The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  “Thank you, sir.” Rivas hesitated. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered.” Rivas swallowed. “That is . . . your father seemed to feel that we hadn’t been as diligent as we might have been, and . . . well, to tell the truth, we probably wouldn’t have realized it was murder quite so quickly if he hadn’t suggested it and I was wondering—”

  “Wondering what?” Tejada demanded sharply. Someone would have to interview Andrés Tejada and ask him why he had believed that his aunt had been murdered. He suspected that Rivas wanted to shift this responsibility to him.

  “If you could see your way to breaking the news to him?” Sergeant Rivas finished hopefully. “I’m sure he’ll be very upset about the poor lady’s death, you see, and I thought maybe the news would come best from a family member . . . to comfort his grief. . . .”

  Tejada was able to repress the comment that immediately came to mind, but not the small incredulous snort that went with it. Rivas looked agonized. “I’d take it as a great personal favor, sir.”

  For a moment, Tejada was grateful Rivas had not mentioned the need to question his father. Then he sighed again. Someone would have to. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “But I’m officially on leave. I’ll help if I can, but if you don’t want the case, perhaps it might fall within the Policía Armada’s jurisdiction.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Rivas was relieved. “But Doña Rosalia always called the Guardia. And . . . well, I don’t like to let her down again.”

  “Again?” Tejada raised his eyebrows.

  “All those times she said someone was trying to kill her, sir. And now, it seems she was right.”

  “Maybe,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “Or maybe not. Do you know anything about her will?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve found out a little.” Tejada briefly summarized what he had learned from Nilo the night before. “But the thing that puzzles me is that no one’s mentioned her will having been read. I’d think Daniela and Felipe would be baying for blood by now if they’d been disinherited.”

  “I suppose someone will have to interview them as well.” Rivas looked depressed. “I don’t suppose—”

  “Why don’t you question her household,” Tejada interrupted, before the sergeant could frame another request. “I’ll deal with her family.” Rivas began to express his gratitude. Tejada cut him off impatiently. “Pull the files on all the Ordoñez household. Anything, as far back as we have. And I want written reports of your interviews with the servants on this desk by the end of the day. Find out everything they remember about the night she died. What she ate, what she drank, where it came from, who served it, everything. When was the last time each one saw her alive and did they know of anyone who saw her after that. And your own notes from when you were first called.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll meet you here at eight o’clock, with my information. We can collate our reports and see what we’ve got.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Tejada turned on his heel. At the doorway he paused. “Oh and Rivas?”

  “Sir?”

  “Pull the files on all her potential heirs, too.”

  The sergeant swallowed. “I don’t think we have any records with respect to her children, sir. They’ve never been in any kind of trouble.”

  “Grandchildren then. The boys at least will have military records.” Tejada smiled without humor. “If nothing else, the Guardia keep tabs on their own. You can take a look at my dossier, Sergeant. See what you learn.” He was gone before Rivas could think of a tactful reply.

  The churrerías were still serving late breakfasts in the Plaza de la Trinidad as Tejada made his way back to his parents’ home. His steps slowed in the plaza, and on impulse he stopped and bought a coffee. He leaned against the bar, listening to the hiss of the coffee machines and the careless conversations of university students who were probably cutting morning classes. After a moment’s thought, he dug out the notepad he always carried in his work clothes and began to write, awkwardly squeezing his elbow close to his body to avoid the newspaper of the man on his right.

  To Do:

  Interview: Fernando Ordoñez—His father’s heir. Estates tied up for him?

  Daniela Ordoñez (de Almagro)—What was her quarrel with her mother? Was she expecting a legacy?

  Felipe Ordoñez—Why was Rosalia angry at him?

  Andrés Tejada—Why does he believe she was murdered?

  To Ask:

  1. What do they know about the will?

  2. What do they know about poisons?

  3. Who do they think might have killed Dna. Rosalia? Why?

  He looked at the list with distaste and wondered where he would find Doña Rosalia’s children. His father would know, of course. But he disliked the idea of confronting his father until it was absolutely necessary. Ignoring the nagging voice that told him he should interview his father first, he turned south, and headed for the casino. Fernando and Felipe Ordoñez were both almost certain to drop in sometime during the day. With any luck he would catch at least one of them. If they were not there, the employees of the club would know where they could be found.

  Granada’s casino stood just past the post office, a discreetly dignified nineteenth-century building. Glass doors gave admittance to a marble-floored lobby, under a lofty ceiling adorned by a massive chandelier that seemed out of place in the morning sunlight. He had visited the club a few times with his father as a child and had taken a juvenile delight in listening to the echoes of his tapping shoes on the marble. Tejada crossed the lobby, absently noting that his footsteps still echoed in the empty space, although the rhythm of the echoes had changed now that his stride had lengthened.

  A uniformed concierge rose to greet him as he reached the cloakroom. “Good morning, Señor Guardia. Would you like to leave a message for one of the members?”

  “That depends. Are either of the Ordoñez brothers here?”

  “I believe not, sir, but I can check if you wait a moment,” the concierge answered.

