Goldy Schulz the caterer is trying to keep her business
going during the recent economic downturn but when chef
friend Yolanda Garcia asks her for a job, she hires her. And
when, despite husband Tom's professional suspicions, when
Yolanda and her great aunt Ferdinanda end up homeless Goldy
takes them under their roof. You see Yolanda was staying
with their old cop-turned-private-detective buddy Ernest
MacLeod when he was murdered. Yolanda is witness and
potential suspect, and under Tom's questioning it becomes
clear she is also hiding something.
Book sixteen is not one of the best in the series. I have
definitely read worse cozy mysteries, but earlier books in
the series were more tightly written, less meandering. In
all fairness though, when you look at the elements of the
story Davidson wrote it is logical that an elusive puppy
mill, nine beagle pups, signs of a local drug dealer, an
obsessed stalker (who is also very rich through some means
he wishes to keep quiet), stolen gold and jewels from a
family who fled Cuba decades ago, two cases of arson, a
crotchety old woman in a wheelchair who is also a sniper, a
familiar-looking and brilliant prostitute and the murder of
an old friend whose open cases could hide the motive for his
murder make for a very thick book. All the loose ends were
tied up in the conclusion but after the detailed and
sprawling plot it was somewhat disconcerting to read the
equivalent of Sargeant Joe Friday's voiceover at the end of
a Dragnet episode providing the basic facts and motivations
of the characters.
Still, if you are a long-time fan of the series, there are
enough details about Goldy, Arch and Tom's life and what is
happening in the main tale of narrative that runs throughout
the books to make CRUNCH TIME one you will want to read. Add
in the mouth-watering food descriptions (and of course the
recipes at the back of the book) and it redeems CRUNCH TIME
quite a bit. The story remains solidly in the cozy genre,
too; no gory scenes, plenty of amateur sleuth action and
small-town maneuverings to provide Goldy with the facts she
needs to solve the main murder case. If you want a long and
comfortable read with enough interest to keep you distracted
from real life this would be an excellent choice.
When the rental house shared by chef Yolanda Garcia and her
irrepressible aunt Ferdinanda is destroyed by arson, the
pair moves in with cop-turned-PI Ernest McLeod. But then
Ernest is shot dead and his house is set on fire, nearly
killing Yolanda, Ferdinanda, and their good friend,
Colorado
caterer Goldy Schulz, along with nine beagle puppies that
Ernest had recently rescued from a puppy mill. Concerned
for
her friends, Goldy invites them to stay with her. But even
her house isn't safe. After a failed break-in and the
discovery of a second body, the intrepid Goldy decides to
swap her chef's hat for a sleuthing cap. Now she's got to
move fast because it's crunch time and a killer is getting
dangerously close.
Excerpt
HURRYING across the parking lot, George pulled open the
doors to the health club, rushing inside, breathing
heavily. Continuing his near–frenzied pace, he found
his drawer, labeled Higgins, near the wall behind the
salesmen's desks. He dropped his bag and winter coat
inside. Finally breathing a sigh of relief, he walked to
the front desk. "You were nearly late," Tiffany said with a
slight giggle. "Do you know you walk funny when you rush?"
George almost retorted with something equally
insensitive, but figured it wasn't wise to alienate one of
his fellow employees on his first day. "Yes, I'm aware that
my hip doesn't work quite right, thank you. It's been that
way since birth," he replied calmly and evenly, keeping the
smile off his face as her embarrassment became
evident. "Don't worry about it," George added with a smile
to diffuse the situation. "Are you going to show me what to
do?"
She shook her head, long blonde hair waving around
behind her. George couldn't stop himself from thinking that
if she shook her head much harder, that hair could be
lethal. "Joshua said he'd be right back." She turned to
check in one of the members, scanning his card through the
computer while George took a breather. He hated being late.
And here he was, late on his first day, but he'd had an
unexpected meeting after school and hadn't gotten out at
his usual time.
