The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  Doña Rosalia’s nephew whistled. “You told her that? You’re a brave man.”

  Almeida looked miserable. “She didn’t take it very well,” he admitted. “She was a bit abusive. I wish to heaven now that I’d stayed late and made the extra copy as usual but I didn’t know.” He looked pleadingly at his friend, and then sighed and finished his story. “She said if I couldn’t be bothered to make a copy I couldn’t be trusted to hold onto the one I had made. And then she insisted on having the copy that had been typed properly signed and witnessed—and by the time that was done with I was late for lunch. I thought she’d be in again to change its provisions in a few weeks anyway, so she took the only copy home with her. The problem now is that it’s nowhere to be found.”

  Señor Tejada sighed. “You must have notes on what the changes were,” he suggested. “It can’t be that different from all the previous drafts.”

  Almeida shook his head. “I don’t need notes to remember the changes. There were only two important ones. You’re still the executor, there are still a few minor bequests to the church and a few charities, and the jewels still go to Daniela, of course.”

  “And the bulk of the estate?” Andrés Tejada asked with exaggerated casualness.

  The lawyer swallowed nervously. “Well, the land has legally belonged to Fernando as the older son ever since his father died. Doña Rosalia was just the beneficiary of a trust that left her its use and income. So it’s just her liquid assets and her own property that she could dispose of. She kept dividing it up between you and Daniela and Felipe differently, depending on how she felt at the moment.”

  “I suppose she finally cut one of us out completely?” Señor Tejada spoke with a heartiness that he did not entirely feel.

  Almeida avoided his friend’s eyes. “Daniela got nothing but the jewels; Felipe was completely disinherited,” he said quietly, “‘as a token of their undutiful behavior to their mother and their betrayal of the ideals of their father.’ You and Fernando are the sole heirs.”

  Andrés Tejada made a sound like a balloon being rapidly deflated. Pablo Almeida waited to see if he would make any comment and then said anxiously, “Fernando gets the sugar refinery as well as the farm free and clear now. But you stand to inherit just shy of four hundred thousand pesetas, less taxes. The thing is, the will wasn’t in her safe, and I have no idea where it might be. And since it’s disappeared, and you’re the executor . . .”

  “Daniela and Felipe will flay me alive,” Tejada whispered. “They’ll never believe that she changed her will and that the new will has disappeared.” He turned on the lawyer with something like ferocity. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “I advised against it,” Almeida pleaded. “But I thought it was just some temporary quarrel and that she’d change her mind soon enough. I told you, she changed her bequests every three months!”

  “Great! That means they’ll insist she was of unsound mind and that I unfairly influenced her!” Tejada was gaining a second wind. “Unfair influence! God, when I think of the hours I spent dealing with her tantrums because her own children were too sick of her to come running when she called! I deserve that bequest! But not a headache like this. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would have to know. I was sure she’d order a new will in a few weeks. She really just came to my office as a social diversion, you know. And she always seemed healthy as a horse.”

  Tejada put his head in his hands at the lawyer’s last words. “She didn’t just go to your office,” he said grimly. “She’s bothered the Guardia at least once every six weeks since my uncle died. She kept claiming there was a conspiracy to kill her. They brushed it off, of course, after Fernando told that idiot sergeant what she was like, but they can’t help investigating now. Especially since she always did seem as healthy as a horse.”

  Almeida stared at his friend. “Surely you don’t think she was murdered?”

  “Of course not,” Tejada said. “And neither do they. But if they don’t do a proper investigation into the death of a woman who was in perfect health and claimed someone was trying to kill her, and the reason they don’t do the investigation is because they dismiss the whole thing as the ravings of a senile old bat, we won’t have a leg to stand on when we go into court and Daniela and Felipe argue she was of unsound mind so any will of hers would be invalid.”

  Almeida noted not entirely happily that Tejada had said “when we go into court.” He liked Andrés and always had. But Daniela and Felipe Ordoñez were old acquaintances and wealthy clients as well. He was uncomfortable with the idea of antagonizing them. “But if the Guardia do conduct an investigation and they find out about this will, it gives you a motive for murder,” he pointed out unhappily.

  “Not if the will’s disappeared,” Tejada retorted. “If we can’t find the will, then she’ll either be ruled to have died intestate, or her previous one will stand, and her children stand to benefit most from that one, don’t they? But suppose someone murdered her and stole her last will to prevent it from going into effect?”

  Almeida gulped. “You don’t think Daniela or Felipe—,” he began.

  “I told you, I think she died of perfectly natural causes,” Tejada snapped. “But we have to make it clear to the Guardia that we want a full investigation. It will give us time to look for the will she took away with her. And if we can’t find it, maybe they will.”

  “The best thing would be for us to locate the will,” Almeida agreed, glad to be once more on solid ground. “But it wouldn’t be bad to enlist some help. I can’t think where else to look. And after all, it’s not as if the Guardia go around making wild accusations.”