  Tejada had suspected that neither brother would be at the casino so early, but on the off chance that one of them was upstairs, it would be better to catch him off guard. The lieutenant took off his cloak and tricorn. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll go and check.” He held out his hat to the concierge, who looked stunned and a little apprehensive.

  Tejada waited a moment, and when the concierge made no move, dropped his hat and cloak on the counter in front of the frozen man and headed for the stairs. The concierge came out of his daze and gave a strangled cough. “Er . . . I beg your pardon, officer. But with all due respect . . . the casino is open only to members and their guests.”

  “I know,” said the lieutenant, and continued up the stairs. “My name is Tejada Alonso y León,” he added kindly. “Check the membership lists. You’ll see it’s there.”

  The casino was nearly empty at this hour of the morning except for a few old men and a pair of youngsters Tejada suspected had not seen their homes the evening before. The young men were agog at the sight of Tejada’s uniform and one of the older ones at the bar turned to inspect him, blinking nearsightedly. The lieutenant ignored the boys, but he made his way to the bar. As he reached it, a bald man with an impressively pointed mustache got to his feet and held out his hand. “Good morning. It’s Carlos Tejada, isn’t it?

  “Yes, sir. How do you do?” Tejada had no idea who the man was, but he assumed that they had met in his childhood.

  “Well, thank you. And you?”

  Tejada answered courteously and inquired as to the whereabouts of his cousins.

  “The Ordoñez? Fernando may stop in for lunch,” Tejada’s companion answered readily. “You are likely to find him at the Suizo at this hour. But we haven’t seen much of Felipe lately. Hard to tell where he keeps himself. He used to be at the flamenco clubs a lot, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen him there.” He laughed. “You know Felipe. He always kne
w how to have a good time. But he’s getting rather old to stay out all night.”

  “Thank you. I’ll leave a message for them then.” Tejada stood to go.

  “I’ll let Fernando know you’d like to see him. How long will you be in Granada?”

  “Until November third.”

  “And you’re staying at your parents’?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you get in?”

  “Tuesday.” Tejada allowed a little of his impatience to creep into his tone.

  “That’s an awfully short visit.” The old man shook his head. “Especially since you’ve been away so long. We hear all about you, you know. Your father told me you were stationed in— Salamanca, was it?”

  “Not for some years now.” Tejada wished he knew who the old man was. It would have made it easier to take his leave gracefully. At worst, it would have given him a prying question to ask in return so that he would not have to stand and be cross-examined. But the old man’s face remained utterly unfamiliar, and since he did not mention his own family, Tejada was left with no clue as to which of his father’s many acquaintances the man might be. He endured a leisurely review of his life and his family connections, giving away as little information as possible.

  Rivas is probably usefully occupied, the lieutenant thought glumly. I told him to have the reports by this evening, and at this rate he’ll have done everything and I won’t have a thing to tell him. When the old man finally worked his way back to his connection with the Ordoñez family Tejada seized his opportunity. “You mentioned that Fernando might be at the Suizo?” he said quickly. “I think I’ll go and see if he’s there. It was nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise. Say hello to your parents for me.”

  “I will,” Tejada lied hastily and made his escape.

  Made cautious by his experience at the casino, the lieutenant was careful not to make eye contact with any of the patrons in the Café Suizo. This made his search somewhat difficult as the café was crowded, and any number of people were looking at him. He glanced around cautionely whenever he thought it was safe, but saw no one he recognized. He was about to give up when a voice called, “Carlos! Pablo Almeida told me you were in town!”

  With a sinking heart, the lieutenant turned around and found himself within a few feet of the man he was looking for. Fernando Ordoñez Tejada looked like exactly what he was: a prosperous landowner and the head of a respected provincial family. In his late fifties, he was stocky and running a little to fat, but his physical imperfections were concealed by an expensive tailor, who had provided a mourning suit that was appropriate and discreet. He wore a neatly trimmed silver beard, a pair of glasses, and a welcoming expression. He did not look like someone who had recently poisoned his elderly mother for an inheritance. Tejada put out his hand, relieved. “Hello, Tío Fernando. How are you?”

  “Well, thanks, and you? Señor Ordoñez turned to the man on his right. “Rafael, did you ever meet my cousin, Andrés’s son? Carlos, my associate Rafael Montefrío. Rafael, Carlos Tejada Alonso.”

  There was another round of courteous introductions, and then Ordoñez invited the lieutenant to take a seat. Tejada did so, wondering if his idea of interviewing his cousin at the Suizo had been ill-advised. For all his good nature, Fernando Ordoñez appeared to be discussing business with Rafael Montefrío, and he was unlikely to break off an important negotiation to talk about his mother’s demise. But luck was with the lieutenant. After ten minutes, Montefrío looked at his watch, and then leaned forward to gather up his briefcase. “I’m sorry, Fernando, I told my foreman I’d be with him by noon, and I won’t get out to the country at this rate. But, look, if you think we can go to the ministry with that offer, we will. I’m just afraid that if we go too high they’ll relax the duty on imports to keep the ration coupons stable.”

