“She’s fine, Danny. She mentioned that Irene might be over here.”
Daniel Rivera’s full blond eyebrows wrinkled with puzzlement, and his errant left eye drifted a bit, an altogether fetching expression, Estelle thought. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No. I’ve known Irene since she was like so.” She held her hand three feet off the ground. “I just wanted to say hi. We were passing through, and saw her car at Serafina’s. Her grandma said we might catch her over here. You guys were working on the Jeep?”
“Oh, that,” the young man said. He thrust his hands in his back pockets and nodded toward the shop. “Irene’s inside. Come on in.” He peered at the police car. “Your friend there’s welcome to come in, too. Grandpop and Grandmamá are in the house, if you want to say hello.”
“I may see them this afternoon. My mother may want to come down, too.”
“That’d be cool. She don’t have to drive all this way, though. There’s the main reception at the VFW in Posadas.” He turned toward the shop, but the sound of her cell phone stopped Estelle in her tracks.
“Let me catch this, Danny. I’ll be along in just a second,” she said, and turned back toward the car as she opened the phone. “Guzman.”
“Sorry to bother you,” Brent Sutherland said. “You clear?”
“For a minute,” Estelle said. “I’m with Danny Rivera at his grandparents’ place.” A long pause followed, and Estelle could picture Brent leaning forward, staring at the huge county map on the wall in Dispatch. She heard a familiar voice in the background, and Sutherland said, “Are you clear for a call?”
“Sure.”
“Hang on a second.” In a moment County Manager Leona Spears’ voice warbled over the air.
“Forgive the interruption,” Leona said, “but I wanted to tell you that I had a long conversation with, oh, what’s his name. Something Parker.”
“Elliot Parker?” Estelle asked. It was part of Leona’s fetching tact that she had taken the time to check with the Sheriff’s Department dispatch before contacting Estelle, even though the undersheriff’s personal cell phone number was one of the first on the county manager’s speed-dial list.
“That’s the one. He with the beer bottle–pitching son. He called me at home, for mercy’s sakes. On a Sunday morning. That’s dedication to being a real nuisance.”
“Well, ‘nuisance’ is a kind term, Leona,” Estelle observed.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Leona chirped. “He wanted to make sure that we were going to fire Deputy Collins. Can you imagine that? We’re not going to do that, are we?” Her question raised all kinds of interesting turf questions, Estelle reflected, since the sheriff did his own hiring and firing—his was an elected office, not subject to approval or supervision by the county manager. Still, they had all come to value Leona’s input.
“No, we’re not.”
“Wonderful. Because that’s what I told Mr. Parker. That was my understanding after talking with Bobby late last night. Mr. Parker, bless his arrogant little soul, didn’t like hearing that. And for some reason, he didn’t want to talk to Master Robert. I can’t imagine why.” A little chuckle followed that. “The more Mr. Parker can deflect things away from his little boy, the better, apparently.”
“I don’t think Judge Hobart is deflectable,” Estelle said. “It’s in his hands, not ours. Anyway, as far as Dennis is concerned, the sheriff has a new training program in the works. I think it’s the right thing to do. Much more stringent qualifications for all of us.”
“I heard about that. It’s going to cost us some money, but I think it’s worth it, and a wonderful, proactive notion. I tried to explain that to Mr. Parker, but it went in one ear and out the other. Anyway, to make a long story short, he’s threatening to sue us, for what, I don’t know. He made it an ultimatum, and that’s when I lost my patience, I’m afraid. He’ll probably call you, too, and I wanted you to hear it from the horse’s mouth…what I told him, I mean.”
“And what’s that, Leona?”
“I told him in no uncertain terms that it was going to be wonderfully entertaining watching this whole mess unfold in public court. I said we’ve needed to bring this underage drinking thing out in the open for a long time, and then I told him that I hoped he had a really good lawyer, because we do. A drunken young man throwing a full bottle of beer at an officer and damaging government property, and the officer injured by flying glass? My goodness.”