"George." A deep voice from behind him caught his
attention. "I'm Joshua—Josh. Harvey asked me to show
you around the desk." Josh directed him to the computer
systems. "You need to check in each member by scanning
their card. The computer has a picture of each person, so
all you need to do is make sure they aren't using someone
else's card. Tiff, you can head out if you want." Josh
smiled at the blonde, and she returned his smile before
walking back through the club, while Josh's eyes bounced
with every step she took, before returning his attention to
George. "The lost and found is in this drawer." He pulled
it out, displaying a pile of clothes, weight belts, water
bottles, weight gloves, and other items.
The door opened and five guys walked in together. "Hey,
George," Dan, one of the members, said as he handed George
his card. "When did you start working here?"
Beep, the scanner pinged as the system accepted the
card. "Today's my first day," he answered as he smiled,
handing back the card. He scanned Gene's card as well, and
Ivan's and Maddoc's. The last guy in the group was Lonnie,
and he didn't bother with a card; he simply walked around
the desk toward the locker room. "Lonnie!" George called
out, inadvertently using the voice he used with his
fourth–graders. Then he softened his voice. "I need
your card." Lonnie walked back, handing George a single key
with the scan card on it. "Thank you." George scanned it
and handed it back.
"You're welcome, ya birdgazer," Lonnie chided as he
continued on his way.
"Hey, Lon!" George called back. Lonnie stopped
midstride. "You need to have something to gaze at first,"
he added, rolling his eyes.
Lonnie sputtered something, but it was completed
drowned out by Dan and the guys hooting as they continued
toward the locker room.
"I see you know Lonnie," Josh said with a distasteful
look on his face. "The man's just crude."
"He's been my financial adviser for a few years. He's
talked like that for as long as I've known him. Giving it
back to him seems to be the best thing I've found to shut
him up." George turned his attention to the door as other
members filed in. Greeting each one, he scanned their cards
and thanked them. Josh finished showing him around and then
left him with instructions to call if he had any questions.
George assured Josh he would and went to work. Half an hour
later, he got a request from a member to update a credit
card, and Josh showed him how to use the payment portions
of the system. It wasn't hard, and soon George found
himself exploring the system between scanning in members.
"George." He looked up to find Lonnie standing at the
counter. "Why are you working here?"
George moved closer to Lonnie, not wanting to spread
his business through the gym, "I need some extra money."
George shrugged. "That teachers' strike wiped out a lot of
my ready savings."
"Oh." Lonnie became quiet, which George knew usually
meant he was cooking up some clever witticism. Instead, he
said, "I'll call you tonight."
"Sure," George answered, smiling. As Lonnie left the
club, George went back to work.
Finishing his short shift, George clocked out.
Retrieving his bag, he ate the small snack he'd packed
before heading to the locker room to change for his own
workout before leaving the health club.
On his way home, he bought a sandwich, and after
carrying in his things, George sat at his kitchen table,
grading papers as he ate, until the phone interrupted his
concentration.
"Hello." Shit. He should have looked at the display
before answering.
"Hey, cockhopper. It's Lonnie. Am I interrupting an
all–you–can–eat dick buffet?"
George looked around the neat kitchen, the house so
quiet he could hear the refrigerator kick on. "Yeah right,
Lon. You're interrupting a four–gy."
"Yeah, your dick and four fingers." Lonnie laughed at
his own joke, and George said nothing because it was too
true for words. "Say, I got something to ask you, but this
has to stay between us." Lonnie sounded very serious, which
was highly unusual. The only time George had ever seen the
man serious was when money was involved—usually his
own. "You can't tell anybody or I'll lose a client."
"What's so important?" George had a bad feeling about
this.
"I have a client who needs help." Lonnie sighed, and
George heard shuffling.
"Where are you?" George picked up his sandwich in one
hand, taking a small bite before setting it down again.
"In bed. Cory's about ready to polish my love hammer
and she's getting impatient." George chose that moment to
try to swallow and nearly choked as he started
coughing. "Can you come to my office tomorrow afternoon?"
