The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  It was with ambivalent relief that Tejada stood up at the end of the meal, pushed back his chair, and said to his father, “I wanted to tell you what I’ve found out about the case. And I actually hoped to ask you a few things as well. Do you think perhaps we might go into your study?”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” Andrés Tejada rose also, and the two men excused themselves.

  Tejada regretted his choice of venue as soon as they entered the study. His father naturally took the wing chair behind the broad desk, and the lieutenant was forced to pull up an armless gilt affair from between two of the bookcases that was clearly meant more for ornamental purposes than for sitting. Andrés Tejada opened a desk drawer and drew out a cigarette case and lighter as his son wriggled on the little chair’s hard cushion, vainly attempting to find a comfortable position. “Smoke?”

  “Thanks.” The lieutenant took the cigarette with infinite relief, and then regretted allowing his father to offer it to him, too late.

  Andrés Tejada smiled reminiscently. “It’s funny to offer you a cigarette. It seems like only yesterday you and Juanito were sneaking them out of the drawer and hoping I wouldn’t notice.” He leaned back and exhaled. “What did you want to tell me?”

  The lieutenant took a deep breath and decided to go through the day’s revelations in chronological order. “We received the autopsy report today. It appears that you were correct.”

  “Correct about what?” Andrés Tejada looked puzzled.

  “The cause of Rosalia Tejada’s death was cyanide poisoning.”

  “What?” Fortunately, Señor Tejada had been holding his cigarette in his hand, so his jaw was free to drop open. “Are you joking?”

  The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. “What’s startling about the use of cyanide? It’s quick, it’s effective, and it’s relatively easy to obtain.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean the cyanide! That is, I meant—” Andrés Tejada got a grip on himself. “I meant it’s a shock to hear that she was murdered.”

  His son frowned, confused and unsettled. “You were the first to suspect she had been murdered,” he said, and was unable to prevent himself from thinking, A clever killer might try to disguise his guilt by demanding an investigation that he was sure would take place anyway. And if he was a little too clever—or troubled by his conscience— he might not realize that he would have been able to get away with murder, that there would have been no investigation otherwise. He clamped down on this thought, horrified. His father could have had no reasons to kill his aunt, he assured himself.

  “Suspicion is different from proof,” Señor Tejada pointed out. “I thought something didn’t feel right. But, still, it’s horrible to have it confirmed.”

  “In any case, it brings us to the question of motives for murder.” Fear and embarrassment made the lieutenant’s voice brusque.

  “My God, yes,” his father agreed. “You don’t suppose there was anything in all those conspiracies she was terrified of? I would have said all her servants were trustworthy, but I suppose now you’ll have to look at their political sympathies.”

  “Yes. There are, also,” the younger man swallowed, “more personal reasons for murder.”

  Andrés laughed. “In this case, I can’t see a jealous lover!”

  “I meant her will.”

  Señor Tejada stopped leaning back in his chair. “You asked me about that earlier.” His voice was guarded now.

  “Yes. I’d like the truth this time.”

  “Carlos!”

  The lieutenant stubbed out his cigarette and spoke in a flat monotone, staring at the ashtray. “Two witnesses have independently confirmed that you were her executor, and two others have speculated that you were also a beneficiary. You lied to interested parties and claimed that the Guardia had taken possession of your aunt’s will.”

  “Damn Fernando!” Andrés interjected.

  The lieutenant continued without drawing a breath. “One witness told me in so many words that you knew the terms of her will, which is more than anybody else seems to. What do you know about the will, and why have you been lying about it?”

  Andrés Tejada took a deep breath and then said slowly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have misled you. I know Aunt Rosalia made a will, but I don’t know where it is.”

  The lieutenant made a disbelieving noise. “You don’t know where it is? That’s the best you can do?”

  “I’m sorry, Carlos, but it’s the truth. Pablo Almeida told me it was missing, and I told Fernando and Daniela the Guardia had it to buy a little time in which to look for it. I was hoping that no one would ever need to know it had been mislaid.”

