Widows' Watch

by Nancy Herndon

  “My dear lady, do you have evidence to support that?” asked the chief.

  “Certainly. No one with Lance’s customary aura—”

  “His customary what?”

  “Mom,” moaned Elena.

  “Aura,” said Harmony clearly.

  The chief looked taken aback. “Thank you for your input,” he mumbled.

  “And besides that, this is a case of robbery-murder, and not the first in your city. A number of old people have been killed in their homes by robbers. One of our purposes was to demand that the police department provide better protection for older citizens.”

  Armando Gaitan sighed and leaned his elbow on the lectern, brushing his neatly clipped mustache with a thoughtful finger. “Ms. Portillo, no one is more cognizant than I of the problems of the older population. We do the best we can to offer protection. Unfortunately, we cannot assign an officer to each elderly citizen.”

  “You’ve assigned an officer to each of us because we were exercising our right to free speech,” said Gus.

  “And it is certainly not my policy to target any group for harassment—not gays, not minorities, not—”

  “Lance is a minority,” said Gus. “He’s Anglo. People are always saying Hispanics are the minority, but they’re not in Los Santos. Look at the police in this room. Three-fourths are Hispanic, whereas we protesters are all Anglos.”

  “I’m Hispanic by marriage,” said Harmony.

  “Right, and the chief of police has been a lot more sympathetic to you than to any of the rest of us,” said Gus.

  “If you’re accusing me of racial or ethnic discrimination, sir, you’re out of line,” said Chief Gaitan, reminding everyone that he could be as hard-nosed as the next cop, as well as a lot more charming. “Now, it appears to me that the one thing we can do something about is this business of the bicycle race. We are not keeping the young man from doing his job, are we, Detective Jarvis?” he added, to placate Professor Mallory, who had opened his mouth to protest.

  “No, sir. He’s been in for questioning, but he’s not under arrest.”

  “Lance will win that race if you let him go,” said Hoke.

  “I’m delighted to hear that,” said the chief. “You and your partner can escort Mr. Potemkin to New Mexico, Detective Jarvis, and see that he returns afterwards.”

  “Yes, sir, but how are we supposed to keep track of him during the race? I doubt that either one of us has been on a bicycle in years.”

  “I’m a bicycle racer,” said Lieutenant Maggie Daguerre, who was observing from the back of the room.

  The chief looked at her and beamed. Maggie Daguerre, the department’s computer expert, was a sight to gladden the eye of any man whose testosterone was still flowing. She was five foot eleven and built like a Vegas chorus girl, with lustrous black hair and slanted green eyes.

  Lieutenant Beltran, still looking grumpy, said, “If Potemkin’s a sure winner, no woman’s going to keep up with him.”

  “I’ve placed in bicycle races,” said Maggie, “not to mention canoe races, foot races—”

  “Good. You’ll go with the other two officers,” said the chief.

  “And to show solidarity between the Sheriff’s Department in Rio Arriba County and the Los Santos Police Department,” said Harmony, “I’ll put Lance up as well as the police officers. Also I can arrange to have deputies placed along the High Road so you’ll feel easy in your mind about this generous offer you’ve made, Chief.”

  “Armando,” he corrected. “That’s extremely gracious of you.”

  “What does Chimayo have to do with the race?” asked Elena, puzzled. Her hometown was populated by reclusive descendants of early Spanish settlers. They hadn’t even allowed the movie Milagro Beanfield War to be filmed there, because they didn’t want a horde of outsiders disturbing their way of life.

  “We need a new roof on the Sanctuario,” murmured Harmony. “It was the only way.”

  “I hope that we have addressed as many of the protesters’ concerns as we are able to at this time,” said the chief.

  “We’re all still under arrest,” said Professor Donald Mallory.

  “But not yet booked. Lieutenant Beltran, you can take care of freeing these people,” ordered the chief. “Now, is everyone happy?”

  “Absolutely,” said Hoke Mitchell.

  “I’m not,” said Gus McGlenlevie.

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Donald Mallory. “You may want to go to jail. I don’t.”

  “I could have written a brilliant cycle of verses from the county jail,” said Gus.

  “The detention facility is full,” said the chief.

  “What about the senior citizens?” asked Harmony.

  “My dear lady, why don’t we dismiss the meeting and discuss that.” Protesters and officers began to leave.