"I can be there at four." Thankfully he didn't have to
work at the club.
"Good." More rustling and a groan before the phone went
dead. George looked at it for a few minutes, wondering what
the hell was up before setting it aside. Whatever it was,
he'd find out tomorrow, but right now he had work to do.
THE final school bell rang and the kids rushed out of
the room and into the halls, voices raised in excitement.
Already the kids were excited about Christmas vacation. As
the sound died in the halls, George straightened the room
before gathering his things and heading toward the exit. He
knew he was leaving a little early, but the pile of papers
under his arm was a visual testament to the work he had yet
to do.
Hurrying to his car, he stopped himself from rushing.
Yes, he hated to be late, but he hated falling on the ice
even more, and besides, his hip ached to beat the band
anyway. Starting the car, George pulled out of the lot,
driving toward Lonnie's office, pleading with the heater in
his old car to start working. Of course, it started blowing
warm air just as he pulled into the parking lot. Getting
out, George pulled his coat tighter around him, walking
stiffly into the quiet office where the receptionist
directed him to Lonnie's desk.
Lonnie motioned him into a chair while he talked on the
phone, obviously trying to soothe a client, skittish
because the market had dropped. "Chris, you're an investor,
not a trader, remember. The stocks you're in are solid. Do
you want to sell your IBM and Coca–Cola?" Lonnie
rolled his eyes. "I didn't think so. Look, the market is
tough right now, but you're holding your own and doing
better than most." Lonnie sounded so patient as he soothed
the person on the phone, ending with an invitation to
dinner in the next few weeks, before hanging up.
"Thanks for coming, George." Lonnie shook his hand
before peering out through the glass walls around his
desk. "Hey, Anne. Is Darren here?"
"No, I haven't seen him." The middle–aged woman
sitting just outside Lonnie's office answered without even
looking up from her computer screen. "Hello, Lonnie Rosen's
office." George did a double take when he realized she was
answering the phone, barely breaking the rhythm of her
typing.
"Hang on." Lonnie raised a finger, dialing the
phone. "Darren, where are you?" Lonnie got quiet for a
second, but George could see his anger rising by the
second. "I don't care how late you were out last night. Get
your butt in this office in ten minutes." The volume in
Lonnie's voice rose with every word. "I've told you before.
You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. I'm not
one of your sycophantic hangers–on, and when you make
an appointment, you get your ass in here on fucking time!"
Lonnie was yelling by the end, and whoever was on the phone
must have capitulated because Lonnie calmed down. "Ten
minutes, and you better not look like shit," Lonnie added
before hanging up.
"Come on." Lonnie stood up and led the way across the
office to what looked like an empty conference room. George
followed behind, wondering what the hell was going
on. "Anne, when Darren arrives, send him in here."
"Sure thing," she answered, without looking up.
Lonnie shut the door and motioned him to a chair. "I
have a problem client," Lonnie started.
"The guy on the phone?"
Lonnie nodded. "As I said, this has to remain quiet.
The client is Darren White." Lonnie paused and looked at
him expectantly, like George was supposed to know who that
was. "He plays for the Philadelphia Eagles," Lonnie
prompted, and George shrugged, not knowing anything about
sports. "Anyway, Darren got injured and it may be a
career–ending injury. He'll tell you it's not a big
deal, but he doesn't exactly live in the real world. For
all practical purposes, he's done playing football."
"Okay. How does this affect me? I can't make him heal
faster." George had no idea what Lonnie expected of him.
"In about a month, Darren has a chance to guest host a
sports program on Channel 4. I've heard through the
grapevine that if he's good, it could turn into a regular
show. Darren's local and he's played very well over the
past three years." Lonnie leaned closer. "The thing is that
the kid's as dumb as they come."
"Lonnie," George used his teacher voice, "that's not
fair and I won't have that kind of talk. Not from you or my
fourth–graders." George expected Lonnie to bluster
the way he usually did, but the man simply smiled.
