The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  “I’m afraid so,” Tejada agreed. “I wonder if I could ask you some questions, Señorita?”

  The lieutenant had used the formal you, although Amparo, following Doña Bernarda’s lead, addressed him as tu. She noted his formality, but answered easily, “Of course. However I can help.”

  “You visited Doña Rosalia the day before her death?”

  The girl’s eyes clouded. “Yes, I think so. Or perhaps two days before. I went often.” She hesitated a moment and then added quietly, “My days are empty now. I had time.”

  “What did you talk about?” Tejada asked.

  Amparo misunderstood the question. “Everyday things. The way the house was running, how the weather would affect the garden. Sometimes we reminisced about Jaime or his cousins. Sometimes about her late husband. I suppose you could say we lived in the past, but it was a comfort to her. And to me.”

  “The last time you saw her,” Tejada clarified. “Do you remember talking about anything in particular?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Amparo shrugged. “She was worried about one of the maids slacking off, I think. I brought her some fresh apples, and we talked about how the fruit season was almost over.”

  Little Red Riding Hood taking a basket of fruit to Grandmother, Tejada thought. And not a wolf in sight, damn it. “Do you know if she had any enemies? Anyone who would try to kill her?” he asked.

  “No.” Amparo was emphatic. “No, I can’t think of anyone who would do such a wicked thing.”

  “Who were her friends?” Tejada asked, without much hope.

  “She didn’t go out very much. Her husband’s acquaintances still called occasionally, but she didn’t”—Amparo hesitated—“really enjoy that. She was upset by strange people. I think she was shy, you know. She liked it when I came or Felipe or Don Fernando or your father, because she was used to us. But . . . well, she didn’t really like to have many visitors, poor lady.”

  It was an unusually charitable interpretation of Rosalia’s behavior, but still recognizable. “Did you know that she had made a number of complaints to the Guardia Civil?”

  “Oh, yes.” Amparo smiled. “She used to talk about the sergeant sometimes after he’d been to see her. I think she enjoyed his visits as well. But, of course, he couldn’t come if she didn’t make complaints.”

  Tejada swallowed a smile and made a mental note to tell Rivas that he had been the high point of an aristocratic lady’s social life. His opinion of Amparo’s intelligence increased. The girl had a combination of tact and insight that might be useful. “The last time you visited her,” he said carefully, “do recall her eating anything?”

  “Oh, we never ate when I was there,” Amparo replied. “Doña Rosalia always had her meals at the same time and never when there were visitors present. She preferred to dine at home, alone. She didn’t like eating out at all. It was one of the reasons she didn’t go out much.”

  “What about drinks? Did she offer you a glass of anything, for refreshment?”

  “No.” Amparo shook her head. “In the summer she would offer a glass of water sometimes, but that was all. And that last time, nothing.”

  “You were very good to spend so much time with someone who wasn’t really a relation,” Tejada said. “Why did you?”

  Amparo blushed at such a frank question. Then, looking at the ground, she said. “I felt sorry for her. And . . .” She took a deep breath and the lieutenant had the impression that she was summoning words from memory. “I don’t intend to marry now. I have no children. I was glad to do something useful.”

  Coming from a sixty-year-old widow, the words would have been heartrending. Coming from an undeniably beautiful twenty-seven-year-old, Tejada found them a little odd. He understood—or thought he understood—why Fernando Ordoñez was anxious to remain close to a sugar heiress who was the daughter of a major colleague and rival. But he could not understand Amparo’s apparent determination to remain close to her fiancé’s family. He could only imagine that she had been deeply in love with his cousin Jaime. The lieutenant personally could not comprehend Jaime inspiring that kind of devotion in anybody, but he supposed a well-bred young woman might feel differently. “That’s very kind of you,” he said.

  Amparo looked embarrassed. “Not really.” She paused. “Do you have any other questions?”

  Tejada considered. “Not really,” he echoed with a faint smile.

