“I haven’t actually met Mr. Raught formally,” I explained as we strolled up the front walk. “I would recognize him if I saw him-he usually attends County Commission meetings. Maybe he always does. I don’t know. On the rare occasions that I’ve attended, Mr. Raught has been there, too. I remember him addressing the commission once after Sheriff Salcido made a report. I don’t remember what the issue was, if any. So, that’s what I know, and it ain’t much.”
Estelle nodded and fell back a step when I approached the front door. J. T. Raught. Nice script letters in Mexican tile, mounted in a hardwood frame screwed to the cross beam of the front storm door with brass screws. Simple yet elegant, a cut above the usual wooden sign with stick-on letters from the hardware store. Jim Raught’s place didn’t look as if it had suffered much wear and tear associated with a houseful of active kids-no toys scattered out in the yard, no tears in the screen door or windows, no smudgy handprints on the painted wood trim.
She stood to one side, watching first the side window and then the door itself. I heard footsteps inside, and a voice said loudly, “Just a second!” The three words sounded friendly enough.
Eventually the door knob turned and the door opened, creating enough suction that the screen door pumped inward a bit. The house was as tightly sealed as it appeared.
Jim Raught peered out at me, his steel-gray hair wet and disheveled. He carried a towel in one hand, and when he had donned a t-shirt, he’d been wet enough that the shirt had blotched. His neatly creased khaki shorts were water-spotted as well.
“Well, hello there.” He cranked a corner of the towel into his left ear, opened his mouth wide, and when he was sure his Eustachian tubes were equalized, he shook his head hard, the sort of thing a movie starlet might do to settle her hair. It didn’t do much good.
“How’s the esteemed undersheriff this fine morning?” He grinned at that, a nice smile that lit up his pleasant features. Probably going on sixty-five, maybe a little older, he was a fine-looking senior citizen-fit, lightly tanned skin that somehow had avoided those nasty age spots that give us away, pleasant strong features, and a melodic voice just on the upside of baritone.
“I hope we didn’t catch you in the middle of something,” I said.
He made a face. “Just a cold shower, undersheriff. The nice thing about showers is that they’re easily interrupted.” He mimed turning off a water valve, then squiggled the other ear with the towel, peering at Estelle. “And who might you be?”
“Estelle Reyes,” my companion said, and let it go at that.
“Well, Estelle Reyes, I’m Jim Raught. My pleasure.” The screen door remained between us and a handshake. He looked back at me. “This is about yesterday, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course I do. How about if you come inside out of the hot sun.” He snapped the lock button on the heavy screen and swung it open. “I happen to have some world class ice tea. May I tempt you?” Holding the storm door with one hand, he shook my hand with the other, a damp, cool grip.
“You may indeed,” I replied promptly. He raised an eyebrow at Estelle, who evidently had more self-discipline than I did. She accepted the handshake, but not the offer of tea.
“No, thank you, sir.”
“You’re sure? You don’t know what you’re missing. Traces of mint, just a hint of rock sugar, sun brewed. Thin shaved ice that brings the glass to a proper sweat.” He laughed, a deep, pleasant burble. “Listen to me.”
He waved a hand toward the living room, off to the left. “Take a seat wherever. I’ll just be a moment.”
I didn’t take a seat, as attractive as the heavy wood and leather furniture was. Instead, I ambled after Raught, which took only a couple of steps before I was standing in the kitchen archway, the living room behind my back. I watched as he selected two tall amber-colored glasses from the upper cabinet to the right of the fridge. Nice cabinets, too, the clear-pine doors and framework a soft honey-custom, not off the shelf from a box store. Mexican floral designs curled on the doors and around the window frames, hand done by someone with obvious talent.
“Really a terrible thing,” Raught said when the ice maker was finished with its automated crushing. He glanced back at me. “Next door, I mean. Hell of a thing.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Are you making progress?” He set the glass he was holding down on the tiled counter and held up a hand. “I know…I know. I don’t get to ask about an ongoing investigation.” He shot me that warm grin again. “Well, I can ask. That’s about as far as it goes.”
