The Summer Snow

by Rebecca Pawel

  “At your orders, Lieutenant. If you’ll excuse me.” Rivas saluted stiffly and left. Tejada propped his forehead on his hands and sat motionless in the silent office and wondered if Nilo would ever believe how sorry he was. He wondered where Rivas had gone. Doubtless he had to attend to lots of other business. Or perhaps he had gone to speak to Nilo, to tell the old man that a crazy señorito who thought he was a guardia had accused him of murder.

  Rivas returned half an hour later and handed him a list of the Riosecos’ former employees and servants. The list was long and the annotations brief. Nilo Fuentes’s name had been added in at the bottom by hand. The sergeant had followed orders punctiliously. “Would you wish to investigate these personally, Lieutenant? Or should I detail men to do it?” Rivas was cold and formal.

  Tejada stared at the typewritten list and the names swam before his eyes. Damn Medina to hell, he thought. Why did he have to drag me down here? I don’t know any of these people. I’m supposed to be on leave. “I doubt I could efficiently question all of them,” he said. “Why not divide up the list and send a couple of pairs of men to interview them?”

  “At your orders, Lieutenant.”

  Tejada pushed himself to his feet, disgusted with the sergeant, with Granada, and with himself. “You don’t need me for this, Sergeant,” he said dryly. “An arrest of any of these people would not be likely to upset my family. Why don’t I just get out of your way for the day?”

  “You’ve been very helpful, sir.” Rivas was contrite now. “And you’re right about Nilo Fuentes. I was just a bit surprised, but you’re right; he has a motive. We’ll question him.”

  “I don’t think he’s guilty,” Tejada said, not at all sure if he was telling the truth. I hope he’s not, he thought. God, I hope he’s not.And if he’s not, I’d give anything to have everything I said to him this morning unsaid. He excused himself in spite of Rivas’s guilt-ridden politeness and left the post.

  What’s wrong with me? he thought, emerging into the sunlight. I’ve jumped to too many conclusions in this case. I’m flailing around blindly and with each new hunch I think I’ve uncovered a plot. Even the thought of returning to Potes within the week depressed him. He did not want to go home with the case unsolved and his father’s angry contempt hanging over him. The idea of returning to his parents’ house empty handed after his boast to his father depressed him, but he had excused himself from Rivas’s presence too firmly to return to work.

  He stood watching the pigeons perched on the statue in the Plaza de la Universidad and wondered where Elena and Toño were and what they were doing. Elena, he thought, had actually believed that his father was happy to see him. She had naively believed that her father-in-law was interested in finding his aunt’s killer, rather then engaged in concealing a missing will. That sort of innocence was typical of her. The sort of idealism bordering on idiocy that had made her a Red. Tejada stopped, ashamed of his anger at his wife. He had married her of his own free will, knowing that she was a Red. It would have been simpler, perhaps, to marry a girl approved by his parents, but he had chosen Elena, and it was wrong to lament his choice. Still, for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to marry someone like Amparo Villalobos. It would not have been so bad. Amparo was pretty, gentle, submissive . . . rich, said a cynical voice in his head. Not the girl to take well to life at a rural post. He pictured Amparo in the Monday market in Potes, weaving her way among the cattle driven down from the mountains and bargaining with hardheaded Cantabrian peasants. The vision would have been horrifying if it had not been so irresistibly funny.

  Not that Amparo had never dealt with peasants, the lieutenant reminded himself, in fairness. She took an active part in running her father’s household, and she was interested in the orphanage and all sorts of other charities. And she was not unintelligent. It occurred to the lieutenant that Amparo was the one person he knew who was closely connected to both the Ordoñez and Rioseco families. She might well know other people who had been acquainted with both. He thought for a moment and then turned and walked back toward the post and the Calle Tablas. He did not want to see his father or Rivas. Señorita Villalobos might be a useful person to interview instead.

  He was a little uncertain of his reception at the Villaloboses’ townhouse, but he was in luck. Amparo was at home and willing to see him alone. She asked after his family with her usual grace and was politely sorry that Elena and Toño had been unable to accompany him. She smiled when he explained that he had come from the post. “You’ve been working too hard,” she remarked. “You only have a little time here. You ought to spend some of it with your family.”