  The smiled emboldened Amparo. “Then would it be very improper for me to ask you what you’ve found out so far? Don Fernando told me that his mother had been killed, but he didn’t say how.”

  “She was poisoned,” Tejada said. Bernarda, sitting beside Amparo, made a face.

  Amparo flinched. “Was it . . . quick?”

  “Yes,” Tejada said quietly. “Very quick. She probably didn’t suffer.”

  “No time for a priest,” Amparo murmured. She crossed herself and Bernarda followed suit. Tejada again had the odd sensation of watching a child playing a part, imitating a much older woman’s gestures. He remembered what Bernarda had said about Amparo being mature for her years. She was certainly grave and serious, but her widow’s black and measured gestures paradoxically made her look young for her age. The lieutenant found himself thinking of her as a child, instead of a woman within ten years of his own age.

  “I’m sorry to distress you,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  Tejada turned to his hostess. “Thank you for letting me spend so much time here.”

  “Please, feel at home.” Bernarda gave the standard reply with grace, but was startled when the lieutenant rose.

  “I’m sorry,” Tejada apologized. “But I’m working. Thank you again, Señorita.”

  Amparo smiled at him and stood also. “It’s nothing. Especially if it helps you catch the man who killed her.” She, too, turned to Bernarda. “Forgive me for running away, but Papa is having visitors for lunch, and he likes me to be there. May I call Sancho and ask him to pick me up from here?”

  “Of course, dear.” Bernarda kissed the girl’s cheek and then added, “But you have time to walk if you like, don’t you? Carlos, can you take Amparo home, so she doesn’t have to bother with a chauffeur?”

  Tejada choked back annoyance at Bernarda’s casual assumption that his work could be put on hold indefinitely. He was severely tempted to ask why a young woman in full possession of her limbs needed a chauffeur or an escort to travel a few kilometers in her home city in full daylight. But what he said was, “It would be a pleasure.” His wife and perhaps a few of the more perceptive members of the Guardia in Potes would have been able to tell that he was lying, but it was not obvious to the two ladies in Granada.

  Amparo accepted the lieutenant’s escort with the ease of a girl who never walked alone. When they reached the street, she linked her arm through his with the automatic trust of a child. Tejada, who was accustomed to walking quickly, did his best to shorten his stride, and make polite small talk. “Your wife isn’t from Granada?” Amparo asked when the conversation was in danger of dying.

  “No.”

  She waited for him to expand on the topic, and then said, “I haven’t seen her at the casino dances in the evenings.”

  “No, our son is too young to leave alone,” Tejada answered tactfully, suppressing his wife’s opinion of the casino and most of its members.

  “Oh, I see. But she must be very lonely here, if she doesn’t know anyone. I would love to meet her.” Amparo hesitated. “And, of course, your little boy.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Tejada said, so grateful that Amparo had thought of his wife’s comfort in Granada that he did not stop to think whether Elena would like the girl. “Is there a good time to call on you?”

  “This afternoon?” Amparo suggested with a smile. “Say around seven o’clock? I would love to see you as well, but I imagine you may be busy. I’ve taken up far too much of your time already.”

  The lieutenant courteously denied that she was ta
king up his time and wondered again at her strange mixture of innocence and insight. Her portrayal of Doña Rosalia’s difficult personality, though kindly, was accurate, and her concern for Elena’s friendless state in Granada suggested a fair amount of empathy. Yet she acted and sounded like a girl barely out of her teens. He decided that she must be exceptionally sensitive to things relating to the emotions. Either that or she was trying to act stupider than she actually was. But that made no sense. Women were emotionally sensitive, and she was just unusually feminine, he concluded.

