The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15

by Steven F Havill

  “Indeed I am.”

  The priest let a hand on each child’s head suffice, and then he turned back to the undersheriff, who hadn’t left her position by the front door. “Is there a chance that we might talk?” Anselmo asked. “I realize that it’s a terrible intrusion, but it’s most important.”

  There was no point in asking if the conversation could wait. Estelle could see that the affable priest was agitated and worried.

  “I’m sorry,” Anselmo continued. “But if I could have just a few minutes…” It wasn’t lost on her that he’d taken the time to change into priestly black, broken only by the hyphen of white at his throat. His worn black shoes had been polished until the black cracks and creases showed like rivers on a map.

  “Sure,” Estelle said. “Hijo, a short intermission,” she said to her son, and the little boy nodded good-naturedly.

  “Perhaps we could just step outside for a moment,” Anselmo suggested.

  “We can do that,” Estelle said. “Un momento.” From the hall closet she pulled a light jacket. “Now’s a good time for the pie,” she said, and Bill Gastner brightened, clapping his hands to break the awkward silence. “Francisco and Carlos, will you help Irma serve?”

  “Again, I am most apologetic,” Father Anselmo said as he and Estelle stepped out into the cool air. “But I wanted to talk to you before things…” He gestured toward the sidewalk. “Shall we walk a little bit?”

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle said. She leaned comfortably against the front fender of her county car and regarded the priest. In most circumstances, she liked Bertrand Anselmo. She liked his unflinching advocacy of his tiny parishes, and the energy he expended on their behalf. Although Teresa Reyes managed to attend perhaps a single mass each month, each one of those occasions prompted heartfelt stories about how padre Anselmo had done this or that, or said this or that. And each time there was the sometimes not-so-veiled suggestion that Estelle should be taking the boys to mass. Now she wondered if Teresa knew of the machinations that had brought Anselmo here this evening.

  Clearly, Anselmo was in over his head, and Estelle could see the worry lines touching his face. There was no point in playing cat-and-mouse games with him. “Did you want to talk to me about Ricardo Ynostroza?” she asked, keeping her voice down.

  “Yes,” Anselmo said without hesitation. “And I am distressed to learn of his arrest, and Felix Otero’s death. I hope the two tragedies are in no way connected.”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect that they might be, Father?”

  “No. Certainly not. And you, Estelle?”

  “An ugly accident, Father. There is no reason to believe that it was anything other than carelessness at the end of a long day of work. But I’m concerned that Otero’s companion chose to leave him to die alone.”

  “That’s what he did?” Anselmo’s voice sank to a whisper.

  “Yes. He ran. That’s as simply as I can put it. He could think of nothing else to do. And maybe he was right. The saw ripped open major arteries, Father. It was a catastrophic wound. If Felix had been sixty seconds from an emergency room, maybe he would have survived, but only maybe.”

  “They had no vehicle at the work site?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact they did, Father, an old truck that belongs to their employer. The nearest clinic would be half an hour away from where they were working-in the best of circumstances. For a man who bleeds out in two minutes, that’s not much help.”

  “And no phone?”

  “No.”

  “So Ricardo ran away.”

  “Yes. He avoided authorities, walked and hid, and finally hitchhiked back here. And that’s what interests me most, Father. He didn’t stay with his dying friend-perhaps because he knew that he could do nothing to help, and didn’t want to be apprehended by authorities. It may be that he’s looking for a way to inform the victim’s family. Maybe that was his intention today. Or maybe he thought he had a chance at stealing some of the Bacas’ recent fortune.” Estelle let that sink in for a moment. “There were so many things he could have done, Father. After the accident, he could have hitchhiked in the other direction, up to Albuquerque, for example. To Socorro. To Cruces. Any number of places. He could have continued south with the burros that he was riding with, right back to Mexico. He didn’t do that. Instead, he chose to come back to Regál. How much are you willing to tell me about all that, Father Anselmo?”

  The ghost of a smile touched the priest’s face. “How much do I have to tell you, Undersheriff Guzman?” he asked, and his tone held both deference and respect.

  “Let’s begin with the simple things,” Estelle said. “Why did you give the two men Betty Contreras’ telephone number?”

  “Ah,” the priest said, and turned to look out at the street as he considered his answer. “Your perception always amazes me.” He turned back and met Estelle’s gaze. “I thought it would be helpful for them to have a contact, should they encounter troubles. One can usually find a telephone.”

  “Why Betty? Why not your own?”

  “She is always available,” Anselmo said. “She is a most resourceful woman, as you know. She volunteered to serve as a contact person. I do not have a cell phone, although I suppose I should. She agreed to pass messages along to me.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s the extent of it. Betty has done nothing wrong, sheriff.”

  “Ynostroza tells me that he and Felix were just two of several illegals who came through this past week…came through your church, that is.”

  “That’s true. I’m sure Ricardo didn’t use the word ‘illegals’, however. Nor do I. But I’m sure you’re not interested in that debate at the moment.”

  “No, as a matter of fact I’m not, Father. They all have Betty’s number? All half dozen of them, or however many there were?”

  “Yes. That is what she agreed to provide in instances like this.”

