Estelle turned and looked across the street. “How about two ten Twelfth,” she said. “They turned out their porch light just after we drove up. That means they’re home.”
“And don’t want to talk to us,” Torrez said.
“All the more reason.” She reached into her car for her clipboard and double-checked the tape inside the microcassette before sliding it into her jacket pocket. She’d taken two steps back toward 210 Twelfth when the phone on her belt awakened once more.
“Guzman.”
“The two kids are home with their grandmother,” Tom Mears said without preamble.
“They’re all right?”
Mears hesitated. “They’re in bed, asleep. I guess they’ll find out in the morning.”
Estelle heard a sound in the background that could have been a yelp of pain, a sob, or both. “Mrs. Parker’s with you?”
“Yes, ma’am. What I wanted to tell you was that she says Kenderman stopped by earlier this evening to see Colette. They’ve been going together for a little while.”
“How long?” She looked across at Torrez and shook her head wearily.
“For about six months, the mother says. Colette wanted to break it off. Kenderman came by this evening, while he was on duty. He wanted to talk to Colette, and she didn’t want to see him.”
Estelle backpedaled as if she’d been shoved and slumped against the side of her car. “Ay,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Parker tells me that sometimes after Colette puts her daughters to bed, she likes to take a short ride on the bike. No traffic, all by herself-that sort of thing. That’s what she did tonight.”
“And Kenderman followed her.”
“Mrs. Parker doesn’t know about that.”
“She didn’t hear anything?”
“Apparently not. She had the television on and wears earphones so the noise doesn’t disturb the kids.”
“Thanks, Tom. You’re going to get a statement from her tonight?”
“If I can. She’s not doing too well.”
“Do what you can. Bobby and I are going to talk to some neighbors at the other end of the racetrack.” She switched off and then pushed the phone’s autodial. “Wow,” she breathed. She looked at Robert Torrez and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Looks like it started as a domestic,” she said. “Nothing’s going to be simple.”
Sheriff Torrez waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler answered Estelle’s call.
“Ernie, I need a name and number for two ten North Twelfth Street.”
“It’s Luis and Maria Rubay,” Torrez muttered just loud enough for Estelle to hear.
“The sheriff says to check a listing for Rubay,” Estelle added. “R-U-B-A-Y.” She waited for a moment and then jotted down the number. “Thanks. The sheriff and I will be at that address for a few minutes.”
As she was pocketing the phone once more, Torrez nodded across the street at the small brown adobe on the northwest corner, directly across Highland Court from the Rubay’s at 210. “If Maria didn’t see or hear anything, then we can talk to Mrs. Corning. She’s been watching us all the time we’ve been here.”
Estelle grinned. “You know everybody in every house? You sound like Bill Gastner, the walking gazetteer of Posadas County.”
“Not quite,” Torrez said. “I don’t know who lives over there, for instance.” He jerked his chin at the two-story cinder-block monstrosity on the northeast corner of the intersection.
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Estelle said. “Somebody knows exactly what happened.”
“Yep,” Torrez agreed. “Perry Kenderman, for one.”
Chapter Five
Estelle Guzman pushed the doorbell button in the center of an enameled tin design that looked like a flattened, road-killed lizard. Inside, they heard the first notes of “Ave Maria” on the chimes. There was no response, no movement or shuffling from within. No dog yapped greeting or warning.
Estelle turned and lifted an eyebrow at Torrez. “Tell me I wasn’t dreaming when I saw the porch light turned off,” she said.
“Maybe on a timer. Or not. Maria marches to her own drummer.”
“She an aunt of yours?”
“One of the cousins.”
“She lives by herself?”
“Yep. Her husband Luis died a month or so ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pushed the button again, wondering how much information she could pry out of the sheriff, one isolated sentence at a time. She listened to the six soaring notes of the doorbell once more. With no response, she stepped back and drew out her telephone, dialing the number Dispatch had provided.
