Crunch Time

saved the water. Despite the upbeat music, Ferdinanda seemed angry with everyone. She muttered under her breath as she rolled herself into the walk-in. She emerged with the ingredients Yolanda had requested, then handed them to me. I gave her a cutting board with the plumped mushrooms and asked her to slice them.

Ferdinanda and I sliced and diced while Yolanda pulled out dry sherry and cream. Within minutes, I’d minced shallots and fresh mushrooms and scraped them into the butter. A scent that was both earthy and heavenly bloomed in the kitchen.

When the mushrooms began to release their liquid, Yolanda stirred flour into the stockpot. Once the mixture bubbled, she slowly poured chicken stock and sherry into the roux. She was not smiling. I wondered if our friendship would ever get back to normal.

What was normal when you’d just survived a breakup with a crazy-possessive ex-boyfriend, lost your friend and benefactor to murder, escaped an arson attack on your home, and suffered oil burns on your legs?

I blended glistening whipping cream into the soup and set it to simmer. Yolanda heated everything while I pulled out the remaining marinating pork tenderloin and slipped it into a zipped plastic bag. No matter what, it certainly was easier to cook for a big party when you had experienced chefs as houseguests.

Ferdinanda disappeared into the dining room to get herself ready for the party while I nabbed several packages of greens and Tom’s Love Potion dressing for a salad. Yolanda, Boyd, and I packed up. It didn’t take long. I had gotten to the point where I just wanted this party to be over.

After fifteen minutes of cleaning up and making sure we had everything, I pureed the soup and packed it up. Then I slipped upstairs to take a quick shower and change. I knew I’d probably need a much longer shower later, but hot water would help clear my head. I stowed my wallet with the money for Penny in the pocket of clean jeans and pulled on a polo shirt and a sweater. Then I heard an unfamiliar car stop on the street. I looked out our window.

It was a Furman County Sheriff’s Department prowler, lights blazing.

Fright poured through my veins as I punched in numbers. At quarter to three, Arch was probably at his locker.

“Mom!” he said, exasperated. “I got your message, okay? After practice, I’m going to Gus’s for dinner. You don’t have to call me ten times.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “And it’s not ten times. Can you call me when you finish eating?”

“All right. Jeez, have a little faith, will you?”

I’m trying, I thought as he hung up. I walked quickly down to the front hall, where Boyd had placed all our boxes. He stood with his arm around Yolanda and Ferdinanda’s wheelchair next to his legs. Ferdinanda’s mouth was set in a determined, angry line. Yolanda, who had changed into a turquoise Caribbean-style dress, looked paralyzed with fear.

“I don’t think we should go,” she whispered. “I haven’t been anywhere since my legs were burned—”

“I promised SallyAnn and Penny we’d help.” My voice sounded rusty. “It’ll be all right. It’s a house full of cops! SallyAnn wants Boyd there, and he’ll be able to guard you—”

“I’m driving all of us in Yolanda’s van,” Boyd announced. “The Maserati is back. Tom found something out, and he sent a police car to watch while I load the van and get you ladies out of here. We’ll have armed officers escorting us all the way.”

Yolanda looked at me in alarm. I took a deep breath and nodded to her, as if to repeat, Everything will be all right.

Boyd was as good as his word. The prowler lights flashed as we went out to the van, one at a time, with Boyd beside us. My mind worked overtime as I tried to figure out what Tom could have discovered. If he’d told Boyd, it was clear we weren’t going to hear it.

Did this have to do with Kris, or was Tom concerned about protecting us from someone else?

As soon as we were on our way to the Bertrams’, my cell rang. The caller ID read Pargeter.

“This is Goldy Schulz.” My voice had somehow turned high and querulous.

“Joseph Pargeter, returning your call. The office manager took your name and number, but she didn’t tell me who you were, where you were, or what your interest was in Rita Nielsen’s death.”

“I’m in Aspen Meadow, Colorado,” I said quickly, “I’m an independent citizen. I was wondering what you could tell me about Rita Nielsen.”

“And you are interested because . . . ?” he asked.

“Kris Nielsen is giving my friends and me some trouble.”

At this, Ferdinanda and Yolanda began to speak rapid-fire Spanish. Boyd glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“You’ve told the local authorities?” Pargeter asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said breezily. “My husband, Tom Schulz, is an investigator with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. But—” My mind ran over recent events: the fires at Yolanda’s rental and Ernest’s house, the discovery of a marijuana grow, the murders of Ernest McLeod and Stonewall Osgoode, the chandelier with the stolen diamonds, the files I had found in Kris’s house. I said, “Kris’s ex-girlfriend is a friend of mine.”

“Why don’t you put your husband on the line?” asked Pargeter. “I’d feel more comfortable talking to him.”

24

I sighed. “He’s not here at the moment. But I can put you on with a member of his team. His name is Sergeant Boyd.”

Boyd shook his head but took the phone from me anyway. He identified himself, then gave his Furman County Sheriff’s Department cell phone number to Pargeter.

“Careful fellow,” commented Boyd, who handed me back my cell phone, then answered his own.

While Boyd listened to Pargeter talk, I reflected that I still did not know how everything connected. I didn’t know what the connection, if any, was between Stonewall Osgoode and any of the suspects in Ernest’s murder. Sean Breckenridge had taken pictures of puppies that might have been Osgoode’s. Was Sean Breckenridge Stonewall Osgoode’s investor? Had Sean been hoping for a big payday with the marijuana grow operation, a payday that would enable him to leave Rorry and marry Brie? If so, then why kill Osgoode? Because he knew too much? Had that been Ernest’s problem, too, that he knew too much?

What about Kris? Had he somehow learned that Ernest was snooping around him at Yolanda’s request? Or had he just not liked that she was living at Ernest’s house?

Humberto had been the most directly threatened by Ernest’s investigations, besides maybe Osgoode. Ernest had managed to retrieve Norman Juarez’s long-stolen necklace, tying Humberto to the theft of the Juarez family fortune. Had Humberto followed Ernest and killed him, then retrieved the necklace? Or had he had one of his henchmen do it? Or had Humberto hired Osgoode? Who had changed Ernest’s dental appointment, Charlene or somone else? I shook my head, feeling helpless, just as Boyd hung up.

“So what was that all about?” I asked.

Boyd did not answer me. Instead, he asked, “How did you happen to get Pargeter’s number?”

Oh, crap. I said, “I can’t tell you that,” thinking of all the TV crime shows I’d seen, of how evidence got thrown out because it had been obtained illegally. Fruit of the poisonous tree, the defense lawyers always maintained. And out went those apples.

“I’ll talk to Tom,” said Boyd cryptically, and I thought of a prosecutor saying, Inevitable discovery, Your Honor. But inevitable discovery of what?

I shivered. We were driving along Main Street toward the Bertrams’ house, which was less than ten minutes away. Behind us, the prowler’s lightbar still blinked, which made me feel safe. I said, “Can’t you tell us anything?”

Boyd said, “Joe Pargeter suspects Kris in what was ruled the accidental death of his wealthy mother, Rita Nielsen.”

Yolanda gasped. Boyd said he couldn’t tell us any more until he had talked to Tom. I hugged my sides, frustrated.