Crunch Time

a ram, the mascot for Colorado State University; an NRA sticker; and a bumper sticker that read, You can have my gun if I can have your bulletproof vest.

“Wait, Tom, look,” I said, pulling on his elbow. “The car. Osgoode’s.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a black SUV. Just like the one that mowed down Ferdinanda in Denver.”

Tom sighed. “Goldy, you’re reaching again.”

“You could do forensic tests—”

“That’s the problem with TV,” Tom said. “They make you think we can test for anything. Ferdinanda was hit, what, two, three months ago? This car had to have been washed numerous times since then. And now look at it. I mean, Osgoode lived on a dirt road, for God’s sake.”

“Please have your guys examine the Jeep carefully, especially the grille. Please? What if Osgoode is the one who mowed down Ferdinanda? Maybe someone wanted to send some other kind of message to Yolanda: I can hurt your aunt, too.”

Reluctantly, Tom called over a crime scene tech and asked him to process the Jeep very carefully. The tech, young, thin, and scarred with acne, said, “Don’t I always?” Tom thanked him.

When Tom and I reached his car, he opened his trunk. “Once we’re out on the road? Take off your wet clothes and put these on.” He handed me a set of sheriff’s department sweats.

My voice shook when I said, “Thanks.”

Tom warmed up the engine, then pulled out of Osgoode’s driveway and turned the heat to high. As soon as we were on Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, I peeled off my wet garments and pulled on the dry sweats. They were like heaven. But I was still shivering.

We’d gone about a mile before Tom said, “I need to talk to Lolly.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Goldy, this is not just a larceny case, in case you hadn’t noticed. We now have two bodies. Ernest McLeod worked for the sheriff’s department for years. Osgoode, okay, he was a scumbag. But neither one of them deserved to be killed. I have to know every single word Lolly told you about Humberto Captain. Why? Because Norman Juarez’s case, with its missing gold, jewels, and necklace, was one that Ernest was working on. In case I have to put it together for you, that makes Humberto a suspect.”

I exhaled. “I know he’s a suspect. Just let me call Lolly, okay?”

Of course, I knew I’d told Lolly to drug Humberto that afternoon, copy the receipts from his wallet, and then drug herself. Still, I needed to appease Tom, and I did want him to be able to talk to Lolly eventually. So once we were back within cell range, I called Lolly’s home number and left a message, saying Tom wanted to talk to her that night.

My stomach growled. With all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed missing lunch. Now I did. Still, I needed to put in another call. I wanted to talk to Father Pete. I needed guidance, counseling, prayer, something. And I wasn’t the only one.

“This is Saint Luke’s,” Father Pete answered.

“Father Pete, why aren’t you out having lunch?” I asked, apropos of nothing.

“Goldy? The church secretary goes home for lunch. I think I can man the phones for an hour and a half. But . . . you don’t sound good. Is everything all right? The veterinarian called to tell me it would be several days before I could have my puppies back. What’s going on? How is Yolanda feeling?”

“Fair,” I said, “thanks for asking.”

“Is she home from the hospital?”

“Yes, she’s recovering.”

“And the dogs?”

Tom made slashing motions across his throat, so I quickly went on. “I don’t know much about the dogs, except that everyone should have their adopted animals back soon. It’s actually, I mean, this call is about . . . two parishioners who may need some pastoral care.” I waited while he fetched pen and paper. Apparently Father Pete didn’t believe in tech toys, either.

“All right, then,” he said, “who are they?”

“I can’t really talk about their situations,” I said guardedly, “but Hermie Mikulski and Charlene Newgate may need you to visit them. Hermie’s fine, just shaken up, and she should be on her way home from the hospital this afternoon. Charlene Newgate has a broken nose. At the moment, she’s down at the Furman County Jail.”

Father Pete muttered something unintelligible. Then he said, “All right, I’ll track them down. Hermie should be easy enough, but I haven’t seen Charlene Newgate for years. I’m glad her secretarial service turned into a success. I just wish she’d check in from time to time. That poor woman was in need of pastoral support. People think once they have money, they don’t need a spiritual safety net, and they do.”

“Thanks, Father Pete.”

“And you, Goldy? How are you doing?”

I said, “Not good at all, I’m afraid. I was in the mess with Hermie, but I’ll let her tell you about it.”

“I promise I’ll try to reach them. I just have to be back late this afternoon for a counseling appointment. If I don’t see the women before then, I’ll keep trying. Thank you for alerting me to this, Goldy.”

“You’re welcome.” I signed off with a promise that I would see him soon.

We turned off Main Street and up our street. Tom miraculously found a spot next to the curb. When I jumped out, a wave of fatigue, hunger, something rolled over me.

“I’m going to question Yolanda and Ferdinanda, if you don’t mind,” Tom said in a low voice as we made our way up the ramp that Boyd and Tom had built. It was surprisingly sturdy. “Please don’t interfere.”

“Question away. I’m ravenous, though. Can it wait until after lunch?”

“Let me get a feel for things here.”

Tom opened the door for me. I groaned as the rich, luscious scent of eggs mixed with cream, cheese, and spinach ballooned out of the kitchen and enveloped us. In the hallway, Tom said he would give a limited recap of the morning’s events to everybody while I took a shower. I thanked him and mounted the stairs.

From our bedroom windows, I saw a moving van pull into the driveway of Jack’s old house. As I watched, a white Maserati pulled in behind the van. I didn’t want to be caught looking, so I quickly pulled down the shades.

As the hot water cascaded down my back, my thoughts inevitably returned to the image of the sheriff’s department tarp over the body of the person I now knew as Stonewall Osgoode. Why would someone want to murder him? Even eco-terrorists didn’t target puppy mill owners. Had there been a dispute over the marijuana garden? Drug dealers had no qualms about killing one another. But why go to all the trouble of luring Hermie and me out there? Had Osgoode’s murderer actually thought that silk-and-pearls Hermie Mikulski, with her maimed left hand, her little .22, and her course in shooting, would really kill someone? As Tom had pointed out, no matter what Osgoode had done, he hadn’t deserved to die for it.

And the big question, as far as I saw it, was: If indeed the same gun had been used to murder Ernest McLeod, why would someone want both him and Osgoode dead? What was the connection?

My mind spun, a result, no doubt, of the morning’s trauma. I toweled myself quickly and put on one of my own sweat suits. I was eager to get down to lunch, to hear what Tom was going to say. He had a remarkable way of providing clarity when all I could see was a jumble.

When I got to the kitchen, however, Boyd, Yolanda, and Ferdinanda were in a jovial mood, talking back and forth about where Yolanda and Ferdinanda were going to live after Ferdinanda got out of her wheelchair. Clearly, they didn’t know about Ernest’s will yet. Yolanda’s burned legs were still bandaged up, and her face registered pain whenever she moved. But she seemed to be enjoying Ferdinanda’s suggestions. Make enough money catering to rent an apartment. Live frugally and save up. Buy a little place on Cottonwood Creek. Have enough land to plant a garden to grow yuca. Be able to go out onto a deck and admire a view of snowcapped peaks.

Boyd grinned widely, then winked at me. He knew as well as I did that homes in the valley created by Cottonwood Creek would not have great views unless they were fifty stories high. The Mountain Journal had pointed out that actually, very few houses in town were situated so as to have a full view of the Continental Divide. And as far as gardening went? The reason Ernest McLeod had built a greenhouse was that Aspen Meadow’s growing season was too short for root vegetables. Most gardeners opted for the perennial- and-rock variety. This was the kind that Tom had put in our backyard. Still, Boyd and I weren’t about to spoil their