"Okay, but you need the facts. You have kids in your
fourth–grade class who read better than he does, and
he can barely write anything other than his name." Lonnie
motioned to Anne. "She writes out his checks for him and he
only signs them because he's not capable."
"What do you want from me?" George thought he could see
where this was going and he didn't like it—not one
bit.
"I wanted to ask you if you'd work with him. The kid
needs help and he'll pay you for your time. I don't know if
it's possible to help him at all, but I don't want him to
fail, and without help, he will." George could see that
Lonnie was sincere. He really did want to help the kid, no
matter what he'd said earlier.
But George wanted no part of this.
"Lonnie, I...." George had every intention of telling
Lonnie "No, thank you" when the door opened and a tall,
broad–shouldered man wearing jeans and a
T–shirt walked into the room, cutting him off. "Jesus
Christ," George muttered under his breath, as a pair of the
deepest blue eyes he'd ever seen met his gaze, and the
words died on his lips. The other man, obviously Darren,
slouched in a chair across the table from him, leaning back
in his chair.
"So whatcha want, Lonnie?" He mumbled so badly George
barely understood him. "I got stuff to do, ya know."
Lonnie swiveled in the chair. "Do you want that job at
Channel 4?"
"I don't need it. I'm gonna be playing ball again
soon," Darren said, or something to that effect. George
couldn't be sure; the man's speech seemed as slouchy as the
rest of him.
"No, you're not." George could hear the raw edge of
Lonnie's temper. "You are probably never going to play
football again and you need to face that. So, I'm going to
ask one more time, do you want that interview at Channel 4
or not? I pulled strings to get it for you and I can
un–pull them just as fast."
The feet of Darren's chair hit the floor and he looked
at Lonnie as though he was ready to kill him. "I have to
play ball. I can't do nothin' else."
Lonnie's face softened. "That's what we're going to
help you with. George here is a teacher, a very good
teacher, and he's going to work with you so you can do well
on the show next month."
George shifted in his chair. "Lonnie." He looked over
at Darren. "I haven't agreed to anything yet." He kept
looking at Darren, fascinated with the man, even though he
had no intention of going through with this scheme of
Lonnie's. Darren obviously wasn't interested in learning
anything. George suspected he'd gotten everything in life
he'd ever wanted by flashing those deep blue eyes.
"I know you haven't." Lonnie looked at Darren. "So what
do you want?"
Darren shrugged. "I'll give it a shot."
Lonnie's gaze turned to George. "Well, I won't." George
turned away and stood up, walking stiffly toward the
door. "He doesn't want to learn anything, Lonnie. All he
wants is what he's always gotten: a free ride because of
who he is."
"I can learn. I ain't dumb!" Darren stood up, fire
blazing in his eyes, chest puffed out.
George took a few steps closer. "Then act like it! You
may not be dumb, to use your word, but no one could tell
from the way you speak." George stepped closer, telling
himself he wasn't going to be intimidated by the much
taller wall of muscle glaring down at him. "Or the way you
carry yourself." George turned and walked back toward the
door, looking at the stunned expression on Lonnie's
face. "I'll see you tomorrow at the gym," he said to Lonnie
before pushing open the conference room door.
"Wait." George stopped and turned around. Darren looked
alternately at Lonnie and then at George. The huge man
suddenly seemed young and small, the cockiness he'd
displayed earlier evaporated. "I do want to learn. I don't
want to be stupid no more."
"Anymore," George corrected. "And you aren't stupid.
You just need to apply yourself." George felt the cold
inside begin to melt, realizing just how much it had taken
for Darren to admit that. "If you're truly interested, then
be at my house at five tomorrow. Lonnie can give you the
information you need." George opened the conference room
door, walking through the office to the front door. Pulling
on his coat, George walked through the twilight to his car
and drove home, wondering what in hell he'd been thinking,
agreeing to help Darren. Well, he thought to himself,
Darren probably won't show up anyway. No matter what he'd
said, Darren's body language spoke volumes.
