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 twice 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.
“Oh, wow,” Madelyn whispered as the last note faded from a particularly melodic piece whose mood had fascinated the little boy since Sofía Tournál, his great-aunt living in Veracruz, Mexico, had played it for him and then sent him the music. When a new piece crossed Francisco’s path, he rapidly absorbed it, conquered whatever technical demands it might make, then experimented with the music, coming to understand it and make it his own. Often when he did that with a new composition, the piece would soon be discarded, never to be played again. But this composition, written by a twenty-nine-year-old Mozart at the peak of his marital and artistic contentment, had somehow spoken to the little boy. Estelle had always been curious what her son saw when he played the simple Andante movement of the Concerto no. 21 in C Major, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, explain that to her. Regardless, it was a piece that stayed with him, never discarded.
“Oh, wow,” Madelyn said again, and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. She twisted in her chair to look at Estelle, who sat comfortably in the rocker, Carlos zonked out across her lap. “Francisco,” the writer said, “what’s the name of that piece?”
He turned on the piano bench, left hand reaching out to rest on the keys. “Some number,” he said with a laugh. “They always used dumb names. It’s about a prince. He walks into a forest and gets lost.”
“Really?”
The little boy nodded. “They look for him, but then he decides that he wants to live there, and he hides so they can’t find him.”
“Do they ever find him?”
“No.”
Madelyn glanced at Estelle. “Hollywood would be fascinated by that interpretation,” she said.
“Hollywood always gets it wrong, anyway,” Bill Gastner said. “How about playing the car chase for us?”
“And then I need to put this one to bed,” Estelle said, looking down at Carlos’ peaceful repose. “My legs are going to sleep.”
Francisco faced the keyboard once again, pausing for just a moment, frozen with concentration. “Okay,” he said, and let that suffice as an explanation of what was coming. There was no predicting that, of course, for once the boy strayed into his own world of composition, what emerged was an ever-changing story. In this case, it began with a tiny trill high in the treble, reminding Estelle of a column of dust rising far in the distance, the smallest disturbance on the open sea of prairie. From there, the story grew at a controlled pace, and she could imagine standing on a rise watching a vehicle far in the distance approach across the open prairie. In a moment, the image split, the one plume becoming two, locked in pursuit.
At that point, Carlos kicked and awoke, eyes big. The music had apparently pounded into his dreams, and he sat up. Estelle hugged him, but he squirmed down, standing by her knees as he blinked himself awake. She knew exactly what was coming, since this piece had delighted the boys and padrino for weeks. After a moment, Carlos slipped away, to cross behind Madelyn’s chair and slide between the front of the piano bench and the keyboard. That put his chin level with the ivories, and Francisco leaned toward him without speaking, acknowledging his presence. After a few seconds, the opportunity presented itself. While Francisco’s right hand was busy, he reached out and touched two notes far down in the bass. “Those,” he whispered.
Carlos poised an index finger from each hand over the notes, one black, one white. He apparently knew the story well, since he needed no prompting. At the important moment, he began a steady, alternating drumming of the two keys, an unrelenting helicopter in the background.
“I love it,” Gastner said. “I have to learn that part.” The piece continued as the two cars chased each other over mesa, arroyo, cliff and mountain tops. The helicopter kept pace, pausing now and then at some secret signal from the composer, only to reenter the chase. After a moment, it became clear how the story would end. The vast collision sent up plumes of dust and debris, the discord quite amazing in its careful control.
At the end, what Estelle pictured as a single hubcap spiraled away into the ditch, reducing both boys to convulsive giggles. They looked to padrino for approval, and his wide grin was all they needed.
“You have your hands full,” Madelyn Bolles observed to Estelle. She extended a hand to Francisco as he slid off the bench. “Thank you, young man. That was a treasure.” He accepted the hand and added a courtly bow, head ever so slightly tilted with grace but no deference. “And you, too,” she said to Carlos, who mimicked his older brother’s response.
“Such noise,” Teresa said, her first comment of the concert. But her pride was obvious. “You two help me to bed now.” She held out both hands, waiting for her escort.
“And then yourselves,” Francis added.
“And I’m off,” Irma said. “This has been wonderful. Ms. Bolles, it was so nice to meet you. I hope we’ll be seeing you again.”
“Oh, most assuredly. Thank you, Irma. It was all so lovely.”
Irma bent down and circled an arm around Bill Gastner’s shoulders. “There’s one more piece of pie, if you want it. And I put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“What a sweetheart,” Gastner said.
; Madelyn Bolles relaxed in the rocker, watching the various ceremonies of departure. At one point, as Estelle passed close by to retrieve her mother’s shawl, the writer leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I should be heading back,” she said. “Are you on call tonight?”
Estelle laughed. “I’m always on call.”
“And what happens if your husband is called out at the same time?”
“Without Irma, the whole thing would collapse,” Estelle replied. “She’s on call, too.”
“You’re most fortunate,” Madelyn observed. “She seems like a wonderful girl.”
“Indeed she is, and we’re most fortunate. If she ever leaves, I quit.”
“Is she married? A family of her own?”
“Not yet. She has a lonnnnnnng-suffering boyfriend who has the market cornered on patience. But the time will come. We’ll be happy for her and feel desolate at the same time.”
“You’d give up your job?”
“Sure.” Estelle surprised herself with how quickly the single word came out. Certainly, the thought had crossed her mind, but it had always been pushed back into some quiet corner, not to be discussed. The ache that still crept in and entwined itself around her right rib cage served as a reminder of how quickly a comfortable life could be disrupted—even destroyed.
Madelyn eased herself out of her chair and stepped to the piano. She opened the keyboard cover and stood for a moment as if counting the keys to make sure they were still all there.
“Do you play?” Estelle asked.
“Not so you’d notice,” Madelyn replied. “I know the names of all the notes. On a good day, I can play ‘Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater’ without making a mistake. How many hours a day does he practice?”
“I don’t know how to count what’s practice and what’s play,” Estelle said. “He’s at the keyboard one way or another for five or six hours a day. Sometimes more.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Madelyn bent down and inspected the keyboard. “How does a little kid work here for six hours a day and yet the keys stay so clean?”
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