“As it happens, we are making some progress,” I said. “Some.”
“Well, that’s good.” The ice snapped and popped as the brilliantly clear tea flowed over it, and with his left hand, Raught reached out and selected a small spray of mint from a colander by the sink. “Ah…perfect.”
I accepted the glass and congratulated myself on accepting bribes so easily. After all, the perfect glass of iced tea is to be cherished. He watched as I took a tentative sip.
“Need sugar?”
“No, sir. This is perfect.” I watched as he fixed his own, and then he gestured toward the living room, where Estelle waited. She was standing in front of the fireplace, looking at a spectacular triple retablo displayed over the heavily carved mantle. One saint stood in each panel, but the background behind them flowed from one panel to the next, a floral garden of tendrils and blossoms and unlikely birds, all executed in powerful, vibrant colors.
“El Jardin do los Tres Santos,” Estelle said.
“Easy for you to say.” I stepped onto the tiled hearth for a closer look. I was no fan or patron of religious art, but even I could see that this piece was exquisite. Each retablo-each saint in his garden background-was eighteen inches tall and a foot wide, the entire triptych framed as a single work of art, touched here and there with what appeared to be gold inlay.
“San Mateo.” She indicated the figure on the left, whose expression suggested that he was stepping on something sharp. “San Juan in the middle, and,” she leaned forward a bit, cocking her head. “San Ignacio.” The other two saints didn’t look especially content, either.
“Now, I’m impressed,” Raught said.
I stepped off the hearth onto the saltillo tile of the living room floor, watching where I put my feet and keeping a tight grasp on the sweating tea glass. The floor tile was polished to resemble old leather, a deep rich brown touched with a scatter of finely woven rugs. Stepping through Jim Raught’s front door was like stepping into the heart of downtown Mexico, from the tile floors to the nichos in the walls and spread of spectacular artwork both secular and religious, right up to the hand-adzed ceiling beams.
“Quite a collection,” I said.
“Perhaps beyond a passion,” Raught laughed. “Closer to obsession.”
“You’ve lived in Mexico?”
“Two years,” he said. “I worked for Honda in Ohio for a lot of years, and then did a gig down in Mexico for them, setting up one of the new parts plants. That job didn’t last long enough by any means, but I make frequent trips. Just whenever I can.” He grinned. “Which, now that I’m retired, is whenever I please.”
I turned a slow, full circle, taking in the Mexican sanctuary. “I gotta ask. How did Posadas reach out and grab you?”
Raught laughed. “Ever lived through an Ohio winter?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“I thought about retiring to Mexico, but you know, when you get used to the infrastructure this country enjoys, and then you look at theirs…some things are hard to give up.” He turned to Estelle. “You probably know what I mean. You could be courting a job with the federales, but you chose the esteemed Posadas County Sheriff’s Department instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
He regarded her for a moment over the top of his glass. “Not long in this country, am I right?”
Estelle took her time. “Long enough to feel at home, sir.”
“Green card or naturalized?” The question was blunt, but offered with such off-hand, non-judgmental curiosity that I let it go, wondering how Estelle Reyes would react.
“I don’t think that my citizenship status is germane at the moment.” She said it without bark or umbrage, just a gentle statement of fact. Raught’s left hand fluttered up to his chest, as if his heart might be considering a little fibrillation.
“No, no,” he said, holding out a reassuring hand. “I don’t mean to pry, young lady. I just get so curious about this world and what wags it. That’s all. I mean no offense. Here thirty miles south of us, we have that line in the sand to make our lives interesting. I meant no offense.”
“None taken, sir.”
“But look,” Raught said, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my life at Marysville, or to be grilled by me about what’s new at the Sheriff’s Department.” He kept talking even as he walked into the kitchen, returning immediately with the glass tea jar. I held out my glass for a refill, he followed with his own, and returned the jug to the kitchen. “What do you need to know?”
