Crunch Time

same weapon was used two years ago, to kill a gas station attendant.”

“What? Where was this?”

“Outside of Fort Collins. The kid was a graduate student at Colorado State. He was just working shifts to make money.”

“Is there any connection to the people around Ernest?”

“Not that we can find.”

I shook my head. Another person killed, and for what? It was all too much. We stopped talking.

Finally, Tom said, “Anything else, Miss G.?”

I looked at him in puzzlement. He gave me such a hopeful look, I couldn’t imagine what he meant by it . . . until I did. The anything else was asking if during the night, I had come to a positive response to his surprise request.

I opened my mouth and then closed it.

He brushed my hair off my face and touched my cheek. “Please don’t go into a panic. We’re going to be married for a long, long time, and we can discuss this any time while your biological clock is still ticking. Okay? And no matter what we decide, we’re going to be happy together. Got it?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Tom.”

He left. I did my yoga routine, then showered, dressed, and made my way to the kitchen. There, Ferdinanda was checking under the lid of a pot of rice, Boyd was hovering over a sink full of soapy water, and Arch was stuffing himself with thick-sliced bacon and pancakes smeared with guava preserves. Sitting beside Arch, Yolanda seemed to be in a daze. She was tilted sideways, with a faraway look in her eyes. A full cup of coffee in front of her looked cold.

“Yolanda, how are you?” I asked.

Arch, his mouth half full, glanced sideways at Yolanda. Then he swallowed and said, “She’s in a lot of pain, Mom, that’s how she is. Even I can tell that.”

“Arch?” Yolanda came back to earth. Her rusty-sounding voice carried a note of reproof. “I’m capable of talking to your mother myself, thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Arch as he picked up his empty dish and took it to the sink. “You can talk, but you never complain. I’m just telling my mom the real situation.”

I said, “Arch? Do you have all your homework?”

Boyd rinsed off the plate and silverware and handed it back to Arch to put in the dishwasher. My son shook his head. “There you go again, Mom, sending me off when you don’t want to talk about what’s really going on.”

“Arch!”

“Mom!” When he tossed his silverware into the dishwasher, the metal clanked explosively. “I’m worried about Yolanda, too, you know! First some guy tries to break into where she’s sleeping, then somebody tries to burn her.”

I said softly, “Arch, please.”

“I’m just saying what we all know.” His tone was stubborn.

“Tom, Boyd, and the whole sheriff’s department are working on it,” I replied, keeping my tone even.

Arch muttered something under his breath and stomped out of the kitchen. I was about to holler after him to come back and apologize when Boyd held up a soapy hand.

“Goldy?” he said. “He’s been traumatized. Give him a break.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I overreacted.”

“Sit down, Goldy.” Ferdinanda poured batter into a sizzling saute pan on the stove. “I want you to eat some of my pancakes, tell me how good they are with guava jam. And what your son said before he left the kitchen? He told me how much he liked my pancakes.”

I was quite sure that was not what Arch had said under his breath, but I was touched by hard-of-hearing Ferdinanda wanting to cover for him. When she placed a plate with three steaming pancakes—each with a dollop of melting butter sliding sideways—in front of me, I thanked her.

“I make them with sour cream. Now spread guava preserves on top. I’ll make you some espresso.”

Boyd took the frying pan from Ferdinanda and placed it in the soapy water.

“Eat, eat!” Ferdinanda commanded me. “You want them to get cold?”

I obliged. The featherlight cakes had a heavenly tang that was perfectly complemented by the sweet, thick preserves. I groaned with pleasure. “I’d forgotten how good food tastes when it’s made by somebody else. Thank you again. Ferdinanda,” I added, “you’re great.”

“Not so great,” she said darkly. “Cooking I know. How to get rid of Kris I don’t know.”

“Okay, ladies, that’s enough of that kind of talk,” said Boyd.

Yolanda sighed. “Are you staying home today, Goldy? Or going out?”

I rubbed my forehead. How was I supposed to say that I was off to look for Humberto’s girlfriend? Oh, yes, and that I intended to keep trying to talk in depth to one of Ernest’s clients, Hermie Mikulski?

“I still want to talk to Hermie Mikulski some more,” I said, deciding for now to omit any mention of Humberto.

Boyd, still drying dishes, turned to me. “I’m telling you, Goldy, Mrs. Mikulski is in the wind. We’ve left messages for her and cannot find her. The location Father Pete gave us was a bust.”

I made my voice placating. “Fine. So is there any harm in my attempting to talk to her about Ernest? She’s a fellow CBHS parent, and I saw her son get his nose whacked when a kid opened a locker. Maybe I just want to check up on him.”

Boyd shrugged, wiped the now-clean pan, and put it away. “Ready for a trip to the ladies’ room, Yolanda? You want Ferdinanda with you?”

“Naw, she’s okay with just you there,” said Ferdinanda, waving toward the dining room. “I only get in the way. Just wait outside the door till she’s done.”

Yolanda scraped her chair back, then put her arm around Boyd’s wide shoulders. He delicately lifted her around the waist and carried her into the adjoining room.

“Listen,” hissed Ferdinanda. “I gotta talk quick. I told Yolanda she can’t go tonight to Humberto’s, on account of her burns.”

“I figured—”

“But I’ve been thinking,” Ferdinanda interrupted. “Maybe it’s not Kris doing all this. Maybe Humberto’s the one who put that broken ’lectric skillet in the Breckenridges’ kitchen.”

“Why would you think—”

“Humberto came over,” Ferdinanda said, interrupting me again. “To the rental, after Yolanda lost her job at the spa. He said he wanted to help her. She said she didn’t need him. Right after that, our rental burned down. Humberto came back. He took Yolanda aside, said he wanted her to spy on Ernest—”

“We know this,” I said. “Humberto paid her seventeen thousand bucks, which burned up in the fire. And by the way, what are you going to do without that money? Rorry Breckinridge gave me four thousand in cash for you —”

“Let me finish, Goldy!” Ferdinand said, interrupting. “So Yolanda took Humberto’s money, and we moved in with Ernest. But Yolanda liked Ernest so much, she didn’t do it. Spy, I mean. So she told Humberto she was reneging on the deal and that he could have his money back. He was furious!”

“Have you told Tom—”

Ferdinanda waved this away. “I told him last night. But when I got onto the cot, I was thinking, maybe Humberto burned down the rental, and maybe he paid someone to burn down Ernest’s house. Yes, to destroy the files, but maybe to destroy Yolanda. And maybe he sabotaged that kitchen last night, too. As punishment, for not doing what he wanted. That would explain why whoever burned down Ernest’s house waited until Yolanda was back there. It would explain the hot oil accident. If you saw what I saw in Cuba? You would say, ‘It could happen.’ ” From the dining room, Yolanda called for Ferdinanda. “Listen, I want to go shop for groceries today. Alone. Boyd will help me get into Yolanda’s van.”

I said, “That’s a very bad idea. Why don’t you tell me what we need, and I’ll do the shopping—”

Ferdinanda shook a gnarled finger at me. “Don’t you try to stop me! I’ve got my baton. I can take care of