Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  I ordered, as planned, a cup of tortilla soup and a half Lone Star sandwich. If I’d ordered a bowl of the soup, I wouldn’t have been able to eat dinner. It has a rich, spicy broth and is crammed with veggies, chicken, tortilla strips, and melted cheese. I’d have eaten every delicious bite in the bowl and been uncomfortably stuffed. Not that the Lone Star sandwich isn’t good as well. The Magic Pan has an array of sandwiches with a wonderful raspberry-chipotle sauce slathered on the buns. The meat in the Lone Star is, as you might expect, beef.

  I’m told that cattle, not to mention sheep and goats, once grazed on long grass in our area.There are still ranches, but the cattle now have to walk their poor legs off to find enough grass to get them through the day. As far as I know, cattle don’t eat cactus. People do, but I have yet to treat myself to that pleasure. For all I know, some of the prickly things in my yard are edible and I should be harvesting them and putting them up like a good pioneer woman. Ha!

  “I want to go inside,” said Barbara Escobar, the youngest among us. She has that heavy, dark hair with absolutely no split ends to disturb the patina. Her skin is smooth and quite light; I’ve heard her make disdainful remarks about Mexican Americans with dark skin and obvious Indian heritage, like Luz Vallejo, who is a handsome woman, in my opinion. How determined people seem to be to distinguish themselves from others on the basis of the smallest differences in skin color.

  “It’s freezing out here,” Barbara complained.

  She probably enjoyed the summer heat, although I couldn’t imagine it. I’d heard that August had produced a temperature of 106 degrees. Fortunately, I wasn’t in El Paso last summer to experience it. I’d probably have turned my thermostat to seventy and refused to leave the house. Peter Brockman claims that his solar house, situated properly in relation to the sun, heavily insulated, and possessed of thick walls and deeply overhanging eves, doesn’t need air conditioning at all.

  I’d been fascinated to hear this, having read that the Spanish colonists had oriented their haciendas by jamming sticks into the ground and studying the shadows before placing a house that would fend off both heat and cold. My interest, based on our high electric rates for refrigerated air conditioning, had dissipated when Vivian Brockman said, “No matter what Peter thinks, I keep the air conditioner on from April to November.”

  “Well, are we going to move inside?” Barbara demanded. The others had continued to chat while she complained.

  It was only in the mid 60s, bracingly comfortable to my mind, but they agreed with Barbara, so we picked up our glasses and moved into the big room with its huge stone fireplace and plank tables supported by the bases of antique sewing machines. All the chairs were mismatched, the tables sporting flowered place mats, the windows ornamented with shutters and stained glass insets, and the decor finished off by a dark red carpet spotted with tiny white flowers. It is a charming room, but I had to turn my head as we passed the jewelry counters.

  “I think we should start the meeting,” said Vivian, taking what appeared to be an old oak library chair and patting her densely curled gray hair. If she’d only known, her coiffure resembled a mini afro. “The only others who provided food,” she said, “are working women or students, so they probably won’t be coming.”

  That explained why Adela Mariscal hadn’t answered the summons.

  “Are we all agreed that the police have treated us outrageously?” Most of the ladies nodded. The several, including me, who had been served sandwiches, were distracted by the difficulty of keeping the ingredients inside the rolls. Raspberry-chipotle sauce is yummy, but also very slippery. I always hold my sandwich in two hands, which leads to sticky fingers but spares my clothing.

  “We’ve committed no crime,” Vivian said indignantly. “It’s not a crime to provide refreshments for a fund-raising event.”

  “Still, Martin says we could be sued by Vladik’s estate,” warned Maria-Reposa. “Well, Opera at the Pass can be sued, as well as the rest of us. In my case, Portable Fiesta could be sued, and the university through Dolly. Carolyn used preserves from the El Paso Chile Company, so they might be liable. It depends on what made Vladik sick. But it’s a civil action I’m talking about. I don’t know about criminal actions; Martin doesn’t do criminal.”