  “Harmony, about the best I can do,” said Armando Gaitan, “is look into this matter of senior citizen safety. I shall appoint a board to investigate. Now, to more pleasant matters. The department is having a talent show in several weeks. I hope that you’ll attend as my guest.”

  “I’d love to,” said Harmony, her eyes lighting up with a gleam that made Elena extremely uneasy. Surely her mother wasn’t falling for the chief. Harmony was a married woman. She had five children, four grandchildren. Elena imagined her mother leaving Sheriff Ruben Portillo, marrying Elena’s chief, causing a scandal.

  “I have my own transportation, Elena,” said Harmony, breaking into those disquieting images. “Don’t forget that the party for Boris is tonight.”

  20

  Friday, October 1, 7:20 P.M.

  Elena glanced at the clock. Seven-twenty and her mother hadn’t returned. Maybe Harmony wanted to avoid the wake. Elena had tried those cabbage rolls and found two problems with them: one, the filling wasn’t spicy; two, she didn’t like cabbage. For that matter, she didn’t care much for vodka—especially if Dimitra expected her to drink straight shots. She’d read about that Russian custom.

  “Mom, where have you been?” she demanded when Harmony let herself into the kitchen ten minutes later.

  “I had to take four senior citizens home, not to mention their lawn chairs.”

  At least her mother hadn’t been meeting the chief in some dark bar. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mom.”

  “We don’t have time. We have to dress for the wake.”

  “You look great, and I can dress in three minutes. Why did you join that protest against the department? Can’t you see that it was embarrassing for me?”

  “Well, Elena,” said Harmony, dropping into a chair, “one has to have the courage of one’s convictions, even if one’s daughter is going to be a pill about it.”

  “I’m not being a pill. I’m just—”

  “We were addressing serious problems.”

  “Sure. Like whether or not Lance Potemkin gets to go to New Mexico.”

  “That, and the fact that there are three, four, maybe five women at the center whose husbands were killed in daylight robberies while the wives were at Socorro Heights. People really do feel that they aren’t safe in their homes.”

  “Over how long a period was this?” asked Elena, frowning.

  “I don’t know, dear. Within recent years.”

  “With them, recent years could be the last fifty.”

  “I mean recent recent years,” said her mother sternly. “It’s a serious problem, very important to older people, and your chief has agreed to address it.”

  “Yeah, Mom, that’s another thing. Why were you flirting with Chief Gaitan? What would Pop think?”

  “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly. And very successfully, I might add. Lance is going to the race, Armando has agreed to look into senior citizen problems, and—”

  “—and you were flirting,” said Elena. “You acc
epted a date with him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The police talent show.”

  “That’s not a date! He invited me to be his guest, which I presume means a complimentary ticket. I’ll be going with you.”

  “Oh. Are you sure? What if Gaitan thinks he’s got a date?”

  “Married women don’t date.”

  “I’m sure Pop’ll be pleased to hear that.”

  “Before he hears from Armando,” Harmony mused, “I guess I’d better call your father to tell him I offered protection along the race route. We’ll drive up tomorrow since the event is Sunday.”

  “We?”

  “Of course. It’s a nice opportunity for us to see your father and the family. Anyway, I’ve offered to put people up at the house.”

  Elena sighed. “That’s Lance, Leo, me, Maggie, and you. Concepcion won’t be going. She’s nauseated.”

  “Is she? I must congratulate Leo.”

  “Maybe she’s got the flu,” said Elena dryly.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

  “Who, me? Anyway, we’ve got five people plus the bicycles and luggage.”

  “The Holymobile will seat five,” said Harmony.

  Elena giggled. “Grandmother Portillo would consider that sacrilegious—calling it the Holymobile.”

  “Very well. The Penitentes’ pickup. So it’s all worked out. I’ll drive.”

  “Something’s bound to go wrong,” Elena fretted. “Maggie’ll fall behind. Then Lance’ll disappear into the forest and get me demoted.”

  “Nonsense. Whatever happens, we’ll work it out, dear.”

  “That’s what you always say, Mom. That’s what you said when the curandera put a curse on Tia Josefina over the Eye-of-God business.”

  “I worked it out. She lifted the curse.”

  “But we had to drink Joaquina’s miserable herbal tea for a year, while the control group got to drink Kool Aid.”

