She paused, but neither the priest nor Emilio Contreras spoke, and she tried another tack. “We need to inform his family as soon as possible.”
Anselmo’s broad face settled into an expression of sad resignation. “I’ll see what I can do, Estelle,” he said, but didn’t explain just what that might be. The sound of a vehicle, its tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot, interrupted them. As if grateful for the diversion, the priest stepped to the door and pushed it open. Through the opening, Estelle caught the glint of sun on bright red paint.
Chapter Nineteen
“Isn’t this lovely,” Madelyn Bolles said. She had nodded her thanks to Father Anselmo for opening the door, and stepped into Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, halting just inside. She took off her sun-glasses and with a quick, experienced glance surveyed the interior of the church. Then she dismissed the architecture with a curt nod and turned her attention to Estelle.
“And you would be Posadas County undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” Madelyn said with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bolles.”
“Madelyn, please.” She stepped away from the door as Anselmo’s bulk loomed behind her.
“This is Father Bertrand Anselmo,” Estelle said. “He offers mass both here and in María.” Estelle watched Bolles as the woman turned to offer her hand. At the same time, the reporter’s eyes did another quick inventory, this time of the disheveled priest.
“Madelyn Bolles,” she said. “I write for A Woman’s World magazine.”
“Well, my pleasure,” Anselmo said. “What brings you to this little corner of paradise?”
“Paradise exactly,” Bolles said, and turned to survey the iglesia again. “This really is fetching, if that’s the correct word to describe a mission.”
“I’d like you to meet Emilio Contreras,” Estelle said. “What you see around you is his work.”
“We all do what we can. And where are you from, señora?” Emilio asked, his slow, cadenced voice giving full measure to each word as he shook hands with Bolles.
“At the moment, Las Cruces,” the reporter said. Easily past fifty, Madelyn Bolles wore her stylish dark blue suit easily, managing to look casual despite the businesslike cut.
“Listen, you folks enjoy a blessed day,” Father Anselmo said. “I really do have errands I need to run. Ms. Bolles, it’s my pleasure to meet you, and welcome to the parish. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know. Estelle knows how to reach me. And Emilio, of course.”
“Nice to meet you, Father,” Madelyn said, extending her hand once more. “Perhaps if you’d leave your cell number with me?”
“Ah, cell phone. I don’t have one,” the priest said. “But I do have a phone at home in María.” He patted his pockets and Madelyn came to his rescue with a business card and a pen. “Thank you.” He turned and rested the card on the daybook of guest signatures, writing the telephone number slowly, as if he had difficulty remembering the seven digits. Then he added a second number below the first. “The top number is mine,” he said, “and I took the liberty of giving you Emilio and Betty Contreras’ number here in Regál. They always know where I am, if there’s need to reach me.” He handed the card back to the reporter. “Have a wonderful visit.”
“I shall,” she said. “I shall. Thank you.”
The priest pushed the door open, and said to Emilio, “I’m going to leave this open for a while. Let some fresh air in.”
“The dust blows in from the parking lot,” Emilio said, and the priest looked surprised.
“Oh. Well, then,” the priest said. “Let’s keep it closed. Estelle, it was nice to see you again. Don’t be such a stranger.”
“Have a good day, Father,” Estelle said.
“He doesn’t pay attention,” Emilio said with resignation as the door closed, leaving them in the comfortable dim light. He nodded at Madelyn. “It’s nice to meet you. You want to talk with Betty, not me. She’ll tell you anything you need to know.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed himself out of the pew, adjusted the cane before putting weight forward, and then began his slow shuffle back up the aisle toward where he had been working before his day was interrupted.
Estelle watched his progress for a moment, at the same time listening as outside Father Bertrand Anselmo’s aging Chevrolet grumbled into life. She realized that Madelyn Bolles was studying her.
“You’re a little older than I would have guessed after seeing the various photographs,” the reporter said.
“Every day,” Estelle laughed. “I haven’t figured out a way to avoid it.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I’ve caught you right in the middle of something, your dispatcher tells me.”
“About three things.” Estelle tapped the manila envelope on the back of the pew. “That’s the way it generally goes. Weeks and weeks of peace and quiet, and then the sky falls on us.”
Madelyn cocked her head. “That would be a challenge in itself, putting up with that roller coaster.”
“What’s your schedule, then?” Estelle asked.
The reporter held up both hands, palms up. “Whatever it takes,” she said. “I have an absolutely wonderful room at the Casa de Posadas on Tenth Street, complete with high-speed Internet, yet. Who would have thunk.”
“We’re wildly progressive around here,” Estelle laughed.
“I can see that,” Madelyn said, turning in place with her hands thrust in the pockets of her suit coat. “This really is a wonderful place, isn’t it. I saw the historical plaque set in the adobe on the outside wall.” She took a deep breath, leaning backward to gaze up at the ceiling where the stovepipe vented through the roof. “No lights, a woodstove…one of those places where the baptismal font freezes if you forget to empty it. And I don’t see any sign of electricity, either.”
“None whatsoever,” Estelle agreed.
