The Fourth Time is Murder

by Steven F Havill

  When Estelle didn’t respond, Joe tapped the paperwork. “You ask Serafina,” he said. “She’ll tell you the same story.”

  “Serafina won from the same contest?”

  “Sure, she won before we did. She won twice, too.”

  “You’re kidding.” She didn’t mention that Betty had already spread the good news.

  “No, I’m not kidding, hija,” he said, and then added, the tone of his voice implying that somehow he and his wife had found the magic formula, “Maybe we shouldn’t have…I don’t know. The driver told us that he had delivered more than one prize a lot of times. Serafina won twice, I know that. And so did we.”

  Estelle sat back in the chair. “Fascinating,” she said. No complaint, no crime. Joe and Lucinda Baca evidently hadn’t been defrauded.…In fact, they’d collected handsomely—maybe. The second, larger check hadn’t had time to clear the bank yet. Maybe it would. But there had to be a catch, Estelle knew. The whole “taxes and exchange rate” nonsense was just that, as surely as the sun rose. Somehow, the next step in the scam had been scotched when Chris Marsh had plunged his truck over the mountainside.

  She tapped the envelope on her knee thoughtfully. “Joe, let me ask you one more thing.” She drew out the photo of the woodcutter and handed it to the old man. She watched his face intently.

  “Now this,” he said slowly. “What happened?”

  “Do you know this man?”

  “No.…” He shifted uneasily. “Maybe I’ve seen him around. I don’t know his name. What happened to him?” He squinted at the photo.

  “An accident while cutting wood—up north near Reserve.”

  “Who took this picture?”

  “One of the investigating officers.”

  “Who was with him? He was working alone?”

  “I’d like to know the answer to that, Joe.”

  “This is all too bad,” Joe Baca said. He handed the photo back, and Estelle handed him the paper with the telephone number. “What’s this, then?” he asked.

  “You know the number?”

  “Well, sure I know it. That’s Emilio’s phone. Or I guess I should say Betty’s. Emilio doesn’t answer the phone ever. By the time he gets to it, it’s the next day.” Joe smiled. “Why do you need that?”

  “I don’t need that,” Estelle said. “It was in the young man’s pocket when he was found.”

  “And he was already dead?”

  “Yes. He bled to death.”

  Joe shook his head slowly. “That’s bad, hija. That’s a bad business. Those chain saws…”

  “Is this your handwriting?”

  “Why would that be my writing?” he replied. “You already talked with Betty. That’s her number.”

  “But she didn’t write this note,” Estelle said, and slipped the paper back in the envelope.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Joe said. “He’s not from around here. That much I can tell you.”

  “But you saw him around the village,” Estelle suggested.

  Joe shifted, his frown deepening. “Maybe I was mistaken. You know, in this country there are a lot of people. They come and go all the time. I can’t be sure.”

  A lot of people. Regál counted forty-one residents. The border provided a constant trickle, but how many of those travelers—either north- or southbound—paused long enough to be noticed?

  “It’s fortunate that you have recovered from that experience,” he said, apparently eager to drop the subject about whom he might, or might not, know. “We all prayed for you, you know.”

  “I appreciate that, Joe.” She was touched that her welfare immediately after the shooting nearly a year ago had been on the minds and in the prayers of so many people.

  “So, where are you headed now? Can you wait until Lucinda comes home? She’ll just be a few minutes.” He had skillfully opened the door for Estelle.

  “I wish I could,” Estelle replied. “I don’t get down here often enough. But maybe next time.” She glanced at her watch. “Dispatch tells me that I have a visitor waiting for me, so I’d best be on my way. I appreciate your help, Joe. Give Lucinda my best.” She stood and slipped the envelope under her arm, freeing her hands to take the old man’s in both of hers. “And I appreciate your thoughts,” she said. “It means a lot.” He patted the back of her hand.

  “I think he was just passing through,” Joe said, nodding at the envelope that contained the photos.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” And I’m sure you know more than you’re telling me, she thought, and saw the crinkles around the corners of his eyes deepen a touch as if he could read her mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Estelle recalled Serafina Roybal as a large, imposing woman who could be intimidating when she chose. But that was an image from twenty-four years before, when Mrs. R, as the students universally called her, had taught Spanish, speech, and drama at Posadas High School. Her husband, Octavio, Betty Contreras’ oldest brother, had taught history until pancreatic cancer had killed him on his sixtieth birthday.

  Those many years before, Mrs. R had taken the darkly gorgeous and equally reticent Mexican teenager from Tres Santos under her generous wing after consultation with Estelle’s foster mother, Teresa. Serafina and Teresa had known each other for years, no doubt through Estelle’s great-uncle Reuben, who knew everyone along that section of border, especially if that everyone happened to be female.

  Teresa was adamant about her adopted daughter’s future. Just turned sixteen, Estelle would finish high school in the United States and then attend an appropriate college, collecting her official U.S. citizenship in the process. She would not be left to languish in the dusty poverty of rural northern Mexico. Estelle had accepted that notion with alacrity—she had no desire to languish anywhere—and soon found that Mrs. R was a teacher of enormous imagination and good humor.

