In the utility room behind the bath, the hot water tank gurgled loud enough to be heard.
“I’ll go get presentable. If I run out of hot water, the cold won’t hurt me a bit.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cell phones and other gadgets turned off, even the landline popped out of its wall connection, the Guzman home on Twelfth Street was as quiet as isolating technology could make it. Even the porch light was turned off. Estelle was curled on the sofa, her head and shoulder pillowed by her husband, with tiny William Thomas fed, changed, and snuggled between her right breast and her husband’s left thigh.
Bill Gastner was trying hard to keep his eyes open, and he had found a position where he could gently rock the old chair forward without any squeaks as he sought his brimming mug of coffee with minimal effort.
Francisco sat at the piano, with the score of Lukie Maoma’s Sonata for Cello in E-flat on the music stand. The cover was lowered over the keys, and he sat with his elbows planted, chin in hands.
The star of the show, Angie Trevino Guzman, had found a nick in the floor just beyond the piano that captured her cello’s end peg securely, and the 300-year-old instrument had settled into flawless tune under the urgings of Angie’s deft fingers. She closed her eyes as she ran the bow a final stroke along the rosin block, and smiled at her audience. “New bow,” she announced. “Organic horsehair from a genuine Lipizzaner stallion’s tail, harvested in the dark of the moon. Or something like that.” She used no music stand, and no sheet music was in sight.
The fat, lowest string of the cello growled as she stroked it once, twice, three times until it became apparent that she was playing every child’s classic, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” until the sound filled every nook and corner of the house. The second refrain of “merrily…” became a cascade of triple stops that then took off in a series of joyous arpeggios that ended with the fingers of Angie’s left hand within a hair’s breadth of the end of the fingerboard.
She adjusted one of the bridge tuners a tiny fraction, and said, “Okay.”
Eyes closed, she waited for a few seconds, and then launched into a ferocious piece that Estelle guessed was Bach. The contest between the instrument’s lowest register and the dancing treble continued for not quite two and a half minutes until Angie leaned forward a bit, opened her eyes, and let the last notes drift off.
She touched the same tuner again and frowned. “Some strings have a somewhat argumentative personality. Anyway, that was the “Prelude” from Bach’s Suite Number One in G, and it’s a great way to find out which fingers are cooperating and which are not.” She grinned toward Gastner, who had taken the opportunity to retrieve his coffee mug. “And most audiences are very glad that it’s only a little more than two minutes long.”
“And we have company,” Francisco interjected, craning his neck to look past the piano and the window curtains. “I think she’s sitting on the top front step.”
“You’re joking,” Estelle said.
“Never. I can see her feet.” He had already risen, but his mother beat him to it, gently uncurling from her half-recumbent position.
“Let me get it.” She made sure her husband’s left hand had corralled the slumbering infant. She paused as she reached Angie, and touched the young woman’s right shoulder. “A two-minute intermission?”
“Estelle?” Her husband had already gathered up his grandson, and now transferred William Thomas to Francisco.
“No, it’s all right. I’ll get it.” Estelle replied. “I think I know who it is.”
She switched on the porch light and opened the door. Sure enough, a lone figure sat on the top step, her head cradled in her arms, arms resting on her knees.
“Lydia? Are you all right?” Estelle opened the storm door and slipped outside.
Lydia Thompson raised her head, wiped her eyes, and looked up at Estelle. “I shouldn’t be here, I know that. I was going to ring the doorbell, or knock, or something, then I got to listening. That Bach piece was lovely. Your daughter-in-law?” She reached out a hand to the stair rail and pulled herself upright. She waited for Estelle to respond, and when Estelle didn’t, added, “I shouldn’t interrupt.”
“What can I help you with, Lydia?”
“I saw you up at the astronomy park this afternoon. I saw you out on the solar facility patio, talking with Mr. Waddell, and I got to wondering.”
“About what?”
“I wonder what he’s going to do now.”
“And he’s probably wondering the same thing about you, Lydia. I suggest that you give the whole affair some time. Give yourself time to think. This whole tragedy hasn’t given you time to do that yet.”
“We don’t even know what happened yet, do we? I mean, with Kyle. We don’t know for sure.”
“That’s true.”
She turned and gazed down the street, and Estelle reached in and closed the front door behind her, then waited patiently.
“I spent most of the late afternoon and through the dinner hour down at the newspaper office. Mr. Dayan was very helpful.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“Their morgue has copies back to 1913, when the paper was founded. He said they’re making a concerted effort to digitize everything now so the old copies could be more useful.” She rubbed her fingers together. “They’ve gotten so brittle now that the pages won’t fold open without damage.” She heaved a sigh. “Anyway…” She looked sideways at Estelle, assessing. “I read about the shooting.”
“The shooting?”
“The deal with Manolo Tapia.”
Estelle studied the young woman for a moment. “I spend a lot of time trying to forget about that.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Seven years, four months, five days, nine hours and seventeen minutes.” Estelle flashed a brief smile at the old joke. “But who’s counting.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I don’t think I want to engage in a scar fest with you, Mrs. Thompson.”
