“Yes, ma’am.”
“Weren’t you with the telephone company before coming here?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl squirmed, then settled a little as her nerves composed. She folded her hands in her lap. “I worked in customer service and billing.”
“And now you’re getting used to working in the dark.” Estelle offered a warm smile. “That’s a big change.”
“You know, I thought at first it would be hard to get used to, but it’s really not. I guess the eyes get adjusted. And…” she leaned forward conspiratorially, “the tips are just great. I mean, usually.”
“I’m happy for you.” Elbow on the chair arm, Estelle rested her chin on her left fist, regarding the girl. “How long have you known Quentin Torrez?”
“Quentin?”
Estelle nodded.
“Well, just forever. I mean, we went to school together since, like first grade?”
“You see each other socially now?”
“Sure. Sometimes. I…”
Estelle remained silent, watching the parade of emotions flow across the girl’s face.
“I was hoping that he’d get on with this place. I mean, I know that he applied to work with the train, and that’d be good for him. But then he screwed up and got arrested.” She shrugged helplessly, and glanced quickly at Estelle before dropping her gaze. “And he just lost his other job with Leland’s Auto. I mean, he has a temper, but still.” She looked up quickly. “Is he in trouble again?”
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“This past week, I saw him. I mean, it’s hard to keep track. We went out Monday night, I know that. And…” She hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. “We had a fight.” The girl took a deep breath. “About his drinking. I mean, it’s like he can’t just have a beer or two. He has to keep on until he’s wasted. And he won’t quit driving when he’s like that.”
“Was that when you, Quent and Rolly were out? When you were stopped by Deputy Pasquale?”
Maddy puffed out her cheeks, and her eyes shifted to Estelle briefly, as if trying to decide whether to tell a believable yarn. “Yes.”
“Where had you guys been?”
She shrugged. “Just hanging out.”
“Were you with him later in the week? ”
Esmeralda drew in a sharp breath. “Is this about that newspaper deal? I heard about that. Somebody shot up the newspaper office? I mean, like riddled the place. A couple people were hurt? Do you think Quentin had something to do with that?”
“Do you think so?”
“He couldn’t.”
“Even when he’s been drinking too much?”
Esmeralda shook her head vehemently. “He just wouldn’t. Couldn’t.” Her eyes started to tear. “I know we argue all the time, but Quentin is really a good guy, Sheriff. He would never do something like that…a stupid drive-by? That would be so…so completely unlike him. I mean, when Quentin gets mad, he’ll get right in your face. There’s nothing sneaky about him. He wouldn’t just drive by like some gangster.”
“He’s gotten in your face a time or two?”
“Sure.”
“What sets him off, usually?”
Maddy fell silent, but then finally said, “He gets all jealous way too easy.”
“Does he have reason to be jealous, Esmeralda?”
“No. But I know that he doesn’t like me working here. I mean, I have to be nice with people here, with customers. I can’t be all standoffish and stuff. And please…call me Maddy.”
“All right. But Quentin doesn’t understand that? That your job requires some hospitality?”
Maddy hunched her shoulders. “He thinks I’m surrounded by all kinds of people hitting on me. That’s ridiculous. And ’cause I work five nights a week, and he doesn’t like that. And it just goes on and on. We had a big fight this week ’cause I wouldn’t live with him in that ratty little trailer of his.”
“But you have your own apartment now.”
“My folks helped me with that.”
She lifted a hand. “And that’s another thing Quent and I fought about. He wants to help me choose where to live. I mean, what’s with that? It’s my apartment, so why wouldn’t I make that decision?”
“It sounds as if Quentin is a little bit more controlling than you’d like, Maddy.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what it is. That’s kind of a guy thing, is what I think.” She smiled ruefully. “And I don’t control so good.” She laughed and dabbed at one eye. “I think he wants me wrapped around his little finger. And maybe…maybe I’m the one who wants to do the wrapping.”
“Boys are complicated, no?”
“Is that ever right.”
“What hours do you work here, then?”
“Tuesday through Saturday, from four to midnight, unless there’s a special early morning star show. Then I shift around and sometimes, if there are lots of people, I work all night. The kitchen has this special pre-dawn menu, they call it. It sounds awkward, but Mr. Waddell and Carmine are really great people to work for.
“They know the hours are killers, and they work hard to make it up to us. You know, there are days now and then when hardly anyone comes up here. We might serve some meals to staff, but otherwise, the place is empty. We still draw our full pay, though. And like I said, when there are tourists, the tips are humongous.”
“You’re enjoying the challenge, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m studying hard to get better at it.”
“Studying what?”
“Oh, astronomy, and all that. See, Mr. Waddell expects us to be able to answer questions that tourists might have. I mean, he doesn’t want us to be all know-it-alls, because lots of the visitors are astronomers themselves. Mr. Waddell says that’s the art…to know when to let a tourist educate us. To know when to let them talk and be all excited. He talks about that all the time in our training sessions. How to be what he likes to call a ‘human sponge.’ And I know he’s right. I mean, imagine a tourist asks me a simple question, and I’m all ‘Well, duh, I don’t know…’”
“Tell me about a typical shift…this past Wednesday, for instance.”
