“Oh? There will always be cattle,” Maggie said.
“Sure enough. But the permit policy keeps getting wound up in red tape, and the solution to that is just more paperwork. They have a whole herd of new concerns with this mad cow thing, and the illegal border traffic is a real pain in the ass, if you’ll pardon my French. And then I got a memo the other day saying that we’re going to be carrying guns now.” I waved a hand in disgust. “I mean, I do anyway, and have for half a century. But now there’s a whole raft of training procedures and policies coming down the pike. Christ, the whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t need it.”
“Like everything else,” Maggie said. “We live in a world of paperwork. You should see my desk. ”
“It’s silly, isn’t it.”
“Yes, it is.” She sat quietly for a moment, regarding the none-too-clean carpet. “You said you were out at the ranch. You know, I haven’t seen Herb or Annie Torrance in months.”
“They’re fine,” I said, which was more or less true.
She nodded and regarded her hands, deep in thought. “Dad thought a lot of you,” she said after a while.
“It was mutual.” I knew it was about time to stir. Through the open kitchen doorway, I saw Estelle stand up and nod in response to something that Alan Perrone said. She ducked under the yellow ribbon and detoured toward us.
“We’re almost finished,” she said. “Are you going to be all right?” Maggie had finally dived into the tissues, and was working to restore order to her face.
“We’re reminiscing,” Maggie said. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, ma’am. Thanks.” For a moment, Estelle stood there, looking as if she wanted to ask us something, then turned away with a sympathetic little nod. She left the house with Linda Real in tow.
“What a gorgeous creature,” Maggie said.
“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “She’s managed to cope, though.” Maybe Maggie knew what I meant, maybe not.
“How’s the clinic going for them? What a venture that is.”
Estelle’s husband, Francis, was opening a medical clinic in partnership with Alan Perrone. Construction was nearly complete on the hi-tech facility on property behind my house on Guadalupe Terrace, south of the interstate. Posadas Health Center included offices for three physicians and a pharmacy. I knew that plans called for another wing that would include a dental office.
“They’ve had their challenges,” I said. “Like anything. But it’s what they’ve wanted.”
“Realtors everywhere burned you in effigy for giving away that land,” Maggie said, but a soft smile told me that I’d been forgiven for not realizing that, in any venture like the clinic, the right folks needed to get rich.
“I smelled the smoke,” I laughed, trying not to let any irritation show. “I didn’t need the land, and the Guzmans did. It was that simple. I didn’t need to make a bundle on the deal. Anyway, I had ulterior motives, Maggie. It gets kinda lonely out there in that big old adobe of mine. This way, I wound up with just the neighbors I wanted.” She nodded at the logic of that. “Kind of like your dad deciding to give that lot behind the Public Safety Building to the county for the new office wing. He didn’t need it, they did…”
Maggie looked heavenward at that. “And I don’t know if dad ever finished with that or not.” I cocked my head quizzically at that-and not because it was new information. The county wanted more offices, for what I don’t know. One of the lots involved in the expansion project was owned by George, and I had assumed long ago that the deal to transfer the land to the county had already been consummated.
She caught the expression and patted my hand again. “Mañana was my dad’s favorite expression when it came to things like that,” she said. “Lots of i’s and t’s to be dotted and crossed yet.”
The undersheriff reappeared, lugging the large black briefcase that lived in the trunk of her county car. “May I talk with you for a few minutes, sir?” she asked me, pausing on her way to the kitchen.
“Sure. Do I have to get up?”
She smiled and stepped closer, holding out a hand. I outweighed her by an embarrassing tonnage, but she was surprisingly strong.
“I’d make some fresh coffee,” Maggie offered, “but everything is in the kitchen.”
“Not to worry.” I followed Estelle under the tape again. To my surprise, she closed the door behind us.
“How are you doing?” Perrone asked, looking suspiciously at me. He wore thin latex gloves and didn’t offer to shake hands.