I took another long sip of the tea. “As you know, Larry Zipoli was killed yesterday while he was out working on one of the county roads,” I said. “At this stage, we’re developing a profile of the incident, learning what we can about Mr. Zipoli and his activities leading up to the incident.”
“I see.” His tone said, “More, more.”
“It’s standard procedure to talk with neighbors, to talk with whomever we can.”
“I understand that. What can I tell you?”
“Actually, as the crow flies, you’re only a quarter mile or so from the scene,” I said. “Maybe a touch more than that. I’d be interested to know if you heard any gunshots yesterday.”
“Gunshots? No, I think not. Fire crackers, yes.”
“Fireworks…you’re sure?”
“Oh, perfectly sure. One of the kids across the street-“ He pointed diagonally toward the north. “He had what sounded like M-80’s. Is that what they call ’em? Those firecrackers that are just a bit too big for the average kid? KaBOOM! He let fly about four of them, and I thought the Sandoval’s old dog was going to go into orbit. I don’t know what the lad was blowing up, but he seemed to be having a good time.”
“That was what time?”
Raught frowned and looked at the immaculate tile under his bare feet. His face suddenly brightened. “That had to be just around noon or so. Maybe a little before. I happened to glance out the window-I was curious about what gangster was practicing to blow up the bank, you know. Larry Zipoli’s truck came around the corner just about then, and the kid took off. Don’t know why Zipoli would care about fire crackers, but the kid evidently thought he would.”
I paused a moment, sifting through some mental files about who lived where before I came up with a name. “The Arnett youngster, no doubt.” Mo Arnett was one of the Posadas Jaguars benchsitters. I cruised the village often enough to have seen him trudging home from school, megaton backpack sagging his pudgy shoulders.
“Indeed. I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble for a few firecrackers.”
“Not likely. So…Larry Zipoli came home for lunch yesterday?”
Raught nodded. “Well, maybe not to eat lunch. I heard him drive off just a couple of minutes later. Marilyn wasn’t home, so maybe he just had to pick something up. He was only here for a couple of minutes.”
“You’re here all day most of the time?”
“Well, more or less. This is my own private Eden, you know. I’ve seen the rest of the world. Now I’m ready to be a hermit, Undersheriff.”
“Marilyn Zipoli often comes home for lunch?”
“I wouldn’t say often. Once in a while. Once in a while one of them, once in a while both. You know,” and he sipped his tea. “I really don’t make a point of monitoring their habits.” He frowned and played with the sprig of mint on the edge of his glass, then, as if the thought that had wandered into his mind was inappropriate, shook his head quickly.
“In the past few days, did you have occasion to talk with Mr. Zipoli?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“No neighborly chats, no property line disputes, nothing like that? No noisy children? No issues of any kind?”
Raught’s eyes narrowed a little with amusement. “You sound as if you’ve heard something, Undersheriff.” He set his glass on an end table with great care, then clasped his hands between his knees. “The last time I actually spoke to Larry Zipoli was…was.” He shrugged. “Was sometime. I would be making something up if I tried to pinpoint a time. This is one of those interesting neighborhoods where everybody keeps pretty much to themselves, Undersheriff. We don’t do community barbecues. I’ve never been in Zipoli’s home, or the Sandoval’s across the street, or in Mrs. Fernandez’s next door the other way, or the Arnetts’. And they haven’t been in here.” He sawed his hands back and forth. “Separate lives, so to speak.”
“I know exactly how that works,” I said. I would have been hard pressed to remember the last time someone had stepped across the threshold of my old adobe on the south side of town. “A quiet neighborhood where everybody minds his own business. Still, Mr. Raught, we hear things.” I slipped two fingers into my pocket and drew out the little business card wallet. “Do you remember what the discussion was about?”
