Estelle drove south from Regál Pass, struck as always by the view of the dry, bleak country of northern Mexico. Forty miles in the distance, she could see the blue hump of the mesa that loomed on the outskirts of Tres Santos, the tiny village where she had spent the first sixteen years of her life. What a difference forty miles made, she thought.
Or even one mile. Sun winked off the razor-wire-topped border fence where it cut the desert just south of the graveled parking lot of Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, the little mission that overlooked the village. Pavement on the U.S. side of the fence turned abruptly into dirt in Mexico.
Estelle could remember her first adventure across that line in the dust. She had been but six years old, the fence was no more than a strand or two of barbed wire, and the Border Patrol had business elsewhere. For those who felt threatened, the new fence was a grand thing, she reflected—and it had made a lot of money for some well-connected contractor.
On a map, the border between the two countries was a straight line, but the San Cristóbal Mountains ignored that. They formed a loose, open arc, the west and east ends dipping into Mexico while the center cradled Regál.
Contractors hadn’t extended the border fence any farther than necessary into the rugged mountains to the east and west. The fence made a good show across the port of entry and a few hundred yards of open prairie after that, then disappeared into the hills and rocks.
The system worked all right, since Regál lay on no major north–south route for travelers. Illegal aliens would find no difficulty in avoiding the section of border fence. They could skirt the ends of the fence all right, but then they’d spend days scrambling up the towering, crumbling granite face of the San Cristóbals. And then what? If the travelers didn’t die of exposure or snakebite, a view from the peak’s summit would reveal another long, dangerous trek down the back side of the mountains—to the open, equally desolate prairie.
As the county car eased down the highway into the village, Estelle saw a familiar figure leave Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, bustling across the parking lot. Betty Contreras carried a small wicker basket, and Estelle guessed that it had contained lunch for Emilio. The undersheriff slowed, lowering the driver’s side window. Oncoming traffic forced her to wait before swinging into the church parking lot. It was a Border Patrol vehicle, and as he passed, Estelle raised a hand in salute. Nothing but a hard stare greeted her in return, the young officer looking first at her and then across at Betty, who fluttered her fingers at him.
“Good afternoon, young lady.” Betty reached out and rested a free hand against the roof of the patrol car, bending down to look at Estelle.
“How are you and Emilio doing, Betty?” Estelle asked.
“Oh, we’re fine. I just fed and watered mi esposo, and now it’s time for us.” She bent down a little farther, looking hard at Estelle. “You look as if you’ve been up most of the night.”
“Actually, not most,” Estelle replied. “It’s just that we have about eighteen different things going on right now, and I’m not sure I feel like doing any of them.”
“Oh, sí. I know how that goes.” She watched as Estelle stretched a bit, pushing against the constraints of the shoulder harness. “How about a cup of tea? That’s always a good place to start.”
“I’d like that.” She reached across the car and slid her small briefcase off the seat, balancing it on what remained of the center console. “Jump in.”
The ride was a scant two hundred yards, but Betty dutifully fumbled with the seat belt harness. “Don’t want to get a ticket,” she quipped.
“Speaking of which, do you know that officer who just went by?” The undersheriff pointed after the government SUV, now taking the long ascent up the pass.
“No, I don’t. Too many now to keep track of. We just ignore ’em, which isn’t the polite thing to do, of course. But they don’t smile much. Not what I’d call exactly neighborly.”
“Well, it’s a tough time for them.”
“I suppose. But it’s all a problem of their own making. That’s my take on it, anyway. I’d like to see them just peel that grand fence down and do away with the border.”
“Ay, caramba,” Estelle said with amusement. “Wouldn’t that be interesting.” She slowed the car as they bumped off the pavement and swung onto Sanchez Lane, the only thoroughfare in Regál actually wide enough to pass by another vehicle without swinging into the ditch.
“You can park right behind mine,” Betty said. Estelle pulled in behind the blue Toyota, snugging up close so that the rear end of the patrol car didn’t project out into the narrow lane. Betty watched as the undersheriff pulled the mike off the clip.
“PCS, three-ten is ten-six, Contreras residence in Regál.”
“Three-ten, ten-four.” Dispatcher Gayle Torrez sounded preoccupied.
“This is an interesting office you have here,” Betty said, taking in the computer terminal, the stack of radios, the shotgun, the briefcase…even a Stetson with rain cover and a black baseball cap hooked on the security grill behind the seats.
“So homey, isn’t it,” Estelle laughed. “How’s Emilio getting along these days? I haven’t seen him since before Christmas.”
“Each day is a source of joy for him,” Betty said. She struggled out of the low-slung car. “It’s really that simple. Aches and pains don’t mean a thing. Not to him. Remind me to show you a photograph when we get inside.”
Estelle snapped open her briefcase and pulled the manila envelope out, then followed Betty inside the small house, past a porch littered with children’s toys, bikes, and a row of folding chairs stacked neatly against one wall.
“Grandchildren,” Betty said as she pushed open the door.