“I’m fine,” I said, feeling a little rise of annoyance. People needed to stop assessing my mortality. There were better things to do. Estelle knelt over by the fridge and opened her case, removing a selection of plastic evidence bags and a fine-line marker. Perrone leaned against the counter, both hands held in front of him like a freshly scrubbed surgeon, watching.
“What puzzles me,” he said, and beckoned me closer. I stepped around the table so I could hear him. “What puzzles me,” he repeated, “is the allergic reaction that we see here.”
“The mucous that Estelle mentioned?”
“Indeed that. Anaphylactic shock is really pretty characteristic,” Perrone said. “Somebody is stung by a wasp or something, and reacts? If the allergy is acute, the whole system can crash.” He spread his hands apart again. “In some ways, the symptoms can mimic a massive coronary-and I suppose that the end result is the same. The system can’t get air, the pulse races, things go from bad to worse.”
“You’re saying that George had an allergic reaction?”
“I would say so. Just from some preliminary hints. I could be wrong, of course, but, you know…”
I didn’t know. “He had a bad heart,” I said, as if I didn’t remember that I was talking to George’s personal physician.
Perrone nodded slowly. “Bad is an understatement, Bill. I’d say more like wrecked. An allergic reaction is really dangerous for someone in his condition. I could add that he was supposed to be on supplemental oxygen, but didn’t use it most of the time. He didn’t take his meds. On and on.” He bent down beside George’s corpse, which had been moved now so that the victim lay on his back, parallel to the sink counter. “The massive mucous discharge is consistent with an allergic reaction.” He reached out and gently opened George’s mouth a bit.
“The bronchial spasm makes it impossible to swallow,” he explained. “The choke reflex is going to trigger all sorts of responses, including that feeling of desperation.” He glanced up at me. “All of that happening in someone with George’s bad health is as dangerous as a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Likely that his damaged heart couldn’t take the strain.”
“So you’re saying that he started to choke, is that it? And that triggered the coronary?”
“Good a guess as any at this point.” He resumed his examination of the victim’s mouth. “There’s still food in the mouth and esophagus. That’s how quick and massive the whole scenario was.” He leaned back, regarding the corpse for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. “Estelle tells me that this is a meal that George ate on a regular basis?”
“Sure. More or less. I was supposed to have lunch with him today.”
“Huh. Interesting fare, Bill. Nice and light, low-calorie, easy on the spices…” He shot me one of his thin-lipped smiles.
“Some things are best withheld from the authorities,” I said, and Perrone grimaced with impatience.
“But we find out sooner or later, even if we have to do a post mortem,” he said. “Did he have any food allergies that you know about? Ones that he ‘withheld’ from me?”
“Don’t know. You might ask Maggie, but all the times that I ate with George, there was never any mention of anything. He loved Mexican food the way Fernando Aragon cooks it at the Don Juan. He loved a big glass of red wine before he ate to whet his appetite, and then another with the meal.” I turned and looked at the table.
“That’s not exactly a conservative wine glass,” Perrone sa
id, turning to look at the juice tumbler. “Two of those?”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful kick that must have given his kidneys.”
“He’s been eating this same thing for twenty years, doc. For what it’s worth, he stayed clear of red chile because he said that it irritated his gut. The green didn’t.”
“Until today,” Perrone observed. “Something sure as hell kicked his system.”
Estelle slipped past me. Hands gloved in latex, she slid the glass serving dish, contents and all, into an evidence bag and sealed it. I watched as she labeled it in fine, precise penmanship.
“I can’t imagine what that might be,” I said. “Maybe a wasp or hornet or something got into the house.” I glanced around at the floor, along the walls. “We have those damn centipedes all over the place this time of the year.”
“And maybe nothing at all,” Perrone added. “I’ll have to check his file, but to the best of my recollection, George never discussed allergies like that with me. I don’t recall any intolerance to meds…what few he ever took, that is.” He nudged the pill organizer that I’m sure Maggie had purchased and organized for her father. “Around here, juniper pollen bothers about 90 percent of the population-that and the ragweed along the highways. George could have stood in the middle of a blooming juniper grove holding a bouquet of ragweed and never offer up a sneeze.”