  “That leads me to believe that this isn’t the first time you’ve assisted a group of undocumented workers.”

  “Of course not. But the telephone number is needed only rarely, if at all. In fact, Betty has never mentioned that she’s received a call for help. I do think that it provides some comfort and security for these people to know that there is someone to call who can be trusted if the need arises.”

  “Ynostroza did not call her.”

  “No, apparently not.”

  “That’s what puzzles me, Father.”

  “I suppose that you’ll turn him over to the authorities? The federal authorities, I mean.”

  “Yes, in all likelihood. I need to talk first with both our district attorney and the folks up in Catron County, where the woodcutting incident happened. I doubt that anyone is going to bring any sort of charges against Ynostroza other than the usual immigration violations. For that, the feds have the appropriate channels established for the processing and handling of aliens. We don’t at the county level.”

  “Despite the fact that you could simply take him to the Regál crossing and wish him well,” Anselmo said.

  “We’re not a taxi service, Father. And we’re not free to invent procedures when the law is already quite clear.” She saw the pained look of impatience cross his face. “Why was Ynostroza headed for Joe Baca’s place? He didn’t go to Betty’s, Father.”

  “He may not actually know where Betty lives,” Anselmo said. “To my knowledge, they have never actually met. I try to keep contacts to a minimum. In her case, just the telephone number, for use in emergencies.”

  “Odd that he didn’t use it this time-what happened certainly qualifies as an emergency. You all meet at the church every time?”

  “Yes.”

  A handy cover, she thought. “But he knew about Joe and Lucinda. He knew right where they lived. Explain that to me.”

  “There had been some talk about the good fortune that has been enjoyed recently,” Anselmo said. “It is not a secret that Joe and Lucinda won a state lottery, and then tw
ice more from some sweepstakes thing, something through the mail. I don’t know the details. But I do know that they have been most generous to the parish. Both before but especially now. I have no doubt that the young men knew of this good fortune-after all, they had the opportunity to speak with them at the church.”

  “That didn’t make you just a little nervous, Father?”

  “Should it?” Anselmo looked genuinely puzzled.

  Surely you can’t be that naive, Estelle thought. “Ynostroza may have been after money, then.”

  “But I can’t believe it would have been robbery,” Anselmo said. “I don’t know young Ricardo well, but there was nothing to make me believe that he might…”

  “Maybe just a little panhandling,” Estelle said.

  “You’re jumping to unwarranted conclusions,” Anselmo said, and he abruptly changed tack. “I think he would want to inform the relatives. Such a sad thing,” the priest said. He thrust both hands in his pockets. “Felix was married, you know. Three little ones.”

  “And Ynostroza?”

  “Unmarried.”

  “Father, what we do know is that Ynostroza didn’t approach the Bacas’ home in a straightforward manner. I can’t believe that he didn’t know where Betty lived, but he didn’t stop there to use her phone. Something about his behavior prompted Betty to remain in her home when he walked by on the lane. He didn’t call them first. He didn’t simply walk to the front door.”

  “Ah,” Anselmo said, “but with police cars converging from all directions, what else would you expect?”

  “You heard about that, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “The grapevine is most efficient, Father.”

  “Well, it’s no grapevine. Betty called me. She said that she had called you when Ricardo walked by. She said that he seemed distraught.”

  “Sin duda. That’s what I’m saying, Father. And yet she didn’t speak with him when she had the chance.”

  Anselmo shrugged. “She is home by herself. Perhaps she felt uneasy.”

  “That’s possible. So tell me, Father Anselmo,” Estelle said. “How are the arrangements made?”

  “Arrangements?”

  “Ynostroza tells me that they started work Monday afternoon, so they traveled through Regál perhaps Sunday? Did they meet at the church on Sunday, perhaps after mass? How was that arranged? You talked with the men down in Tres Santos? Is that where you organize the groups? Or in Buenaventura?”

  “Must I tell you all this?”

  “Father,” Estelle said, unable to keep the impatience out of her voice, “I don’t know what you want from me. If you’re imagining that we might release Ricardo Ynostroza to you, you’re mistaken. I can’t do that. If you imagine that somehow I can smooth the way for you, for what you’re doing, you’re mistaken.”

  “This young man has committed no crime.”

  “Ah, well…we might debate that all evening. He’s certainly in violation of immigration law. You’re in violation of immigration law, Father. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I can guess. The church is a perfect sanctuary, and it apparently works well for the illegals to mix in with the congregation. That’s really just one step above using the unlocked church as a stopover at night-that’s been going on for two hundred years.”

  She paused, watching his face in the glare of the streetlight. He didn’t respond to her comments, and she said, “Is another group coming in during the anniversary celebration tomorrow? Are you bringing some of them north from Tres Santos after your mass there?”

  “Can you imagine being married seventy-five years?” Anselmo said. “Remarkable.”

  She laughed gently at his evasion.

  “You must feel some sympathy for these people, Estelle. After all…”

  “Of course I do. Some. That doesn’t mean I’m going to invent my own private version of the law, Father. I’m not in a position to do that. I’m not going to work at cross-purposes to what other agencies are trying to accomplish.”

