“Ah, well,” Estelle said, folding the shawl over her arm. “That’s one of his little quirks. He never has to be reminded to wash his hands for the piano. For eating, yes. For the piano, no. It’s all the more remarkable since his other passion is grubbing outside in the dirt with his brother. They have an enormous excavation going on out back. I think they’re trying to make a scale model of an open-pit copper mine.”
“Huh,” Madelyn said thoughtfully. She lowered the keyboard cover. “He likes school?”
“He’s passionate about it,” Estelle said. “For everything except music, if you can imagine. He’s not fond of the teacher, but they only meet twice a week, so he endures.”
“That must be a trial, perhaps for both,” Madelyn mused.
“I’m sure it is, and probably more so for her. Right now, she’s trying to teach them to play those little plastic recorders.”
“We used to call them tonettes?”
“That’s it. Francisco can’t abide them.” She held up her mother’s shawl. “I’ll be back out in a minute. Bill and I need to talk, and you’re welcome to join us. You might find it interesting.”
“If I’m not intruding, although I have to admit I’m pooped.”
“You’re not intruding. Remember our agreement.” Estelle smiled. “I’ll tell you when you are.”
“Done deal,” Madelyn said.
In a few moments, with Irma gone home, the two youngsters and their grandmother in bed, and Francis working in his office in the back bedroom, Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Madelyn Bolles settled once more in the dining room. Only, the former sheriff indulged in more coffee and the remaining piece of dessert, and he focused on it as Estelle reviewed the events of the afternoon.
“You know,” he said, placing the empty dish on the table, “in my own cowardly way, I always hoped that Father Anselmo wouldn’t muck things up until after I retired. He did a pretty good job. It’s amazing that he’s been able to run in folks for so long without something going wrong.”
Estelle looked at the former sheriff with astonishment.
“Well, yes, I knew,” Gastner said without waiting to be asked. “Well,” he backtracked, “I sorta knew, you could say. And I think you did, too. After all, the church is never locked. I know for a fact that the Border Patrol checks once in a while, but they’re careful.…They have enough bad press as it is without getting the reputation for raiding churches. Anyway, Regál isn’t one of their points of concern. Never has been. The mountain makes a pretty good fence, unless you know how to use it. A little advice from a person who knows the country can be a big help.” He shrugged.
“The border fence runs about a mile to the west from the crossing, then that big bluff of rocks crosses the border, kind of on a northeast–southwest line. The fence looks like it goes up and over, but it doesn’t. So you can skirt around the end, and follow the trail through the rocks. You come down right behind Joe Baca’s place—if you don’t get lost.”
“They do this at night?” Madelyn asked.
“Most of the time. Late evening, I’m guessing. A little light makes it easy for them, hard for the Border Patrol. You can hear a chopper coming from miles away. It doesn’t take much to hide in the rocks. But you know,” and he hunched forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, “that’s not the issue. Crossing the border isn’t difficult in a bazillion places.” He looked up and grinned. “It’s like a dog chasing a goddamn truck.…Chasing a truck isn’t hard. But what does he do when he finally catches it? You get across the fence, and then what?” He sipped his coffee. “If they had a place to rest for a bit, and then someplace all arranged to work, and a way to get to work, then it’s easy.”
“But it’s starting to look as if he has the whole village involved in this,” Estelle said. “They must know what’s going on, at the very least. It isn’t just providing sanctuary at the iglesia once in a while for an illegal or two. They’re sponsoring illegals, padrino. A handful comes in, as far as I can tell, and they mix in during a church ceremony of some kind. This next week—in fact tomorrow—it’s Fernando and Maria Rivera’s seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. And then I wouldn’t be surprised if a few folks agree to drive the illegals to either a place of employment, or at least on up the road where hitchhikers don’t raise eyebrows. That’s what’s happening. They have their own little railroad organized.”