  A hubbub of dismay arose among the ladies. They couldn’t imagine being arrested for a crime, but they could imagine being sued; professors, doctors, lawyers, all kinds of people could be and are sued. Anyone of us, except Maria-Reposa, could be sued by her husband, or represented by him. What a putative windfall for the Hernandezes. I certainly hoped Jason and I wouldn’t fall into Martin’s clutches. I didn’t even like the man. He had once told me that if Jason were ever sued for sexual harassment, he’d be glad to take the case. I was more insulted by him than by Sergeant Guevara and his disappointingly short interrogation.

  “Actually,” I said, speaking above the babble of female voices, “although Vladik may have suffered from food poisoning, that was undoubtedly inadvertent.” Shame on me because I couldn’t resist adding, “Which would be manslaughter rather than homicide, wouldn’t it?”

  They all looked alarmed.

  “Or maybe negligent homicide. I haven’t lived in Texas long enough to know what the terms are.” So much for my little moment of antic humor. I wouldn’t have said those things to Adela. She’d have died of fright, since she was the person guilty of inadvertent poisoning—she and the greedy victim.

  “However, there’s another possibility, or perhaps I should say added possibility. If you read the morning paper, you’ll have noticed that a retired policewoman, his neighbor, found the body, and she thinks someone put a pillow over his face while he was throwing up, whether to suffocate him or to cause what actually happened, the aspiration of his own vomit, she wouldn’t know, I suppose, but that would be murder. Unfortunately, the sergeant in charge of the case either doesn’t believe it or is too lazy to pursue a more complicated investigation.”

  ”I move that we confront the sergeant and insist that he find out who really killed Vladik,” said Barbara Escobar.

  “We could make a list of people who might have hated him enough to do that,” I suggested. Since I’ll be making such a list myself, I might as well get their input, I thought. They all knew him to some degree. “Can anyone think of a name?”

  Barbara laughed. “Well, Peter comes to mind. He said to Frank at the party that they really needed to get rid of Vladik. I don’t think any of us liked the Macbeth.”

  “Howard liked it,” said Dolly. “He was pleased to see three witches instead of a whole chorus.”

  “Then we won’t put Howard down,” I said, smiling and taking a pad and pen from my purse in case anyone came up with another name. “And Jason was friendly with Vladik, besides which Jason was in bed with me when the deed was done.”

  “Good gracious,” exclaimed Olive. “We’re looking at our own husbands first? Well, mine was in Chicago. He was supposed to see the Friday performance, but I had to go by myself, and I only came over to the party Saturday long enough to leave the chile con queso and chips.”

  “That reminds me, Olive, your pot is in my car,” said Maria-Reposa. “As for Martin, I don’t think he’s met Vladik. I don’t remember introducing them at the party.”

  Maria-Reposa was the committee member, not her husband. She had also donated a seamstress from Juarez to work on costumes, not to mention quite a bit of money.

  “Frank, who couldn’t stand either Vladik or the performance, was at my side, snoring like a recalcitrant mule all night,” said Barbara.

  “Perhaps he has sleep apnea,” suggested Vivian, the doctor’s wife. “You should send him to the sleep clinic at Providence Memorial. As for Peter, poor man, he was called out for emergency surgery shortly after we got home. Some drunken driver, not wearing a seat belt, who smashed his car into a telephone pole and his head into the windshield, I think he said. And of course, that wasn’t what Peter meant by ‘get rid of.’ He meant fire the f
ellow, revoke his contract, something civilized.”

  “I know someone,” said Dolly. “This may sound ridiculous, but Howard told me that a geologist actually threatened to kill Vladik for sleeping with his wife. I didn’t hear it myself and don’t remember the name, but I’m sure we could find out. He should make an excellent suspect and distract the sergeant. I was digging up spring bulbs when the police came to my house, and I was so upset by Sergeant Guevara’s attitude that I never did get back to the bulbs. I’m going to send them to my daughter. What with water rationing, it’s just too much trouble, not to mention wasteful, to get them going in the spring.”

  “Oh, that was Brandon Collins, the geologist, you’re talkin’ about, honey bunch,” drawled Olive. “He’s all bark an’ no bite.”