Lydia held up a hand. “No. You kept on, though. I mean, after you recovered, you kept on. That’s what I’m getting at.”
Estelle nodded but said nothing.
“I tried to do that. But I couldn’t handle a couple important parts of the agility test.” She made a face. “I probably could now. But Kyle had the itch to move. He missed out on the lieutenant’s test by a couple of points, and that was a bummer.”
A burst of laughter drifted out from the living room, followed by a series of wave-like chords from the piano.
“Wow,” Lydia murmured, then shook her head. “I should go. It was impolite of me just to stop by.” She stepped down to the sidewalk.
“You came by to ask me something.”
Lydia turned, hands thrust in her back pockets. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Estelle nodded encouragement. “But you are, so…”
The young woman sucked in a deep breath. “Frank got to talking, and I mentioned that both Kyle and I had been in the State Police back in New York. We talked some more, and then he wanted to show me the police blotter from two weeks ago. The one where Sheriff Torrez’s nephew was named for the DUI. Frank thinks…well, he thinks that Sheriff Torrez thinks…that the nephew might somehow be involved, upset because he didn’t get a job with the NightZone train.”
“Investigation is continuing.” And your skillful interrogation opened Frank Dayan’s floodgates, Estelle thought.
Lydia managed a full smile. “Haven’t we all heard that before, eh? Anyway, Frank says that young Torrez might still apply to work up at NightZone. Just not on the train.”
“He’s free to do that.”
“I can’t help being a people-watcher, Estelle. I know that young Torrez would like to work up there…primarily because that’s where his current flame works. The gal w
ho is one of the waitresses at the restaurant. I think her name is something Lucero?” Lydia paused, giving Estelle the opportunity to provide the name—which the undersheriff did not do. “Anyway, she and young Torrez were trading some saliva when I happened to walk by. They took a step back behind one of the building buttresses for some privacy.”
“There are a lot of young people up there,” Estelle offered. “Lots of hormones.”
“I guess. What I thought was interesting was seeing the Lucero girl similarly engaged with one of the other workers later in the day.” She smiled and shook her head. “Get a few lovers’ triangles going, and Miles Waddell is going to have a really interesting time of it.”
“Lydia—”
“I know, I know.” She didn’t try to hide the tears that had started to course down her cheeks. “I need to just sit down and have a proper blubber, you know? But I can’t sit still. I think about Kyle, and think about some creep sneaking up behind him, and…why? I mean, what did he ever do to anybody except buy some land and dream a little? And that’s what I think about. Who would gain? Murder to protect self-interests? Waddell’s a smooth dude. Do we really believe NightZone is all about the sun, moon, and stars? Is it possible that he has something else going on up there? And if he’s guilty of nothing other than chasing his astronomy dreams, why would anyone want to hinder him?”
She shook her head, her face hard, touched with misery. “Or, murder springs from a lover’s quarrel? Maybe. Murder for revenge of insult? Sure, maybe.”
She finally wiped her eyes. “That’s what I think about, Estelle. That’s all I can think about. And my Kyle was caught right in the middle of it.”
“I’ll tell you this much, Lydia. I’ve known Miles Waddell for years, and yes…I think his development is exactly what it’s touted to be.”
“You’re saying that I shouldn’t talk to him?”
“No, I’m not saying that. You can talk to whomever agrees to speak with you.”
“I have to do something. I can’t just sit and…” She fumbled for the right word.
“Mourn?”
“Exactly.” Her smile was tight, her eyes still glistening. “I’ll try not to get in the way.”
“We’d appreciate that. To put it another way, Lydia, we require that you do not get in the way, that you do not obstruct. And any tips that come your way—we’d appreciate those.”
Lydia’s gaze drifted over to the now-curtained living room window. They could hear voices, and an occasional piano note. “I’d love to meet your son someday.” She immediately raised her hands. “But not now. I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.”
“You have my numbers, Lydia. Any time.”
“Forgive me for intruding?”
“Of course.”
Lydia Thompson extended a hand, and her grip was strong. “Thank you, Estelle.”
“You’re welcome.” Estelle watched as Lydia walked back to her Explorer, parked half a block down the street—walked head down, absorbed in her thoughts.
“So what did you really want to talk about?” Estelle muttered aloud as the SUV pulled out and drove down Twelfth Street.
Back inside, she shook her head dismissively in response to the raised eyebrow from her husband. Then she extended both hands toward Angie, eager to put all the ugly thoughts of the past forty-eight hours behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Composer Lukie Maoma had chosen a truly pacific theme for the second movement of his cello sonata, and Estelle wondered how many of the Hawaiian audience members would nod off during the performance. She watched with amusement as Bill Gastner’s head sagged toward his chest, his mouth going slack as his body relaxed to the music. At the other end of the aging scale, little William Thomas’s thumb had almost made it to his mouth before he too slumbered.