  “I’ve had enough chance to catch up,” Tejada said, thinking that his father and brother would probably be more than happy to see the back of him.

  “With your parents, perhaps. But I know Fernando and Bernarda are sorry they haven’t seen more of you. And I’m sure Felipe would like to see you as well.”

  “Felipe and I have talked,” Tejada answered, thinking ruefully that Felipe might be the one family member who was not actively angry with him at the moment and knowing that Felipe’s goodwill would probably not survive an investigation by Sergeant Rivas.

  “How is he?” Amparo frowned gently. “I’ve seen almost nothing of him since his mother’s wake. He looked terrible then, poor man.”

  “He seems to be bearing up,” Tejada said vaguely, wondering involuntarily if Felipe’s distressing appearance at his mother’s funeral had been due to a guilty conscience.

  “Poor Felipe,” Amparo sighed. “I always think of him laughing, and then to see him like that . . . he was devastated. You know, for all his frivolous ways, I think he was devoted to his mother. And now that she’s gone . . . it wouldn’t surprise me if he settled down and got married.”

  Tejada reflected with amusement that Amparo’s instincts about Felipe’s conduct were sound, although her guess as to his motivation was faulty. “I think it’s very likely,” he agreed gravely.

  “I wonder whom he’ll pick?” Amparo smiled. “I remember all the girls being wild about him in my young days. I imagine he’ll be a great catch.”

  Tejada thought of Lili and was unable to keep a straight face. “I’m sorry,” he apologized when he was once more appropriately sober. “It was you referring to your ‘young days’ like that, as if you were an old matron.”

  Amparo looked down, coloring a little. “Thank you, Carlos. I do forget sometimes that . . . that other girls think of time differently. I meant before I met Jaime. Do you know,” her color deepened, “I was half in love with Felipe myself when I was a girl.”

  Blushing, her long lashes shading her cheeks, she was very beautiful. The scent of almonds hung around her like a floating veil and reminded the lieutenant of his son’s comment. Remembering Toño, he also remembered Elena and unwillingly heard an acid voice that sounded like his wife’s saying, Jaime’s inheritance must have been bigger than Felipe’s. But she’ll take what she can get, now that Jaime’s gone. “I’m sure his family would be happy if he brought someone like you home,” he said, and then regretted the comment. He had been thinking of Bernarda and Fernando when he spoke, but as he said the word family, he remembered the last time he had seen Felipe and felt guilty, as if the gentle compliment was a betrayal of Lili and her children.

  “That’s kind of you, Carlos.” Amparo met his eyes, openly flattered. “I’ve sometimes thought we could be . . . companionable. Of course, Jaime was the only man I could ever love but Felipe’s not young anymore. He needs someone to take care of him.”

  “Was that why you stayed in contact with his mother?” Tejada asked bluntly.

  “Partly,” Amparo admitted. “Of course, it was mostly as a favor to Bernarda, but both she and Doña Rosalia . . . well, they spoke of Felipe sometimes. They worried about him.”

  Embarrassed, the lieutenant looked for a way to turn the discussion. No graceful way presented itself. “I’m afraid we haven’t made much progress toward fi
nding Doña Rosalia’s killer,” he said apologetically. “But I wondered if perhaps you could help me.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do.”

  “I imagine you must have known your father’s partners?”

  Amparo looked blank. “My father doesn’t have partners.”

  “His former partners, I should say,” Tejada corrected himself. “Ramiro del Rioseco and his family.”

  “Yes. I met Don Ramiro a few times.” Amparo was composed but guarded.

  “And his children?” Tejada asked hopefully.

  “Really, we weren’t social acquaintances,” Amparo explained with a hint of apology in her tone. “My father invited Don Ramiro to the house a few times, but I didn’t know his family well. I don’t believe his sons took much interest in the business. And his daughters were all older than I.”