  Olive is from East Texas and has that distinctive Southern accent and golden curls, probably rinsed to keep out the gray. I’ve been rinsing my hair so long that I’m not sure whether or not I have any gray hair yet. Olive’s husband calls her Olive Ann.

  “Professor Collins did have his hand on a nasty-looking, pointed hammer when he made the threat,” I murmured, and I wrote his name down after Peter Brockman, which I’d crossed out. I’d forgotten all about the geologist.

  “Let the police go looking for people who had reason to kill Vladik,” said Vivian. “They can talk to his colleagues in the music department at the university, his students, maybe fellow Russians, if there are any. Obviously, none of us would be involved. All in favor of confronting Sergeant Guevara as soon as we have dessert, say, ‘Aye.’ ”

  We all said ‘aye’ and studied our dessert menus. I was torn between the chocolate brownie and the lemon square, but settled for the latter. Very tasty too.

  10

  Indignant Ladies vs. Sergeant Guevara

  Carolyn

  Vivian Brockman called ahead to police headquarters at Five Points to announce that a delegation of six ladies would arrive within the half hour to talk to Sergeant Guevara. She was told that if he were called out in the interim, she’d have to talk to someone else. Fine, she said; the committee would talk to his commander, whoever that was, but the committee would be heard. I listened in on this conversation while jotting notes on people to interview if Guevara didn’t take the hint: the geologist, music professors and students, fellow Russians. There were some at the university. I didn’t know about the rest of El Paso.

  Then we all went to our separate cars; no one uses public transportation in El Paso if they don’t have to because the buses and bus air conditioning break down during hot weather. I imagine historical modes of transportation in El Paso would have been more comfortable in hot weather than a sealed, unairconditioned bus—the Butterfield Stage, for instance, which first arrived here in 1858, or the mule-drawn streetcars starting in 1882. They circled the downtown here and in Juarez until 9:00 in the evening, although their drivers felt free to get off in mid trip to deliver messages and shop. The streetcars were eventually mechanized and then discontinued entirely in the 1970s. The economic benefits anticipated by Mexico did not materialize, but maid service in El Paso became a thing of the past for some years because the women couldn’t get over here from Juarez. Thank goodness there are other means to get across the border now.

  It seemed that ladies going to lunch not only don’t use public transportation, but also don’t carpool, at least not these ladies. Six cars pulled out of the parking lot and headed in different directions. Evidently there was a way to get to Five Points without turning left across traffic on Doniphan. I wished that I had followed someone who took the easier route, for I was the last person to arrive at the police parking lot.

  It was fortunate, I thought, while driving up North Mesa, that Vivian hadn’t gotten hold of the sergeant himself. The committee would be heard? He’d have taken that amiss, not being, in my experience, a very pleasant person. And he’d be angry that Luz Vallejo had talked to the newspaper, although that was her problem, and that we’d read her opinion and been moved to bother him with our concerns.

  I arrived in the area of the university and wondered where to turn left. Montana seemed like a good idea. It was a main thoroughfare. Of course, I got lost and had to stop at a gas station to ask for directions. The attendant didn’t speak English and looked very irritated that I spoke so little Spanish. “Donde está policia?” I asked. He shrugged and pointed to a police car passing by. Stymied, I ran after it and caught up at a light, where I skirted a car in the right lane so that I could knock on the patrol car window. I hate running, but the officers did know how to get to Five Points. In fact, they were headed there and waited so that I could follow them, right to the entrance of the area for police parking. Officer Cobos then got out and walked back to tell me that I couldn’t follow any further; I’d have to circle around to the public lot. Ah, me.

  Then, of course, there was the crowded situation in the public lot and the questions about where I had been when I got inside and the complaints from the ladies about being kept waiting while Sergeant Guevara was located. I imagined that he was hiding out in the men’s room, or had escaped out the back door as the ladies filtered in. However, he did appear after ten minutes or so and eyed our group with disfavor.

  “Can’t get the whole bunch of you in my office,” he said. “What’s this about? Someone come to confess and needs moral support from the girls?”