“Maybe it was one of the meds he didn’t take,” I said.
“Unlikely. But it’s something to check.” He nodded at the food. “We’ll take a good hard look at that and the stomach and esophageal contents. We’ll look for insect bites or stings, and who knows. Maybe something will turn up.” He turned a full circle. “But you know, I doubt it.” He shrugged philosophically. “My impression is that it was just the moment his general system chose to say, ‘enough.’” He gathered his bag. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “You want me to give the go-ahead to the EMTs?”
“Sure,” Estelle said. “Thanks.”
In another couple of minutes, the silent, white-sheeted figure of George Payton was packed aboard a gurney for his final ride. Estelle held the kitchen door for them, then closed it carefully and went back to work. The fork that George had been using went into a separate bag, and then she cracked open the sealed plastic wrap around a fair-sized test tube. Methodically, using a disposable spatula made out of a slip of sterile paper, she collected more red wine from the spill on the floor than I would have thought possible, sealed the tube, and labeled it. The tumbler went into its own bag. She was filling out the label when she paused and glanced up at me.
“Everything but the kitchen sink,” I said.
“I checked that already, sir,” she said. “The garbage can underneath the sink has a fresh liner. One empty wine bottle, one paper bag.”
I tipped open the small cabinet under the sink, and saw that the blue plastic liner of the garbage can wasn’t soiled by as much as a coffee ground. The sole contents were a wine bottle nosed down into the can, with a crumpled bag wedged in with it. No doubt, Estelle would empty all that into evidence bags, too. “So tell me,” I said, glancing back at the table. The bottle of wine that stood open on the table was fresh, minus only the tumblerful that stained the linoleum.
“Sir?”
“Something about all this,” I said. “You’re thinking again, sweetheart.”
“Oh, no,” Estelle said in mock horror. “It’s that obvious?”
“’Fraid so.”
“The allergic reaction is interesting,” the undersheriff said. “That’s all. That and the bag from the Don Juan.” That souvenir was folded into a plastic evidence bag as well.
Chapter Five
The yellow ribbon blocking the kitchen door was down, the kitchen empty, George’s body gone. Just like that. Phil Borman stood out on the front step, smoking. He held onto the screen door as if the light breeze might tear it from its flimsy hinges. I heard him talking to someone out on the front step, a neighbor perhaps.
“There’s something apropos in all this,” Maggie Borman said. She reached out a hand to me and used my grip as leverage to rise from the sofa.
“How so?”
She held my hand in both of hers. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted to wait around until he didn’t have the strength to lift a fork, Bill. He said as much to me on a dozen occasions, you know. And more often here recently, after his last stroke. I think he could see what was coming.” She reached out and retrieved George’s unused alert button from the top of the piano. “Even this,” she said. “I bought this for him.” Maggie looked up at me, eyes appealing. “There it was on top of the piano, untouched. I wonder now if it could have saved his life.”
“Probably not,” I said. “But we’ll never know. George was George, Maggie. That’s all there is to it. He knew what he wanted.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she said. “He missed Mama so much.” She turned toward the kitchen just in time to see Estelle drop the small evidence bag holding George’s fork into the briefcase.
A small cooler with the Sheriff’s Department logo on the lid now rested on the floor. Arranged inside, as if for a picnic, were the various items that Estelle had gathered from the kitchen-the serving dish with its plastic lid, now encased in its own plastic cocoon, the empty wine bottle and its paper bag from the trash in one evidence bag, the almost full bottle in another.
“I was going to clean all that up…” Maggie said, starting toward the kitchen. She stopped as if the yellow tape was still in place.
Estelle smiled sympathetically. “That’s all right, Mrs. Borman. We’ll take care of it.”
“You’ll need to refrigerate that,” Maggie added, and I wasn’t sure what she was thinking-that somehow the undersheriff wouldn’t know that food spoiled?