GEORGE checked the clock again, returning to his
grading. It was ten 'til five. George forced his attention
on his work, telling himself it wasn't likely Darren would
show up anyway. So the ring of the doorbell came as a
complete surprise. Getting up, he found Darren standing on
his porch, much better dressed than he'd been the day
before, carrying what looked like a messenger bag.
"Come on in," George said before leading them through
the house to the kitchen, placing his work back in his
school bag. "I'm surprised you came," George commented
without malice, as he picked up a book from the stack he
had on one of the chairs, handing it to Darren. "Set your
bag down, take a seat. I want you to read this out loud."
"But I thought—" Darren stopped talking when
George cut him off.
"I need to see where you're at, so I'd like you to try
that book for me."
"Okay." Darren opened the book and began reading
haltingly, stumbling over even simple words. George let him
struggle for a few minutes, and though he did improve once
he got used to it, after a page, Darren slammed the book
closed. "See. I told you I was stupid."
"You're not stupid. You just haven't been taught how to
read properly, and it's not all your fault." George hated
to say it, but he knew Darren's teachers hadn't done him
any favors. "Keep reading." George handed the book
back. "The only way you'll improve is to do it, so I want
you to read for me, and we'll work together on any of the
words you don't know." George touched the man's hand to
reassure him and felt a jolt through his fingers that had
him pulling back like he'd been burned.
Sitting back, George listened to Darren's deep voice as
he read from one of the sixth–grade reading books
he'd borrowed from school. "What's this word?" Darren
asked, pointing to the page.
"Sedentary. It means sitting a lot, not doing much,"
George explained. "Something you aren't is sedentary. You
tend to keep very active." Boy, did he ever. George pulled
his attention away from the way Darren looked in his tight
shirt, forcing himself to focus on the task. Besides, any
interest in Darren outside of helping him with his reading
would be highly improper. There was no doubt in his mind
that Darren was gay—George's gaydar had been going
off like a fire alarm ever since Darren had walked into the
house—but George had no delusions that Darren would
be interested in him anyway.
George continued listening as Darren read, and he
continued to stumble over words, trying multiple times to
read them and fumbling again. Sometimes they were more
difficult words, but mostly, they were simple words. "You
can stop," George said gently.
Darren signed and closed the book, resting his head on
the table. "I told you I was stupid. The only thing I was
ever good at was playing football, and now I can't do that
either." George heard a small sniffle.
With stunning clarity, George realized he was watching
this young man's life seemingly come apart before his eyes.
The one thing he loved, that he was truly good at, that he
excelled at above everything else, was now closed to
him. "Darren, I want to try something, if you'll let me."
Darren lifted his head, looking heartbroken. He said
nothing, but nodded slowly before thumping his head back
onto the table.
"Okay." George handed him a piece of paper and a
pencil. "I want you to write down the words as I say them."
Darren took the pencil and paper and George said a few
words, some easy and some harder. Darren wrote them down
and George took the paper when they were through. Darren's
handwriting was definitely pinched and tentative, but for
the most part he'd spelled the words right, or at least
he'd come pretty close. "Look. You got almost all the words
right, and you missed spelling excellent by only one
letter. You did pretty well," George said with a
smile. "Now I'm going to write down some words." George
took a second to write as Darren watched him, expression
wary. "This isn't a test and there are no wrong answers. I
just have a hunch and I'm hoping I'm right." He handed the
paper to Darren upside down. "What I want you to do is
write down on your paper exactly what you see. Don't try to
figure out what the words are because they aren't
necessarily words, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll try," Darren said with no enthusiasm
whatsoever.
"Darren, that's yes, not yeah, and try a little more
enthusiasm." George could feel the excitement inside
building. Helping kids was what he loved most, and the idea
that he could actually help Darren had his heart pounding.
"Okay, yes," Darren said a little snappily.