  “You searched for it?” Tejada demanded, with the vague feeling that he should be very angry.

  His father sighed. “I went over Aunt Rosalia’s rooms with a fine-tooth comb. There was nothing. If your men find it I’d be more than grateful if you’d pass it along, Carlos.”

  “Did you see this will before it disappeared?”

  Andrés looked embarrassed. “No, but Pablo told me the provisions. I can tell you what’s in it, if you like.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  The older man frowned at his son’s tone and said a little sharply, “Daniela and Felipe have been disinherited, but I’ll thank you not to tell them that before we have paper in hand to prove it. Fernando and I are the heirs.”

  Tejada stared at his father, incredulous. “You expect me to believe that the will you’ve been lying about makes you a major beneficiary but has just vanished?”

  “If I give you my word, yes.”

  “And what exactly has your word been worth so far in this case?”

  “Don’t take that tone of voice with me, young man!”

  Something snapped. Tejada raised his head and met his father’s eyes, furious. “I’m here as an officer of the Guardia Civil, investigating a murder. At your request, I might add.”

  “That gives you no right to be disrespectful!”

  “When was the last time you saw Rosalia de Ordoñez alive?”

  “Carlos, this is ridiculous!”

  “Señor Tejada.” He was now past caring about gathering information. “If you continue to avoid my questions I will have to ask you to accompany me to the post.”

  Andrés Tejada’s fists hit the desk with a crash as he stood and leaned across it. “How dare you accuse me of murder?” he hissed.

  The lieutenant met his father’s eyes without flinching. A part of him that was not much older than Toño wanted to cry, Because I am part of this family, too! As much as Juan Andrés! And you are my kin and I am tired of being the only one with blood on my hands! But he only said stiffly, “I am not accusing anyone. I’m doing my job.”

  “Carlos, I have been very patient with you.” Andrés Tejada’s voice was low and venomous. “I never opposed your ‘job’ or your marriage, or any of the other damn fool things you’ve done. I have given you every advantage, and not once have I reminded you of your obligations to this family. If you choose to throw away every worldly advantage, I will not object. But I am responsible for your soul, Carlos, and I will not let you break God’s commandment to honor thy father.”

  “Do you think that one’s more important than ‘Thou shalt not kill?’” Tejada retorted, uncomfortably aware that this was a commandment that could be legitimately broken in wartime and that even since the war he had occasionally interpreted it liberally.

  Andrés Tejada raised his hand and started to swing. Almost before his arm moved, his wrist was caught in a painfully tight grip. “Attacking an officer is an offense that carries a prison term,” his son warned.

  The two men’s eyes locked and held for a moment as each read the other’s face as if in a magic mirror that kept expressions identical, but changed the viewer’s age by thirty years. Finally, with a contemptuous gesture, Andrés jerked his arm out of his son’s hold. “Get out of here, Lieutenant,” he whispered, and the last word was an insult.<
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  Carlos stared in disbelief at his own arm, still hanging in the air. He let it fall to his side, took a step backward, and dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Father.” His father did not reply, and he added, “I shouldn’t have spoken that way to you. I . . . I beg your pardon.”

  “I expect you have things to do at the post,” his father said coldly.

  “Yes, Father.” The lieutenant’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I suppose your zeal has its uses. Find Aunt Rosalia’s killer. But don’t come and talk to me about the case until you can tell me who the guilty party is. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Father.” Years of experience and some shred of dignity made the lieutenant add, “Do you want me to look for Doña Rosalia’s will also? Since it’s missing?”

  “You might as well make yourself useful,” Andrés snapped. “I would ask you not to mill around making scenes with Daniela, Fernando, and Felipe, but apparently that’s impossible. But, for the love of God, try to remember that your actions reflect on your mother and me.”

  “Understood.” The lieutenant stared at the floor of the study. “I . . . excuse me.”

