The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  To Tejada’s surprise, the subject of the Riosecos recurred the next day in a different context at the post. The lieutenant arranged for Alberto Cordero’s transfer to the Málaga Guardia Monday morning and sent Rivas back to Doña Rosalia’s house to continue searching for possible sources of poison. When the sergeant did not return by lunchtime, Tejada went home for another joyless meal with his parents. His father was present, and Tejada could not help wondering if anyone else noticed that he addressed no comments to his younger son.

  Tejada ate silently and rapidly. When he was finished, he pushed back his chair, muttered an excuse, and fled back to the post, leaving his plate lying abandoned on the dining-room table. Sergeant Rivas had not yet returned. Tejada settled himself in the office to wait and spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about what to do about Alejandra. The sergeant finally arrived a little before five, looking relaxed, and greeted his superior officer with the utmost good humor.

  “I’m glad you had a good day, Rivas,” Tejada said. “Would you like to share your progress?”

  Rivas sensed that the lieutenant was in a bad mood and added apologetically, “I’m sorry I took so long, sir. But I ended up staying at the Casa Ordoñez until lunchtime, what with one thing and another, and then Luisa—Luisa Cabrera, the cook’s assistant—offered me lunch, and Fulgencio’s always been a good cook, so I stayed, and I think I found out something interesting, sir.”

  “Oh, yes?” Tejada was neutral. The sergeant might have found something interesting, or he might be covering for his own laziness.

  “I had a bit of a chat with Luisa,” Rivas explained. “And it seems Doña Rosalia bought some land in the Alpujarra a few years back.”

  “I know,” Tejada nodded, and then two pieces of information connected in his brain and he added, “It’s not anywhere near Suspiro del Moro, where the bandits took over, is it?”

  “No, sir. It’s just outside Órgiva. It’s a little place called Tíjalo. The point is, she bought it from Ramiro Rioseco, when the family went abroad.”

  “I’m not following you,” Tejada said, skeptical.

  “I remember the Rioseco case a bit,” Rivas explained. “It got some publicity and, of course, we went carefully, because they were a prominent family. The original denunciation against Miguel Rioseco was lodged by Doña Rosalia’s husband.”

  Tejada went still. “Had he wanted to buy the land earlier?”

  “We have no record of that. But the fact is he denounced the Rioseco boy, and his widow—your aunt—bought a parcel of their land.”

  And Felipe bought another parcel, Tejada thought but did not say aloud. And Fernando is trying to merge with Rioseco’s old partner. “Did any of the family stay in Granada?” he asked.

  “A couple of the married daughters, I think. It might be worth checking out, sir. Especially in light of Doña Rosalia’s . . . worries about Reds.”

  Tejada snorted. “You think she worried because she had a guilty conscience?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Rivas was shocked. “After all, if the Rioseco boy was lukewarm to the Regime, her husband did the only thing he could have done.”

  Tejada could not tell if Rivas was genuinely certain of Miguel Rioseco’s guilt, unwilling to admit that the Guardia had made a mistake, or gently pulling his leg. He decided it was not important. Something that the sergeant had said nagged at him. He tried to think what it was. “This land in the Alpujarra,” he said slowly. “Was Rioseco using it for sugarcane?”

  “I don’t know.” Rivas was puzzled by the lieutenant’s question. “I’d guess not. Doña Rosalia didn’t, and there aren’t refineries nearby.”

  “Have you ever visited this place Tíjalo?” Tejada asked, certain that there was something about the land or the location that was important. Something Felipe had said, perhaps, about the tenants of the Reds being dispossessed? But if Felipe and Nando had not blacklisted the former dependents of the Riosecos, there was no reason their mother should have done so.

  “No, sir.” The sergeant frowned and then added, “If you think it’s important, sir, I’ll check the records and see if any of the men come from that area.”

  “I can’t think why it would be,” Tejada admitted, and let the half-formed association vanish. “But it might be worth finding out which of the Rioseco family connections are still in Granada.”

