Crunch Time

of triumph in his brown eyes.

“Your old babysitter?” I squinted at the picture. “The one who had a full ride at Elk Park Prep? You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You used to say she was the smartest person you’d ever met, don’t you remember?”

“Not really. Well anyway, I thought Lolly went to college.”

“So did I.”

“It doesn’t look as if that worked out.” Mentally, I added, And if she’s really smart, why hasn’t she made a better career choice?

Arch grinned mischievously. “So what’s she doing instead?”

I pressed my lips together as high-pitched Ferdinanda and low-toned Tom continued their dialogue downstairs. To Arch, I said, “Did you get your homework done?”

“Good old Mom.” Arch heaved himself up off his bed. “As soon as the conversation gets interesting, you find a way to make me do something else.”

“I’m not making you do anything else.” Although, of course, I was.

“Math homework’s done.”

“Good. Thanks for staying here with Ferdinanda. And for helping figure out the puzzle with Lolly.”

“No problem.” Arch walked me to the door of his room. “Do you think Lolly’s available to come over tomorrow night, to do some tutoring with me? She could wear that same outfit.”

“Very funny, buster.”

Reluctantly, I went back down to the kitchen. Ferdinanda wailed at Tom, “But I don’t understand why you can’t arrest him. Look at what he’s done!”

Tom rubbed his chin for a moment. “Let’s put it this way. Do you like the fact that Fidel Castro promised elections within a year of taking over the country but, in all the fifty years since, has never held free elections?”

“Of course not!” Ferdinanda retorted. “I believe in democracy. I believe in freedom of speech. He wouldn’t allow either. That’s why I left.”

“Presumably, then,” Tom said patiently, “one of the reasons you came to this country is that we are a nation of laws that we enforce.”

Ferdinanda waved this away. “Kris peeped in the windows of the house we were renting. Or he hired somebody to do that. Then he burned the place down.”

“Ferdinanda, we have no proof—”

“So we moved to Ernest’s house. Then Kris killed Ernest and burned down his house. Today he moved in across the street. He’s crazy, Tom! Now, tonight, he tried to kill Yolanda. Aren’t any of those things laws that have been broken?”

“Breaking and entering, arson, murder, and attempted murder,” Tom said, still calm, “are all against the law. But Kris has an alibi for every single one of those events, and we do not have a shred of evidence that he was involved in any of it.”

“Isn’t stalking against the law?” asked Ferdinanda. “He stalked her.”

“If we could prove it, it would be,” Tom replied. “I understand what you’re saying.” It was clear to me, and no doubt to Ferdinanda, that he may have comprehended the older woman’s accusation, but he was by no means certain of its veracity. And yet, he trusted Yolanda and Ferdinanda, liked them, even, as I did. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have allowed them to come live with us.

Ferdinanda held her hand up to her ear. “You know I’m partially deaf. Why can’t I hear you?”

Tom got up. “Ferdinanda, you know Goldy and I want to help you and Yolanda. I don’t know why someone would target one or both of them or even somebody else, in the Breckenridges’ kitchen. As I’ve said here several times, it sounds as if all the guests were in and out of that kitchen during the day. So I can’t just go and arrest one person, can I? As I keep telling you, we actually have to have evidence. On the other hand, you could tell me more about Humberto Captain than you have. Did he know about Ernest’s investigation of him?” Ferdinanda muttered under her breath. “Speak up, Ferdinanda! I can’t hear you.” The older woman fixed Tom with a baleful stare. Tom, unheeding, changed the subject. “Boyd will be home soon with Yolanda. Do you want one of us to stay here in the kitchen with you until they arrive?”

Ferdinanda, who was already wheeling away, stopped. “No. I’ll tell you what I want. When they get back, I want you and Boyd each to stand beside Yolanda and bring her into the house. She needs to be protected.”

“All right,” said Tom. I could hear the fatigue in his voice, but he pressed buttons on his cell to tell Boyd how they were going to bring Yolanda into the house. Ferdinanda, satisfied, rolled herself into her makeshift bedroom without, I noticed, a word of thanks to Tom.

I shook my head. “Tom, I have something to tell you.” I related Arch’s news about his former babysitter, Odette, aka Lolly Vanderpool. “She’s more than smart. She’s brilliant. You should let me talk to her about Humberto.”

Tom’s sea-green eyes were full of skepticism. “You’re going to interrogate a prostitute about a john who’s a murder suspect, between your catering events?”

“Please, listen. First of all, it’s much more likely she’ll talk to me than she would to someone at the sheriff’s department. Second, we’re having dinner at this murder suspect’s house tomorrow night—”

“I’ll be wearing a weapon—”

“And third, I don’t actually have catering events this week. Just the dinner at the Bertrams’ place on Thursday night, and for that I’m making soup.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you talking to Humberto alone.”

“Humberto? No way. I only want to talk to Lolly.”

“Couple things, then. You have max two days to talk to her before we do. And you have to tell me immediately whatever she says.”

“Oh-kay.” I moved toward the walk-in. “Have you eaten? I’m famished.”

“Yeah, I did. Wait, let me talk to Ferdinanda for a minute.” He knocked on the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room. When Ferdinanda roughly told him to enter, he asked her questions in a low tone. Again, Ferdinanda’s querulous reply made me wonder what was going on, but when Tom said, “Thank you,” I was even more curious. When he closed the dining room door, he said, “I’m going to fix you dinner.”

“Tom, please. Don’t. I can do it. And besides that, I don’t think we have anything ready—”

“You do enough, Miss G.,” Tom interrupted. He peered into the depths of the walk-in. “I came out to the kitchen yesterday and found Ferdinanda rummaging through the freezer.”

I sighed. I’d found her in our pantry. Tom had found her searching through our freezer. In spite of the fact that I’d said mi casa es su casa, Ferdinanda’s proprietary attitude toward our kitchen was getting a little old.

“Anyway, she asked me if she could thaw a package of ground pork. I said yes, and I just got her permission to cook one of her recipes that she was telling me about.” He flipped through some papers by the computer. “All right, here we go.”

I was too tired to argue. “Sounds great.”

“I’m also putting together a salad for you,” he said, his head back in the walk-in. He emerged carrying the pork, a container of cooked rice, and a bunch of fresh cilantro, which he placed on the counter. “Now, where is that balsamic vinaigrette I was making. . . .”

“What you’re making is a mess,” I said. But I found the saute pan and brought out the olive oil for him.

“I have an ulterior motive,” Tom said.

“Yeah,” I replied, “you don’t want me to get grouchy because I’m hungry.”

“That, too,” he said as he washed his hands to prepare for cooking. “Not another word until I have the food in front of you.”

He poured me a glass of an expensive sauvignon blanc that Marla had given us, set the table for one, and went about his tasks. Twenty minutes later, he placed a heavenly scented platter on the table, filled with ground pork in a steaming orange-lime sauce. Next to it he put two bowls: one filled with fluffy heated rice topped with chopped fresh cilantro, the other brimming with a salad of baby field greens, grape tomatoes, toasted pine nuts, and tidbits of blue cheese, all cloaked in Tom’s new dressing.

“This is enough for at least four people,” I murmured. “But thanks.”