“I’m not surprised. You have a whole village working together, you can get a lot done.” He grinned and hitched himself sideways in his chair. “That idea isn’t original with me, by the way.”
He leaned forward, reached out and tilted his cup, then pushed himself away from the table and padded over to the coffeepot. “You know how easy it is to cross to Regál,” he said as he returned to the table with a refill. “Anywhere else is a hell of a hike. But climbing up into the hills to skirt the fence, hell, that’s not hard. Or hitching a ride through the gate with a willing resident? That’s not hard, either, especially if the right person is working the crossing on our side. Their side isn’t the issue.”
“Is it fair to say,” Madelyn Bolles said, “that not everyone around here is concerned about illegals coming into the country?”
“Very fair,” Gastner replied, spreading his hands wide. “And on the other hand, to some folks it’s the biggest goddamn threat this side of ten-dollar gasoline. ‘You can’t let all them damn greasers into this country, or first thing you know, one of ’em will want to marry my sister.’” He shrugged. “Then there’s the other extreme, those folks who say anybody should be able to work and live anywhere, without any goddamn fences or border checkpoints, or brown shirts standing around with machine guns asking you, ‘Where are your papers?’”
He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “The most reverend Father Bertrand Anselmo is closer to the latter group.”
“And you?” the writer asked with a smile. “May I ask that?”
“I’ve never been able to figure out what I think,” Gastner said cheerfully. “I go with the flow of the moment. I make sure I can make it through this day, and then tomorrow takes care of itself.” Gastner looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “What’d you tell Bert?”
“I told him to stop it,” Estelle replied. “But I’m not going to organize a raid of a wedding anniversary mass.”
Gastner chuckled. “That’d make the news, wouldn’t it. No doubt, your young woodcutter will be back next week, working for someone else.”
“He’s wanted in Buenaventura. The authorities say he borrowed a car.”
“Well, then, it’ll be two weeks,” Gastner laughed. “Until he figures out who to bribe. You can see how optimistic I am about this whole mess.”
He stretched hugely, blinking himself alert. “But believe it or not, this is the least of your problems, sweetheart. You’ve got an inconvenient corpse on your hands. Do you have any theories about this sweepstakes thing?”
“Tony Abeyta is over in Cruces,” Estelle said. “There has to be a link between Chris Marsh and somebody. Tony’s working with Grunt Nilson to see what they can dig up. Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum. I’m sure of that.”
“Not to mention the nagging little fact that someone killed him,” Gastner said. “Or at least hastened the goddamn dying process a little.”
“Exactly.” She saw Madelyn’s eyebrows pucker a little, but the writer didn’t intrude with questions, and Estelle was impressed all the more.
“Well, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call,” Gastner said, and pushed back his chair. He stood up with a sigh. “Wonderful grub, wonderful company, but I have to go back to my burrow.” He extended a hand to Madelyn Bolles. “Pleasure seeing you again. How long are you with us?”
“You never know,” she replied.
He laughed. “You have my card,” he said. “If you get stranded, give me a buzz. I’ll be delighted to tour you ar
ound some more.”
“I will most assuredly do that.”
Estelle escorted the former sheriff of Posadas County to the front door, where he paused, one hand on the knob. “I’d be interested to know about Serafina,” he said. “Joe and Lucinda I can figure, especially with the publicity about their big lottery win earlier this spring. But I worry a little about the old lady.”
“Why or how she was picked as the first winner, you mean?”
“Yep. You’ve had the same thought.”
“That’s my goal tomorrow,” Estelle said with a nod. “We’ll see what Tony turns down in Cruces, and go from there.” She stretched carefully, and unconsciously pressed her right hand to her ribs.
“You taking care of yourself?” Gastner said, his voice dropping to little more than a gruff whisper.
“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Long days are a little tougher, is all.”
“Then shorten ’em,” Gastner replied. He reached out and circled her shoulders, his hug gentle. “Thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she closed the door behind him, Estelle turned to see Madelyn Bolles shrugging into her light blue jacket.
