Crunch Time

the phone. ‘When will you be back?’ he’d say. Then, the very next day, he’d phone the spa real early, when we were making breakfast. So back I’d go to the office. ‘How’s it going?’ he’d say. ‘When will you be home?’ It didn’t matter what I said, how busy I told him we were. He’d phone all through the day. He always wanted to know where I was going, who I’d be with, when I’d be back. I never asked him where he was going or what he was doing. That was strictly a no-no.”

I sighed as old memories intruded. I knew the story; it was familiar, as in like-the-Jerk familiar. He would always want to know what I was up to, every minute of the day. But if I asked him why he was home so late? I’d get punched in the face.

I resolutely put these thoughts out of my head and reminded myself for the millionth time that the Jerk was dead, thank God. Hmm, that wasn’t a very nice thought. Maybe I was the one who needed to go to confession, although in general, Episcopalians aren’t big on confession. Sinning, yes. Spilling our guts in hopes of absolution? Forget it.

Yolanda took a sip of coffee, added more sugar, and pushed her curly hair away from her face. She never wore a hairnet, as required by the county. She insisted that in all her years of food service, no one had complained. I hoped she was right.

She went on. “When Kris would ask me all these questions? I’d tell him, ‘I’m in the car, taking Ferdinanda to the doctor,’ or ‘I’m on my way to the grocery store,’ or ‘I’m working, Kris, what do you think I’m doing?’ And he’d always tell me I should quit, so that he could take care of me. But I never would. I don’t care how much money he had or what he promised.”

I sipped my coffee and nodded sympathetically. When I’d worked briefly at the spa, the staff had told me how, before Yolanda and Kris broke up, someone from the office always had to summon Yolanda to the switchboard. Yolanda would want to know who was calling, and when they told her, she’d just shake her head. When I’d heard this, I’d thought Kris was calling because he cared about Yolanda, or at the very least because he was worried about her. That lasted until Marla enlightened me. She’d found out from one of her sources that Kris was seeing other women while Yolanda was at work.

Seeing other women could explain why Kris had always insisted on knowing where Yolanda was, what she was doing, and when she’d be back. But I kept that thought to myself, because I didn’t want to hurt Yolanda.

“So, you broke up,” I said, adding a bit of cream to my coffee. “What, is he taking it hard?”

“Hard? Is he taking it hard?” Yolanda gave me a look that said, You must be pretty naive. “Yeah. You could say that. He’s taking it hard.” She glanced out our back windows, at the clouds gathering over the mountains. “At first, right after we broke up, he called our rental house and hung up, called and hung up, called and hung up. His number was blocked, but I knew it was him. Then, maybe twelve times a night, he drove that damned Maserati of his past our place. You remember our little A-frame in Aspen Hills?” When I nodded, she went on. “Luckily, I was able to get back into it after Kris and I broke up, when Ferdinanda and I moved out of his house. But then, with him calling and driving by, I was really creeped out!”

“Of course you were.”

“Weird stuff started happening. Twice, at night, Ferdinanda and I thought we saw someone looking in our windows. I talked to the owner, who also acted as the rental agent. She said nobody had asked who was in the house, and she had no idea who would be looking in the windows.”

“Did you call the police?”

“After the second time, I did. A cop came out to talk to me, and that was it.” Again she brushed the curls off her forehead. As I looked closer, I could see bags under her eyes and new wrinkles between her brows. When she felt me staring at her, she looked away. “I couldn’t afford to move, because Donna Lamar—that’s the owner/agent—said she didn’t have anything cheaper. Sales are down and rents are up, according to Donna.”

I groaned. After years of double-digit gains, the real estate market in Aspen Meadow had gotten very bad, very fast. My godfather, Jack, who’d sadly passed away the previous month, had owned the house across the street from us. The real estate agent had told us it could take up to two years for the house to sell—and that it would probably be at a loss. Jack had torn out the cabinets and closets with the idea of fixing it all up, but he hadn’t had the chance to finish what he started. If Yolanda’s rental wasn’t working out, I couldn’t imagine her being able to afford paying the unused part of a lease, making a deposit on another place, then picking up stakes, moving Ferdinanda, herself, and all their stuff yet again.