  What a rude man. “I’m sure you have a conference room,” I suggested mildly.

  “What’s going on here?” asked a uniformed, middle-aged man, who had just entered the reception area. He had lots of military bits and pieces sewn to his shirt.

  “Just about to chat with a delegation of civilians, Commander,” said Guevara.

  “Use my office if you want. I’m on my way to City Hall.” Then he smiled at Maria-Reposa and asked jocularly, “Martin planning to sue the city again?”

  She smiled and replied, “If the city behaves itself, he won’t have to, will he?”

  And that’s how we overcame the sergeant’s objections to seeing us and ended up sitting on blue chairs with the sergeant seated uncomfortably behind the commander’s desk and keeping a wary eye on Maria-Reposa, whom he took to be a person of influence.

  Vivian launched, none too tactfully, into our mission. “It seems, Sergeant, that while you were out harassing ladies who donated food to raise funds for opera in El Paso, an excellent cause I’m sure we’d all agree, and one supported by a good many influential people, my husband among them . . .” She lost track of her thought or her sentence structure at that point, so she glared at him while she recollected herself. “Mrs. Blue—” She nodded in my direction. “—noted an interesting story in the Times. It seems, Sergeant, that Vladislav Gubenko, our late artistic director, died not of refreshments we provided, but because someone entered his house and smothered him with a pillow.”

  “Bull,” said the sergeant, offending a number of us. He was very angry. “He died from choking on puke, and he was puking because someone food-poisoned him, and the food he’d been eating was stuff you ladies brought.”

  “The contents of his stomach have been analyzed, then?” I couldn’t help asking. Even if they found the substance that made Vladik sick, could the tests tell them which party food had contained it? If so, poor Adela. This buffoon with his unpleasant language would keep harping on the food and ignore the pillow.

  “Tox screens aren’t back yet, but they’ll show he was poisoned.”

  “Will they show that the food poisoning, if any, was inadvertent, Sergeant?” asked Maria-Reposa softly. “I’m sure that no person in this group would deliberately cause injury to another person. We’re all perfectly respectable.” She smiled at him. “Wives of a doctor, a lawyer, a banker, two university professors, and the owner of several local businesses.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, more polite because he knew that the commander thought well of her, or perhaps the sergeant was impressed by the credentials of our husbands. Obviously the police end
of justice is not necessarily blind. “But you mustn’t pay much mind to what you read in the papers, ma’am. That’s just guesswork.”

  “The person who was quoted is a retired police lieutenant,” I pointed out.

  “It was a woman,” snapped the sergeant.

  “So are we,” said Vivian. “Are you saying that women are not to be trusted?”

  I was afraid that he might answer that and interrupted to say, “Her expertise was evidently in Vice. Surely, a Vice lieutenant would have seen a good deal of violence and have opinions that can be respected.”

  “And I’m in Crimes Against Persons,” he retorted, “so I’d take my opinion over someone else’s because I know what I’m doing. Now, you ladies don’t have anything to worry about until the tox screens come in, and I’ve got a lot of cases to investigate, thirty on my desk at this minute, so unless you know for sure someone attacked that Russian with a pillow and can give me a lead on who it was, I need to be getting back to my desk.” He stood up, an irritatingly smug look on his face.

  We glanced at each other, and then Dolly Montgomery said, “Well, I hate to be a snitch, but my husband told me about someone who threatened to kill Mr. Gubenko the night of the party.”

  Guevara looked somewhat taken aback. Evidently his investigation hadn’t turned that story up. “How did Gubenko react to the threat?” he asked suspiciously.

  Dolly looked to us because she didn’t know. “He said he felt sick,” I replied, “and then he went home.”

  “Sounds like a couple of guys having an argument. Don’t necessarily mean anyone meant to kill anyone else. Like you said, Gubenko was already sick. You think this guy put something in his food and then threatened to kill him?”

  “The man accused Vladik of sleeping with his wife,” said Barbara Escobar, obviously relishing the scandal. “Isn’t that a motive for murder? Don’t you even want to know the man’s name?”