“I’d best be on my way, too,” she said. “If you’re called out, will you have time to give me a buzz? Probably not, huh.”
“There’s never any way to tell. Are you sure that you want that, though?”
“At the moment, no. But I’d feel terrible if I missed something.” She extended her hand and held Estelle’s for a moment. “I really appreciate being included this evening.”
“We all enjoyed your visit,” Estelle said. “And Francisco enjoyed showing off for you.”
“What an amazing gift,” the writer said. “I hope I can hear him play again.”
Estelle laughed. “That won’t be hard to arrange. He seemed to enjoy having you as an audience.” She waited on the front step as Madelyn Bolles made her way out to her car, then switched off the porch light as the taillights of the rental Buick disappeared up the street. Estelle stood in the foyer for a moment, then closed and locked the front door.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On Sunday morning, Deputy Tony Abeyta sounded pessimistic. It was always gratifying when information jumped right into the investigator’s headlights, and frustrating when it remained illusive.
“We talked to every neighbor we could find last night,” he said, “but a weekend isn’t always the best time.” He chuckled and added, “It’s amazing how many folks can’t even describe what their neighbors look like.”
“Or want to,” Estelle said, then added, “You’re off today, you know.” Abeyta glanced across her office toward the wall with the whiteboard and its staff schedule.
“Yeah, and so are you,” he laughed. He patted the slender folder in his lap. “Grunt’s working today, so I thought I’d go over to Cruces again for a little bit, as long as we have the chance.” He opened the folder. “A few of the neighbors in the trailer park are willing to admit that they knew Marsh well enough to talk to him on an occasional basis…small talk stuff. Everyone says that he seemed like an okay guy, and two of ’em remember the truck. They thought that he was a student, and that maybe he worked part-time. As near as anyone can recollect, he’s lived in the park for about four months. That’s what the park manager’s rental records show, too.”
“Did anyone recall markings on the truck?” Estelle asked.
“No. And the Tylers live right next door. Their kitchen window looks out on his trailer, and he parked the truck in the space between. They’d have seen door plaques.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “That doesn’t mean they remember diddly, though. They were a little bit of help, but not much.”
“What’s the manager have to say?”
“Marsh paid his rent on time. No loud music, no obnoxious pets, no wild parties. The manager doesn’t ask for references, and rentals are by the month. Mostly minimum wagers, a few students, a few snowbirds without a budget, a few down-and-outers. He said he runs about a third vacancies, so he’s eager to get anybody who’ll pay. It’s a dismal little place, Estelle. I can’t believe people live like that. It sure isn’t about location, location, location. They get all the noise from the interstate, and the trailer park isn’t convenient to much of anywhere.”
The deputy stretched out his legs and crossed his boots, slouching farther down in his chair. “One little thing, is all. The Tylers—Mrs. Tyler, that is—says that Marsh had a girlfriend.”
“I would think so. Before his truck did a tap dance on top of him, he was a pretty good-looking kid.”
“She remembered the girl clearly,” Abeyta said. “The manager didn’t, but the neighbor did. The girl and Marsh ‘smooched’ a lot, she said.” He looked up from his notes and grinned. “It’s been a while since I heard anyone use that word.”
“Does this Mrs. Tyler neighbor remember anything other than the smooching? A name would be nice.”
“We should be so lucky, Estelle. She described the girl as ‘willowy.’ That’s the term she used. Willowy like a fashion model, she said. Taller than Marsh by a little bit. Always showing lots of midriff. And one time here recently, she was driving a late model Mustang convertible.”
“Earning more than a casual glance from the neighbor, I would think,” Estelle added. “Just ‘one time’? What’s that mean?”
“The neighbor thought that the ‘kids’—that’s what she called ’em—were just trying it out. It had a dealer demo sticker instead of a plate.”
“The neighbors were keeping more than a casual watch, apparently,” Estelle said.