  Rivas nodded. “Of course, the daughters who stayed were married to respectable people,” he said. “I don’t think they’d be involved with murdering the poor lady for revenge. But Miguel Rioseco was in with a bunch of hotheads, and perhaps one of them—”

  “It’s possible,” Tejada agreed. “The only question is why now? After all, Rioseco disappeared in ’36, right? And the family went abroad . . . when?”

  “Not until after the war,” Rivas said quickly. “The fall of ’39. It took some time for them to sell off their lands.”

  “Then why would someone wait all this time, until the man who had lodged the accusation against Miguel Rioseco was dead, for vengeance?” Tejada wondered. “Doña Rosalia retired from the world after her husband died. She would have been much harder to reach now than in ’39. Why wait so long?”

  “Maybe it was someone who’d just found out she had benefited from the denunciation.” Rivas liked his theory and was unwilling to give it up. “Or maybe they found out she’d changed her will and were hoping to throw suspicion on her own family to mislead us.”

  Once again, Tejada had the feeling that he was overlooking something, coupled with an unpleasant suspicion that he would dislike whatever pattern finally emerged. “I suppose anything’s possible,” he said. “Why don’t you check out friends of Miguel Rioseco’s. If you get me a list I can interview them tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rivas was approving. “And we can make a list of the Riosecos’ dependents as well.”

  Tejada hovered in the office for a little while longer, looking for something to do, uneasily aware that he was in Rivas’s way. Finally, when the sergeant began to work on patrol duties utterly unrelated to the Ordoñez case, the lieutenant reluctantly excused himself and returned to his parents’ home. He found his mother sitting with Amparo Villalobos. Both women greeted him warmly, and Doña Consuela informed him that “dear Amparo” had been waiting, hoping to see him. “Or your wife, of course,” Amparo added tactfully. “It was such a pleasure to meet her the other day.”

  “I’m sure she’s sorry to miss you,” Tejada lied. He had been about to ask where Elena was, but he was unwilling to give his mother further ammunition against her. He was tired and discouraged, and the only thing he wanted to do was find Elena and lean back in a comfy chair and tell her about his day, but he resigned himself to socializing for a little longer.

  His mother and Amparo made polite conversation and the lieutenant answered, feeling surly and gauche as he had felt long ago, before joining the Guardia. At twenty-one, one of the Guardia’s attractions for him was that its members were not called on to make conversation with young ladies. After a few minutes, Doña Consuela rose. “I’m sorry, dear. I have to talk to Isaura about the supper. You won’t mind staying here with Carlos for a few minutes, will you?”

  Amparo assured her hostess that she would be happy to converse with Carlos, leaving him no opportunity to say that he, too, had urgent business elsewhere. After Doña Consuela left them, a little silence fell. Amparo smiled timidly at the lieutenant. Tejada remembered what his wife had said about her batting her eyelashes. Covertly inspecting Amparo now, he decided that Elena was imagining things. There was no way that a girl as beautiful as Amparo, with one of the largest dowries in the city, was going to waste her time flirting with a married Guardia. The girl coughed and then said, blushing a little, “Have you made any progress? About Doña Rosalia?”

  “We have several leads,” Tejada replied automatically.

  “I think it’s wonderful of you to come and help us,” Amparo offered.

  “I couldn’t do less,” Tejada replied wi
th perfect truth. “And I don’t know how helpful I’ve been so far.”

  “Oh, just knowing someone’s here and in charge is reassuring,” Amparo said quickly. “Not that I don’t think Sergeant Rivas is doing a wonderful job, but . . .”

  Tejada was annoyed. He liked Rivas, and he understood that Amparo was patronizing him. “I tend to agree with the Guardia’s policy of having officers serve far from their homes,” he told her.

  She spoke hastily, knowing she had offended him. “I meant— well, someone so competent. Jaime spoke of you, did you know? He admired you so much.”

  Tejada, whose recollection of his last meeting with his cousin Jaime involved an acrimonious political debate about the monarchy, kept silent. Amparo smiled as if at a tender memory. “I know he fought with you and probably said all kinds of awful things when you argued, but he always said to me that at least you were sincere. And that you had the courage to follow your convictions and try to do something real. And I”— she hesitated and her voice caught—“I find sincerity and courage comforting at the moment.”