  Over the years since then, when Estelle would on rare occasions meet Serafina Roybal in the grocery store or in passing at the bank, their conversations were more often than not in the dignified Castilian Spanish that Mrs. R taught her students. And over the years, Serafina shrank.

  The woman who answered Estelle’s knock this day was impossibly tiny. This could not be the imposing woman who had stood figuratively—and sometimes literally—between Estelle and the swarms of eager teenaged boys who to their credit recognized beauty when they saw it.

  Withering into herself, the now eighty-year-old Serafina was a wrinkled little gnome, only her thick, luxuriant hair—now iron gray—a reminder of the long years past. Her right eye showed the first signs of clouding, but she recognized the undersheriff with a little gasp of delight.

  “Estellita!” she cried, and held out both arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.” It was hard to imagine that this tiny bag of bones was the same fearsome woman who had nailed four senior boys for smoking funny tobacco behind the high school’s vo-tech building.

  Serafina cocked her head as far as her stiff neck allowed and looked up at the undersheriff. “How’s that husband of yours?” she asked in Spanish.

  “He’s too busy,” Estelle laughed.

  “That’s always the case. And the boys?”

  “They keep me young.”

  “The oldest boy…he continues with his studies?” Serafina held out two arthritic hands and played a phantom keyboard.

  “More than ever,” Estelle replied. “We have discussions about where he wants to study when the time comes.”

  “And it will come too soon,” Serafina said. “Don’t be in a rush.”

  “How is Esmeralda doing these days? It’s been years since I’ve seen her.”

  Serafina made a wry face at the mention of her daughter. “She doesn’t visit much anymore,” she said. “Not enough time to bother with an old lady.”

 
“I’m sorry to hear that. Her family is well?” Estelle had a vague recollection that Serafina and Octavio Roybal had raised only the single daughter, Esmeralda, who in turn had moved away to raise her own family.

  “I hope so,” Serafina said. “That’s the big news, you know. You’ll come in for a few minutes? I know you’re busy today.”

  Estelle was fascinated that the tiny village’s grapevine was flourishing even in the few moments it took the undersheriff to drive from one house to another.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have some coffee,” Serafina offered, but Estelle held up a defensive hand.

  “No, thanks so much, Mrs. Roybal.” Estelle followed the elderly woman as she shuffled inside, one tiny, slow step at a time. The home displayed the much-worn pathways of the very elderly. The large cushioned chair, with back and arms covered with graying, tattered doilies, faced the television across the room. The TV set was one of those cabinet affairs with light maple woodwork, and Estelle saw that the picture would be much brighter if the thick layer of dust was wiped from the screen.

  A path worn into the amorphous designs on the carpeting led to the simple kitchen, and another to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Serafina’s world was gradually collapsing inward to a few well-worn, predictable routines.

  “What’s the big news?” Estelle asked.

  “Well, now, you won’t guess who’s visiting tomorrow,” Serafina said. “My granddaughter called and said she’d like to stop by. That’s Ezzi’s oldest, Irene. She’s an honor student now, you know. But…,” and Serafina lowered her voice as if she didn’t want the ghosts to hear, “she’s had a crush on that Danny Rivera since I don’t know when. Not that it does any good. Mr. Danny doesn’t show any signs of wanting any part of the big wide world.” She turned and beamed at Estelle. “Irene is going to have to come to him, you know. But that’s fashionable these days.”

  Serafina pointed a crooked finger at the envelope that Estelle had brought inside with her. “You have something for me?”

  “I have a photo or two, Mrs. Roybal. A couple of strange faces. I need to know if you’ve seen either one around the village.”

  “I don’t get out so much, you know. I can’t even walk through the orchard anymore. I used to enjoy that. All the birds, you know.”

  “I understand that.” And it’s not an orchard now, Estelle thought—the gnarled old stumps, tinder dry, hadn’t seen irrigation or fruit for ten years. She removed the photo of Christopher Marsh but hesitated. Maybe life should reach a point of serenity, she thought. Serafina Roybal had known her share of heartache over the decades. She’d seen prize students go on to enjoy successful lives but suffered the ones who were killed on prom night in a tangle of metal and broken bottles, or those who were expended by their governments. It seemed unfair to inflict Chris Marsh on this gentle woman.

  “This young man was killed up on Regál Pass Wednesday night. The crash wasn’t discovered until last night,” the undersheriff said, still holding the photo. “I apologize for this, Mrs. Roybal. But I need to know if you recognize him.”

  The old woman took the picture without hesitation and straightened in her chair, holding the photo in both hands down in her lap. Her face took on the same severe expression that she had reserved for student papers that weren’t up to snuff.

  “Do you recognize this man?” Estelle asked.

  “Who is this?” Serafina replied. “His name, I mean.”

  “His name is Christopher Marsh. We think that he lived in Las Cruces.”

  “A car accident, you said.”

  “Yes. His truck hit a deer.”

  “Oh my.” She lifted her eyebrows philosophically. “You know, he impressed me as such a nice, thoughtful young man.”

  “You recognize him, then?”