The third movement seemed to pit ocean against shore, with currents racing into every cove, seeking passage. During those times when the music thundered, Estelle found herself wondering how Angie’s centuries old cello managed to hold together as the notes burst forth. Then, as if admitting defeat, as if unable to wash the island paradise away, the ocean subsided, the storm clouds parted, and the music was carried away by a series of recurring swells that surged off to distant shores.
“Exquisite,” Estelle said when the last note faded. Angie beamed and then turned to look across the piano to her husband, who had been following the score, note for note, his face furrowed in concentration.
“I’d like to hear measure sixteen of the andante again,” he said with a sober frown. “I wasn’t sure of your passage from the E flat to the A flat.” He allowed but a second to elapse before a wide smile lit his countenance. “I’m kidding, mi corazon.” He closed the score and laid it on top of the piano, then held both hands out toward his wife. “It was perfect. Not just the notes. The heart, the soul… Maestro Maoma should be honored.”
“Ah, so this guy is still alive?” Bill Gastner proved that he wasn’t asleep. He opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “He’ll be in the audience?”
“Maestro Maoma is ninety-one and very much alive,” Angie replied. “And as far as I know, he’ll be introducing this particular part of the program.”
Gastner frowned and looked across at Estelle. “This guy is ninety-one? That settles it. I’m going to start running ten miles every day.” He patted his belly.
“You could come with us, you know. You could meet Maestro Maoma.”
“No thanks. I’d rather just imagine. Airports, hotels, restaurants…nah, I don’t think so. I don’t do them anymore.”
“Only the Don Juan,” Francisco added.
“That’s right.” Gastner pointed a pistol finger at the front door. “What did the young lady want?”
“I’m not sure,” Estelle replied. “She’s trying to find a way to grieve, I think, and not having much success.”
“Tough road. One minute she has everything, the whole damn word by the tail, then the next minute her life’s been trashed. I heard the name Manolo Tapia, just in case you were suffering under the illusion that you were having a private conversation. Why’d she bring him up?”
“She used to be with the New York State Police. She retired after a shooting incident about eight years ago that left her really torn up.”
“Really.” Gastner frowned. “And then she read about your episode with Tapia.”
“Yes. Frank Dayan led her to it.”
“So she figures you’re a kindred spirit.”
“I suppose.”
“Yeah, well,” Gastner said, “it’s times like that when we find out some answers about basic character.” He surged forward in his chair, both hands slapping the armrests. “And on that heavy note of philosophical twaddle, how about seconds on dessert? And then I need to take this old guy home.”
“The only thing that’s left is the cherry pie,” Estelle said. “Maybe enough. And while it’s being served…”
“You got any more of your wonderful coffee?”
“We will have,” Francisco said.
“While we’re waiting, maybe you’ll tell me what’s the latest news from your search,” Estelle said. “I heard you made progress.”
“To make a long story of brilliant detecting short, you recall that I mentioned that Irving Silverman, the eighty-one-year-old son of Mary Rosenblum Silverman, had the three volumes in his possession.” Gastner steepled his fingers under his lower lip. “The best part is that he’s excited to be part of the chase. That’s what he called it. Part of the chase. He intends to scour through the books. I gave him a short list of what to look for, and he’ll send me copies of the pages if he finds anything.”
“So you’re looking for…”
“The description of the lost Colt, maybe the serial number and purchase price, the name of the buyer, and in particular, any men
tion of the unfortunate Mr. Bennett, whom I think died with the gun in his hand.”
“Wow,” Estelle whispered.
“Wow is right,” Gastner said happily. “What’s amazing is that during those fifty years, old Irving has moved a number of times, and the old family books always went with him. He says that he almost threw them out any number of times, but never could bring himself to do it. Now he’s excited that they may be of use to someone.”
“You’re going up to Ratón?”
“If there’s mention in the books, probably so. I’ll have to twist some arms, call in a few favors to do that, but if the information is there, Irving said that I could have the books if I’ll promise to turn them over to the county historical society when I’m finished with them, along with a copy of my final report. Do I want to trust something like those treasures to the Post Office? I think not.”
“That’s quite a job you’ve taken on,” Francis said.
“Hell, why not.” He reached out and accepted the dessert plate and coffee mug that Francisco brought from the kitchen. “You gotta take the first step sometime.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Estelle could have used a good night’s sleep, but she didn’t get it. Despite the best body massage in the world, and despite the delight of finishing unfinished business with her private physician and masseur, she spent the night in a toss-and-turn marathon.
At one point, she laughed loud enough, more in frustration than anything else, that Francis almost awoke. Grandparenthood had brought about more worries than when she had the two little ankle-biters racing about the house a quarter century before, or when she discovered in due course that neither son would ever fit any common mold.
Francisco, Angie, and tiny William Thomas would fly out to Hawaii, and she worried about that flimsy aluminum/titanium can jetting across the ocean—what did explorers used to call it? The boundless ocean—with no runway in sight for thousands of miles. Even on land, the hubbub was daunting…the noisy jet, airport, and city, and the crowds of well-meaning folks wanting to lean close and oh and ah in the infant’s face.
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