Convenient Disposal

by Steven F Havill

  “Too bad the aroma won’t fit in an evidence bag.”

  “The assumption is that it’s Kevin’s truck, so he was driving it.” Estelle shrugged. “Maybe not so.”

  “Or someone was with him.”

  Estelle ran her hand through her hair in frustration.

  “Caramba,” she muttered. “Too many directions. I came over to check his clothes, Jackie. Let’s do that. Then I want to talk with Doris Marens again.”

  “And she is…”

  “The lady who lives up the street. Right at the intersection with MacArthur. She told Mike that she didn’t see a thing, but it wouldn’t hurt to put the thumbscrews on her a little. There might be something. It’s beginning to look as if she’s the only person who was home on the entire street at the time—other than Carmen. We don’t have ourselves a whole herd of willing witnesses.”

  “In the meantime, there’s a dirty-clothes hamper in the master bedroom,” Jackie said. She stood up and beckoned. “Linda’s back there now, riffling through his drawers. Sounds kinky, huh?”

  In the bedroom, Linda Real was sitting cross-legged on the floor with the bottom dresser drawer open in front of her.

  “Hey there,” she said as Estelle and Jackie entered the room. She paused, one hand resting on the edge of the drawer.

  “Anything?”

  “A ton of slides,” Linda said, indicating the yellow boxes that filled a third of the wide drawer, “I checked a few at random. They appear to be what the box labels say they are. Vacations, bike races, that sort of thing. None of them are newer than 2000, the year before he moved here. And these”—and she tapped two large scrapbooks—“are family stuff, newspaper clippings, those sorts of things. I learned some interesting stuff that maybe I don’t need to know.”

  “For example?”

  “Well,” Linda said, “for example, I didn’t know that Kevin Zeigler was married before. His son is in second grade in Socorro.”

  “Ay,” Estelle breathed. “I didn’t know that either.”

  “I always thought he was the swinging bachelor type since day one. Apparently not. Anyway, that and a few other old things.” Linda reached up and ran a hand down the three upper drawers. “These are clothes, and this one is memories.”

  “We need to rummage through his dirty clothes,” Jackie said.

  The scarred eyebrow over Linda’s blind left eye lifted a fraction. “Ooookay. Maybe better you than me, kid. The basket’s in the bathroom.”

  “I’ll get it,” Jackie said, and in a moment she returned with a small wicker hamper. “We might as well use the bed.” They removed each article of clothing from the hamper, shook it out, and laid it on the bedspread.

  “This would be a good time for Kevin to show up,” Estelle said. “Come home to find three women riffling through his underwear.”

  “‘But I just had a meeting in Deming,’” Jackie said, doing a fair imitation of the county manager. “‘Did I forget to tell you?’” She glanced at Estelle, not smiling. “Don’t we wish.”

  Five minutes later, Estelle tossed the last sock into the pile. She snapped the cuff of her latex glove in frustration. “Nothing.” Two pairs of Zeigler’s habitual light chinos had been in the laundry, and neither showed any soil—much less tears, cuts, or stains. And other than a few wrinkles, the shirts appeared unworn—except for the aroma of cologne, concentrated by the confines of the hamper.

  “That would have been too simple,” Estelle said with a sigh. She moved the hamper closer to the bed and swept the dirty clothes back in.

  Jackie took the hamper back to the bathroom. “We wanted to show you one other thing,” she said.

  “Okay. And Linda—the slide boxes? If you have the time, we need to check every one. I know it’s probably wasted effort, but you never know. He might have something hidden away that’ll tell us something.”

  “I think we’re seeing the answer,” Jackie said. “This is a house that the owner left first thing in the morning to go to work. Everything’s put away, everything’s in order. I don’t think Kevin Zeigler’s been here since yesterday morning.” She nodded back toward the bathroom. “If he came home to change his clothes, the offending article would be in the hamper.”

  “The ‘offending article,’” Linda repeated. “I like that.”

