Crunch Time

had indeed had it and Ernest had stolen it back. Ernest had called Norman with the exciting news that he’d found something belonging to his family. But he’d been killed before he could give it to Norman. I had no idea who was in possession of the necklace now. But there was a much bigger problem than larceny: the first-degree murder of Ernest McLeod.

I was suddenly glad that Tom was accompanying me to Humberto’s. Like Tom, I didn’t trust him, no matter how glossy and smooth-talking he appeared.

I also knew what Ernest had been doing for the person Yolanda had known only as Hermie. Hermie Mikulski had been trying to close a puppy mill. I typed that up and added that I suspected I knew why Ernest had stolen nine spayed female puppies from Osgoode. Ernest must have come across the smuggling-seeds-in-puppies operation. He’d decided to steal some back. Because their chow was next to Ernest’s own medical marijuana, I was convinced that he was trying to send a clue, in case something happened to him and his files.

I sat back in Arch’s chair. Had Ernest run afoul of some surveillance equipment out at Stonewall Osgoode’s place? Had Stonewall then found Ernest, killed him, and burned down his house to destroy the puppies, the files, and any other evidence that could incriminate him?

If so, then who had killed Stonewall Osgoode?

I blinked at the screen. Back to the larceny. I still hadn’t found Norman Juarez’s gold and gems, but given what Lolly had told me, I was convinced now that Humberto had indeed stolen them. Problem was, I didn’t feel anywhere close to finding a big cache of anything. Tonight, Lolly was going to photocopy—surreptitiously, I certainly hoped—the contents of Humberto’s wallet. Finding something usable in there seemed like a long shot.

Would I be able to do some surreptitious questioning of Humberto that night? Or would Tom want to have that honor himself, when he talked to Humberto about Osgoode?

I put these thoughts aside while I stared at the screen. There was Kris Nielsen, still a cipher. According to Yolanda, he had been obsessed with her. And of course, I had witnessed his repeatedly calling her out at Gold Gulch Spa. Had it been love, as Penny Woolworth insisted, or had it been stalking? Of course, when I’d been working at the spa, Yolanda had not told me about the venereal disease, the attack with the broom handle, or the strange events at the rental, before it was burned to the ground.

Did the disease, the attack, and the strange events at the rental house really happen? Much as I loved Yolanda, if I couldn’t corroborate those facts, then I couldn’t verify them. And what about at the ethnic grocery store, when Yolanda had reacted in such an overwrought way when Father Pete had absentmindedly bumped into her? I shook my head.

Humberto had brought champagne to the dinner. Any caterer worth her chef’s whites knew you had to put a dish towel over a bottle of sparkling wine before you opened it. This was especially true if the wine—in this case, champagne—had been shaken or in any way disturbed. Had an unknown person sabotaged the metal ring holding pots, pans, and dish towels? I’d found a wrench out in the Breckenridges’ grass. If someone knew what they were doing, it would have been easy to loosen the bolt from which the ring had been suspended.

According to Sean Breckenridge, an unknown guest had requested Navajo tacos to be served at the dinner. Making them, Yolanda had been severely burned by boiling oil. Afterward, Kris said she should have been more careful. But was I reading too much into that? Who could have known that Yolanda would be the one making the fry bread? Had I been the target and not Yolanda?

So, really, anyone connected to this case—Sean or Rorry Breckenridge, Kris Nielsen, Brie or Paul Quarles, even Humberto Captain—could have unscrewed the bolts on the frying pan handle and the overhead pot rack.

What had happened to the couple with a family who supposedly bought Jack’s house, and wanted to meet me? Had the deal fallen through? Why had Kris bought the house across the street from us? I’d seen him today on Main Street. Harriet had been getting out of his Maserati. I tried to picture that section of the two-lane road that bisected our little town. Why had he been leaving her off there? Had she been withdrawing money from the bank?