  “He was a deliveryman,” she replied, using the single Spanish word repartidor. “I don’t remember the name of the company.”

  “Do you remember the vehicle he was driving?”

  “No. I don’t pay attention to things like that.”

  “But you had packages delivered here?”

  “I won a drawing by some magazine company. Not so much, but every little bit is a help, no? Such a surprise.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Not so much of a surprise as when I won not once, but twice.”

  “Would you tell me about it?”

  “There is nothing to tell, Estellita. It was just one of those sweepstakes that come along. Usually I throw them away, but this was a personal letter, and I read it.” She glanced at Estelle. “I didn’t have to do a thing, you see. Nothing to fill out. Maybe I’m just foolish, but it turned out all right.”

  “How much did you win?”

  “The first time it was about three thousand dollars,” Serafina said. “Of course, I had to pay some fees. That was a nuisance, but this young man made it easy for me.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He said that his company usually requires a cashier’s check from the bank. But it’s hard for me to get into town now. He said that his company would accept a personal check, since the amount wasn’t so large.”

  Estelle did a rapid mental calculation, using the 17 percent figure for fees and exchange rate penalties that Joe Baca had mentioned. “You had to pay approximately five hundred dollars?”

  “Yes. But they accepted my check.”

  “And in return?”

  “He delivered the official check right then. The check for what they said I had won.”

  “For more than three thousand dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  “Serafina, you said the first time. This happened again, then?”

  “This young man,” and she held up the photo, “said that it wasn’t uncommon for someone to win more than once. He had his own theory that maybe it was some kind of computer error.” She shrugged. “Maybe so. Anyway, the next time I won twenty-eight hundred dollars. Not so much.”

  “What did you send in the second time?”

  “Nothing. I sent in nothing. Not the first time, either. He came right to the door.” She frowned. “I would never send anything off. I know those scams are so common.”

  “And you paid that time, too? Four or five hundred in fees?”

  “Yes. But overall, you see, I came out ahead. Did you talk with Joe? I saw your car over there.”

  “Yes. He had similar good fortune, it seems.”

  “I should say so. Only he won much, much more. And on top of the big lottery as well. My heavens, the stars were looking out for us.”

  “But this man came to your door.” Estelle held up Marsh’s photo.

  “Yes. The two times about which I’ve told you.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I don’t see so well anymore, you know. I don’t think so.”

  “Do you happen to have the letters that they sent to you? The magazine company?”

  “I save everything,” Serafina said with resignation. “An affliction of an old lady. Even if I know it doesn’t matter, I save it. The challenge is in the finding.” She held up a hand and rose unsteadily from her chair. “Let me see. You’re sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  “No thank you, Serafina.”

  Estelle watched Serafina make her way toward the bedroom. From where she sat, the undersheriff could see a small yellow nightstand, the corner of the bed, and another door that would lead to the bathroom. After several moments, Serafina reemerged with several papers.

  “I’m so pleased that you stopped by,” she said. “You know, last year you gave us quite a scare, young lady.”

  “I scared myself,” Estelle said. “That’s the letter?”

  “I have the first one,” Serafina said. “I remember that when it came in the mail, I thought it w
as a chanchullo,” and Estelle was surprised to hear her use the colloquial word that had come to mean “scam” or “trickery.”

  “Too good to be true?”

  “Exactly. Here. You read it and tell me what you think. While you do that, I’ll see if I can find the second one.”

  The letter, on heavy, high-quality paper, featured an impressive full-color letterhead from Canadian Publications Limited, located in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The letterhead included the street address, phone and fax numbers, and e-mail information. It was tri-folded in an equally high-quality envelope, with the same return address printed on the upper left corner. The Canadian stamp was a generic coil issue with perforations on two sides. Estelle held the envelope over toward the lamp to catch more light. The postmark was Canadian, dated December 10 of the previous year.

  She held the paper carefully by just the corners and read the text. It was lively, polite, and brief:

  Dear Mrs. Serafina Roybal:

  We are pleased to announce that your name has been selected as a second level prize winner in the Canadian Publications Limited Reader Awards Sweepstakes. Although you have not been selected for the Grand Prize, your winnings total $3,250.00. This sweepstakes reflects our commitment to generating reader interest in the periodicals distributed by CPL, but requires no purchase on your part.

  The check for the winning amount will be delivered to your home in Regál, New Mexico. Canadian Publications Limited has contracted exclusively with Global Productivity Systems, Inc., for delivery of prize winnings, with proceeds drawn on First State National Savings Bank of Las Cruces.

  As you are no doubt aware, transferring prize winnings from one country to another incurs certain tax charges, along with monetary exchange rate adjustments. At the current time, those charges amount to 16.981% of gross winnings, and by law cannot simply be deducted from the winning amount.

  GPS, Inc., a bonded and certified parcel delivery firm that serves your area, has agreed to serve as the monetary transfer agent for your winning check. The driver who calls on you with the prize check will accept a standard cashier’s check for the monetary exchange adjustment, a total of $551.88. We regret the inconvenience that personal checks cannot be accepted. As well, GPS, Inc., will not accept cash payments.