“What do folks do when there’s a bad year?” Madelyn asked. “It must be catastrophic. Right up there with qualifying for federal disaster aid.”
“The crime rate skyrockets,” Gastner quipped.
“The crime rate never needs outside help,” Dr. Francis said. “It does just fine on its own.”
“So tell me,” Gastner said, his heavy brows knitting in a frown. He pushed his empty plate forward a bit, and crossed his forearms on the edge of the table in front of himself. Carlos and Francisco did the same thing, a comical bit of mimicry that was so spontaneous that Estelle had to stifle a laugh. Padrino ignored the behavior. “I didn’t think to ask you this earlier today when we talked. How did we happen to attract your attention? I can’t imagine that the affairs of Posadas County are what fill hours of idle conversation in Philadelphia.”
Madelyn laughed. “It’s all in who you know,” she replied.
“And who do you know that brings you out this way?”
“I have a just wonderful aunt who lives in Las Cruces, who by way of it being a small world also happens to be a talented musician.” She leaned toward Francisco and raised an eyebrow. “She’s retired now, of course. Boston is no place for arthritis, and she had discovered Las Cruces years ago because her son is a major in the army, stationed at Fort Bliss.”
“You were visiting her, then,” Gastner said.
“Exactly. I’ve done so several times. It’s getting to be something of a tradition. Last time I was out, for Thanksgiving this time, I saw the picture of this young man in the newspaper,” and she nodded at Francisco again, “taken when he played at the college recital there. Things snowballed from there. No mystery.”
“Did you come to the recital?” Francisco asked. “There were a lot of people there.” He drew his thin arms off the table and sat up a little straighter.
“No, I’m sorry that I missed it. Can you tell me what you played?”
Can you tell me, Estelle thought. Madelyn Bolles had yet to discover that it wasn’t “can” in this case. It was “would.”
“Some of this and that,” the little boy said, suddenly feeling the eyes on him…especially his grandmother’s. Teresa Reyes had deeply ingrained rules about the behavior of children, particularly exuberant little boys who would take over the adult stage without a thought if allowed to do so. She hadn’t snapped her fingers yet, that ominous signal practiced over decades in the old mud-walled school in Tres Santos, so Estelle knew that her son was still on safe ground.
“Francisco actually played three pieces,” Estelle prompted.
“Yes.”
“That’s hard work,” Madelyn observed, and Francisco looked puzzled, since playing was never hard work for him…not even a day that included five or six hours at the keyboard tussling with some composer’s fascination with five or six sharps. “What did you play?” she asked.
Francisco looked up at his father, but it was the elbow from the opposite direction, in his left ribs, that goaded him on. “You don’t remember what you did this morning, let alone what you played last fall, old guy,” Gastner scoffed.
“I remember,” the little boy said, squirming with delight. “Everybody already knows those stories.”
“Ms. Bolles has never heard them,” Estelle said.
“Give us some after-dinner music while I see if Irma remembers how to make decent coffee,” Gastner said.
“There’s some in the pot from three days ago,” Irma said, knowing full well Bill Gastner’s indiscriminant taste for the brew—freshly ground gourmet beans, or days old in the steel pot with an oil slick on top, it was all the same to him.
“And you promised some pie,” he said, turning and craning his neck to see into the kitchen. “Do we have to wait until this kid finishes stumbling all over the keys, or is it fair game now?”
Estelle reached out an arm and hugged her mother, and saw the tight compression of Teresa’s lips ease a little. “I was hoping for a peaceful evening,” the old woman said, but she couldn’t conceal the pride in her voice.
“I for one don’t have any room for dessert,” Madelyn said, and Teresa Reyes, who had been gradually working her way upright, stopped with one hand braced on the table.
“It’s better to wait,” she said, and aimed the comment at Gastner. “We don’t want an orchestra of forks clanking rhythm.”
“I heard that,” Gastner said, and held out a hand toward Francisco. “Help me up, old guy. I ate too much.” He allowed both little boys to push, shove, and heave as he feigned helplessness.
“Be right back,” Francisco said, and vanished down the hall.
“He has to have the right shirt on,” Estelle explained as they maneuvered chairs this way and that…except for Teresa Reyes’ rocker, which sat in a corner by the fireplace. The grand piano had been moved so that during the day natural light from the large living room window flooded in from behind the bench. Beyond that adjustment, the piano’s location was determined by Francisco’s mood. It had to sit at just the right angle, a cornerstone into his world.