  “Or in the trash, if he just flat ruined it. But we checked. There’s nothing other than coffee grounds and an empty orange juice container in the trash under the sink. There’s no article of clothing in the garbage can in the pantry. And there’s nothing in the wheel-out at the side of the house.” Jackie shrugged. “I mean, the guy’s just too neat for his own good.”

  “He could have dropped things off at the cleaners,” Linda offered.

  “Maybe. And a telephone call will answer that,” Jackie said. She beckoned Estelle to follow her out to the living room. “What the hell,” she said. “As long as we’re going through everything right down to the man’s underwear, you might as well see this. I don’t know if it makes any difference or not.”

  She halted near the center of the bookcase and pointed at a Rolodex containing several hundred photos. The one facing the living room was a color portrait of William Page and Kevin Zeigler astraddle their racing bikes, holding a large trophy between them. Zeigler was wearing a helmet, Page was not.

  “Family and friends,” Jackie said, turning the large black knob on the side to flip pictures by. She stopped at another that showed the Acostas’ backyard, smoke billowing from a large barbecue grill. Freddy grinned at the camera, a bottle of beer in one hand, large chrome fork in the other. Behind him, Juanita and Carmen were working at the picnic table. “Lots of things like this.” She spun the dial some more. “And a few like this.”

  The photo that stopped was one of Mauro and Tony. Tony, the chubby one, was twisted, one foot high behind him as he stabbed at the Hacky Sack. Mauro was obviously bellowing something, either curses or encouragement.

  “The interesting thing is that this is taken through the window in Kevin’s office,” Jackie said. “You can see by the background that’s where he had to be standing. This”—and she touched the right side of the photo—“is a blur from the window frame. That’s what Linda thinks.”

  “Okay,” Estelle said.

  Jackie flipped another picture. This one was just of Mauro, standing with one hand on the back of his head and the other on his hip, looking thoughtfully at the ground. He was wearing low-slung, ragged denim cutoffs and nothing else, the planes of his chiseled torso catching the light and shadows.

  “A bit on the provocative side,” Jackie said.

  Estelle sighed. “Okay, again.”

  “I just thought you should know,” Jackie said.

  “I do know,” Estelle said a little more testily than she would have liked. “I know that William Page and Kevin are gay, I know they’re living together as time allows. And I guess this doesn’t surprise me much either. I mean”—and she flipped the Rolodex several photos beyond Mauro to an innocuous print taken from the top of Cat Mesa—“I could argue that if Carmen looked like a starlet and liked to pose half naked in the backyard, Kevin would probably have snapped her picture, too, assuming that his interests were directed that way…which they don’t appear to be. Find me a basement full of whips and chains and black leathers, and then I’ll admit that maybe it makes a difference.”

  Jackie nodded silently.

  “We need two things, Jackie. We need Carmen Acosta to pop out of her coma by some miracle of modern medicine and tell us who fractured her skull and then drove a hat pin through her head. And then we need to find Kevin Zeigler, alive and well.”

  “I don’t think we’re headed for either one.”

  “And I wish you weren’t right,” Estelle said.

  Chapter Twenty

  From the Marenses’ driveway, Estelle could look down Candelaria Court and see the front door of each house. Seven families lived on the little street. It now appeared that only Carmen Acosta a
nd Doris Marens had been home between noon and two PM on Tuesday.

  According to deputies, Mrs. Marens had chosen not to accompany her husband to Las Cruces that Tuesday on a book-buying trip. Now home with whatever treasures he’d found, it was Clarence Marens who answered the door. Angular and badly bent from arthritis, Marens had to cock his head slightly to look at Estelle. A thick pair of glasses hung precariously from his pocket.

  “Good morning, Dr. Marens,” Estelle said. She saw the flash of confusion on Marens’ wrinkled face, even though the man must have been accustomed to random greetings from college students who knew him, but who had never graced his classes. “I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman, sir. May I come in for a moment?”

  “Well, of course you can,” Marens replied. He fumbled with the tricky storm-door lock.

  “Is your wife home, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said judiciously. “I think she is. Whom should I say is calling?”

