Crunch Time by Diane Mott Davidson Read Free Book Online Page A

pressed her lips together, then composed herself—“he would usually say a few words to her before he left. You can ask her.”
    “We will,” Tom promised. He waited a beat. “Now, could you tell me if you knew whether Ernest had any enemies?”
    “He had his cases, but he didn’t talk much about them.”
    “Do you know if one of the people he was investigating had it in for him?” Tom asked.
    Yolanda looked away. Not for the first time, I thought she was hiding something, or not telling the truth. Or something.
    “Yolanda?” Tom said. “What was he working on?”
    “Well, it would be in his files,” said Yolanda. “They’re in his study.”
    Tom raised his eyebrows. “How do you know where his files are?”
    “Because he called me in there once,” Yolanda replied, her tone steely, “and asked me to bring him a sandwich.”
    “Did you ever open the file drawers, say, when Ernest wasn’t home?” Tom asked, his voice deadpan.
    “Oh, Tom, will you stop?” Yolanda cried. “When Ernest worked at his desk, he sometimes had one of the drawers of his file cabinet open. It was a handmade wooden cabinet, really pretty, not one of those ugly metal ones. I asked him if he made the cabinet. He said that he had. He could build anything.”
    “Did you open the file drawers when Ernest wasn’t home?” Tom repeated.
    Yolanda crossed her arms. “I don’t remember.”
    There was a silence. Tom gave John Bertram a small nod.
    “So,” said John, “do you know what he was working on?”
    Yolanda looked very tired. “I know a bit. Someone was running a puppy mill, I told you. A woman named Hermie needed Ernest’s help with proving neglect or some such thing. She’s an older woman.”
    “Older?”
    “Midforties, or maybe fifty, I’d say, but she looks sixty. She came over once, and I noticed she’s missing a couple of fingers,” Yolanda added. “I didn’t ask her what had happened to her hand. She did tell Ferdinanda and me that her son thinks she’s crazy, with her closing-down-of-puppy-mills crusade. She said her son didn’t want to hear her stories anymore. He said she cares more about dogs than she does about him.”
    “You don’t know her last name?” Tom asked.
    “No.”
    “Um,” I began, but Tom held up his hand. I knew someone named Hermie. Hermie Mikulski was a tall, buxom, gray-haired woman. This Hermie did have a son, and he went to the Christian Brothers High School. But I was pretty sure she had all her fingers, because she ruled the Saint Luke’s Altar Guild with two tightly clenched iron fists.
    To Yolanda, Tom said, “Anything else?”
    “Ernest was working on a divorce case. I think there was a lot of money involved.”
    “The people getting the divorce?” Tom asked.
    “I don’t know,” Yolanda said dully. “There was another thing. Ernest was looking for something for someone. I don’t know the details.”
    “You have no idea what he was looking for?”
    “No. And I don’t know who the client was.” She glanced at the clock, which read ten to five. “I need to be leaving soon, to go get Ferdinanda.”
    “Where is she again?” asked John Bertram.
    “The Roman Catholic church. Our Lady of the Mountains. She’s at the monsignor’s house. She didn’t want to stay at Ernest’s place today, because he hadn’t come home, and she, well, she said . . .”
    “She said what?” Tom asked sharply.
    Yolanda rubbed her forehead. “She said Ernest looked very bad to her yesterday morning.”
    “You already said that.” Tom prompted her. “Are you talking about health or something else?”
    “Ferdinanda says these things sometimes. She believes in Santería . ” I wondered how Tom was going to explain Cuban voodoo to his captain. Well, the captain could listen to the tape.
    Tom asked, “Was there anything you saw that would make you think Ernest looked particularly bad?”
    “His house frightened me,” Yolanda said.
    “Yolanda!” Tom’s voice made me jump.