  He fled from his father’s presence, shaking with what he told himself was humiliation. He had conducted himself unforgivably; he had been arrogant and stupid and had not even gained the information he needed. He had been a bad son and a bad guardia. And woven through his shame, like scarlet threads through black, was an all-encompassing fury: against himself, his father, Doña Rosalia, Rivas, and all of Granada. He considered going to find Elena, but she had warned him that there was another problem waiting for his attention, and he was in no mood to act as a shield between her and his mother. Instead, he let himself out of the house and headed for the post. If Rivas was back already, so much the better. If the sergeant was still occupied, he could take the opportunity to call Potes and find out what was happening at his command in his absence.

  The siesta was not yet over, and the streets were still silent and deserted. In Potes, where the weather was cooler and days were shorter, the siesta ended earlier, and the lieutenant found himself longing for the green forests of the north. He half hoped that Rivas would not be available when he reached the post. He needed to talk to Mojica.

  He was meditating whether he could condense his orders to his sergeant in Potes into a telegram or whether a long-distance phone call would be justified when he turned the corner into the Calle Duquesa and reached the post. The guardia on duty saluted him. “Sergeant Rivas is in his office, Lieutenant. He left orders that he was available as soon as you wanted to see him.”

  Concealing his disappointment, Tejada thanked the guardia and sought out Rivas. The sergeant was bent over his desk, several sheets of paper spread before him, chewing his pen, when Tejada entered. “The reports, sir,” he explained, after greeting the lieutenant. “You wanted them written by this evening. Of course, if you’d prefer them orally, now . . .”

  “No, write it all down,” Tejada said, relieved. “I should write up what I’ve found, too, and then we can compare notes.” Writing a report was a sane activity. And far better than having to discuss his interviews with the sergeant right away. He took a seat at a small typewriter table in the corner and dug out his notebook.

  “Very good, sir.” Rivas in turn stifled his disappointment. He hated paperwork. But at least the lieutenant wasn’t shirking his share. “Stationery is in the top drawer on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  The two men wrote in silence for perhaps an hour. Then Rivas coughed and said, “Excuse me, sir. But if you’d like me to type this up we’ll have to switch seats.”

  Tejada, who was just finishing his description of the interview with Daniela Ordoñez and her husband, decided that the report of his session with his father could wait. “No,” he said. “Hold on a minute and let me finish this. Then we can talk about what we’ve found.”

  Rivas, whose typing was of the loud and careless kind that led to frequent errors, and who tended to accompany the clatter of the keys with a variety of oaths, preferred to type in private anyway. “As you wish, sir,” he agreed.

  Tejada finished his paragraph and then swung around to face the sergeant. “All right,” he said. “What have we got?”

  “I’ve talked to the servants, and there are men searching her room, but I don’t know if we’ve made much progress,” Rivas admitted. He summarized his morning’s work for the lieutenant, referring only occasionally to his notes. “We’ll see if Medina and Soler find anything else, but I’m betting it was the wine,” he finished.

  “Mmm.” Tejada had been skimming the medical examiner’s report as the sergeant spoke. “The room where she died had been cleaned up, you said?”

  “Yes, sir. That same evening.” Rivas flushed uncomfortably. “No one suspected anything but natural causes, sir.” He did not feel it necessary to add that he had been the one to authorize a weeping María José to clear away the tray, mop up the obscenely spilled wine, and begin the process of making her mistress decent for burial.

  “There was no sign that it had been searched by someone?”

  “Not really.” Even in the midst of his preoccupation Tejada heard the nervousness in the sergeant’s voice. “My men weren’t looking for signs of a search, of course. There’d been no orders, so they might have”—Rivas swallowed—“overlooked it.”

  “Or moved things.” Tejada supplied the words Rivas was too embarrassed to say. He sighed. “It’s probably not important. And if it was the wine, it could have been any of the servants.”

