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a black look, which he ignored.
    “We were in the basement guest room, I told you. We had to use that because of Ferdinanda’s wheelchair. In addition to a little living room with the TV, there’s a small kitchen. Why?”
    Tom said, “You want to tell me about the seventeen thousand in cash under your mattress in that guest room?”
    Yolanda’s cheeks reddened again. She said, “No, I don’t.”
    “Did you steal it from Ernest?” Tom asked mildly.
    “No!” Yolanda cried. “I would never do that.”
    “But you didn’t want to put it in the bank. Why?” Yolanda closed her eyes and shrugged. Tom went on. “I’m guessing it’s because anything over ten thousand in cash gets reported to the federal government, since it might come from a drug deal.”
    Yolanda’s eyes flared. “I don’t do drugs, and I don’t do drug deals. ”
    “But you have seventeen thousand in cash,” Tom said. “Was it severance from the spa? Something like that?”
    “The spa doesn’t have any money. I don’t know why you looked under my mattress. That’s invasion of privacy.”
    “We were looking for the gun that killed Ernest. And you won’t tell us where the money came from.”
    Yolanda stared out the window over the sink. A stiff breeze was churning the pine boughs. In our backyard, scarlet leaves of wild grass flattened themselves against flailing wands of gold, white, and pink yarrow. A gust of wind made the locks in the doors clatter.
    “Why don’t you go on with your chronology,” Tom said finally.
    “I will if you’ll stop interrupting me,” Yolanda shot back. When nobody threatened to jump into her narrative, she said, “I helped Ernest get the little dogs settled. He’d stopped to buy them chow on the way home, and together we brought in the bags from his truck. We gave the pups water, and—”
    “When you went out to get the bags,” Tom interrupted, which made Yolanda roll her eyes, “did you have the feeling somebody was watching you? Did you see anything, any movement outside?”
    Yolanda exploded. “When I’m outside, I always feel as if someone is watching me! I figure it’s either Kris or someone he’s hired to spy on me.” She paused, then went on. “Ernest knew this. That’s why whenever he came in, he opened his garage with the remote, drove inside, and then closed the door with the remote. He knew I was scared. He knew that wherever I went, I was being followed—”
    “Hold up,” John Bertram said, actually showing Yolanda a palm. “Did Ernest actually see someone following you? Did he get a description, a license plate, or anything like that?”
    “I don’t know,” Yolanda said, her voice despondent. “Goldy, may I take you up on that coffee? Do you have decaf espresso?”
    “Sure.” Once more, I offered some to Tom and John, who shook their heads. I fixed Yolanda and myself decaf iced lattes.
    “So,” Tom said, prompting her, “Saturday morning.”
    “Saturday morning.” Yolanda exhaled and stirred sugar into her coffee. “We got up around seven, or at least, Ferdinanda and I did. She’s an early riser, because she worked in a French restaurant in Havana before Castro took over. Back then, it was her job to make breakfast and start on lunch. Anyway, the habit stuck, and I like to help her get ready for the day. The night before, Ferdinanda had made a bread pudding mixture and put it in our refrigerator. We always wanted Ernest to have breakfast, even if I was only hired to make dinners. So I got Ferdinanda through the bathroom routine and getting dressed. I rolled her into the basement kitchen, preheated the oven—how much detail do you want here?”
    Tom said, “No detail is too small. Especially if Ernest was acting odd, or you saw something outside the windows, or Ernest said anything that caught your attention.”
    Yolanda said, “I put the casserole dish into the oven and set the table. Ernest came downstairs, said it smelled great and that he’d be back in a