  “Of course,” Tejada agreed. None of his many relatives had ever been treated by the Guardia Civil with anything except deference. None of Almeida’s had either, for that matter. He smiled suddenly. “Aunt Rosalia kept changing her will, and complaining of a conspiracy to murder her to the Guardia, since her husband died. So any will she made in the last three years could be held to be made by someone of unsound mind unless the Guardia seriously investigate the alleged conspiracy. I’m sure all her children will understand that.”

  “Very true.” Almeida was relieved at the prospect of the Tejada and Ordoñez clans acting in accord, albeit temporarily. “So the only question is how to make our position clear to the Guardia.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Rivas,” Tejada said confidently. “He seems very anxious to please.”

  “As long as you’re sure that won’t make him try to sweep the whole thing under the carpet,” Almeida cautioned.

  Tejada looked amused. “Pablo, the Guardia’s job is to nose into things. They’re only too happy to be given a free rein. They’re all mad for conspiracy theories themselves, so let them root around. It will make them happy. And if they find anything to support my aunt’s delusion, it will make us happy.”

  The lawyer nodded and held out an envelope. “These are the keys to Doña Rosalia’s town house and to the villa. I’ll have to give Fernando copies, of course, but if I were you I’d get in there and tear the place apart until you come up with the will.”

  Tejada deposited the envelope in his desk drawer, with brief thanks, and locked the drawer. Then he ushered the lawyer out and went back into his study. He had always gotten along well with his cousins (except when Daniela and his wife were quarreling) and he felt a certain sympathy for them. But Tejada did not delude himself that his cordial relations with the Ordoñez siblings would survive a legal battle over Doña Rosalia’s assets. He wondered if Fernando Ordoñez would support him. Fernando’s position as oldest son and head of the family would be unaffected by the outcome of any lawsuit, and his inheritance remained secure no matter who eventually gained control of his mother’s other assets. Fernando would want to take charge of his inheritance as quickly as possible, with a minimum of fuss and scandal. It would be far simpler, Tejada thought, to search Doña Rosalia’s house and country estate wi
th the knowledge and consent of their legal owner, and Fernando might consent if he was convinced that someone would inevitably find his mother’s last will and testament anyway. On the other hand, given the circumstances, he might doubt that the will even existed. Or he might resent Doña Rosalia’s leaving her wealth to her own side of the family, instead of dividing it amongst her children. Regretfully, Tejada decided that he could not take his oldest cousin into his confidence, at least not for the moment.

  Tejada did not share his Aunt Rosalia’s prejudice against the telephone. He settled himself into his desk chair and dialed the number of the Guardia Civil. Perhaps because the local guardias still cherished vivid memories of Doña Rosalia, he was transferred to Sergeant Rivas without having to ask for him. “I wondered if you’d made any progress investigating my aunt’s murder,” Tejada said, after he had identified himself.

  There was a faint cough and then Sergeant Rivas said tactfully, “Please don’t distress yourself, Señor Tejada. It’s likely that your aunt’s passing was perfectly natural. After all, she was an elderly lady, in frail health. It’s tragic, of course, but there’s no reason to think—”

  “Have you issued a death certificate?” Tejada interrupted.

  “Not yet, Señor, but we should have one within a few days, by the end of the week at the latest. I’ll make every effort to see that it’s done quickly so that you’re not inconvenienced.”

  “I don’t want you to rush to judgment so quickly that if my aunt was murdered, her killer gets away scot-free,” Tejada said sharply. “She claimed Reds were trying to kill her before she died, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” Sergeant Rivas, caught off guard, did not complete his sentence. The pause could easily have been covered by a gesture or smile in face-to-face conversation, but created a revealing silence over the telephone.

  “I want an autopsy performed,” Tejada insisted. “My aunt seemed to be in perfect health. I can’t believe that she’d go so quickly.”

  “Of course, Señor Tejada, if you and the late woman’s children feel—”

  “We do,” Tejada lied recklessly. “My poor cousins won’t rest until they’re positive that their mother’s untimely death was natural. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Even over the telephone, Rivas’s tone made it clear that he did not understand at all. “You realize, sir, that an autopsy and an investigation will result in a delay in issuing a death certificate and therefore a delay in . . . in making other arrangements for the lady?”

  “The claims of justice are paramount.” Tejada’s voice was pious. “I have every confidence in the Guardia Civil.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Rivas sounded miserable. Then, with an attempt at subtlety, he asked, “I imagine your entire family will gather for the poor lady’s funeral?”

  “I suppose so.” Tejada was puzzled by the question. Maybe they’re thinking of interviewing family members about the will, he thought. That could get a little ugly, but at least they’ll be investigating.

  “Perhaps your son would be willing to—er—offer some informal advice, as he’ll be here anyway,” hinted Rivas.

  It was on the tip of Tejada’s tongue to say that his son Juan Andrés had more than enough to do managing his own affairs when the phrase “he’ll be here anyway” became clear to him, and he understood that Rivas meant his younger son. “If Carlos comes as a member of the family I don’t see how he’ll be able to interfere in an official investigation,” he said, and then added thoughtfully, “unless you were thinking that the Guardia might transfer him to Granada because of his special knowledge in this case.”

