Free Crunch Time by Diane Mott Davidson

lake. Despite the cold wind, Ferdinanda and the monsignor were out in the parking lot. The priest, short, slender, and already half-bald, was shivering in his clericals. Ferdinanda, stout, square faced, and frizzy haired, sat tall in her wheelchair. She wore only a shapeless brown dress that looked as if it had been prison-issue from the former Soviet Union.
    I wondered why they were outside. But that was clear soon enough, as Ferdinanda was smoking a cigar. She waved it jauntily when she saw the van, but when she realized it was accompanied by a police car, her chin dropped. She stared through the cracked windshield, as if she were trying to make out Yolanda.
    I threw the vehicle into Park and jumped out to reassure her, but that only made matters worse.
    “Where’s Yolanda?” she demanded of me, pointing the cigar in a menacing manner. “Why is she not here?”
    I said, “She’s over in that other—” And then I waved at the police car.
    Ferdinanda began to wail. “What’s he done to her now?” she cried.
    “Who’s that?” asked Tom as he eased his way out of the prowler. “What has who done to her?”
    “Where is Yolanda?” she demanded.
    “ Estoy aquí, ” called Yolanda as she rushed to her aunt. I’m here. Yolanda fell to her knees in front of the wheelchair and hugged Ferdinanda’s knees. I could make out enough of their Spanish to understand that Yolanda was telling her great-aunt that Ernest was dead, that he had been murdered, and that the police were here to question her.
    Ferdinanda’s mouth turned downward. She dropped the smoking cigar on the asphalt and leaned forward to embrace Yolanda. The priest worriedly crushed the cigar with his toe, then asked Tom and John if there was anything he could do to help.
    “Yeah, go back inside, Father, if you would,” said Tom. “We’re just going to talk to Ferdinanda for a few minutes.”
    “Oh no you’re not,” said Ferdinanda. “Put me into the van, Yolanda. I want to go home, take care of the dogs.” Ferdinanda began to roll herself toward the van.
    John Bertram abruptly stepped in front of the wheelchair, as if to stop her. “Tom, do you want me to—”
    John Bertram did not see Ferdinanda reach beside her hip and pull out a telescoping baton. As Yolanda and Tom both cried, “No!” Ferdinanda pressed a button to extend the baton and whacked a startled John Bertram across the knees.
    John hollered, “Christ!” and fell to the pavement.
    “You just assaulted a police officer!” Tom yelled at Ferdinanda. The monsignor knelt quickly beside John and spoke softly to him. John, for his part, cussed and held his knees. Was the monsignor used to police officers being hit by the disabled in the church parking lot? Probably not. But the priest seemed okay. John Bertram did not.
    “Ferdinanda!” shouted Tom as he hustled to John’s side. “What were you thinking?”
    “That man tried to block the way of a handicapped person!” Ferdinanda hollered right back. “I’ll call my lawyer! I’ll sue the sheriff’s department!”
    Yolanda stood protectively next to Ferdinanda. At the same time, she tilted her head and gave Tom a raised-eyebrow I-told-you-so look.
    Tom ignored them both, knelt next to John, and asked the priest to step aside. Then my husband expertly felt around John’s knees, told him nothing was broken, that he was probably just bruised.
    John said something unintelligible.
    Tom talked in low tones to John, who must have agreed to something. Tom asked the monsignor for help. Eventually, John put one arm around Tom’s shoulders, one around the priest’s, and the three of them moved haltingly to the squad car. They eased John into the front seat. Tom thanked the priest, who waved to Ferdinanda and Yolanda and hustled back to the rectory. He was probably saying a prayer of gratitude that he was getting away from this particular mess.
    With John still inside, Tom got out, slammed the driver-side door, and walked over to us.