“It’s routine to run some basic lab tests, Maggie,” I said. “We’ll all be just a little more comfortable when we know what triggered the episode.” We, I heard myself say.
She looked at me, puzzled. “Well, that’s certainly all right,” she said. “I don’t know what the procedure is. Will you see that the serving dish is returned to the restaurant?”
“You bet.” I was not surprised that Maggie was concerning herself with such trivialities. It’s trivia that sometimes gets us through the toughest moments. “And Maggie, if there’s anything I can do,” I added, resorting to the well-worn exit line, “you let me know.”
She looked as if she was about to take me up on that offer, holding up a finger and taking a deep breath. Then she deflated. “Oh, there’ll be lots to do, I’m sure,” she said.
I helped Estelle lug her equipment out to her car. With no further spectacle to watch, most of the neighbors had gone about their business. Depressed as hell, I waited on the sidewalk as Estelle finished up.
“Sir,” Estelle said, slamming down the trunk of her car, “I’ll give you a call as soon as Dr. Perrone has something for me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll get this off to the lab, and then we’ll see.”
“Are you ready for lunch yet?”
“Better still, why don’t you plan to come over for dinner tonight? That’ll give me time to ship this batch off to Albuquerque, and catch up on paperwork.”
I had been thinking of a midafternoon memorial burrito, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’d manage the hours before dinner somehow. “It’s a deal,” I said. “What can I bring?”
“Yourself, padrino. Los dos will be excited.” That was the charm of little kids, of course. They could see me five times in a week, and still be thrilled with yet another opportunity to drag me into their world.
“I was going to wander over to the hospital for a few minutes to see how Dale Torrance is doing, and then I need to run the permit paperwork out to the ranch. Pat is standing around out there waiting on all this. Dinner will work out just right.”
“Wish the Torrances well for me.” Estelle opened the car door. “See you at the house, then. Anytime is fine.”
I raised a hand in salute, still unmotivated to resume whatever it was that I was doing before this. Estelle was headed back to her office. Deputy Dennis Collins and Officer Beuler had left the neighborhood, no doubt already prowling the highways and school crossings. That’s what the young do when someone older dies, I suppose-pause a minute or two and then get on with life. Us older duffers reacted a little differently. Losing one of my oldest, closest friends had punched out some of my stuffing, and I wasn’t ready just yet to draw a line through George Payton’s name. George would have laughed at me.
I ambled back to the SUV and called the hospital, saving myself a trip of four blocks. Dale Torrance had been transferred to Las Cruces so that an orthopedic surgeon there could whack away at the lad’s wrecked knee. I switched off the phone, relieved that I didn’t need to visit Posadas General. Its antiseptic atmosphere wasn’t good therapy for me just then, anyway. I’d be apt to glance through some door left ajar and see someone I knew, withered and old, intubated and helpless.
The sun felt good as it streamed through the Chevy’s window. I sat for a few minutes, finishing Herb Torrance’s livestock transportation permit. Herb and Annie had gone on to Cruces, but Pat Gabaldon could sign off just as easily. It wasn’t as if a giant, bellowing herd was tramping across four states. The single, modest trailer load wouldn’t even leave the county. It was the sort of mindless attention to bureaucratic detail that allowed my mind to roam free, picking at this and that, remembering this and that.
By the time I returned to the Torrance ranch, Pat had the twenty-four critters all buttoned up in the trailer, the rig turned around and ready to head out the driveway. He was leaning against the front fender of Herb’s huge diesel dually one-ton pickup, cell phone pasted to his ear, and raised a hand in salute at the sound of my approach. Pat continued his conversation as he sauntered out to meet me. A short, compact kid in faded, sweat-stained denim, he ruined his cowpoke image with an Oakland A’s baseball cap worn askew, brim to the rear. He shared the old trailer behind Herb and Annie’s place, the modern equivalent of a bunk house, with Dale Torrance.
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