  The lieutenant’s annoyance faded. If what Amparo said was true, Jaime Ordoñez had paid him perhaps the only compliment worth having and certainly the only plausible one a Carlist would ever give a member of the Falange. “I’m glad he thought I was sincere,” he said. Then, afraid he appeared ungracious, he added, “I’m honored by your trust. I’ll do the best I can.”

  “I’m sure you’ll succeed” Amparo said softly. “You’ve done so well so far.” She met his eyes and Tejada saw that her own were filled with tears.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh—yes.” She blinked them away, impatient. “It’s just . . . you’re so like Jaime. Jaime as he would have been, if he’d lived. And it’s so maddening to think of a life wasted that way.”

  Tejada was embarrassed by her grief. He turned rapidly to the doorway as he caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. “Toño!” he exclaimed with relief. “What are you doing here?”

  Thus hailed, Toño entered. “Mama’s talking to Carmen,” he explained. “And I was bored.” He eyed Amparo. “But you’re busy, too.”

  “Oh, no,” Tejada denied hastily. “Come and meet Doña Amparo. She’s your—well, nearly your cousin by marriage.”

  Amparo wiped her eyes and received Toño with the hungry politeness of a woman denied children. Toño submitted with his usual good grace to being hugged, kissed, asked how old he was, and having his size and beauty exclaimed over. Doña Amparo did not ask interesting questions, but Toño had found that most adults did not. It puzzled him that she seemed sad when she said, “I wish I had a little boy like you at home!” Usually ladies laughed when they said that to him.

  Tejada watched Amparo play with Toño with proud fondness. It was obvious how much she liked the boy, and he found himself more and more in sympathy with her. When he thought of her tragic loss, his good will was tinged with pity. He remembered that even Felipe Ordoñez had said that Amparo had played no part in her family’s schemes, and decided that Elena’s reaction to the girl must have been a remnant of her ridiculous inverted snobbery. Or perhaps just one of those strange instant dislikes that sprang up between women for no good reason. He agreed readily when she looked up at him and said wistfully, “You will bring Carlos Antonio to come and visit me soon, won’t you?”

  When she had received his promise of a visit, she made her farewells, kissing Toño good-bye and leaving in a flurry of silk and perfume. Tejada turned to his son, ready to amuse him. “Well, what did you think of Doña Amparo?”

  Because the lady was Papa’s friend, Toño made a conscientious effort to be pleasant. “She smelled nice.”

  The lieutenant laughed. Toño’s observation was accurate. Amparo carried with her the scent of a carmen, filled with sweet flowering trees and fountains. “She did,” he agreed. “Do you think we should try to buy a bottle of her perfume for Mama for a Christmas present?”

  “No!” Toño was shocked and definite.

  “Why not?”

  “Because then she wouldn’t smell like Mama,” Toño said. Surely Papa did not want Mama drenched in a sickly sweet odor that would block out all the other good home smells of soap and pines and wood smoke.

  “I suppose you’re right,” his father admitted. Elena seldom wore perfume. It would have been silly to wear it at home, and there were no theaters or casinos in Potes. Perhaps a small vial accompanied by a promise of another trip to Santander, or even Madrid, would make her happy. “What kind of scent would smell like Mama then?” he asked.

  Toño considered. “Apples,” he said at last.

  “Apple blossom, you mean?”

  “Apples or apple blossom.” The little boy was judicious. “Mama likes apples. And she doesn’t like almond cakes.”

  “I know,” Tejada said with a smile. “Why should she?”

  “Doña Amparo smelled like almonds,” Toño said logically.

  Tejada blinked. Almond trees! he thought. And Amparo keeps asking about the case. And if she always smells of almonds, no one would think to notice it if—He dismissed the thought instantly. “Come on, Toño. Let’s go see if your cousin is using his ball,” he said, laughing at himself for his vague suspicions. But he abandoned the idea of buying perfume for Elena.