I typed up what I knew about Charlene Newgate, who ran a temporary secretarial service in Aspen Meadow. She was an older, unattractive woman with a shrill voice and a resentful, angry personality. Yet she’d snagged a new boyfriend, Stonewall Osgoode, who had showered her with wealth. Was I being cynical in wondering what Stonewall had received from Charlene, in exchange for his attentions? Had Charlene made up the dental appointment for Ernest? It was entirely possible, I reasoned. Then she’d told Stonewall, who had killed Ernest.

I wondered if Tom would be better at getting information out of Charlene than I had been. Even if you wanted to see a lawyer before you said anything, having your nose broken by your boyfriend was a powerful incentive to talk.

My cell startled me out of concentration. It was Arch.

“We’re all taking a pizza to Peter’s tonight after practice.” He was out of breath. “Is that okay?”

I smiled at the reverse order of this announcement. What ever happened to asking for permission, then doing the activity? “Do you have homework?”

“Not much, and I got most of it done in study hall. I can finish it at Peter’s. Mom, I gotta go run up and down the stairs. That’s what the coach is having us do now to get into shape.”

“All right. Have fun at Peter’s. Tom, Ferdinanda, and I will be out tonight, but Boyd and Yolanda will be here. Please call them before you pull into the driveway. I want Boyd to make sure you get into the house okay.”

“Oh, Mom.”

We signed off. I saved what I had written and closed down his computer. I had no idea who had killed Stonewall Osgoode, much less what the motivation had been. But Tom’s gun had not been found at Stonewall’s house, and we had no idea why Stonewall had been trying to break into our house. Call me overprotective, but I didn’t want any member of our family, or any of our boarders, to be going into or out of the house without someone watching over them.

Incredibly, my watch said it was half past three. I still felt shaken by the events of the morning, and my work in the kitchen and typing on Arch’s desktop had not alleviated my sense of unease. I had to get dressed for the dinner. But I needed to do something. What? I realized I wanted to visit our church. Hopefully, that would help me feel more in control.

I quickly put on a black dress, flats, and a blazer. Downstairs, Boyd was sitting in the living room tapping out a text.

I said, “Do you know if the sheriff’s department has brought my van back?”

By way of answer, he held up my key ring. “Out front.”

“Could you walk out with me when I get into it? The morning left me a little freaked.”

“I thought you were going out tonight with Tom.”

“Not to worry. I’ll be back by quarter after five.”

Boyd pocketed his cell and accompanied me through our front door. Together we went down Ferdinanda’s ramp.

I took a deep breath. During late-September afternoons in Aspen Meadow, insects whisper in the browned stalks of field grass, even when chunks of snow stud the ground. A sudden breeze thrashed the pines, shushing the bugs’ chorus. The evening would be cool, verging into downright chilly. But at this moment, as I walked beside Boyd along our damp driveway, the deepening-to-cobalt sky, soft wind, and sinking golden sun made me feel a bit better. But not much.

Boyd helped me into my van. Across the street, the movers had left. The Maserati was not in evidence.

I turned the van around and headed toward Main Street. I had a call to make that I did not want Boyd even to have a chance of hearing. I punched the buttons for Penny Woolworth’s cell and left a message on her voice mail. She’d promised to let me into Kris Nielsen’s big fancy house while she was cleaning it the next day, I said. Did she remember? I’d also left her a message asking if she would clean up the Bertrams’ house. Did she receive the message? I hated to make Penny work so hard, but with her car-thieving husband about to get out of jail, she could surely use the extra cash.

The Saint Luke’s parking lot held three cars: Father Pete’s old Ford, a black Saab that looked familiar, and a blue Lexus that I also thought I’d seen before—and recently, too. I checked my watch again: a quarter after four. These weren’t enough cars for a meeting. Then I remembered that Father Pete had said he had a counseling session late this afternoon.

Well, I was not Marla and I was not about to barge into our rector’s office and say, “Who’ve you got here that