"If you're going to be on television you not only have
to be able to read, but speak properly as well," George
explained patiently.
"Sorry," Darren answered and George looked at him,
waiting. "I'm sorry," Darren corrected on his own, and
George smiled and nodded his encouragement.
"Remember, there are no wrong answers; just write down
what you see." George turned over the page and Darren
started writing, tongue sticking out between his lips,
pencil scratching on the paper in the quiet room.
"Here." Darren handed back the sheet. "I know
everything's wrong," he added, sounding defeated.
George looked over the work and smiled. Darren had
mixed up the groups of letters, getting some right and
coming close with others. "Let me ask you something."
George touched Darren's arm to get his attention, the warm
skin against his hand making him wonder what the rest of
Darren would feel like. He forced his mind back to the
topic. "Has anyone ever worked with you on your reading?
Did anyone ever help you when you were in school?"
Darren shrugged. "No. The coaches just cared if I could
play so they helped me with the tests, memorizing answers
and stuff like that. Why?" Suddenly Darren seemed
interested.
"I think you may be dyslexic. It's a learning barrier
and it means that the letters get mixed up between your
eyes and your brain."
"You mean I'm stupid," Darren commented softly.
"No. Many smart people, including geniuses, are
dyslexic, and it's nothing to be ashamed of." George stood
up, walking to the kitchen counter, his temper flaring, and
without thinking he banged a fist on the counter, making
both him and Darren jump. "Sorry. But things like this make
me angry as hell. Someone should have found this years ago,
like when you were in third grade." George pounded the
counter again before turning to Darren. "I'd like to have
you tested properly just to confirm what I'm thinking, but
if I'm right, I can help you."
"How?" Darren asked, bewildered. There was a glimmer of
hope in his eyes.
"I've been where you are because I'm dyslexic too. I
learned how to deal with it and eventually, with practice,
I've been able to retrain my brain. If that's what this is,
I can help you too."
"Okay," Darren answered. "What do I have to do?"
"Can you meet me at my school at four tomorrow?" George
asked, and Darren answered by nodding his head. "Then I'll
ask one of my colleagues to help test you. We'll know
pretty quickly if I'm right and then we can develop
exercises and things to help you."
"You mean I'm not stupid?" Darren's mouth practically
hung open.
"No, you're not stupid." George reiterated as softly as
he could, "You were the victim of an education system that
never looked past the fact that you could play football."
Darren looked up at him, confused, and George walked back
to his chair, limping slightly. "Your teachers all looked
past your grades and boredom because you could run fast and
play well. They never did their job, which was to figure
out why you were having trouble. Your coaches never helped,
because all they wanted was for you to keep playing."
"Now I can't play anymore. I don't have football and I
don't have an education either." Darren looked as defeated
as George would have in his situation.
"But we can start to change that." George wrote down
the directions to his school and his cell phone
number. "Call me when you arrive and I'll introduce you to
Mark. He's the developmental specialist." George stood up
and Darren did the same. "Just don't be late."
"I won't." Darren smiled, big and bright, and George
couldn't help returning it, hoping there would be more of
those smiles thrown his way. "I can let myself out." George
watched Darren's backside as he walked out of the room and
it wasn't until he heard the front door close that he
realized he'd been holding his breath.
With Darren gone, George made himself some dinner and
settled back at the table to spend the rest of the night
grading papers and putting together lesson plans. Not very
exciting, he knew, but there was never enough time during
the day for him to plan and he almost never got a chance to
grade papers. Heck, it was only during gym and art when the
kids were out of the room that he really got a chance to
breathe at all.
It was only after hours of work that George felt caught
up. Getting up from the table, he put his dishes away
before limping down the hall to the bathroom. He needed a
good soak and an even better night's sleep. But all he got
every time he tried to relax were visions of Darren's
bright eyes and that smile. Slipping beneath the covers, he
couldn't stop himself from wondering if he'd ever find
someone who would smile at him every day the way Darren had
smiled just that once.
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