The glass chip did draw a speck of blood, Estelle thought, but she didn’t interrupt Leona’s roll.
“And selling liquor to minors, and on and on,” Leona continued. “Probably more than that. I was really wound up. I told him that it was going to be fun.” She sniffed. “I think at the moment I’m feeling a little ashamed of myself for losing my temper.”
“Some people bring out the best in all of us, Leona. What did Parker say to all this?”
“Well, now he’s angry with me, which is probably a good thing,” Leona laughed. “He hung up on me when I said, ‘Well, why don’t you sue me, then. Let’s just sue everyone, while we’re at it, if that’s the only way you can figure out how to make a living.’ I probably shouldn’t have been so melodramatic, but there it is.”
“He’ll get over it,” Estelle said. “His son will get a slap on the wrist, maybe a little bit of probation, and that’ll be it, unless Hobart’s in a really foul mood.”
“Except for the repair of the vehicle,” Leona said. “I plan to pursue that if Judge Hobart doesn’t order restitution. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m his latest target, so not to worry.”
“Thanks, Leona. I wasn’t worried, but I’m glad that things will work out. For Dennis’ sake.”
“He’ll be the better police officer for it,” Leona said. Her voice took on a more serious tone. “He wasn’t even scheduled to work, was he? I mean, when the incident happened?”
“No. He was finishing up some paperwork at the end of a long day. He took the call as a matter of convenience. He was headed home that way, and no one else was close. He volunteered, and I okayed it. So chalk it up to my mistake. I was tired, but I knew that he was, too. I let him go anyway. But at that moment, with the situation as it was, it seemed the expedient solution.”
“Oh my. We are sooooo shorthanded, aren’t we,” Leona said. “Well, that’s one of my priorities. We’re going to do something about that. But you’re busy, and I’m rambling. Are we making progress with that horrible truck crash situation?”
“‘Progress’ may be too optimistic a word, Leona.” She glanced at the shop, but Danny Rivera had disappeared inside.
“Well, that’s my nature, dear. If there’s anything I can do to facilitate, let me know.”
“I will, Leona. Thanks for all you do.”
“Is that wonderful magazine reporter with you yet?”
“She is.”
“I look forward to having the chance to visit with her, if she wants.”
“I’m sure she will, Leona. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Thanks so much. Well, I’m out of your hair now. Ta, dear.” The phone went dead, and Estelle laughed.
“Our county manager,” she said to Madelyn. “She’s one of a kind. She wants to talk with you sometime.”
“She’s on my list,” Madelyn said. “I’ve heard so many different stories, I don’t know what to expect.”
“Expect a charming interview,” Estelle said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The sun was already baking the gravel in front of the shop as Estelle walked away from the car. As she neared the shop, she could smell the tang of hot steel. By afternoon, the uninsulated building would be toasty warm, as the February sun baked the expanse of roof and wall. She paused in the doorway. Off to the left, a huge red four-wheel-drive pickup rested on blocks,
parts from its brakes and wheel hubs laid neatly on clean rags. A quick glance around the shop revealed another older truck with all of its guts removed, various collections of parts here and there, and, incongruously, a slick fiberglass bass boat on a new, white trailer. The cowling had been removed from the massive outboard motor on the boat’s transom.
“We can get that oil changed while you’re here,” Danny said cheerfully. “County ain’t too good at keepin’ up with maintenance. I know that for a fact.”
“That’s true,” Estelle said. She stepped carefully toward the four-by-four, mindful of the litter of tools and cords on the floor. Toward the back of the shop was an impressive collection of tires. Three of them were spread out on the floor, and Irene Salas turned from her inspection of them.
Estelle wound her way through the litter, and Irene Salas approached to greet her. Stout-framed and athletic, Irene had poured herself into fresh blue jeans and a denim shirt whose tails were tied at her waist. “Irene, welcome home. I was just over talking with your grandmother, and she said you were visiting.”
