Crunch Time

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When 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 I’ve 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 McLeod—who’d been housing the two women when he was killed—I 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 sheriff’s department investigator, had worked with Ernest and admired him.

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