen thou— Wait. You searched a guest room when it was obvious someone was staying there?” I asked. “Did you have a warrant?”

“Miss G.,” said Tom, “don’t start. And don’t mention it to Yolanda, please. We know it’s inadmissible, if it comes to that. I’m just telling you, she has money. We were looking for a weapon. And anyway—” Before Tom could elaborate on one of his favorite topics, which was that people should never keep valuables in the freezer, the back of their closet, or under their mattress, because those were the first places someone looking for weapons or valuables would search, Yolanda returned to the kitchen. She clenched a handful of tissues.

“Yolanda,” Tom said, his voice kind, “please come with us down to the department, just to answer a few —”

“I can’t,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. “Aunt Ferdinanda is at the church, and I told the monsignor I’d pick her up at five. I have to . . . I want to . . . I mean, if Ernest is dead, then his friends need to be called, and then I . . .” Words failed her. After a moment, she said, “I should finish with Goldy, then get Ferdinanda, then go back—” Her mouth hung open and she blinked. Then go back where? She straightened with newfound resolve. “I have to go back to Ernest’s to take care of his puppies.”

“His what?” I said. Yolanda hadn’t mentioned any puppies.

Tom gave me a be-quiet look. “Yeah, we saw all those dogs.” He didn’t elaborate, but seemed to be considering Yolanda. “Okay, look. We won’t make you go down to the department. But we need to ask you some