“Hi,” Irene said, clearly confused, even a bit guarded.
“The last time I saw you, you were about like this,” Estelle said, indicating a small child. “I’m Estelle Guzman.”
A flare of recognition touched Irene’s eyes. “Grandma Serafina talks about you all the time,” she said, and smiled warmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you when you drove up. That sun’s so bright. You’re sheriff now?”
“Undersheriff,” Estelle said. “Bobby Torrez is sheriff. Remember him?”
“The big scary guy who looks like he belongs in the movies…wow.”
Estelle laughed. “That would be the one. Your grandmother is thrilled that you came over. Are you here for the anniversary?”
“Isn’t that great?” Irene replied. “They’re so cute,” and she looked affectionately at Danny Rivera. “I can’t even imagine seventy-five years together.”
“That’s a long, long time. Irene, your grandma said you’re a junior now?”
“I’ll be a senior this fall.” She beamed. “Two more semesters and I get to be unemployed.”
“There’s always grad school,” Danny offered.
“Yeah, well,” Irene said. “There is. But I’m not sure yet.”
“What are you majoring in?” Estelle asked.
“Anthropology,” Irene said. “I think. It’s much, much harder than I thought, especially now that we’re into statistics and all that sort of thing. But I’m loving it…well, most of it, so it’ll work out.”
“That’s an interesting road,” Estelle agreed. “When you’re finished, you’re headed off to Africa or Peru, or someplace like that?”
“Actually, I don’t have to travel that far,” Irene laughed. “I’m really drawn to the border country.” She turned to look at Danny Rivera with undisguised affection. “People like Fernando and Maria? My grandma? I can’t even imagine what this country was like when they were young. No pavement, no RVs pouring through, no fence,” and she looked out the shop door. “Only the iglesia is the same.”
“Until Emilio passes on,” Danny observed.
“See,” Irene said, with a heartfelt intensity that impressed Estelle. For added emphasis, the girl reached out and punched Danny Rivera on the shoulder. “What’s going to happen then? You watch. Within a month of Emilio’s passing, I bet someone puts an electric light over the doorway. You watch.” She made a face. “That’s the first step.”
“Well, I’m not the one who’s going to do it,” Danny said in self-defense.
“You better not.” The pugnacious expression softened. “If I’m not around, you kick over their ladder for me.”
“The ethnographics of the border country interest you, then,” Estelle said, and Irene Salas nodded vigorously.
“Not the cities, though,” she said. “I could care less about the metro areas. But like Fernando and Maria? Or my grandma? Or your mom, Estelle? Serafina talks about her all the time, too. This was such a neat stretch of country before politicians ruined it. All the tiny little villages? I love it.” She grinned. “We have some rip-roaring arguments about it all in class,” she said.
“Who’s the ‘we?’” Estelle asked.
“Oh, you know. I have one professor who agrees that I should do an ethnographic study just of Regál, while so many of the viejos are still alive.”
“You should,” Estelle said. “And don’t put it off. Things change quickly.”
“I know,” Irene said. “I had never realized how fast. I talk with Grandma Serafina and realize how much is lost already. Like I never met Octavio? I hear Serafina or my mom talk about my grandpa, and I miss him soooo much…and I never met him! He died a jillion years before I was even born. Is that sad, or what?” She shook her shoulders. “Listen to me. I get all wound up.”
“It’s delightful that you’re passionate about your studies,” Estelle said. “Perhaps more people should be.” She turned and looked back toward the car, and her patient passenger. “I should be running along. We’re up to here this weekend,” and she made a slice across her throat. “Your grandma probably told you that we had a nasty accident up on the pass Friday night. The driver was a student…or used to be a student…at State.”
Irene’s open, pleasant countenance crumpled in sympathy. “Oh, I know. Both she and Danny were talking about it.”