In three rings, a woman’s voice answered with a warbling “Yeesss?” that sounded as if she was holding the phone in one hand and a dripping egg beater in the other, interrupted mid-recipe.
“Mrs. Rubay?”
“Yes.” The reply was guarded, then brightened. “And whatever you’re selling, I’m really glad you called. I just declared bankruptcy and can’t find anyone who’ll take my checks.”
Estelle glanced at Torrez and grinned. “Mrs. Rubay, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Would it be possible to talk with you for a few minutes?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“We’re just outside your address. Is this a good time?”
“Sure. Hang on just a minute. I’m just cutting up my husband, and I don’t want the pieces to blow all over the dining room floor.”
The phone clicked off. “She’s butchering her husband,” Estelle said, and Torrez nodded.
“I’m not surprised.”
In a moment the dead bolt clacked. When the woman opened the door, Estelle realized that she knew Maria Rubay as one of the part-timers who worked at the post office. No doubt Cousin Robert would have dredged up that basic information eventually if pressed hard enough.
“Evening, Maria,” Torrez said. He ducked his head in greeting, both hands firmly in his back pockets.
“I was about to call the police because of all the vagrants standing around out in the middle of the street a little bit ago,” Maria said, and favored them with a warm smile, an expression that illuminated her classic oval face. She looked at Estelle. “You have an awfully nice telephone voice,” she said. “You could be one of those phone solicitors who keeps me such good company in the evening. Come on in.”
“Thank you.”
She held the door for them, looking up as Torrez slipped past her. “You’ve grown another inch or so,” she said, and her cousin actually laughed. “How did a family of runts produce you and your sister,” she added. She shook her head and then waved at the sofa in the living room. “Let’s sit.”
“We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rubay,” Estelle started, but the woman interrupted.
“Maria works just fine. And it’s no bother. I’m glad for the company. You know, I just don’t answer the door after dark. Especially with Luis gone now. I just ignore it.”
“I understand.”
“You want to see what I’m putting together, Bobby?” Before the sheriff could answer, Maria Rubay rose quickly to her feet. “Of course you do. Come into the dining room.”
On the table, a vast sea of family photos lay in no obvious order, with the scissors and glue holding down a pile of scrap. “I’m cutting Luis out of every old photograph I can find.” She leaned over the table and smoothed the large piece of tag board, the surface already a third covered. Luis Rubay’s pleasant face, dominated in more recent photos by his heavy Fu Manchu mustache and stubbly brush cut, gazed up at them in dozens of versions.
“When I’m all done, I’m going to have copies made for the family,” she said. “Nice idea, yes?”
“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. She glanced at the pile of photographic rubble to the left. “He was quite a fisherman, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, and I’m hacking out all the damn fish,” Maria said. “A trout is a trout. Maybe I’ll
save one or two, just to make him happy.”
“It looks like he was a happy man, Maria.” And true enough, Luis Rubay’s engaging smile was missing only in one or two candid snaps.
“He was.” She straightened up and took a deep breath. “But you didn’t come to talk about this, I’m sure.” She cast a withering glance at the sheriff. “Although a little visit by Miss Gayle and his nibs here might be a nice thing, once in a while.”
“Actually, Maria, we’re interested in what you may have seen or heard earlier this evening. Right around eight o’clock.”
“Ah,” Maria said. “When the president was talking.”
“I missed that,” Estelle said.
“No, you didn’t,” Maria said. “Yakketty-yak-yak, my fellow Americans.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Didn’t miss a thing.” She smoothed the tag board collage again gently. “This is about all the racing going on outside?”
“We’d be interested in whatever you heard, Maria.” She withdrew the small microcassette recorder from her pocket, and Maria nodded.
“Long, dull evening,” she replied. “I went out to empty the garbage just before the prez came on, and saw the village cops careening around after a kid on a motorcycle. That’s the sum and substance of my evening. I assume there’s been an accident, and that somebody’s been hurt? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“We’d like to know what you saw, Maria,” Estelle said, and Maria smiled at her.