  He left Amparo at the door to her home and, after a glance at his watch, worked his way back to the Gran Vía. He still had time to see if Felipe Ordoñez was at home before returning to the Tejada villa for lunch. Felipe’s building was a modern, characterless apartment house on the west side of the street, slightly farther from the center of town than was fashionable. He was about to ring the bell to summon a concierge when a woman in a maid’s uniform with her arms full of packages, trailed by a boy and girl within a year of Toño’s age, fumbled for her keys and opened the door. She disappeared up the stairs with the children scampering on either side of her, and Tejada, who had entered in their wake, inspected the mailboxes in the half dark of the hallway.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The concierge was young, perhaps thirty. He moved with a brisk step that suggested the military to the lieutenant. The young man saluted with his left hand as he noted Tejada’s uniform, and the lieutenant saw that his right arm was missing from the elbow down.

  “I’m looking for Felipe Ordoñez Tejada. Do you know the apartment?”

  “Ordoñez Tejada? Yes, sir. Second floor, front. But he’s not in.”

  Tejada inspected the concierge. “When was the last time he was in, do you know?”

  The young man considered. “I haven’t seen him in a few days, now that you mention it. You might ask the night man. He comes on duty at seven.”

  “Has his mail been picked up?”

  “As much as usual, but that doesn’t mean anything.” The concierge was interested and clearly making an effort to be helpful. “He has a cleaning woman come in three times a week, and she picks up the mail, as often as not. He doesn’t ever get more than a few letters.”

  “Can you remember exactly the last time you saw him?”

  “Today’s Friday.” The concierge frowned in thought. “Not yesterday. The day before? Or no, no, it was Tuesday because he came back with a package and told me to take a sniff, and the market had coffee on Tuesday.”

  It was the lieutenant’s turn to pause and think.

  “Why are you looking for him, sir? He’s not wanted for anything, is he?” The concierge spoke with eager interest.

  “What? Oh, no. No, he’s not wanted.” Tejada hesitated, wondering whether to acknowledge a relationship with Felipe. “I’d just like to ask him a few questions,” he said instead. “Do you suppose I could leave a note?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” The concierge seemed disappointed. He paused and then added hopefully, “We do have keys to the tenants’ apartments, sir, if you wanted.”

  Second rule of a gentleman: always knock, Tejada thought, remembering another of Felipe’s precepts with amusement. Felipe would be livid at the thought of a guardia civil searching his apartment. Tejada could practically hear his cousin’s indignant protest: For goodness’ sake, Carlito, you can’t go grubbing through another man’s private possessions with no valid reason. Entering Felipe’s apartment without his permission was an impertinence. The appropriate thing to do was to snub the concierge for his prurient curiosity. “Thanks,” he said. “If you have the key, I would like to take a look around.”

  Chapter 15

  The concierge would undoubtedly have enjoyed staying and helping the lieutenant with his search, but Tejada thanked the man, took the key from him, and firmly shut the door in his face. At first glance, Felipe’s apartment was exactly what the lieutenant would have expected. The youngest of the Ordoñez siblings shared his family’s good taste in real estate. The apartment was spacious for a single man, with a living room that faced onto what—when the shutters were open—were probably French doors leading to a princess balcony overlooking the street. The furniture was relatively modern and, though not new, was comfortable and of good quality. An electric chandelier hung from the ceiling. Tejada glanced at the shutters and then decided that throwing them open would attract unnecessary attention. He hunted for a light switch, and the shadows gave way to a yellow glow as he flicked it on.

  He probably would have noticed something wrong sooner if he had searched the apartment in natural light. The faintly musty smell would have seemed out of place with the shutters folded aside and the windows flung open. The cleaning woman was conscientious, and the rooms were not noticeably dusty, but everything was too neat. There was no ice in the icebox and no bread or fruit or perishables. The kitchen was empty of foodstuffs, except for a half-empty can of coffee beans, an unopened container of sugar from the Ordoñez refinery, and several tins of evaporated milk. There were no half-smoked packs of cigarettes in the empty ashtrays, and no books or folded newspapers by the bed. The worn cake of soap in the dish by the bathroom sink was bone dry, and there were flecks of rust on the razor that lay beside it.

