Crunch Time

this country, just as I assume you were. And she does not have hep C. Who told you that?”

“I heard it at the country club.”

“Ah. From whom?”

Sean cleared his throat and said nothing.

I yelled, “Who did you hear it from, Sean?”

He paused, taken aback. “I’d, uh, I’d rather not say.”

“I see. Well, Yolanda’s fine.”

“Will she be helping you on Tuesday night?”

“Yes, she will, unless you and Rorry want to come out into the kitchen and do the work yourselves.” According to Marla, Rorry Breckenridge was the sole heir of the Boudreaux Molasses fortune, but—wait for it, Marla had said—Rorry had never so much as baked a spice cookie. I very much doubted she’d be willing to stand in for hardworking Yolanda. And Sean? Forget it.

“I just want everyone to be comfortable,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to worry about getting sick.”

“The guests will be fine. Do you want me to make an announcement at the beginning of the dinner as to Yolanda’s health?”

“No, no.” He hesitated. “We had a call from someone who wants to come and bring a date. It’s not too late to add another couple, is it?”

“Oh, Sean, for God’s sake.”

“Is it all right or not? This couple is willing to pay double the thousand dollars a plate. The church could use an extra four thou, Goldy. Besides, Rorry’s table holds sixteen, so everyone would fit.”

“Who is this extra couple?”

“Why does that matter?” Sean asked.

I wanted to say, Because if it’s Kris Nielsen and another woman, you can cater your own damn party. As the silence between us lengthened, it became clear Sean was not in a sharing mood. “Oh, all right,” I said finally, wondering feverishly about the number of racks of lamb chops I had on hand. “But no more. Fourteen people, and that’s it.”

I thought he was going to sign off, but he said only, “Is your husband home?”

I was immediately wary. “Tom? Yes, why?”

“Does he . . . did he . . . know Ernest McLeod?”

“Let me give him the phone,” I said noncommittally.

But Sean hung up.

Well, now, that was interesting. I’d just found out about Ernest McLeod, and even if the news had been on TV, why would Sean call our house instead of the sheriff’s department? And most curious of all, why would Sean Breckenridge be interested in Ernest McLeod?

I stared at the phone.

Had Ernest been investigating Sean, and Sean had somehow gotten wind of it? Or had Sean Breckenridge been one of Ernest’s clients?

I returned to the kitchen, where the interview had apparently reached another stalemate. I wrote a quick note to Tom that Sean Breckenridge was curious about Ernest. He glanced at the note, nodded once, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

“I did call the sheriff’s department,” Yolanda said at length, her tone miserable.

Tom said mildly, “When?”

“I told you.”

“Tell us again.”

“When Ernest didn’t come home Saturday afternoon, which was when he said he was going to, and there was no answer on his cell, and no answer at the Bertrams’, I got worried. He had told me how much he was looking forward to the seafood enchiladas that I was making that night. And then he didn’t even give me a ring to say he’d be late? That just wasn’t like him. So that’s when I found out the name of his dentist—”

“Why?” Tom said sharply. “Why would you do that?”

Yolanda’s face crumpled into a look of helplessness. “God, Tom! Because he was late! Because I couldn’t reach him! Because Ferdinanda said he hadn’t looked well when he went out! Because I have a crazy ex-boyfriend, and Ernest had told me about these cases, and I thought . . . oh, I don’t know what I thought. And anyway, Ferdinanda was right, he did look weak when he left—”

“Weak?” Tom interrupted.

“I’m not a doctor.” Yolanda rubbed her eyes. “But I was making his dinners, and even though he said he loved the food, I told you, he didn’t eat very much. Then yesterday morning, he said, ‘I’m going to walk to my appointment, get some exercise.’ But he didn’t come back. We were scared he’d been hit by a car or something. So I went through his Rolodex. Drew Parker has an office just above Main Street, in that new office complex. You know the one? That whole new building above Aspen Meadow Dry Cleaners, Frank’s Fix-It Shop, and Donna Lamar’s old office?”

“I know it,” Tom said tersely.

“Frank’s Fix-It Shop,” muttered John. “The only thing Frank has fixed in the last twenty years is a joint he rolled himself.”

“I know!” said Yolanda. “Saturday afternoon, late? I went to Drew Parker’s office, looking for Ernest. There was nobody there. There was nobody at the dry cleaner, and Donna’s office is for lease. So I went into Frank’s Fix- It with a picture of Ernest, asking if anyone had seen him. Frank was so stoned, he just shook his head. He never said a word. And the place stank of weed. Why don’t you people bust him?”

John Bertram said, “Well, we—”

“Who called Ernest to change the dental appointment, do you know?” Tom interrupted sharply, with a cautionary glance at John. Let’s not get distracted here.

“I told you, by the time I got over there, nobody was at the dentist’s office.” Yolanda’s tone was bitter. “Parker’s the only dentist with an office right in town. So Ernest couldn’t have been going to another dentist. Not on foot. When Ferdinanda and I couldn’t find him, we went back to Ernest’s place. I phoned the emergency clinic that’s just outside of town. No one had been brought in. I called Southwest Hospital. Nothing.”

Tom pressed his lips together. He was watching her, as was John. Anxiety for my friend gripped my heart.

Tom said, “Go back to before you made those calls. What made you go out looking for him, if you were afraid of your ex?”

Yolanda said, “Ferdinanda was driving me crazy, saying, ‘We gotta go look for him.’ I didn’t want to go out.” Her dark eyes implored Tom. “I was afraid. So I tried to be logical. I thought, Maybe he’s found out something about a case and he’s pursuing it. Maybe he’s lost his cell. And Ferdinanda was saying, ‘Maybe he’s been hit by the same bastard who hit me. Maybe he’s slipped on all the gravel between this house and town. Maybe he’s unconscious in a ditch. We gotta go out in the van and look!’ ”

“You called Ernest. You went to the dentist’s office and Frank’s Fix-It. You came back and called the clinic, then the hospital. You didn’t think to call anyone else?” Tom asked.

“I told you both, I called John here, whom I hadn’t even met.” Yolanda turned toward John. “Ernest said he trusted you like a brother. And before you ask, Tom”—she directed her attention back to my husband—“I found the Bertrams’ home number in Ernest’s Rolodex, too.”

“Go on,” said Tom. “You called John. When did you drive out to look for Ernest?”

Yolanda shook her head, dismayed. “Around four? I loaded Ferdinanda into my van and off we went. I drove slowly. I told you, there was nobody at the dentist’s office and the guy at Frank’s Fix-It was wrecked. We came home and I tried to call the Bertrams again.” She gulped. “When Ernest still wasn’t home at midnight, I called the sheriff’s department. Since Ernest used to be a cop? They sent out a car, and the policeman took a report. Wait, I have his card.” Yolanda rooted through her purse, then pulled out a sheriff’s department card, which she handed to Tom. “The guy wrote down what I told him, and said maybe Ernest was working on a case. I told him Ernest would have informed us if he wasn’t coming back for dinner. And he would have taken his truck.”