  Rivas suppressed the instinct to say that the Guardia’s policy was for officers to serve in regions far from their homes, so that they would not be subject to the pressures of local interests. He was sure that Señor Tejada already knew this, and also fairly sure that what applied to guardias in general might not apply to the Tejadas. He considered how best to admit that he had already contacted Señor Tejada’s son. He decided on flattery. “I’m afraid the Guardia in Cantabria prize Lieutenant Tejada too much to let him go. They won’t transfer him,” he said. “But I had a subordinate speak to the lieutenant a few days ago and ask if he would be willing to put in for personal leave. We would be most grateful for his advice. And, naturally, it would be less distressing for you to have a member of the family in charge of the investigation.”

  Tejada had always felt that Sergeant Rivas handled his aunt Rosalia’s tantrums with great skill. His opinion of the sergeant increased at this speech. Sending for Carlos was a good idea. Even the Ordoñez siblings could hardly object to a few interviews with their own cousin, in the name of insuring justice for their mother. “Well done, Rivas,” he said, to the sergeant’s relief. “I’d be far happier with Carlos conducting the investigation. Speak to the Guardia in the north and explain that he’s needed here.”

  “Yes, Señor Tejada.”

  “Oh, and Rivas, if you could hold off any serious investigation until my son arrives? A few days won’t make any difference, surely.”

  Sergeant Rivas said, “Under the circumstances, considering who the victim is, I suppose we could wait.”

  “Thanks, Rivas.” Tejada ended the phone call with a feeling of satisfaction. Doña Rosalia had already been transformed from “the lady” to “the victim” and the sergeant’s happy thought of calling for Carlos had bought him extra time for practically nothing. With any luck, Tejada thought, he would be able to find the will even before Carlos arrived.

  Chapter 4

  The day after his father’s conversation with Sergeant Rivas, Carlos Tejada broached the subject of going south at lunch with his wife. “I got another call from Granada this morning,” he said. “It seems they’re very anxious that there be an investigation of Aunt Rosalia’s death.”

  Elena handed him a bowl of soup. “You’ve decided to put in for leave, then?”

  “I’m not sure. I wouldn’t mind putting in for leave if I thought Suárez would grant it, but it sounds like what they really want is for me to be transferred to Granada.”

  “Why would they want you to transfer?”

  “Sergeant Rivas wasn’t totally clear. I got the impression that my father was breathing down his neck, but I couldn’t tell if it was because he wanted an investigation—with me in charge—or because he didn’t want any investigation at all.”

  Elena considered. She had never fully grasped the subtleties of her husband’s relationship with his parents, and she weighed her next words carefully, making sure that her tone was neutral. “Surely your father would send you word if he really needed your help?”

  Tejada absentmindedly began to shred a roll into his soup. “He usually avoids doing anything if there’s a servant to do it for him.” He caught sight of his son’s wide eyes and smiled crookedly. “I didn’t mean that. My father is a natural leader, and he’s very good at delegating things.”

  Elena laughed. Toño could not understand why, but he had the feeling that his father had deliberately made a joke. He tried to understand what was funny. “What’s ‘delegating’ mean?”

  “Getting somebody to do things for you, but in a good way. Never speak ill of your father when he’s old and helpless, Toño.”

  “I won’t,” Toño agreed readily, although he was comfortably certain that his father would never be old and helpless.

  “Do you think the colonel will agree to transfer you?” Elena asked, returning to the subject.

  Tejada shook his head. “The Guardia in Granada called Santander and asked him. He doesn’t want to put a new man in the mountains with winter coming on. So then they called me, to ask if I’d put in for leave.”

  “Isn’t that a bit discourteous to the colonel?”

  Tejada sighed. “Yes. It’s bad manners to poach another man’s officer, and they know it. That’s why I think my father’s leaning on them.”

  “Will you do it?”

  The lieu
tenant shrugged. “I would want Toño to do the same for me.”

  “How long would you be gone?” asked Elena.

  “I don’t know. I think Suárez would give me ten days, if I explained it was family business. Maybe two weeks.”

  “Isn’t that a short time to conduct a serious investigation?”

  Her husband laughed. “That would barely give us time to finish the paperwork. This is just a formality. Besides I don’t want to be away from work for longer than that, and I didn’t think you’d want to be away for any length of time either so soon after Santander.”

  “You weren’t planning on all of us going?” exclaimed Elena.

  “I wasn’t planning to go alone!” her husband retorted.

  Elena had little desire to travel all the way to Granada and less to see her husband’s parents again, but she was gratified that he did not want to return to his family without her. It was good to know that he was not ashamed of her. She sought something positive to say. “Actually, I might know someone in Granada. There was a girl I knew at university, Cristina Encinas, whose family was from there. Her father was the director of some kind of school for orphans, I think.”

  Although Tejada was generally unenthusiastic about his wife’s college friends, whom he grouped under the heading “rabble-rousing Commie malcontents,” he smiled encouragingly. “Maybe you could look her up,” he said. “Do you suppose she’s still teaching, or has she married?”

  “Cristina was studying medicine,” Elena corrected. “She was just friendly with teachers because of her father.”