“So, are you still in the rental?”

Yolanda shook her head. “Besides working with you, I, uh, have another job.”

I didn’t follow. I hadn’t asked if she had another job; I’d asked if she was still in the rental. This was a crucial miss on my part, but at the time, I glossed over it. Yolanda rushed on. “Ernest McLeod, do you know him?”

“Oh, of course. We adore Ernest,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too enthusiastic, because I wasn’t sure how much Ernest had divulged of his history to Yolanda. Despite excellent, long-term work for the sheriff’s department, a bad divorce and a slide into alcoholism had led Ernest to rehab and forced retirement. He’d told Tom and me at the last department picnic that being a private investigator “isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds,” which had made us laugh. To Yolanda, I said, “What are you, ah, doing for Ernest?”

Yolanda licked her lips, and her tone changed. What’s going on here? I wondered. “I, you know, oh, for a while I was just doing his dinners for him,” she said without looking at me. “He hired me because he . . . wasn’t eating right, and, you know. Oh, I might as well tell you, he didn’t say I couldn’t. Ernest is in AA. He said his sponsor—or maybe it was his doctor? Anyway, this person said she was worried about how Ernest wasn’t eating right, so she told him he should pay someone to cook for him.” Okay, so Ernest had told Yolanda his story, or at least the part about being an alcoholic. Yolanda went on. “So when the strange things started happening in the rental, and it was clear the cops weren’t going to do anything, I asked Ernest if I could do his cleaning for him, too . . . in exchange for Ferdinanda and me moving in with him. It wasn’t, like, a sexual thing—”

“I didn’t think it would be,” I said hastily, although, why not go that way, if it worked for you? Maybe because Yolanda was so pretty, folks assumed that she got stuff in exchange for sexual favors. Still, she probably wouldn’t entertain the thought, at least not right off the bat. There was that Catholic thing.

Yolanda continued. “Ernest said yes. When I told him our story, I think he felt sorry for us. Well, anyway. Then once we moved in, I remembered he was a neat freak and that of course he wouldn’t need me to be his housekeeper. So I felt guilty all over again and offered to do laundry or whatever he needed. He said just doing dinners every night would be fine, plus running errands now and then. He said he needed to work with his hands. He liked to clean, he liked to putter around his garden in the summer, and in winter, tend plants in his greenhouse. He said those activities kept him sane and sober.”

I said, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, but yes, Ernest is great.” And yes, he’s a neat freak, I added mentally. “He used to be partners with John Bertram, who’s still on the force. John bought the land below Ernest’s property, then built a place for himself and his wife.” I thought, but did not say, And John Bertram is no neat freak, trust me. “The two of them, Ernest and John, worked for Tom.” When Yolanda said nothing, I prompted her. “So . . . you moved in with Ernest? When? It must have been recent, since you just broke up with Kris.”

She stirred her coffee, which she had stopped drinking. “Couple of weeks ago. Ferdinanda adores him. So do I, actually. It’s been a long time since I had a man who was a real friend, you know, not trying to get something from me. And Ernest, well, he has that big house that he ended up getting in the divorce, so it’s good for him, too, I suppose.”

“You suppose? Don’t you know?”

Yolanda swallowed some coffee. “Ernest’s house is scary, too.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice low, although no one was around except for our dog and cat, and I had no idea where they were.

“His clients.” She looked around the kitchen, as if someone who had hired Ernest were about to jump out of the pantry. “He doesn’t tell me much about them, but they frighten me.”

“Why?”

Yolanda shivered. “Well, somebody’s going through a bad divorce, and Ernest needs to get proof about something with that. We have no-fault divorce in this state. Why do you need proof of anything? Then, you know,