Crunch Time

questions.” He pulled a recorder out of his pocket. “And I need to tell you, anything you say can and will be used against you . . .” By the time he’d finished the whole Miranda speech, I thought I was the one who was going to run to the bathroom.

“I have nothing to hide,” said Yolanda, lifting her chin.

Tom tapped the recorder. “I need your permission to use this.”

Yolanda looked miserable again. She used a tissue to wipe her face.

I pressed my lips together and said, “Yolanda, please remember what Tom said. You don’t have to tell them anything. You can ask for a lawyer. These things are important.”

Tom said, “Goldy? Do you mind?”

Yolanda shook her head. “Sure, go ahead with the recorder.” She made a point of glancing at the clock, which read five to four. “I just have to, you know, get Aunt Ferdinanda. On time,” she added.

Tom started the recorder and spoke into it, the usual drill of who was there, where we were, and the date. Then he pulled out his own notebook, as he distrusted technology. “We found nine beagle pups at Ernest McLeod’s house. Where did he get them, Yolanda?”

Yolanda rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. The dogs were part of a case he was working on. A woman wanted a puppy mill closed.”

“And how long had Ernest had these dogs?” Tom asked.

Yolanda said, “I, uh, how long? Let me think.” She paused to compose herself. “He got them, let’s see, today’s Sunday . . . he brought them home late Friday night. He said they were important to the case,” she repeated, her voice becoming distant. “Saturday morning, before he left for the dentist, he showed me how to feed them, give them water, and clean up the room where he’d put them. He said it was important, if he was ever away, and couldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Tom said, “And you have no idea where he got them, or why he picked up nine of them?”

“I don’t believe this,” I interjected, which brought another fierce look from Tom. I thought, Who needs nine puppies for an investigation? And picks them up at night? And why get nine, instead of, say, one?

“I told you,” Yolanda said, her voice bleak, “it had something to do with one of his cases. He was helping a lady who thought there was a puppy mill in Aspen Meadow.”

There was quiet for such a long time in the kitchen, I thought Tom and John were waiting for Yolanda to say something more. But she didn’t, and I knew better than to open my mouth again. Instead, I convinced Jake to go back outside. The meat thermometer beeped, so I brought the pork out to rest, then washed my hands and set the risen Cuban bread in the oven. I finished slicing the last of the heirloom tomatoes. Their juice filled the gutters of the cutting board.

“Yolanda,” Tom said at length, “do you own a gun?”

I looked up in time to see Yolanda blushing deeply. “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Why of course not?” Tom pressed. “When you were living in your rental, you made a sheriff’s department report that someone was looking in your windows.”

In the silence that followed, I urged Yolanda, “Tell him about Kris.”

Yolanda’s voice was flat. “Kris Nielsen is my ex-boyfriend. He has a house in Flicker Ridge. Ferdinanda and I were living with him until a few weeks ago.” She exhaled. “He knows how to shoot. He told me so.”

Tom said, “He keeps a gun?”

Yolanda said, “Yes.”

“You’ve seen it?”

Yolanda nodded in despair. “He insisted on showing it to me. I think he wanted to scare me. It worked.”

“Do you know what type of gun it was?” Tom pressed her again. “The make? The caliber? Where he keeps it?”

“Tom,” she said, “I don’t know any of those things. I’m not even sure that it was his gun.”

“This Kris, he’s dangerous?”

“I’d say so. He was a very possessive boyfriend. Since we broke up, he’s been driving me nuts. Calling and hanging up, driving his Maserati past the house where we used to live. Two times, my aunt and I glimpsed someone peeking in our windows—”

“Did you get a look at this person?”

She shook her head. “No. But we thought it was either Kris or someone Kris had hired. He has tons of money and can afford to hire people to do . . . whatever. I filed a report a couple of weeks ago, before we moved in with Ernest. The department should have it.”

“And did Kris drive his Maserati past Ernest’s house?”

“Not that we saw. But the past few weeks? There were strange cars driving past Ernest’s house.”

“Can you describe the cars?”

“One was silver, like a luxury car. It came past once, real slowly. But I didn’t get any license plates.”

Tom waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked John, “Could you go into the other room and have one of our guys visit Kris Nielsen?” John disappeared into the living room while Tom turned his attention back to Yolanda. “Could you take us through your movements, starting with Friday night?”

So she did. Ernest had gone out around half past eight, when Yolanda and Ferdinanda were watching a rerun of a telenovela on Ernest’s basement television. Tom asked her which episode was on and what had happened. She gave him a wry look, thought for a moment, then told him. Tom wrote in his notebook. When the program was over, Yolanda rolled Ferdinanda into the guest bathroom and helped her get ready for bed.

John Bertram returned to the kitchen and flicked a glance at Tom. Tom asked Yolanda, “Do you know where Ernest had been that day?”

“Uh,” Yolanda said, again discombobulated. “Friday? He was off doing investigating. I don’t know if that had to do with the puppies or not. He came home, said he’d gotten some good pictures, and then I gave him dinner.” She seemed unsure whether to go on. Maybe she thought someone was going to ask what food she’d made for Ernest.

“On Friday night, you gave him dinner?” Tom said, prompting her.

“That was my job, Tom,” Yolanda explained testily, her eyes lit with defiance.

Tom shrugged. He did not mention the seventeen thousand bucks under the mattress. Nor did he bring up the people Yolanda hung out with, those folks he didn’t like. Instead, he stood and walked into the hallway with John. Yolanda avoided my gaze.

When Tom returned, he smoothly picked up his earlier line of questioning. “So, Ernest said he got some good pictures?”

“Yes.” Yolanda wrinkled her forehead. “He always kept his digital camera with him, in his backpack.”

“His backpack?”

“Yeah, he kept his cell in there, too.” Yolanda took a deep breath. “I never saw him go out without his red backpack.”

“He didn’t have a backpack with him. Just his wallet. Why would he carry a backpack?”

Yolanda said patiently, “He was trying to get more exercise. Whenever he would go out for a walk, he would sling it over his shoulders.” Yolanda made an impatient movement with her hands. “I don’t know, maybe he left the camera in his home office.” When she stopped talking, there was another one of those long silences that were making me so uncomfortable.

I felt myself beginning to fidget, so I offered everyone coffee, even though it was twenty after four. There weren’t any takers.

“Drink, then?” I asked. “As in wine or—”

“Goldy, please,” Tom said. Then he asked Yolanda, “What did you make Ernest for dinner Friday night?”

“Grilled swordfish.” Yolanda brushed her hair back from her face. “You can check the trash if you want. I also made him guacamole and put it on tomatoes. He liked that kind of thing, Tex-Mex, even though he didn’t eat very much.” Her brow wrinkled. “After dinner, he said he had to go out, but that he’d be back that night, hopefully with