“A fountain of information you are,” she said with a chuckle. “Okay. I went outside, just before eight…that’s when the prez was supposed to start his spiel. I put the trash in the can. There’s a board fence right there, between me and Highland Court, as I’m sure you already know. And it continues around the front corner, too. I heard them first, you know. Before I saw them. Sound like that travels.”
“What did you hear?”
“The two of them. I guess I didn’t notice until I actually saw the headlights and all, coming right down Highland Court toward me. They were both just ripping along.” She beckoned at the two officers. “Step outside. I’ll show you exactly where I was.” Estelle’s heart felt like a large chunk of inert lead sinking down through her innards. She realized that she had been hanging on to a slender hope that she was somehow mistaken, that Maria Rubay would tell them that Perry Kenderman had been stopped on the street, after all, had seen the speeding bike, and taken off in hot pursuit.
“Come, come,” Maria said, and took Estelle by the elbow. With Sheriff Torrez following, they walked across the kitchen, out the back door, and stood on the concrete stoop. “There’s los botes.” She nodded at the twin garbage cans. “And this is the fence. That’s Highland Court.” She stepped off the stoop and walked the eight short strides to the cedar fence and rested both hands on it, then pointed to the east, toward the intersection. “And that’s Twelfth.” She walked to the two trash cans. “Now, when I’m standing here,” and she planted herself in front of one of the cans, “I can see right through the gaps in this old fence. And what am I looking at?” She pointed east. “Right across Twelfth and on down Highland.”
“And where were the bike and the police car?”
“Like I said, coming right at me. Coming right down Highland Court, headlights bobbing, motors roaring.” She turned and raised her eyebrows at Estelle.
“So it appeared to you that the police car was in pursuit of the motorcycle.?”
“Certainly was. Flyin’ low, both of them.”
“And you’re absolutely certain that the police car was following the bike on Highland, westbound?” When Maria Rubay looked puzzled, Estelle quickly added, “You’re certain that the police car didn’t appear out of some other street to cut off the bike. The officer wasn’t on Highland Court on this side of the intersection, for example?”
“No,” Maria said patiently. “Most certainly not. One behind the other. Vaaarrooom. Vaaarrooom. If either of the drivers had lost control, they’d have crashed right into my house.”
“And what then? After you saw them race through the intersection and turn southbound on Twelfth, what did you do?”
“Then I went into the house to listen to the prez.” She rubbed her arms. “And this is a chilly breeze.”
“Did you put the garbage in the cans before or after you saw the chase?”
“Before. I crammed on the lid, put the board on top to keep the skunks out, and was about to turn to go back in the house when here they come.” She clasped her hands together. “Like I said, I heard them first and naturally enough glanced that way. Swoosh, whoosh, there they all go.” She shrugged. “Then I went back in the house.”
“Immediately?”
“And that means…what, did I stand around outside? No, I went right back in the house.” She grimaced and reached for the back door. “I heard the sirens later.” She held the door for Estelle and Torrez. “Just minutes later. And then a bit ago, I heard voices outside, snuck a peek, and saw the convocation. I should have left the porch light on for you, but it’s on a timer, and I didn’t even think. I heard the doorbell, but by then I was back to my project, and just ignored it.”
“That’s all right.”
“Nobody ignores the darn telephone, though, right?” Maria smiled conspiratorially.
“Usually not, no.”
Back inside the brightness of the kitchen, Maria looked sympathetic. “I’m not sure I told you what you want to hear, but that’s the way it happened. At least as far as I’m concerned.”
Estelle held the small tape recorder to her lips, forehead furrowed in thought. “Did you hear any other vehicles?”
“Around that same time? None that I noticed. There might have been another one on Highland, way on down the street. It seems to me that I saw some lights. But I don’t know. Maybe just someone backing out of a driveway, you know. I didn’t pay attention.”