  “They all knew about her wine storage, sir. Didn’t bother to deny it.” Since the lieutenant was still pensive, Rivas added, “I don’t think any outsider could have gotten at that bottle without attracting attention. Doña Rosalia didn’t share it with her guests. But one of the maids could have gotten to it while cleaning the room. Or Cordero, if he went to get something in that cabinet. And the cook just had to sprinkle something into the wine when he sent it up, newly opened.”

  “There would have been more wine in the bottle if it were a fresh one,” Tejada pointed out.

  “Unless she had accidentally spilled some of it,” Rivas countered.

  “I suppose, if he’d been desperate, this cook, Lujo, could have gotten at an open bottle even if it were upstairs,” Tejada conceded. He paused. “Do you think he did?”

  The lieutenant’s tone was sharp, and for a moment Rivas was uncertain whether he was being reprimanded or genuinely asked for an opinion. When Tejada’s polite silence convinced him of the latter, he said slowly, “Not really. He didn’t like Doña Rosalia. He practically said so. And he’s the only one who’ll be able to find another job easily. But I don’t know that he had any reason to kill her. He could just have left. That’s the problem with all of them, really. What Cordero said is true: they had secure, easy work, and they weren’t going to go hungry while she was alive. None of them gained from her death.”

  “Unless someone else made it very worth their while,” Tejada said, disliking his own thoughts. Rivas diplomatically remained silent. After a moment, Tejada tossed the folder he had been reading onto the desk. “What about this Cordero?” he demanded, postponing the discussion of his own interviews with the sergeant. “You said he seemed overanxious to leave the city.”

  “Well, I suppose if the man was looking forward to seeing his sister, he might be disappointed,” Rivas said. “But he was awfully insistent. Too urgent, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly.” Tejada smiled briefly. “Did he give you his sister’s name?”

  “Dulce.”

  Tejada snorted. “Suppose you make a phone call to the post in Málaga, and ask them to check if there’s a Dulce Cordero who recently had a baby and who has a brother in Granada,” he suggested.

  Rivas looked at the lieutenant with new respect. “Yes, sir. Good idea.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to do that now, sir?”

  “No time like the present
.”

  Tejada tapped a pen absently against a folder as Rivas made the call. The sergeant had gained a good deal of information, and he seemed to know how to organize it. It would be only reasonable next to tell Rivas what he had learned about Doña Rosalia’s will in the course of the day and examine who would benefit enough from her death to bribe a servant to poison her. Rivas had to wait for the call to go through, and, when he was finally connected, explaining the particulars of his request took some time, but the delay was too short for Tejada.

  “Fine, thanks. Arriba España.” The sergeant hung up the phone. “They’ve never heard of Dulce Cordero but they’ll check it out and call in a couple of days, as soon as they have the information.” Tejada nodded but said nothing, and after a moment the sergeant asked, “What now, sir?”

  Tejada pulled himself together. “Even if we find a motive for Cordero,” he said, “we still don’t know how he got hold of cyanide. It’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around the house.”

  “In the movies, spies always keep cyanide capsules behind their teeth to commit suicide,” Rivas offered, half embarrassed.

  “Well, did you look in Cordero’s mouth?” Tejada snapped, annoyed.

  “No, sir.” The sergeant was chastened. “But I meant if someone bribed the servants to kill her, he was maybe the sort of person who could get hold of that kind of capsule.”

  “And what sort of person would that be?” Tejada’s voice would have stopped a charging bull. Rivas flinched. “Well?” The lieutenant demanded.

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir.” Rivas gulped and blushed. “I thought maybe a Red. It’s just that she was always talking about the Reds trying to kill her and I always figured it was nonsense—begging your pardon, Lieutenant—but if they’re the sort of people to have cyanide, I think maybe I was wrong.” He floundered to a stop, looking unhappy.

  Tejada let out his breath. “It’s an idea,” he said, consciously trying to make his voice sound neutral instead of relieved. “And I’m sure that you can obtain cyanide easily enough if you know where to look. Let’s assume that any of them had the opportunity and the ability to kill her.”