“If you have cell phones, they go on vibrate or off,” Francis said. “I can say that, because I’m the primary offender.”
“Mine’s on the counter in the kitchen,” Estelle said. She had already captured Carlos, and he sat comfortably in her lap in the glider. “Would you check it, please?”
Francisco padded into the room, wearing his favorite plum-colored golf shirt. His soft-soled sneakers had been replaced by black, leather-soled penny loafers…wonderfully out of sync with his grubby blue jeans.
Madelyn Bolles, having chosen one of the padded straight-backed chairs from the dining room, sat immediately beside Estelle. To the right of the piano, they had an unobstructed view of the keyboard. Madelyn leaned close to Estelle and whispered, “Why am I nervous?”
Estelle hugged Carlos closer and beamed at the writer. “Just enjoy. No matter what happens.” She meant that literally, of course, since one of the little boy’s quirks was eschewing the announcement of what he intended to play.
Gastner stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa from Irma, his boots kicked off and feet on the small coffee table. He reached over and patted her knee affectionately. “You do good work, kid,” he said. Irma blushed. Dr. Francis settled in the recliner.
The enormously heavy piano lid was already yawning wide, and Francisco used both hands to open the keyboard cover, letting it ease back to its stops. He regarded the keyboard as if suspicious that someone might have rearranged the ivories since his last visit—less than two hours before. As he settled on the bench, Estelle took his measure, seeing that he could now easily reach the pedals with his toes.
“I was looking at this today,” he said quietly as if talking to himself. His speech now was so introspective and mature that it gave Estelle a turn. There was no music on the rack, and to Estelle it always seemed as if the little boy had to wait until the music burst from the pathways of his mind to each of his strong, slender fingers. As the generator of that process spooled up, he sat quietly and stared, as if trying to burn a hole in middle C. Then his hands moved to the keyboard.
The piece was clearly Bach, and el gruñón, or the Grump, as Francisco had nicknamed the composer, had appealed to the little boy with a prelude that was both playful and melodic. Without a giggle, he managed long passages where the two hands argued back and forth, and despite his rocketing musicianship, Estelle felt a pang of regret that this little boy who in the past would dissolve with helpless laughter at some musical image now performed so flawlessly.
Madelyn Bolles leaned slightly forward, as if she couldn’t quite believe that the music rack was empty. Prelude rolled into fugue, and in places Francisco played so softly that the piano hammers seemed to kiss the strings, grazing the notes only enough that their purity was unquestioned.
An
d it was during one of those magic moments that Estelle heard the car’s aging muffler outside as the vehicle chugged down 12th Street and then pulled to a stop along the curb. Although she recognized the sound immediately, for an instant she allowed herself to entertain the fantasy that this might be a visitor for one of the neighbors. She heard a car door thud closed. The living room curtain was drawn, but it sounded as if the car had parked immediately behind Bill Gastner’s Blazer. Sure enough, in a moment Estelle heard footsteps coming up the sidewalk. The visitor hesitated at the bottom of the three steps leading to the front door, and Estelle groaned inwardly.
She lowered Carlos to the floor and rose silently, padding to the front door. It opened on silent hinges, and Estelle held up a hand, the backs of her fingers over her mouth, begging for silence. Father Bertrand Anselmo hesitated, then slipped inside.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Con permiso,” the priest whispered as the final notes of the fugue died away. “I am so sorry to intrude.” He turned to Estelle. “May I?”
“Of course. Come in.”
Anselmo entered the living room and crossed first to Teresa Reyes. Estelle’s mother beamed. “You’re late,” she croaked. “My grandson has just started.”
“I am so sorry to intrude,” Anselmo said again. “You’re well, I trust?” He took Teresa’s tiny right hand in both of his enormous paws.
“I’m old, is what I am,” Teresa said. “But that can’t be helped.”
“Bless you, Teresa,” he said. “And how are you, doctor?” the priest asked, stepping across to Francis, who now stood, bemused, with his hand on Francisco’s shoulder. Bill Gastner didn’t rise but leaned forward with a grunt and extended a hand to the priest as he passed. “Always good to see you, Bill,” Anselmo said.
“And I’m Madelyn Bolles,” the writer said as Anselmo turned toward her. “We met down at the iglesia.”
“Ah. So we did, so we did. I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”
“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. Tha
t 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.”
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