Diane Mott Davidson - Crunch Time: A Novel of Suspense

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON is the author of fifteen bestselling novels. She divides her time between Colorado and Florida.

www.dianemottdavidson.com

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The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the following people: Jim Davidson; Jeff, Rosa, Ryan, Nick, and Josh Davidson, with thanks again to Rosa for help with the Spanish in the text; J. Z. Davidson; Joey Davidson; Sandra Dijkstra, Elise Capron, Elisabeth James, and the rest of the excellent and hardworking team at the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency; Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Liate Stehlik, Carolyn Marino, Debbie Stier, Dee Dee De Bartlo, Wendy Lee, Joseph Papa, Megan Swartz, and the entire brilliant team at Morrow; Jasmine Cresswell, who offered the idea for this book, and the rest of our brainstormers group, who helped hammer it out: Connie Laux, Karen Young Stone, and Emilie Richards McGee; David and Linda Ranz, for again providing the author with space to work in Nashville; for inspiration and support, as ever, the St. Annes-Belfield School community, Charlottesville, Virginia, with special acknowledgment of the passing of our dear Emyl Jenkins; Jeff Joseph, Maserati aficionado, Sarasota, Florida; Carol Alexander, a wonderful friend who tested the recipes, made suggestions, and then retested them all; Kathy Saideman, who read the text in numerous incarnations, always offering insightful comments; Richard Staller, D.O., who as usual addressed all medical issues; Julie Kaewert, kind as ever; the real John Burtrum, who bears no relationship to the character in this book; Triena Harper, who brings her sharp coroners eye to all questions; and as always, Sergeant Richard Millsapps, who patiently addresses all manner of inquiries on police procedure, and like Triena Harper, now retired from the Jefferson County Sheriffs Department, Golden, Colorado.

Catering to Nobody

Dying for Chocolate

The Cereal Murders

The Last Suppers

Killer Pancake

The Main Corpse

The Grilling Season

Prime Cut

Tough Cookie

Sticks & Scones

Chopping Spree

Double Shot

Dark Tort

Sweet Revenge

Fatally Flaky

W hen I heard that Ernest McLeod had been killed, I should have packed up my knives and left. Well, not literally left, because I was in my own kitchen, poised to slice a third pile of juicy heirloom tomatoes for a buffet Yolanda Garcia and I were catering the next day.

Then again, I could have left well enough alone. I also could have kept my mouth shut. But Ive always had a hard time with that.

Yolanda, a fellow chef and caterer, never asked me for anything. I volunteered. Maybe she was a mind reader, or psychic. Perhaps she thought if she told me some of the things that were going on with her, her great-aunt Ferdinanda, and Ernest McLeodwhod been housing the two women when he was killedI would say what I did, which was You and your great-aunt need to stay with us.

Back before Ernest McLeod was forced to retire, he had been a very good cop. My husband, Tom, a sheriffs department investigator, had worked with Ernest and admired him.

While Tom was questioning Yolanda, she had repeatedly avoided his gaze. To Tom, this was a clue that more was going on than Yolanda was letting on. And as I already knew, he didnt trust her.

When Tom listened to Yolandas tale, he pointed out that in Ernests work as a private investigator, hed had clients . His cases, as related by Yolanda, included helping an animal activist get a puppy mill closed; searching for something for someone, which sounded suspiciously murky; and looking at the circumstances surrounding what could become a very messy, expensive divorce. Not a single one of these investigations sounded particularly dangerous, but you could never be sure.

N one of this was apparent on Sunday, the thirteenth of September. That afternoon, Yolanda and I were busy slicing, dicing, and sauting. I hadnt gotten to the tomatoes yet. In fact, I wasnt even thinking about them. Instead, I was wishing we could be outside, perhaps picnicking, fishing in Cottonwood Creek, or hiking in the nearby wildlife preserve. Usually, Colorados early fall weather is gloriouswith the occasional blizzard, of course.

All summer, townsfolk had complained about our extraordinary rainfall. And then wed had a reprieve. A warm Indian summer had unfurled over Aspen Meadow. Our mountain town is forty miles west of Denver, at eight thousand feet above sea level. Now, in mid-September, yellow cottonwoods lined the creeks. Higher up, golden aspen leaves shook like coins strung from bright branches, in stark contrast to the dusty blue spruce and deep greens of lodgepole and ponderosa pines. All the mountain gardens, including ours, were studded with sprays of purple Russian sage, bunches of amethyst viola, and brilliant daisies. The sweet air was still, as if it were waiting for the first blast of winter.

Alas, instead of enjoying the outdoor life, Yolanda and I were putting together a lunch for the following day. We didnt talk much as we bustled around my home kitchen, which the county health inspector had once again certified I could use for my business, Goldilocks Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Yolanda was a hard worker, and I was happy to have her at my side. She inadvertently bumped into me when she was retrieving a bunch of fresh basil from the walk-in, a type of refrigerator every restaurant or serious caterer needs. She gave me a tentative smile, which I returned.

At thirty-five, Yolanda, a Cuban-American, was a knockout. She had unruly masses of curly russet hair, a stunning face, large chocolate eyes, and a figure most women wouldnt get without a trainer. At Andrs, the now-defunct restaurant where wed labored together years ago, at parties since then, and at the spa where Yolanda had worked until recently, Id seen men give her looks of adoration. I always found this amusing, if somewhat deflating for yours truly, who was short and pudgy, with unremarkable brown eyes and unfashionably curly blond hair.

After several hours, we became so involved with our tasks that we didnt notice the weather turning blustery. Despite the freeze wed had the previous night, only a few clouds had salted the sky that morning. Now, without warning, gray masses obscured the sun.

I looked out the window and caught my own reflection. If Id slimmed down a bit in the past few weeks, it was not from dieting, but from worry. Yes, indeed: worry, unease, apprehensionI had lots of those.

I forced myself to put the anxiety aside as I checked the thermometer. The external temperature had dropped twenty degrees in less than an hour, from seventy degrees to fifty. The fir and aspen that had drooped in the motionless air now slapped the sides of our two-story brown-shingled house off Aspen Meadows Main Street. In the west, an ominous charcoal nimbus bloomed over the Continental Divide. Judging by the dark haze obscuring the highest peaks, it had already begun snowing above twelve thousand feet.