  She lied well, gracefully and without self-consciousness. But her words were clearly nonsense. The firm of Villalobos and Rioseco had been venerable in the lieutenant’s childhood. The two families were tied together by generations of shared business transactions and a few intermarriages. Tejada wondered why she bothered to deny what was common knowledge in all of Granada. Unless no one admitted to knowing the Riosecos anymore. He remembered Felipe saying, “I’m not going to lie and pretend I never knew him.” But Felipe had always been unconventional. “I heard Miguel del Rioseco got into trouble a few years back,” he said experimentally.

  Amparo pursed her lips. “Yes. Poor Miguel was always foolish. Led around by the nose by all sorts of people.”

  Tejada blinked. His own opinion was not substantially different, but it was odd to hear it articulated in such a soft voice by a delicately pretty girl. She was startlingly hard underneath her fragile femininity. Elena wouldn’t say something like that, he thought, disapproving. “Did you know any of his friends?” he asked aloud. “Anyone who was upset at his death.”

  The girl raised her chin. “I didn’t know people like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” the lieutenant apologized. “I meant did you know of them? You see, we have reason to believe one of them might have resented Doña Rosalia for his death.”

  “Oh, I see.” Amparo softened instantly. “You mean one of those murdering cutthroats might have held a grudge against the poor lady and taken revenge on her? How terrible! Just like those Red plots she was always frightened of!”

  That was the problem. The idea of a mysterious Red nursing a grudge was too much like one of Doña Rosalia’s hysterical fantasies. It didn’t fit reality. “Did she ever mention anyone Miguel del Rioseco would have known when she talked about these plots?” he asked, not quite daring to hope that it could be so simple.

  Amparo frowned in thought. “No. No, I don’t think she ever spoke of anyone in particular. It was the Reds in general she was frightened of. But I know that she knew some of the Riosecos’ friends. Miguel was friendly with the Santos Vicentes. His older sister Paloma married Enrique Santos Vicente, and I know Doña Rosalia knew Señora Vicente.”

  Tejada took out his notebook and jotted down the name, making a note to direct Rivas’s attention to it. Amparo, flattered by the attention, became voluble. “She probably knew the Rodríguez Martín family, too, but they’re good people. They wouldn’t have anything to do with the Riosecos after that business with Miguel. And I can’t think how Doña Rosalia would know him, but Miguel was always running around with a boy— What was his name? Something foreign—Marco? No, Max! Max something. They met one summer in San Sebastián, and then this Max stayed with them for a while. He was a university student, I think. He was trouble.”

  “Can you recall a surname?” Tejada pressed gently, scribbling as he spoke.

  Amparo shrugged, helpless. “I never met him. I just know Don Ramiro worried that Miguel was making the wrong sort of friends.”

  “And Doña Rosalia never mentioned him?”

  “Oh, no. He wasn’t the sort of person she would know.”

  “Then what brought him to mind?” the lieutenant asked, genuinely curious.

  Amparo took her time answering the question. When she spoke, her voice was thoughtful. “I suppose he just seemed to be the sort of person who might do such a terrible thing. And I know he wasn’t in Granada during the war, so I don’t know what might have happened to him.”

  “You’re sure there was no one Doña Rosalia herself mentioned?” Tejada asked again.

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember.” Amparo turned large and appealing eyes on the lieutenant. “I never thought I’d be answering questions like this. The last time I saw her she seemed so . . . normal. So much herself.” She brought her handkerchief to her eyes. “What kind of animal would do something like that to her?”

  Her last words mocked the lieutenant’s suspicions. What kind of animal? He thought. And I’ve accused my family. My old friends.The people I’ve trusted since childhood. He looked down at his notebook, flipping through the pages to avoid her eyes. A starred entry from several days earlier flashed before his eyes. “Nilo says she was angry at her children.” He remembered Nilo giving the information, eager to help, in good faith. He remembered Nilo as he had last seen him. “She didn’t seem upset or worried about anything?” he asked.

  “Not especially. I can’t imagine why she would have been.” Amparo’s soft voice changed pitch ever so slightly.