The thick adobe walls muffled the sound, and Estelle felt the atmosphere close in around her. The paint scheme was white with turquoise trim, the white so bright it appeared self-illuminated. A flotilla of inexpensive Mexican rugs protected the floor’s polish. Tiny windows, still reflecting the heritage when windows were gun ports first and sources of light and air only secondarily, were all lace curtained and closed.
“Come on into the kitchen,” Betty said. “Let’s see what goodies I can scare up.”
Just before the doorway, they passed a deep nicho where a crowded collection of framed photos was displayed. Estelle paused.
“Nineteen is the answer,” Betty called. “That’s the grand total of grandchildren…so far. And six great-grandchildren. Sometimes when everyone is here visiting, I’m sure I’ll go nutzo. That’s why I take so many walks.” A clank and clatter were followed by the sound of running water. “Plain tea is your favorite, as I remember?”
“It is. Thank you.” Estelle stepped into the kitchen, and Betty saw the envelope for the first time.
“Whatcha got?”
“I wanted to show you a photo, if you’d be willing.”
“Is this one of those ghastly things?”
“Well, sort of. Yes.” Estelle pulled out the eight-by-ten of Christopher Marsh, not such a bad portrait after all, considering how a tumbling truck had rearranged his body parts.
“Oh, yuck,” Betty said, sounding exactly like the elementary school teacher that she had been for thirty years. “Is this the driver of that little truck that crashed up on the pass? I heard about that.”
“Yes. His name is Christopher Marsh.”
“Oh my. So young, too.”
“Twenty-one.”
“He wasn’t from around Posadas, was he?”
“We think Las Cruces.”
Betty took one last look, grimaced, and handed the photo back to Estelle. “Do we know what happened yet?”
“It appears that he swerved to avoid a deer, Betty.”
“They need a fence, or something, along that stretch of highway. I mean, it’s just lethal. I’ve come close to
collecting Bambi any number of times…and not always when I’m in a car.”
Estelle drew out another photo, this one of the truck. She slid it across the table. “Had you seen this vehicle around the village in the past few days?”
Betty took the photo and scrutinized it carefully. “Is this…Well, no, it’s hard to tell.…This looks like it might belong to one of those parcel delivery outfits.”
Their eyes met and Estelle let Betty mull over what she had said. It took a moment to ascertain that the crushed vehicle in the photo was a truck, rather than a car or SUV, yet something had jarred Betty’s memory.
“It’s a Chevy S-ten pickup,” Estelle said. “This torn metal here was a matching white camper shell. Do you recall seeing a truck like that around the village in the past day or two?”
“I think so.” Betty bent forward, leaning on her clasped hands, looking hard at the photograph that rested on the table in front of her. “They’re around all the time, you know. More often UPS, though. Who drives these little white ones? Is that FedEx?”
“Not in this case,” Estelle said.
“What’s the other one? I’m trying to recall. And yes, I think I saw him.” She tapped the picture. “I’m quite sure…I can’t be positive, of course…that this might be the truck that came with Joe and Lucinda’s sweepstakes prize.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Joe and Lucinda Baca?” the undersheriff asked. “You mean when they won the state lottery?”
“Oh, that’s ancient history,” Betty said. “My goodness, when was that, in November? No…they won this sweepstakes thing just a bit ago. In fact, they won twice, of all things. And they weren’t the only ones.” She got up as the teakettle started to whistle. “I have some of that Chinese white pear tea,” she said. “How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.”
After selecting a pair of thin porcelain mugs from a corner cabinet, the older woman concentrated on serving the tea. Estelle watched her, enjoying the fragrance that swept up from the boiling water.
“Now, I have chocolate-chip, and I have butter pecan sandies, and I have fresh banana bread.” The list was presented not as a choice but as a fait accompli, and Estelle watched with amusement as Betty loaded a Mexican stoneware platter with the baked goodies. Small wonder that Bill Gastner thought so highly of the Contrerases.
“I didn’t hear about this latest sweepstakes,” Estelle said. Curious for Frank Dayan to miss that one, she thought.
“Oh my, we’ve had a run, you know. Such good fortune. Twice now. I think someone’s computer has a glitch. That’s my theory, but of course I keep that to myself. Have a cookie.”
“And the truck? How was that involved?”
“Oh, the truck. Well, it’s my understanding that to collect the sweepstakes check, there’s a small charge, sort of like COD? I know that Serafina Roybal won a small amount, even before Joe and Lucinda did. It’s some sweepstakes from Canada. Calgary, I think. But she won a little bit, and then won again. See, that’s why I think that there’s a computer glitch of some sort.”
“So she won twice as well?” Estelle asked. She knew Serafina Roybal even better than she knew Betty, although she saw the elderly woman less frequently. Serafina, now a wrinkled, stooped widow, had taken the sixteen-year-old Estelle Reyes under her wing at Posadas High School, easing the girl’s transition into American culture in speech and drama classes and smoothing and extending her language skills in Spanish.
“She did indeed,” Betty said. “When the prize check comes, you have to pay the duty, and the taxes, and there’s something else.…” She fell silent, gazing at the pile of goodies. “What did Serafina tell me, now.” She brightened. “Ah…the exchange rate. That was it. Because the sweepstakes originates in Canada.” She held up both hands. “You have to pay the piper,” she added.