  “And what are they trying to accomplish?” he asked, and then immediately held up a hand. “No, please. I promised no debate, and I apologize for putting you in that position. I’m sorry.”

  “Father, let me tell you what I am going to do,” Estelle said. “If during the course of our investigation we find that Ricardo Ynostroza has committed no crime other than his illegal entry into this country-if neither the D.A. nor the Catron County officials want to press charges of any kind-then he will be turned over to Immigration for processing back across the border in a normal fashion. We had word that there is a problem with car theft in Buenaventura-maybe that’s more of a misunderstanding than a crime. Whether the authorities there will pursue that, I don’t know. That’s Ricardo’s problem.”

  “I can ask no more, I suppose.”

  “You can always ask, Father,” she said with a smile. “I’m sure Bobby will agree that’s the most expeditious route. It’s really the only one open to us.”

  “Have you discussed any of…of this…with the sheriff?”

  “My suspicions about what you’re doing, Father? No. But Bobby isn’t stupid, and he knows this county and these people just as well as I do, perhaps better in some ways. I’m fairly sure he knows what’s going on.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Estelle pushed herself away from the car. “You know as well as I do that the legislature is trying to find some kind of solution to this immigration mess.”

  “No doubt more fence,” the priest said, interrupting her.

  “Well, no doubt. But maybe more than that, with some time. So what I’m asking is that you just stop. You’ve got a group coming tomorrow, I’m guessing. Call it off.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Of course you can. You don’t want a confrontation with authorities at the church.”

  “Is that what you’re promising?”

  “Don’t put me in that position, Father. Don’t put us in that position. Don’t put your congregation in that position. Am I going to tip off Immigration? No. But they have their own sources, believe me. So for now, just stop.”

  The priest glanced at his watch, and Estelle pondered how much to press him.

  “You bring in small groups,” she said. “These are workers who for whatever reason can’t find proper documentation, I assume.”

  “That is correct. They want only work. They have little or no money, and they are willing to work hard. I know each one of them.”

  “You don’t drive across the border with six of them stuffed in the trunk of your wonderful car, Father. How do they reach the church?” He didn’t respond and she shook her head in resignation. “Up through the rocks of the San Cristóbals to skirt the fence is foolish, Father. Especially at night.” And then a walk through the village, she thought, with a rendezvous at the iglesia. The whole village would know, and the whole village had to agree to be closemouthed, otherwise the plan wouldn’t work. She wondered if Serafina Roybal was serving tea at this very moment to weary hikers. A little village could protect its secrets easily.

  “Father,” Estelle said, taking a step toward the house. “You do what you think is right. We will do the same.”

  “Always,” Anselmo said. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “It was predictable, Father. You must know that eventually, something was bound to happen. That this would fall back on you.”

  The priest sighed. “I suppose. The risk is not mine, of course. I wish it could be.” He held up both hands in surrender, and smiled, an expression that made him look absolutely beatific. “Will we see you at the anniversary celebration on Sunday afternoon?”

  “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” the undersheriff said, and she was surprised by the resignation in her voice.

  “Well, if it should work out, consider yourself invited, then,” Anselmo replied. He extended a hand, and his grip was firm. “And your guest, as well.” He did not release her hand right away
.

  “You’re welcome to come in for some dessert,” Estelle said.

  “Ah, no. Many thanks. I have several stops to make yet this evening.”

  “I’m sure you do, Father. Travel safe.”

  She watched him trudge off toward the sagging Chevrolet, and it started with a geriatric symphony of noises that produced a cloud of blue smoke. The backup lights flashed, and she knew that he had pulled it into gear, but the car hesitated for a moment, then produced a sharp clank before easing away from the curb.

  Back inside, Irma and Madelyn were collecting empty pie plates, and Estelle saw that Francisco was in the kitchen, washing his hands.

  “Is he okay?” Dr. Francis asked as Estelle slipped out of her jacket.

  “For now,” she said, and saw that Teresa Reyes was watching her from across the room. Ay. Estelle sighed. What does she know? Estelle stretched up and kissed her husband on the cheek. “I want to hear music,” she said.

  “The intermission is about over,” Francis said.

  She crossed and knelt by Bill Gastner, her arms crossed on the padded sofa’s arm cushion. “Afterward, will you have a few minutes? I really need to talk to you.”

  “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll be hungry again in a matter of minutes.”

  “That’s good. Thanks.”

  “Bert got himself in a box?” Gastner asked, perceptive as ever.

  “Oh, yes,” Estelle replied, and pushed herself to her feet.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  By the third selection of music, Madelyn Bolles was leaning forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees, chin resting on her clasped hands. Her chair was no more than five feet from the piano keyboard, but Estelle could see that wasn’t close enough. The writer watched the child’s every move, and remarkably, Francisco ignored her.

  Estelle relaxed and watched her son. It was as if his peripheral vision ended where the keyboard did. Sometimes, when the score required the left hand to soar far up into the treble keys or the right hand to stray deep into the bass clef, Francisco watched his fingers. But Estelle had come to the conclusion that her son watched his own fingers out of amused curiosity as the music captured his hands, rather than the need to see where he was going.