  “I’m with the Sheriff’s Department, sir.”

  “Oh, certainly.” His gaze dropped to the seven-point gold badge on her belt, visible except when her jacket was zipped. “Just a moment while I go fetch her, young lady.” He started to turn away, then stopped abruptly, beckoning Estelle into the house. “Forgive me. Come in, come in.”

  He pushed at the storm door awkwardly, and Estelle caught the latch. “Where are my manners.” He beamed metallically as Estelle entered. “Doe!” he called to his wife. “Doe, you have company.” Marens’ hands wavered as if he were unsure that Estelle would remain upright if he stepped away. “I’ll tell her you’re here. I think she’s sewing.”

  The living room to Estelle’s left was small, neat, overfurnished, and unused. An old-fashioned paper roller blind was drawn down over the window that faced toward neighbors to the east, and through which Zeigler’s home would be clearly visible. Lacy drapes softened the drab effect of the blind. The larger window that directly faced the street was shaded by a modern vertical shade, the sort with narrow slats that both rotated and could be drawn to the side. The slats were currently drawn closed, but rotated so that the view down the street was not obscured.

  “How about some coffee?” Estelle turned to see Clarence Marens poised in the archway leading to the kitchen.

  “No thanks, sir.”

  “Tuna sandwich?” He glanced at his watch.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, I was just about to make us a snack, and I’d be absolutely delighted to make a third.”

  “I appreciate the offer, sir. But no, thank you.”

  “Homemade bread.” He persisted, and his eyes twinkled when Estelle laughed. “We have one of those bread machines. You ever tried one of those?”

  “They’re wonderful, sir.”

  “I doubt that she’s interested in tuna fish sandwiches or bread machines,” his wife called. In a moment she bustled into the living room, a small, neat package of energy. Her smile of greeting immediately turned into a frown. “I talked to the young man yesterday. I’m trying to recall his name…”

  “Officer Sisneros, I believe,” Estelle said.

  “Yes. The village officer. What a mess you have over there.”

  “Mrs. Marens, I wanted to talk with you again about what you might have heard and seen yesterday. I know you’ve been through it all before, but with a little time now, there’s always the chance that you may have remembered something.”

  “How’s the child? I understand that it was Carmen who was—”

  “We think that Carmen will be okay, Mrs. Marens.”

  “Just awful. Really just awful. Well”—and she glanced first into the living room, and then toward the kitchen—“would you like to sit down?”

  “Here would be fine,” Estelle said, and stepped toward the overstuffed sofa that faced the front window.

  “I’m cutting bread,” Dr. Marens called, and his wife grimaced with impatience.

  “We’re going to both end up as blimps,” she said. “My daughter-in-law gave Cal the bread machine for his birthday. Now he’s Mr. Baker. Anyway, fire away.” She settled into a rocker.

  “Mrs. Marens, when I arrived yesterday, I saw you standing out on your porch.”

  “Well, my goodness, such a circus, with the sirens and all. I know that it’s none of my business, but the first thing that crossed my mind was, Oh my goodness, the school bus is going to be driving into the middle of all this.”

  “I’d like you to remember back to early morning, though,” Estelle said. “Before any of this happened. You told Officer Sisneros that you didn’t hear or see anything unusual between noon and the circus.” She smiled. “But before that? Would you tell me about your morning?”

  “My morning. Well…my days are so exciting. Cal and I start thinking about getting up right at seven AM The clock radio comes on, and we listen to the news. That tells us if the world is still in one piece or not—whether there’s any reason to get up. So far, so good. Yesterday, Cal decided to go to Las Cruces. That wonderful bookstore there, in the mall. That’s just what we need is more books.”

  “Everyone needs more books,” Dr. Marens said from the kitchen.

  Doris Marens held up her hands. “And that’s that. I spent my morning doing two loads of laundry”—and she ticked two fingers—“and then I wrote a letter to my sister Agnes. Then I went to work back in the sewing room. I’m a shirt factory now.”