  Tejada did not see his wife again until the family gathered for dinner. She smiled at him but was quiet throughout the meal, speaking only in an undertone to Toño and silently bowing her head in response to Doña Consuela’s glittering hostility. Juan Andrés Tejada and his wife spoke only to each other and their children, and Tejada’s father was once more absent, dining with friends at the casino. The lieutenant occasionally joined in his mother’s conversation with his wife, but neither woman welcomed his contribution to their covert war of wills, so he ended up speaking little. He was not particularly bothered by his own silence. He could not remember ever having much to say for himself at family gatherings and at university, and later, in the Guardia’s barracks, he had gained the reputation of being friendly but not sociable. Active conversation while eating was a tradition in his wife’s family and he had adapted to it readily, but now he was more troubled by Elena’s unnatural stillness than his own. He disliked seeing her unhappy.

  Elena did not linger after eating, but rose and bore Toño away. Tejada was just moving to follow her when Isaura entered. Doña Consuela turned on her. “What is it, girl? No one called for you.”

  “I beg your pardon, Señora. But there’s a message for Señorito Carlos. From the post. I thought it might be important.”

  “Thanks.” Tejada was already moving toward the door as he spoke.

  His brother’s voice detained him. “Is this a written message, Isaura?”

  “Yes, Señorito.”

  “Then I suggest you give it to Señorito Carlos here, so that he can have coffee with us.” There was a faint edge in Juan Andrés’s voice. Isaura curtsied and withdrew.

  “I wasn’t really planning to have coffee.”

  “A drink then,” Juan Andrés insisted, glaring at his younger brother. As Isaura opened the door a second time, bearing a sealed letter, he added sharply, “Sit down, hermanito.”

  Tejada sat and looked at the envelope. It was from Corporal Méndez. He slid a thumb under the flap and was once more forestalled by his brother. “I’ve been meaning to ask your advice about the land in the Vega,” Juan Andrés said, switching seats to sit closer to his brother and proceeding to embark on a monologue that summarized the expenses and profits of the Tejadas’ major holdings in mind-numbing detail. The lieutenant would have let his mind wander, but every time his older brother caught him glancing longingly at the letter from Méndez he would slip in a question that demanded a reply.

  Juan Andrés’s wife and children murmured their excuses and left the table within a few minutes. Doña Consuela was made of sterner stuff. She maintained her seat and watched her sons with an eagle eye until Juan Andrés said, “Actually, we
should really check the accounts. They’re in Papa’s study, I think. Come on, Carlos.”

  The lieutenant allowed his older brother to steer him out of the room and turned toward his father’s study with the usual sinking sensation in his stomach. Juan Andrés continued talking until they were safely in the study with the door closed behind them and then said, “All right, Carlito, give. What’s happening between you and Papa?”

  Tejada was startled. He had some affection for his brother, but he had always assumed that Juan Andrés was a basically self-centered individual. It had not occurred to him that Juan would sense the trouble between him and his father. “Nothing,” he said. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t said a word to each other for the past three days,” Juan Andrés retorted. “And he’s been eating out every evening to avoid you. What have you done to him?”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Tejada snapped, annoyed. “Why shouldn’t he spend the evening with friends? He doesn’t need to dance attendance on me like a guest. I’m family, too, you know.”

  “Well, you could start acting like it then!” Juan Andrés said. “You spend all your days at the post, and on the weekend you and Elena disappear for hours together. You even arrange to have mail delivered to you after dinner so you can slip out!” Tejada began an angry retort but his brother cut him off. “I don’t know what you said to Papa, but he’s been looking sick lately. You upset Mother, you treat Papa and me like objects of your investigation and the house like it’s a damn hotel, and then you have the nerve to claim your rights as a family member!”

  “I’m here to conduct an investigation,” Tejada reminded his brother. “I have to spend most of my time at the post. And I certainly don’t ‘arrange’ to have letters delivered. My job doesn’t have fixed hours.” With a stab of bitterness, he added, “We can’t all be gentlemen of leisure, like you.”

  “Oh, don’t pull that crap on me, Carlito!” His brother was impatient. “You chose the Guardia and damn near broke Mother’s heart doing it. The martyr’s role doesn’t work for someone who picked it like a spoiled brat.”