“Wow.” After another moment spent examining the church’s simple, almost fortresslike architecture, Madelyn added, “What I really want to do is find a few minutes sometime for a preliminary meeting with you, some time when we can just sit and chat in private—no notes, no recorder, no camera.” She turned and regarded Estelle thoughtfully. “I like to do that, you know…kind of sort out the rules we’re going to play by.”
Estelle found herself liking this woman—Madelyn Bolles was no rookie reporter, that seemed evident. Shorter than Estelle by several inches, Madelyn was ramrod straight, looking as if she’d be equally at home in a New York Wall Street boardroom or the principal’s office of an elementary school.
“I’m heading back to Posadas now,” the undersheriff said. “If you follow me back, maybe we can find a quiet corner in my office. I don’t want to waste your time.”
Madelyn frowned and held up a hand. “No, no. This isn’t about me, undersheriff. What I want is to do this right. That’s all. Whatever it takes.” She held out the business card with the phone numbers Father Anselmo had given her, and out of reflex, Estelle took it. “Is there a chance I can have your cell number? I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”
“Not to worry,” Estelle said, digging out one of her own business cards. “If I’m in the middle of something, I just don’t answer the thing. And you can always reach me through Dispatch.”
“I met…Gayle, is it? What an elegant gal she is. And she’s the sheriff’s wife, I’m told.”
“Yes.” But Estelle’s attention was drawn to the numbers on the back of the reporter’s business card. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, and walked to the nearest window, a deep-silled, narrow expanse of stained glass rising nearly eight feet to an arched top. She laid the business card on the smooth white sill, and then opened the manila envelope, drawing out the photocopy of the slip of paper found in Felix Otero’s pocket.
“Ay, now that’s interesting,” she whispered to herself. Even simple
digits were tiny windows themselves, opening secrets. The digits 8, 5, and 7 especially invited the individual strokes of the pen. Estelle slid the two numbers close together. In both cases, the 8 was formed with not a single graceful stroke, but by joining two somewhat angular circles, one perched atop the other. The 5 included two features, a separate stroke for the bottom portion that included a tail looping back to cross the downward stroke, and a second horizontal mark forming the top plane of the letter. The 7 was more generic, save for the horizontal stroke that crossed the stem in the European fashion.
She realized that Bolles was standing off to one side, watching her. She slid the copy back in the envelope, and reached out with the card.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Madelyn Bolles said, making no move to accept. “And keep it. I have the numbers.”
Estelle slid the card not into her pocket, but into the manila envelope, feeling an odd mixture of emotions. Father Bertrand Anselmo, whom she had known since she was in single digits, hadn’t actually lied to her, but nor had he taken her into his confidence. In another time and place, when there were no other ears to hear, perhaps he would. And perhaps not.
That the priest would give the Mexican—if it turned out that indeed that’s who Felix Otero was—the telephone number of the village’s most accomplished grapevine cultivator, Betty Contreras, was in itself enough to pique curiosity, although that’s exactly what he had just done with Madelyn Bolles. Perhaps, in his own amused way, he had intended for Estelle to notice.
“Let’s meet in my office,” Estelle said. “About an hour?”
“Perfect,” the reporter said.
“Emilio, thank you,” Estelle called. The old man had returned to his labors, meticulously waxing and polishing the communion rail. He raised a hand in salute.
“Come back and see us,” he said. “You’re always welcome. You know that.”
I’m not sure that will always be the case, Estelle thought as she pushed open the heavy door. As her feet touched the gravel of the parking lot, her cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me a second,” she said to the writer, and turned away, walking toward the county car.
“Estelle, the address checks out,” Gayle Torrez said. “I talked with a Calgary city detective who says that CPL operates out of a double suite at that address. He doesn’t know anything about them, other than that they’re where they say they are. He says that area isn’t one of the high-rent places…just a little mini-mall sort of thing.”
“That’s a help,” Estelle said.
“They were supercordial,” Gayle added. “If you need any more information, they’re pleased to cooperate. Anything we need. I have the officer’s name and number when you need it.”
“Thanks so much,” Estelle said. “You’re the best.”
She broke the connection and pointed toward the mountain pass behind them. “See you in an hour?”
“That’s a date,” Madelyn said. She let Estelle leave the parking lot first, and as the undersheriff crested the pass, she saw that the wrecker was finished with its chore of cranking Chris Marsh’s crumpled truck up the mountain. Only Jackie Taber’s vehicle was parked along the highway. Her shift was long since finished, and she hadn’t taken Estelle’s suggestion.
Estelle’s hand went to the radio mike, but then she thought better of going public. Instead, she pulled off the highway a short distance ahead of Jackie’s unit, and auto-dialed 303 on her phone. Jackie would be somewhere downslope, seeing what the wrecker might have shaken loose when it bundled the crushed pickup truck back up the hillside.
“Taber.”
“Jackie, you were supposed to go home,” Estelle said. “What are you finding down there?”
“Rocks, rocks, and more rocks. I don’t think we missed much.”
Estelle looked up as Madelyn Bolles’ red sedan swooshed by, the driver offering a cheery wave.