  “Five grandchildren,” Dr. Marens called proudly.

  “I took a little break around one or so and had a turkey sandwich. And then back to sewing. And then sirens and lights, and Lord knows what all.”

  “At any time in the morning, do you recall seeing any traffic on the street? Any at all?”

  Doris shook her head. “Most of the time, I was up to my ears in stitchery. That little bedroom back there has just the one window that looks south. There certainly isn’t much to see out back. Just weeds and more weeds. But you know, this is a quiet street.” She pointed past Estelle. “Not what I’d call traffic. Neil across the way goes to work about eight or so. He works at the bank, as I’m sure you know. Mrs. Sanchez next door has been in Tucson for a month with her son and daughter-in-law.” Her hand worked down the street methodically. “Both Penny and Ralph Beuler teach at the high school, so they’re gone by seven. And the county manager lives down at the end. He’s gone early, too. That just leaves the one other house on this side of the street. It’s vacant now.”

  “Kevin Zeigler probably left for work before you got up, then.”

  “Oh, certainly. We usually hear his little truck, and I fret about that sometimes, too. He drives way too fast on this street. Did you talk with him?”

  “She frets about everything,” Dr. Marens said from the kitchen.

  Estelle jotted a note on her small pad, and her lack of response prompted Doris. “He came home at around noon, you know. You need to talk with him, certainly. Maybe he saw something.”

  “You saw Zeigler drive by at noon?”

  “Well, not noon, exactly. When did I see him.” She looked down at the carpet. “I think it was when I was coming out to the kitchen. That little white truck of his.” She sat back in the rocker, hands braced on the arms of the chair as if awaiting lift-off. “Which is unusual, I suppose. As far as I know, Kevin rarely comes home during the day. He’s sort of the phantom of Candelaria Court. I don’t know, maybe yard and garden isn’t his thing. Every once in a while, we see him on his bike—sometimes with his friend. The one with the fancy car.”

  “Can you recall exactly what time that was? When you saw his truck?”

  She frowned and pursed her lips. “What time did I eat lunch? That’s the puzzle.” She brightened and smiled at Estelle. “You see, if you’d told me yesterday that I should remember all this, I would have paid attention.”

  “That’s the way it works, I’m afraid,” Estelle said.

  “What time? I know that it was sometime after the noon news. I always listen to that. That was over, and I worked in
the back for a little bit. So I don’t know—I could guess that it was sometime between twelve-fifteen or twelve-thirty and one o’clock. I’m just sure that it wasn’t after one. Well, one-thirty at the latest.”

  “Or maybe two or three or four,” Dr. Marens said. “Your sandwich is ready, Doe.”

  “You just be patient,” she said, and shook her head. “It wasn’t after one-thirty.”

  “What did you see, exactly? Will you show me?”

  “Oh.” She pushed herself out of the rocker. “Now you’re asking me for impossible details. Let’s see…I was walking to the kitchen from the sewing room.” She moved to the hallway and turned. “He drove by, whoosh, like that.” She chopped the air with her hand. “And that’s it.”

  “Why would you remember that?” Dr. Marens asked.

  “Who knows why we remember what we remember, Mr. Memory Expert,” Doris said. “I didn’t remember that when I talked with the village officer yesterday. But he didn’t ask about earlier in the morning, either.” She returned to the rocker, sitting on the edge of the seat. “What’s Kevin say?” she asked.

  “I haven’t asked him about that particular moment,” Estelle replied.

  “Well, you should. It wasn’t that long before all the fireworks.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she made the connections for herself. “Was it one of the family who was responsible? They’re quite a crew down there, the Acostas are.”

  “We don’t know yet, Mrs. Marens.”

  “You need to talk with Kevin,” Doris persisted. “I know that was him going by. And you know, for once, he wasn’t going ninety miles an hour, either.”

  “He doesn’t drive that fast,” Dr. Marens said. He appeared in the archway, cup in hand. He held it up toward Estelle. “You sure?”

  “He does drive that fast,” Doris said. “You just don’t notice.”