For the first time, Estelle saw a hint of uncertainty in the girl’s eyes, a little dodge right to left. “Wednesday?”
“Sure. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday…just a typical day.”
“Wednesday was a usual day,” Maddy said. “Had a good dinner hour with a group from Japan. There were twelve of them, and they’re fun, ’cause it seems like they just enjoy everything so much. They finished dinner about eight thirty, and went over to the planetarium.
“Then Mr. Waddell himself came in with five other guys. They looked like they could be businessmen—I guess that’s what they were. They were busy talking, not bubbling about all the attractions or the star show.” She held up a hand. “See, that’s what I mean. That’s a good time for the waitstaff to do our best to blend in with the furniture.”
“And that was it for the evening?”
“Oh, gosh no. But other than those two groups, it was just sort of a constant trickle of singles and couples, mostly.”
“And you finally finished by when?”
“Midnight, if I’m lucky. When things are really slow, I can use the staff lounge if I want. But I don’t do naps very well. I always wake up feeling like somebody slugged me. Sometimes, Quentin comes up and keeps me company. See, that’s why he was hoping for a job with the train, or maybe the tramway. A lot of his friends work here now, and they like to hang out.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Estelle said.
“Well, yeah. I mean, they all went to school together.”
“‘They’ being…”
“Well, you know. Efrin, Rolando, Rafael…who else. Oh, Efrin is trying to go out with Stacy Jensen.
She’s working over at the planetarium.”
Estelle knew Rafael Gonzales at the gate, and Efrin Garcia, the mural artist, as well as Stacy Jensen, whose mother Amelda Jensen worked as a media specialist at the high school. “All local crew,” Estelle said. “And Rolando? How about him?”
Maddy lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Rolando Ortega? He’s the hunk who works with the maintenance crew. He’s maybe a year or two older? His dad worked for Mr. Waddell’s ranch, before all this.”
“Ah. That Rolando.” Estelle remembered Rolando Ortega as a skinny little twerp whose sole passion in life appeared to be rodeos, until a cranky bull broke one too many of his bones and changed the boy’s mind.
When Miles Waddell had promised to hire locally as much as possible, he’d kept his word—and it seemed as if he favored bringing lost souls on board. Efrin Garcia’s older brother was in prison on a murder charge, and Efrin himself had narrowly avoided going down as an accessory, thanks to a skilled defense attorney.
Rolando, the alleged hunk, had been a young rodeo has-been without much of a future.
Rafael Gonzales, working day shifts at the gate, had tried one semester of college, then returned home where little opportunity was awaiting him—until Miles Waddell realized his fantastic dream. Now the kid was studying Japanese.
Even Maddy Lucero had wandered a bit before deciding to follow her mother’s career in the billing department of the telephone company…and then had thought better of it, coming to Waddell’s mesa to try her hand at something a bit more unusual.
And then there was Quentin Torrez—one of those unfortunate souls with his own challenges, and overshadowed by his taciturn uncle, Sheriff Robert Torrez, a man not exactly overflowing with sympathy or compassion.
“When was the last time Quentin was up here with you?”
Maddy thought for a moment, staring down at the dark, red carpet. “I really don’t keep track. I know he was here Monday, ’cause he helped us move in a new freezer. I thought maybe he was going to ask Mr. Waddell for a job, but he didn’t. And he and I had dinner together. I guess that was Wednesday.” She nodded abruptly. “It was Wednesday.”
“And then you had the fight.”
“Yep.” She smiled, took a deep breath, and looked forcibly cheerful. “He’ll get over it.”
“We can hope so. Look,” Estelle said, pushing herself out of the too-comfortable chair, “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
“Is Quentin in trouble?” Maddy sat forward, her hands on the arm of the chair, not quite ready to push herself upright.
“We don’t know yet who’s in trouble, Maddy.”
The girl shook her head. “I guess I’m not supposed to ask questions about what happened?” she said.
“You can always ask,” the undersheriff said with a pleasant smile. “But there’s not much I can tell you at this point.”
“Is Rik Chang going to be all right? Him and Ms. Gardiner?”
“We hope so.”
“Rik’s been up here several times.” She smiled warmly. “A neat guy.”
“He’s a talented young man.”
“And then the whole community will know, won’t they? I mean when it comes out who the shooter is.”
“That’s the way small towns work, Maddy.”
Chapter Sixteen
To give herself a little more secluded time to think, Estelle took the long way home—north on County Road 14 to State 76, passing through the northern third of the county, past the airport, and south into the village.
The temptation was too great. Before another call might interrupt, she drove into the village and swung south, passing under the interstate and turning into the sparsely shaded Escondido Lane. Just after the trailer park, she swung onto the short spur of Guadalupe Terrace.
She braked hard and stopped the car in the middle of the road. A power wheelchair headed directly toward her, taking its half out of the middle of the street. The contraption featured aggressively lugged tires and a slightly wider stance than a normal chair for the handicapped.
The grin on her son’s face was ear to ear. He turned abruptly and ran onto the grassy verge along the macadam, the chair effortlessly navigating the rough surface. He stopped within reach of the Charger’s driver’s side door.