“Okay,” Estelle said. “I just finished up down in Regál with Betty and a few of her neighbors. My gut feeling is that this thing is going to get really messy before we’re through.”
“Where’s it going to take us?” Jackie asked.
“It looks like Marsh was delivering sweepstakes checks to a couple of the village residents.”
“No kidding. What are the odds of that, I wonder.”
“Of winning?”
“No…of there being more than one winner in such a tiny town. That smells. How much did they lose?”
“That’s what’s bizarre, Jackie. Nobody has lost anything. They’ve won. Signed, sealed, and delivered. It’s just that it was delivered by a bogus courier.”
“Now there’s a scenario,” Jackie said. “I wonder what the bank says. Are you headed back in?”
“Yes. Here’s the thing to think about, Jackie. A bogus courier doesn’t necessarily make the items that he was delivering bogus. I mean, Chris Marsh might have passed himself off to Canadian Publications as a legit service.”
“A Canadian sweepstakes?”
“So it seems.”
“That smells even worse.”
“Yes, but the phone and address on the confirmation letter that the folks received checks out, so far. It exists, anyway.”
“Huh. I don’t believe it.”
“What would have been the next step for these guys? If Chris Marsh hadn’t hit the deer, hadn’t been killed here on the pass, what would have been the next step? I just found out that he was carrying a check with him from Joe and Lucinda Baca for more than thirty thousand.”
“That stinks worser and worser, Estelle. I can think of several ways that little deal could go south. Somebody had to have been waiting for him when the deer got in the way.”
“Think on that,” Estelle said. “You’re about finished out here?”
“I think so. The sun on the rocks is reminding me that it’s nap time.”
“Go for it.” She looked in her rearview mirror as the sound of another vehicle reached her. The rattling, gasping chug was familiar, and in a moment, Father Bertrand Anselmo’s Chevy crested the pass and started down the north side, passing her with a faint whiff of very old, very burned, oil. The priest raised a hand in greeting.
The Chevy gained speed until it disappeared around one of the sweeping curves. Estelle pulled back on the highway. By the time she had caught up with Father Anselmo and the blue cloud that trailed his car, they were nearing the Broken Spur Saloon. His speed surprised her. Drawing to within a few hundred yards, she slowed long enough to pace him. The aging sedan thundered along at 71 miles an hour, in flagrant disregard of the speed limit and the condition of its tires.
Suddenly aware that he was being paced by a county car, the priest touched his brakes. One of the brake lights managed a faint flare, and Estelle pulled out and passed him. In the wink of time when their eyes met, Anselmo’s expression was guarded. Estelle wondered where the priest had gone after leaving the church, and then felt a pang of regret that his movements might become her business.
In another few miles, as she approached the little ghost town of Moore just beyond the Rio Salinas bridge, she saw flashing lights. Sure enough, the magazine writer’s red Buick LaCrosse was pulled off the road, snared by one of the state troopers who liked to park behind the remains of Moore Mercantile, a tumbled-down reminder of half a century ago that now afforded an open radar shot in either direction.
“Oops,” Estelle said. The trooper was standing on the passenger side of the Buick, bent down so he could see inside. He heard her county car approaching, itself rocketing along well over the speed limit, and looked up. He was smiling broadly, and Estelle wondered what Madelyn Bolles had used as an excuse.
Chapter Twenty
“The magazine writer is in town,” Estelle said, and when Sheriff Bob Torrez looked at her blandly as if to say, So what? added, “She m
ay want to talk to you at some point.”
“People in hell want ice water, too,” the sheriff said affably.
“She followed me in from Regál. We’re going to meet here after a bit.”
Torrez shifted so that he could stretch out both legs past his desk, and Estelle nudged the door closed and then pulled one of the metal folding chairs out of the corner. The sheriff’s office was long on function and short on amenities or color. He never spoke of the two years he’d spent in the army decades before, but apparently he’d been impressed with the use of drab as a foundation style.
He opened his desk drawer and took out the same pistol that she had showed Bill Gastner, reached across the desk, and laid it directly in front of Estelle. “I did some studying,” Torrez said cryptically, as if that explained everything. She reached out and hefted Deputy Dennis Collins’ department sidearm. The slide was locked back, with an empty magazine in place.
“These have inertia firing pins,” Torrez said after a moment. “Could be, if that gun is loaded, cocked, and locked, it could fire if it falls and hits the muzzle just right.”
“Except it fell against the truck, back sight first,” Estelle said. “And not very hard, at that.”
“I know it did. I’m just sayin’. If that don’t happen, it means that either something else was wrong with the gun or it was cocked, locked, and his finger pulled the trigger when he grabbed onto it.”
“That’s most likely,” she agreed.
Torrez leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “Not that it matters a whole hell of a lot,” and then he sat back abruptly as if he’d caught himself talking too much.
Estelle laid Dennis Collins’ gun back on the sheriff’s desk. “I suspect that you could pick any gun, made by anybody anywhere in the world, and if you worked hard enough, you could invent a circumstance where it might go off unintentionally.”
The Fourth Time is Murder Page 15