  Tejada noticed the change. He remembered how easily Amparo had denied knowing the Riosecos. He suspected she was lying, but it might have been merely the type of polite fic- tion that had made Fernando’s wife claim she was very fond of her mother-in-law. It was likely that Doña Rosalia had thrown a tantrum, and the young woman might now be ironing her last memory into a smoother and kinder shape. “Did she ever mention her will to you?” he asked.

  “N-no. No, I don’t remember that.”

  Amparo’s eyes flickered. The lieutenant had seen the same flicker in the eyes of a guerrilla when he was confronted with a photograph of a comrade’s body. Got her, Tejada thought, with satisfaction. And then, puzzled, But why would she lie? She’s not an heir. “I suppose she must have made one,” he said experimentally.

  “I wouldn’t know. I was never really interested.”

  A faint memory penetrated Tejada’s depression like a sunbeam in a fog. He opened his mouth to frame another question and then paused. He didn’t have much evidence, and he had already accused too many people needlessly. “I couldn’t expect you to be,” he said sympathetically. “I’ll try to pursue this Max, although it will be difficult without a surname.”

  “I’m sure you’ll track him down.” Amparo spoke with warmth.

  Tejada chatted for a few more minutes, barely paying attention to what he was saying, and then stood up. “I’m afraid I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

  “Not at all. It was a pleasure to see you.” Amparo stood as well. “You will give my regards to Felipe, if you see him?”

  “Yes, of course.” Tejada hesitated. “Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

  “No, none at all. Why?”

  The lieutenant paused for an instant and again remembered Nilo. Better to talk it over with Rivas. He thought. Better to let Rivas handle it entirely, if possible. “I was just thinking that I might try to bring Elena and Toño over,” he lied smoothly.

  He said farewell to Amparo as gracefully as possible and hurried back to the post. Rivas was out, but Guardia Medina was on desk duty. Tejada reminded himself that it was better to take Rivas into his confidence before acting on a hunch. Then he counted to ten. Then he waited for half an hour in the sergeant’s office. Rivas did not return. Tejada began to pace. An hour. An hour and a half.

  The sergeant finally arrived a little before two o’clock. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?” he asked, the polite words barely masking his impatience.

  Tejada nodded. “I wanted to ask your opinion. And then, if you don’t think I’m crazy, I want four men and a search warrant.”

  Chapter 20

&nbs
p; Rivas hoped his expression did not reflect his feelings. Lieutenant Tejada had seemed like a serious and competent officer. The lieutenant’s tendency to ignore the political realities of Granada was only natural for a member of his family and a man who had not visited the city for many years. Tejada had been refreshingly down-to-earth. Rivas had been disappointed but unsurprised by the lieutenant’s refusal to consider his cousin Felipe as a serious suspect despite overwhelming evidence the day before. But he was disgusted by Tejada’s scurrilous charge against Nilo Fuentes. It was one thing to try to exonerate your own flesh and blood. It was another to try to throw the blame onto a member of the corps. A man should have loyalty. “My opinion of what, sir?” he asked.

  “I think I know where Doña Rosalia’s will is,” Tejada said and summarized his meeting with Amparo Villalobos. “I can’t prove she took the will,” he finished. “But she was close enough to Doña Rosalia to know where it was kept, and she has an interest in seeing that Felipe Ordoñez isn’t disinherited.”

  It was nice that the lieutenant no longer seemed intent on bullying poor Nilo, Rivas thought, but unfortunately he had swung back to the other extreme of offending powerful interests. “Don Fernando gets all the land anyway,” he pointed out, skeptical.

  “Yes, but Felipe bought land from the Riosecos in his own name,” Tejada explained. “Amparo’s father must have taken a hit when the Riosecos pulled out of Villalobos and Rioseco. If his firm can regain those lands through Amparo’s husband, they’ll be back where they were before the war.”

  “Then she doesn’t need the will,” Rivas argued.

  Tejada shook his head. “She doesn’t need it,” he agreed. “But Felipe would have inherited a nice amount of cash from his mother. Even he admitted to me that it would have come in handy. She probably just saw the will and grabbed it, trying to do Felipe and herself a favor.”