“Did you know him?” Estelle paused as if the memory was slow in coming. “His name was Christopher Marsh.”
“I helped Stubby winch that mess back up the hill,” Danny interrupted before Irene could answer. “What a damn crash that was. He must have been flyin’.”
“I think he was. You didn’t know him, then?” Estelle repeated.
“There’s something about the name that sounds kinda familiar, but you know, there’s about a jillion people on campus. Plus, it sounds like one of those names, you know.”
“If you have a minute, I’d like to show you something,” Estelle said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” Irene said.
“I’ll be back in just a second.”
Estelle turned and walked quickly back to the Ford. Madelyn watched as the undersheriff took the manila folder of eight-by-ten glossies from her briefcase, but made no comment.
“Slim chances,” Estelle said by way of explanation. Walking back toward the shop, she smiled apologetically at the two young people.
“I wouldn’t do this, but you get around in Cruces, and there’s always a chance you might recognize this individual. As I said, he was a student at State for a while, I think. I’m not sure if he was this past semester.” She slipped the photo out and handed it to Irene, who flinched. “Oh, gross,” she blurted. The eight-by-ten had been taken at the morgue, with the victim cleaned up and his limbs arranged more or less in proper line. Still, there was no doubt that he’d lost the battle with the truck and the rocks in a big way.
“That’s the guy, huh?” Danny said, looking over Irene’s shoulder. “I wasn’t up there when they dug him out of the truck.”
“That’s the guy,” Estelle said. “We’re trying to find out a little more about him.” She reached out but didn’t take the picture back from Irene. “No recollection? Did you ever catch sight of him on campus?”
With a pained shake of her head, she handed the photo back, dropping it into the folder held open by the undersheriff. Before Estelle could close the folder, Irene reached out and stopped her. “Wait. Can I look at that again?”
“Certainly.”
This time, Irene Salas took the photo and took her time, her face touched by revulsion at the obvious injuries. “Do you have any others?”
“You think you might know him?”
“I don’t know.”
Estelle hesitated. She looked a
t the four remaining shots, all taken at the accident site, and slid them out of the folder. Irene took them without comment, but Danny Rivera made a face.
“Man,” he said, and let it go at that.
Estelle saw the muscles of Irene’s jaw clench. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “He doesn’t even look like himself anymore.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. Oh, my God.” She slumped a bit, and Danny Rivera reached out to her, lightly embracing her shoulders. Again, she went back to the morgue photo, turning it this way and that. “Oh, my God,” she said again. “Last semester, he used to come and meet my lab partner after class. Can you believe that? I’m sure it’s him. Well, almost sure. I noticed him because he looked like he ought to be a soap opera star or something. He and CJ were a good match.”
“And CJ is?”
“That was my lab partner’s name. CJ without the periods Vallejos.”
“What kind of class was this?” Estelle asked, working hard to keep her tone casually conversational. The pounding sounded as if someone were trying to make their way through the back wall of the shop, but Estelle knew it was her own pulse in her ears.
“Well, not my most favorite, that’s for sure. It was physical anthro, but the professor’s idea of a good time was to spend the day in a musty lab, brushing dirt off old bones. That’s when I found out that paleo-osteology wasn’t my bag.”
Estelle accepted the photos and tucked them away. “Actually,” Irene continued, “by the time the semester was over, Professor Ulrich had convinced most of us that he had actually died and dried up about the same time as his old bone collection.”
“Did you ever have the opportunity to talk to Chris Marsh?” Estelle asked.
“Oh, once, I think. Just in passing. But I did see him now and then. He and CJ were pretty tight. A good match.”
“How so?”
“Well, salt and pepper sort of thing, you know.” She nodded at the folder. “Before he did that to himself, he was really attractive, like some surfer Joe. And CJ is, well, CJ. Dark and gorgeous.” Her face went blank. “Oh, my God.”
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