“She…Serafina…paid who, then?”
“Well, she paid via the delivery company. That’s how she knew that it was legitimate, you see.”
No, I don’t see, Estelle wanted to say. “Like if you order something COD, you pay the driver?”
“Yes. That’s exactly right. They have those electronic pad gadgets that you sign with the stylus?” Betty made a writing motion over her left palm. “And I suppose that’s part of the fee, too.”
“Do you know how much she paid?”
“I have no idea. It wasn’t all that much. But for it to happen twice, and within the space of just a couple of weeks…that’s what makes me think someone’s computer is all jazzed up.”
“You were saying that Joe and Lucinda won. They entered the same sweepstakes?”
“Yes,” Betty said, looking skeptical. “And that’s what really made me think someone better check their software. They had already won the state thing, and wasn’t that something?”
“I heard about that one,” Estelle agreed. Frank Dayan had heard about it as well, since the publicity that fell on state winners’ heads was automatic. “I don’t remember how much it was for.”
“One hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” Betty said with satisfaction. “One more number and they would have been millionaires. Just imagine that.” She took a bite of a chocolate-chip cookie. “Not that one hundred and sixty thousand is something to sneeze at. I think that they collected a check for about one thirty something after taxes were taken out.”
“And then they won the Canadian game, too?”
“Twice. Just like Serafina. When that delivery service brought the first check, the driver told them that it wasn’t unusual for someone to win more than once. Serafina told me that. Apparently, once a number tricks the computer, then it’s more apt to do it again. That’s how he explained it.”
And how would a delivery driver know that, Estelle thought. “So they paid him some amount of money, and collected their winnings?”
“It’s—” Betty stopped, staring down into her tea, trying to stir the memory. “Oh, you’d have to ask them. It seems to me that Lucinda told me that they had to pay the percentage, but I can’t remember the amount.”
“They wrote a check for that amount, then? Some percentage of the prize?”
“Yes. That’s the way I understand it, but this is all secondhand, and I may just have everything all tied in a knot. I think that they paid the delivery service, just like a COD, and then they received their check. Right then and there. And sure enough. Twice. I wanted to ask Lucinda how much she and Joe won the second time, but I decided not to be a busybody.” She saw the ghost of a smile twitch the corners of Estelle’s mouth. “I know, I know,” she laughed. “But it was a lot more the second time.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Well, just a few days. I mean, the check was supposed to arrive like last Monday or some such? There was some holdup, and then I think it actually ended up coming this week sometime. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. This past Wednesday?”
“Such fortune,” Estelle said. She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the low-ceilinged kitchen. “I wonder how they found out that they’d won?”
“Some notification came in the mail, I think.” Betty shrugged. “You know how those things are always popping up. Most of the time it’s junk. But not this time. It’s got the rest of us checking our mail a whole lot more carefully, let me tell you.”
“And not the Nigerian scam thing,” Estelle observed.
“Oh, no,” Betty said quickly. “The winnings are very, very real. You just ask Serafina or Lucinda, Estelle. There’s no complaint from them. It isn’t one of those scams where they talk you into sending your money away in the hopes of winning some big super-pot. No, no.” She made a seesaw motion with both hands. “You pay a little bit to cover taxes and the Canadian exchange rate, and then the Post Office hands you your check. That’s how I understand it.”
“Not the Post Office, though.
”
“Well, no. It’s one of the parcel services. But the same idea. How about some more tea?”
“That would be wonderful.” She didn’t say that the aroma of fresh tea might mask the thick stench of rotting fish. A small window of possibility opened in her mind. There might be good reason why someone would rifle through the wreckage of the crashed truck—even Christopher Marsh’s pockets. Someone knew exactly what to look for.
From there it was a simple step to understanding why that same person might want to make sure that young Mr. Marsh would be in no condition to talk to rescuers. In all likelihood, the wreck, an unlucky turn of events, had prompted this particular falling-out among thieves.
When Betty Contreras was once more seated, Estelle reached out and rested her hand on the manila envelope once more. “I need to ask a favor,” she said.
“Anything. You know that.”
Estelle opened the envelope and drew out the photo of the young woodcutter. He appeared to be sleeping, leaning against the juniper, eyes not quite closed. His face drew the first glance, and it was only a second look that took in the ocean of blood that had pumped from his torn leg and soaked his trousers, his clutching hands, and the ground where he sat.
“I need to know about this young man,” Estelle said quietly, and handed the photo to Betty.
A series of emotions slipped across Betty Contreras’ face, preceded by a little backward jerk of her head that spoke as clearly as words.
While Betty examined the picture, and recoiled with revulsion when she finally saw the blood and realized that in all likelihood the young man wasn’t asleep, Estelle drew out a photocopy of the little note that had been found in his pocket. She slid the paper across to Betty.
“This was a woodcutting accident up north, outside of Reserve,” Estelle said. “The investigating deputies found this little folded scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket.”
The Fourth Time is Murder Page 11