“Actually, I do. Larry stuck one of those ugly little plastic fences in his front yard-a boundary marker, I suppose. In my usual tactless fashion, I told him it was the ugliest thing I could imagine, and that we could probably work out something more artistic.” He shrugged helplessly. “He didn’t like that.”
“And that’s as far as it went?”
“Well…I suppose not.”
“Which means what?”
“Not only was the fence ugly, he didn’t install it properly. The first wind gust grabbed it, and there you go. The next day, I found a piece in the middle of one of the cactus beds. I tossed it back in his yard.”
“You had words over that?”
“No. Apparently they got rid of it.”
“You didn’t throw it away?”
“Now why would I do that? I tossed the one piece-what, they’re about six feet long? I tossed it back into their yard.”
“This was recently?”
“No. Several days ago, I guess.”
I handed a business card to him. “If you happen to think of anything else, give me a call. I’d appreciate it.”
“I can’t imagine thinking of what, Undersheriff. Sure enough, sound carries easily. Last night was pretty grim. You know, I enjoy swimming. But I couldn’t last night. Marilyn Zipoli was in a way, let me tell you. My God, this must be hard for her. I crawled back into my cave so I didn’t have to listen…just heart wrenching.”
“And during those evening swims, when both Marilyn and Larry were home, you didn’t hear any ruckus of any kind in the past few days?”
“No.” He looked sideways, maybe a trifle embarrassed. “You know, I moved in here about seven years ago. I hadn’t been here for more than a month when Marilyn Zipoli made a forward pass. At me, if you can imagine. I sure as hell don’t want to encourage that sort of thing, so maybe I take to an extreme this keeping to myself business.”
He stood up and beckoned. “Let me show you something.” He included Estelle in the invitation. We followed Raught through the house, out into the back yard-a place to take the breath away. The yard, perhaps a hundred feet wide by eighty feet deep, was an incredible accomplishment, but this time, from the oriental corner of the world. Totally out of place in Posadas, New Mexico, the plantings heavily favored sculptured oriental evergreens, dense bushes the like of which I hadn’t seen since my brief military posting in Korea. And rocks, rocks everywhere, gorgeous sandstone things with more exotic plants tucked in crannies.
One long back wall was home to half a dozen grape vines, their tendrils winding and entwining, fruit already heavy by late
summer.
The central feature of the yard was a redwood gazebo complete with high-end teak garden furniture, looking out across one of those narrow lap pools that jet a raging river so that you either exercise wildly to stay afloat or end up smashed against the downstream end, a drowned rat. Jim Raught’s physique said that he swam miles and miles upstream.
“An amazing place,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“I have photos of what it looked like when I first moved in,” he replied. “Lots and lots of desert weeds.”
“That’s what I specialize in,” I laughed. “You know, it’s amazing. I can drive up the street and never know this little paradise is here.”
“And that’s the whole point, I suppose,” Raught said. “I can enjoy old Mexico inside, and then duck outside for a touch of Japan.” He grinned “Visited there half a dozen times for Honda.” He nodded toward the east, toward Zipolis. “They took out a scruffy old elm that died a good number of years ago. I was using some of the dead limbs that spanned across the fence as part of the artwork, so I’ll have to work on that a bit now. It looks kind of bare.”
It didn’t to me, but then again, bare to me was clean gravel or sand. The wall separating the neighbors was a full six feet, concrete block plastered adobe color, supporting redwood lattice panels. There was so much vegetation on Raught’s side I could spot the wall only as a shadow in a few places. Interesting. I would have been able to stand in the Zipolis back yard and not be able to see anything of Jim Raught’s place…certainly not enough to be able to see a purported marijuana plant growing up his back porch.
I turned in place. Like everything else, the back porch was designed to blend with the entire motif. Very Architectural Digesty. Or Better Japanese Gardens. Lots of redwood, stout vertical lines that somehow managed to look airy and light, latticework that wasn’t just the cheap stapled together stuff from the home improvement center.
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