  Fernando spread his hands and shrugged, but his voice was disgusted. “The refineries will operate at a loss if we go lower. If they want Cuban sugar they can start building more poorhouses, because we’ll have to let workers go.”

  “You’ve always been best at dealing with them,” Montefrío conceded. “As long as we can count on you for the meeting then.” He reached for his wallet and was forestalled by a gesture from Ordoñez. “No, Fernando, I insist.”

  “Your treat next time,” Ordoñez said. “I’ve got this. You won’t make it on time if you don’t hurry.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you Monday. Nice to have met you, Lieutenant.” Montefrío put on his coat and departed.

  “Good man,” Fernando commented. “He’s the new secretary of the General Association of Sugar Producers. Clever on the technical side, but a bit supine when it comes to dealing with the government.” He laughed. “Although I suppose you approve of that, don’t you?”

  “I only get sugar through the ration coupons, too, you know,” Tejada commented. “So I have to trust the government to negotiate on my behalf.”

  “Stop by our house before you leave Granada,” Fernando ordered with a smile. He tapped his nose. “The railway patrols won’t inspect a guardia’s luggage.”

  Torn between irritation that his comment had been interpreted as an invitation to bribery and corruption and the conviction that Elena would greatly appreciate the extra sugar, Tejada said nothing. His cousin filled the silence. “So what are you doing in Granada these days?”

  “Looking for you,” the lieutenant answered.

  “Really? I’m flattered. Any special reason? Aside from the rationing, of course.”

  Fernando smiled to show that his last comment had been a joke, but Tejada, annoyed, said curtly, “Yes. I’m investigating the death of your mother. We have reason to believe she was murdered.”

  “Oh, God, Carlos, not her Red delusions again. She was completely insane about them, may she rest in peace. Your father and I made that clear to the Guardia any number of times.”

  “I’ve read the reports. They don’t appear to be helpful, but we are not speculating on the motivation for the crime at this time.”

  Fernando took a sip of coffee before answering, watching the lieutenant over the rim of his cup. When he set it down on the saucer he was no longer smiling. “You’re serious.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Fernando lowered his voice and leaned forward when he spoke. “You think she was murdered?”

  “We have compelling proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “An autopsy report. She was poisoned.”

  Fernando seemed neither angry nor grief stricken, merely perplexed. “But why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Fernando did not appear to have heard his cousin. “You knew Mother, Carlos. Everybody wanted to kill her, but nobody could actually have wanted to kill her.”

  “Someone did.”

  A pair of businessmen squeezed past Fernando’s chair to get to an empty table. Glancing around, he said softly, “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk in private?”

  “Your sister’s,” Tejada suggested. “I’d like to speak to her afterward anyway.”

  Ordoñez nodded and signaled a waiter for the bill. Giving him no time for private thought, Tejada said quietly, “Can you think of any enemies your mother had? Any real enemies?”

  “Of course not,” Fernando responded. “Not enemies of that sort. I mean, she didn’t visit us very often because she used to say that she couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as Bernarda, but she didn’t mean it seriously.” The bill arrived and he dug in his wallet for coins.

  “How did your wife feel about her?” Tejada asked, although he could form a good guess based on his own mother’s opinion.

  “I suppose a wife is always a bit jealous of her mother-in-law.” Tejada started to understand why his cousin was a good negotiator. “But Bernarda was always very respectful of her.”

  “The few times they were under the same roof,” Tejada said with a faint smile as they stood.

/>   Fernando shuddered slightly and leaned toward his cousin with a sudden impulse to openness. “It was just as well they weren’t often. We last spent Christmas together three years ago. Bernarda had a migraine until Three Kings Day, and the doctor said it was a wonder Mother’s heart hadn’t given out under the strain.”

  “Did she have heart trouble?” They were out of the café by now and crossing the street nearing the post office.

  “Well, the doctor said that she shouldn’t get excited. But they always say that once you get to a certain age, don’t they?”

  “Did she take anything for it?” Tejada asked, wondering if it was going to be that easy to find the source of the cyanide. “Pills? Special teas?”

  “No,” Fernando shook his head, and then, understanding the purpose of the question, added more carefully, “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I didn’t see her every day. Why don’t you ask her maid?”

  Since this was a sensible suggestion, Tejada decided to move on to another topic. “So, she fought with your wife?”

  “Not seriously,” Fernando protested.

  “Not seriously,” Tejada agreed. “How did she get along with her other children?”

  “Felipe and I were always her favorites,” Fernando said consid-eringly. “First and last born, you know. But then after what happened to Ramón and Javier . . .” He hesitated. “It changed her, you know. She was a sweet-natured woman when I was growing up.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Tejada lied.

  Fernando sighed, still thinking of his brothers. “Such a waste. They never got the bastards who did it, you know?” He turned on the lieutenant with sudden ferocity. “And now the damn Reds have killed Mother, too! Javier and Ramón weren’t enough for the sons of bitches. Now they’ve killed Mother! You’ll get them, won’t you, Carlos?”

  As far as Tejada could tell, Fernando’s emotion was genuine, but he replied coolly, “I thought you said your mother’s fears about Reds were delusions? Fantasies that the Guardia was right to discount.”