  It was like seeing an apartment put on show, Tejada thought. There were just enough realistic touches to prove that the place was not brand-new, but the minor clutter of daily living was absent. He opened the bedroom closet. It was empty, except for a single suit, a dinner jacket, and an old overcoat that had obviously seen better days. No shoes or sweaters or bathrobes. The dresser drawers held a clean shirt and a few changes of underwear. It was the clothing one might expect to find in a pied-àterre in a foreign city, not the wardrobe of a primary residence.

  Tejada shoved the drawer closed. It creaked loudly in the silence. He grimaced. Felipe Ordoñez had perhaps lived here at one point, but clearly he was no more than an occasional visitor now. The address was a convenient place to pick up messages and perhaps to make the odd phone call or spend the night, but nothing more. Felipe had not told his family that the apartment was no longer where he lived, although Fernando had perhaps guessed. So where was he? At home, Tejada thought uneasily, when a man disappears, he’s taken to the mountains. He was sure that had not happened to Felipe. Aside from the fact that his cousin had always been utterly uninterested in politics, he could not really picture the lazy, pleasure-loving Felipe as a guerrilla. You haven’t seen Felipe in years, a voice in his head cautioned him. But none of Felipe’s friends or family had described any change in him. He wanted them to think he still lived here, the voice countered. He might have let them keep thinking a lot of things. The lieutenant shook himself. This was ridiculous. Felipe Ordoñez had no reason to lead a double life, and certainly had never had any reason to become a Red. And even if he had become one, he would have had no reason to kill his mother. But why had he disappeared then?

  The lieutenant went back into the dim living room and surveyed it, searching for some clue to the owner’s whereabouts. The room was almost aggressive in its lack of personality. The walls were bare of paintings. No photographs stood on the coffee table or bookcase. Tejada remembered one of his wife’s theories about the keys to people’s personalities and went over to examine the books on the bookshelves.

  They, too, had the faint aura of displaying a persona rather than a personality. They were almost too well selected and well arranged. There was a handsomely bound double-volume history of Granada. The collected works of Angel Ganivet. A translation of Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra, and a few books about the history of flamenco and classical guitar. The shelves looked like a display in a bookstore labeled “Touristic Interest.” There was no fiction, and none of the books showed any signs of wear. Only the bottom shelf offered a ghost of the Felipe that Tejada remembered. There were several copies of Felipe’s own slim volume of poetry and those of a number of other better-known contemporary poets. Antonio and Manuel Ma
chado peaceably shared shelf space, along with Sánchez Mazas, Rosales, and— the lieutenant raised his eyebrows—Rafael Albertí and César Vallejo. At the end of the shelf was a folio, its slightly worn red tapes tied in neat bows. The lieutenant levered it out and opened it with care, wondering what his cousin had prized so much.

  As he lifted the flaps, Tejada felt the weight in his hand shift and found that not one but several smaller books had been wrapped in the stiff cardboard. He caught one as it almost slid out of his hands and righted it automatically. Then he looked at the cover. Poeta en Nueva York por Federico García Lorca. “Shit,” he said softly.

  Tejada set the folio down very gently and inspected the other books inside it with hands that trembled although he hardly knew why. The books were all by Lorca. There was an Argentine edition of Bodas de Sangre and two older books, the Poema del Cante Jondo and the Romancero Gitano. Unlike everything else in the bookcase, the last two books showed signs of much use. He just liked the poetry. But someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t realize that he was never political, Tejada thought, brushing away cobwebs of unease. That’s why he put these books away like this. Besides, they’re probably first editions. They might have value abroad.

  He opened the Romancero Gitano, searching for a date to confirm his hypothesis. It was a first edition, but scrawled across the title page was an inscription:

  31 October 1928

  To Felipe, friend and fellow poet,

  Ever yours,

  Federico

  A suspicion brushed against the lieutenant’s mind with the delicacy of a mosquito alighting. He opened the Poema del Cante Jondo. The inscription here was simpler: “Mi querido Felipe, un abrazo, Federico.” My dear Felipe, an embrace, Federico. The suspicion bit and drew blood.