Free Crunch Time by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

But instead of losing his temper, he kept his tone even.
    “John says he’s okay, just in pain,” Tom said to Yolanda. “I couldn’t feel anything broken, but I want him to be checked out, just in case. Let’s get your aunt into the van. We can talk for a few minutes, before I take John to the hospital.”
    The old van had chilled quickly. Once Ferdinanda had gone up the motorized lifting device and was strapped in the back, Tom sat in the passenger seat. I saw him take in how decrepit the vehicle was, with its split seats, torn dashboard, cracked and pitted windshield, and worn carpet. Yolanda got behind the wheel and turned on the engine so it could warm us up. I took the lone seat in back, beside Ferdinanda.
    Tom turned to face us. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about Ernest, Ferdinanda. Please.”
    “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer here,” Ferdinanda said defiantly.
    “You’re not a suspect,” Tom replied. “Will you talk to me?”
    Ferdinanda patted her frizz of hair. After a moment, she said, “I suppose.”
    “What time did Ernest leave the house on Saturday?”
    “What?” she replied, and then I remembered that Yolanda had said she was hard of hearing.
    Tom raised his voice a notch. “When did Ernest leave his house Saturday morning?”
    “About half past eight,” said Ferdinanda. “He said he was going to walk, try to get some exercise. He’d told us it helped alcoholics if they get high from walking or running, instead of from booze.”
    “Is that what he said that morning?”
    Ferdinanda turned the sides of her mouth down, considering. “No. That was what he usually said. He didn’t say it that morning.”
    “What did he say that morning?”
    “I was out on his patio, smoking a cigar. Yolanda was doing the dishes. Ernest? He said, ‘That thing will kill you, Ferdinanda, you ought to stop.’ ” She paused for a moment. “I don’t hear so good anymore. I think that was what he said.”
    “Did he say anything else?” asked Tom. “Anything about being worried? Anything about someone wanting to hurt him?”
    Ferdinanda rubbed the sides of her mouth with her tobacco-stained thumb and forefinger. “A woodpecker was at his feeder. I think Ernest said, ‘I’m going now. If anything happens to me, ask the bird.’ ”
    “ ‘Ask the bird’?” said Tom. “That’s what he said?”
    “I think so. I told you, I don’t hear so good anymore. I laughed. He laughed. Then he walked away. He didn’t come home last night. Didn’t Yolanda tell you? She called all over. We were worried sick. We drove over to the dentist’s office, but the dentist wasn’t there. Ernest wasn’t either. Yolanda, she called the clinic, the hospital—”
    “When he was saying something about asking the birds, did he say he was going anywhere else besides the dentist?”
    Ferdinanda lifted her chin. “No. Ernest promised us he was coming home right after his appointment. He wanted Yolanda’s seafood enchiladas.”
    “Was Ernest carrying anything?” Tom asked. “When he left? His cell phone, something like that?”
    Ferdinanda’s wizened face looked blank. “He just had on his backpack, the way he always did.”
    “One last thing,” said Tom. “When you asked, ‘What’s he done to her now?’ what did you mean? Who were you talking about?”
    “That Kris Nielsen,” Ferdinanda replied. Here she took out a handkerchief from an unseen pocket of the brown dress and spit into it. She wadded up the kerchief and stowed it in another invisible pocket. “Yolanda got sick. Sexually transmitted disease.”
    Yolanda protested, saying, “Oh, Tía, no—”
    Ferdinanda held up her hand to shush her niece. “Yolanda’s doctor asked who was she having sex with. She said only Kris. The doctor said Kris made her sick. So Yolanda asked Kris if he was sleeping with other women, someone with a disease. Do you think he cared about her, about how she was sick? No. He picked up a broom. I knew