“He’s letting me take it for a spin,” Francisco announced.
She knew perfectly well who the “he” was, but she frowned sternly anyway and said, “And the ‘he’ being…”
Her son took a moment to flip a switch on the small control arm, and stepped away from the power chair. “Padrino’s new life,” he said, and leaned down, forearm on the windowsill of the Charger. “How’s your day going? We haven’t seen much of you.”
“Chasing bad guys,” she said, and smiled up at her son.
“They don’t stand a chance.”
“Would that were true. Is this that outdoorsman’s contraption that Padrino’s been talking about?”
“Just delivered. And it’s amazing. You need to try it.”
“Because I should be looking ahead to the day…”
He reached in and shook her by the shoulder. “Come on. You’ll love it.”
“Padrino has been aboard?”
“Oh, for sure. He’s had it in and out of his van, and prowled the neighborhood. He’s hoping that when my brother gets here, Carlos can do a few adjustments to get some more speed out of it.”
“That’s just what he needs.” The chair was indeed impressive, with four large wheels instead of the usual two-and-two arrangement of a standard chair. A fifth wheel, much smaller in diameter, projected on an axle from the center rear, like that on the back of a dragster to prevent it from doing backflips.
Francisco laughed. “You’re such a worrywart, Ma.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. To worry about all you crazy people.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Let me move out of the street before somebody comes along and rear-ends me.”
“Are you going to take time to come see the progress on the house?”
“Of course.” She watched him swing on board the chair, and just as she said, “Be careful with that thing,” he hit the joystick and turned it in its own length, its aggressively lugged tires throwing gravel. The machine whined off down Guadalupe toward Bill Gastner’s driveway. For just a moment, she sat quietly, then took a deep breath. All right, she was a worrywart. And that wasn’t going to change.
Gastner had found a spot in his yard awash in dappled sun, and he relaxed on the padded chaise. On a small picnic table at his elbow was a large mug of coffee. He watched Estelle slide out of the car and beckoned.
“Is this the life, or what?” He waved at what appeared to be a completely poured foundation. “They just finished with the pour. Now we get to sit here and wait.” He grinned. “I told ’em that I don’t buy green bananas anymore, but I’m told that the fresh concrete can’t be rushed.” He shrugged. “I knew that.” Francisco appeared carrying two lawn chairs, one of which he opened for his mother.
Gastner sipped his coffee and made a face. Francisco interpreted the expression correctly and stretched out a hand. “How about a refill of some hot stuff? And Ma, what would you like?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Well, that’s easy. But Angie made some green iced tea that’s pretty fine. How about some of that?”
“Thank you. Just a small glass.”
The old man watched his godson skirt the construction zone, headed for the kitchen. “Amazing kid, that one,” he said. “If it’s not politically incorrect to call a twenty-six-year-old a ‘kid.’”
“I think he’s a keeper.”
Gastner nodded. “What’s the news on the drive-by? Any progress?”
“Rik is going to be fine. Pam is a worry.”
“No
results on her surgery yet?”
“Not yet.”
“This whole thing reeks of kid, you know. Steal a fancy truck, use it in a drive-by styled after some Chicago gangland thing out of the thirties, and then don’t even bother to clean up the truck afterward. What’s with that?”
“I’m thinking that they wore gloves, Padrino. Mears is checking the shell casings for prints, but that’s a tough go.”
Gastner made a thumbing motion with his right hand, holding an imaginary rifle magazine with his left. “Even a little twenty-two is going to make a nice surface for a thumbprint, sweetheart. Small, I admit. But you’re going to have, what, twenty-five of ’em? Twenty-five chances to piece together a print.”
“If they didn’t wear gloves.”
“If they didn’t. And kids are notoriously stupid. Wear gloves when they heist the truck, but don’t wear ’em when they’re loading the gun. Plus…” and he held up one finger.
“Plus?”
“Twenty-twos are slimy little suckers. It’s hard as hell to manipulate them wearing gloves—unless you’ve got a pair of surgeon’s mitts.”
“Could be. I’ll be meeting with Mears this evening or tomorrow to see the sum total of what he’s got. So far, it’s not much.”
She reached out to accept the glass of tea, and Francisco set the coffee cup on Gastner’s table.
“Angie will be out in a bit,” he said, settling into the second lawn chair. “She’s working. Can you imagine that? Working.”
“On what?”
“She’s got this one sonata by Lukie Maoma. He’s one of the current stud ducks in Hawaiian music? Anyway, it’s a great piece of music, with all kinds of traditional island motifs. And it’s one of those pieces that just suits the voice of the cello beautifully…especially the way Angie plays.” He leaned forward eagerly. “But the second movement is so pianissimo double, sometimes even triple p, that it’s a challenge to encourage the cello to wake up, but never to stray into sounding scratchy or incomplete.” He made a fist for emphasis. “I mean good, full, round notes, but still triple-p. Mucho pianissimo-issimo. Notes that are just rich whispers, ‘like the sea on a calm evening,’ Maoma says.”
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