The undersheriff switched off the recorder and slipped it into her pocket.
“You guys want a snack of some sort?”
Torrez shook his head. “Many thanks, Maria. A deputy may be coming around with a deposition for you to sign in a day or two.”
“Just whatever,” she said cheerfully. “Bring Miss Gayle over.”
“We’ll do that.”
Leaving Maria Rubay to her welter of photos and cropping, Estelle followed Robert Torrez down the long sidewalk to Twelfth Street. With hardly a glance up or down the street, Torrez crossed and then waited at Estelle’s unmarked car as she ambled toward him, head down and lost in thought.
“Score one for you,” he said when she reached the car. “And you were right about something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Maria called the bike rider ‘he,’ just like you said.”
“Whoopee,” Estelle said. She let out a sigh. “I’d just as soon be wrong about the whole mess, Bobby.” Torrez made no reply. Estelle turned and gazed across the intersection. “Your cousin sounded sure of herself.”
“Maria is sure of herself. Always has been. Even when she’s wrong.”
“I don’t think she is, this time. But if we talk to ten witnesses, we’ll hear ten versions,” Estelle said. “I’d like to talk to…what did you say her name was? Mrs. Corning?”
“Yep.”
“She’s not a relative?” Estelle managed a smile.
“Nope. And actually, it’s Miss Corning. She was my second-grade teacher.”
“Ah,” Estelle said. “Second grade. She’s something of an institution, then.”
Torrez hunched his shoulders. “I guess. Second grade was my three favorite years.”
“Then Miss Corning is something of a saint, too,” Estelle said, and glanced at her watch. “She’s awake, so let’s see if she answers her door. Then we can hear version number three.”
The sheriff’s broad face was impassive, but Estelle saw a little tick of his eyebrows and found herself wishing that she could read Robert Torrez’s mind.
“What?” sh
e asked.
“I was just wondering how all this would have turned out if you hadn’t stopped at the dry cleaners.”
“Scary thought.”
Chapter Six
Somewhere in the house, something ticked-a single, quiet little snick that might have been the thermostat trying to light the wall furnace, or the cooling coffeepot in the kitchen, or maybe even little Carlos, briefly awake and confirming that he could still snap his fingers the way his older brother had taught him.
Estelle lay flat on her back and stared up into the darkness. The luminous dial of the clock on the nightstand soundlessly flashed 2:52. An hour’s sleep, maybe two and then her mind had churned the rest of her system awake.
“You want to get up and jog around the block?” Her husband’s voice was hardly more than the softest exhalation, gentle and warm against her left ear. He was lying on his right side, and she wasn’t sure when he had awakened.
“I’d be too tired to find my way back home,” she whispered. She felt a finger trace the outer margin of her ear. “What time did Padrino finally leave?”
“He played one more game after you called. A little after nine, maybe.”
She sighed. “I wanted to see his face when he opened the gifts from los hijos. I’m sorry I missed that.”
A brief chuckle popped warm air against her ear. “He deserved an Academy Award.” Estelle smiled at the thought. Bill Gastner, the retired lawman, had been given a western video sometime in the distant past by one of his own children, no doubt with the thought that the video would prompt the start of a collection. As far as she knew, the video had been gathering dust alone, sitting on top of a VCR whose guts, she was sure, showed no sign of wear.
Undaunted, her eldest son Francisco had been adamant in his choice of a birthday gift for Padrino. Francisco’s agile little mind was convinced that everyone needed to own a personal copy of the same wonderful video that so enchanted him.
Estelle tried to picture Bill Gastner sitting through the loud, flashy attacks by the various dinosaurs that somehow had evolved a sophisticated yearning for bloody revenge on mankind. She knew that by the time the third whatever-saurus had galloped across the screen in full digital wonder, the old man’s eyes would start to droop. Francisco remained convinced that Padrino would watch the dinosaur tape until he knew it by heart.
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