“Well, you gotta understand. This Tyler woman is on the slide way past fifty-five, and on the upside of two hundred and fifty pounds. She isn’t a happy camper. She must have told me five times about how her drunk husband won’t fix their ’84 Crown Vic and that’s why the tags were expired. Mr. Tyler didn’t remember anything, by the way…or doesn’t want to. Not even the midriff. The missus isn’t real happy with the world right now, and she’s got these two gorgeous lovebirds next door to watch, with the supermodel driving a fancy-schmancy convertible to rub it all in.”
“But she only saw that car once,” Estelle added.
“That’s what she said. Blue convertible with a white rocker panel stripe.”
“It’d be interesting to know where the supermodel lives,” Estelle mused. “A low-rent trailer in the middle of a mobile home park doesn’t sound like her kind of place—not if she can afford a ‘fancy-schmancy’ new set of wheels.”
“I think that just happens to be where the boyfriend is camped out. Why he’s chosen such a dump is the puzzle.”
“It might be worth paying a visit to the area Ford dealers tomorrow. Maybe even today if any of them have Sunday hours,” Estelle said. “We might get lucky. Some salesman might remember the circumstances of the test drive, if that’s what it was.”
“I’ll see who’s open today,” Abeyta said.
“What do we know about the girl, other than the ‘willowy midriff?’” Estelle asked. “Did anyone get beyond that?”
“Mrs. Tyler said she was Mexican. Long black hair that she tied back in a ponytail sometimes, and really olive skin.” Estelle cocked her head at that, and the deputy shrugged. “It’s something. Black hair and olive skin narrows it down to about what, forty-seven percent of the population now?” He regarded the backs of his own olive hands. “More than that in Cruces. Unless you consider the Italians, the Indians, the Spanish, the French, the Moroccans, the Iraqis…” He let the list trail off.
“We need to find her,” Estelle said. “Chris Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum, Tony. Someone was in the area when he picked up that last check from the Bacas on Wednesday night, and someone followed him, or was planning to meet him afterward. They were close enough that when he crashed the truck, they were Johnny-on-th
e-spot while he was still alive…and that’s looking like minutes.”
She glanced up as Brent Sutherland appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Bolles is here,” he said.
“We’re just about wrapped up,” Estelle said. “You can tell her to come on back.”
“Will do.”
In a moment the magazine reporter appeared, this time dressed entirely in black save for her off-white, frilly blouse and a modest squash blossom turquoise necklace. Deputy Abeyta snapped out of his slouch and pulled himself to his feet.
“Madelyn, this is Deputy Tony Abeyta,” Estelle said. “I don’t think you two have had a chance to meet yet. Ms. Bolles is a writer for A Woman’s World magazine, Tony. She has free run of the department while she’s here.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand. Estelle saw that the young man’s guard was up, his tone efficient, polite, but clipped and noncommittal.
“Deputy August,” Madelyn said, without looking at the framed photos on Estelle’s office wall—the “calendar” of employees. Linda Real’s portrait of Tony Abeyta showed the deputy standing beside a small dun pony. His right arm with lead rope in hand was draped over the horse’s neck as if the two of them were old friends. In his left hand, Abeyta held a small notebook, and it appeared that he was ruffling through the pages with his thumb. “I’d like to hear the story behind that photo some time.”
“I was just checking the mileage on my patrol unit,” Abeyta said with a straight face. “Nothing more mysterious than that.” He flashed a smile as he turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know,” he said to Estelle. “If we dig anything up, I’ll give you a call. Ma’am, nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Madelyn said warmly. She gazed out into the hall after the deputy had left. “He reminds me of someone,” she said after a moment. “I can’t remember who.” She turned and regarded Deputy August’s photo, but that didn’t prompt an answer, and she turned back to the undersheriff. “You had a quiet night for a change, I see,” she said. “Brent the dispatcher says that it was a long, boring shift.”
The Fourth Time is Murder Page 24