  “Joaquina likes to think she’s very scientific,” said Harmony. “She still wants to write a book about science, herbs, and magic.” Harmony was nibbling tortilla chips that Elena kept in a lidded basket on the table. “Do you know what the most irritating thing about that protest was?”

  “I know what irritated me most,” said Elena as she pulled bean dip from the refrigerator. “Your participation.”

  “Lydia Beeman,” said Harmony, leaning forward to sample the dip. “Every single person from the center waited until I was released. But not Lydia. As soon as the police started carting off people in their lawn chairs, she got up, folded hers, and said to me, ‘We’re making fools of ourselves and not doing a bit of good.’ Can you imagine that? Lance is riding in the bicycle race, isn’t he? Well, anyway, that’s what she said to me. But then what can you expect of a woman who honors the memory of her late husband by polishing his gun collection every month? If she doesn’t care about Lance, she should at least care about the safety of senior citizens. One also hears rumors about battered wives at the center. Perhaps I ought to organize a demonstration pointing out that the system fails to protect women.”

  “Terrific,” said Elena, scooping up some bean dip to fortify herself against the cabbage rolls and vodka. “But in Santa Fe, not Los Santos, and target the women who refuse to press charges against their abusers, and the judges and juries who won’t give the bastards long sentences or, in some cases, even convict them.”

  “Would you like some raw carrots with our snack?”

  “I’m not crazy about raw carrots, Mom,” Elena replied.

  “They keep you from getting something—breast cancer, I think. I read that if you eat a raw carrot a day, you’ll never lose a breast.”

  “Right,” said Elena. “You turn orange instead.”

  Because the hostess and many of the celebrants were worn out from the afternoon protest, the wake lasted only forty-five minutes. Elena went to bed early and thought about the things her

  mother had said. It was sort of amusing, how antagonistic Harmony felt toward Lydia Beeman, but then they were two different kinds of women: Harmony extremely feminine, given to political and social causes; Lydia rather masculine and given to causes of a more abstract nature, like justice. Anyway, Elena thought that Lydia was an interesting person, even if she wasn’t Harmony’s cup of tea.

  Then there were her mother’s remarks about husbands of Socorro Heights women having been killed in daylight home robberies. Could there have been five? If so, that was a curious statistic. Was there some crime-ring operating out of the center, finding out when people wouldn’t be home? But the husbands had been home. If she and Leo didn’t manage to close the case on Lance, she’d have to look into her mother’s information after the bicycle race.

  21

  Saturday, October 2, 9:30 A.M.

  As Elena was finishing her huevos rancheros, Maggie Daguerre telephoned and said, “Do you really need three cops in the truck? I know I’m an extra gun, not that I ever use one—”

  “I think the bicycle riders and the gay activists would be pretty ticked off if all three of us shot Lance on the way to Chimayo,” Elena replied dryly.

  “Right,” Maggie agreed. “In that case, Manny Escobedo wants to drive me up. He’s got his kids this weekend and thought it would be fun for them to come along, see that race, camp out. I’ll have my own cheering section.”

  As she hung up, Elena tried to picture Maggie Daguerre, Manny Escobedo, and his two kids, spending the weekend together in a tent. The kids wouldn’t like their dad taking up with a gorgeous computer expert/police officer/bicycle racer. And camping out? Daguerre was the outdoorsy type. But Manny?

  A half hour later Harmony, Elena, and Leo were in front of Lance Potemkin’s apartment arguing about who should sit where. “I want Lance up front with me,” said Harmony. “It’s not often I get the Yeats of his generation all to myself.” Lance looked pleased.

  “You can’t drive, Mom. He’s a murder suspect, so I drive; he sits in back with Leo.”

  “My insurance doesn’t cover you, Elena,” said Harmony smugly, “and we have to use my truck. You’ve no place for a bicycle on a police car and no back seat in your own truck.”

  “You should have mentioned the insurance business yesterday, Harmony,” said Leo, looking worried.

  “It seems to me,” said Lance sarcastically, “that it would be easier for you two to shoot me if you’re both sitting in back.”

  Elena glared at him. He was Mr. Sweetie with her mother and Mr. Snide with her. “You’re sitting in back with Leo, and not behind my mother,” she snapped, having pictured him grabbing Harmony around the neck from behind. She sure hoped Beltran never heard that Harmony had done the driving.

  “Maybe you’d feel better if you realized that I don’t have that many fans, especially fans who can actually quote lines of my poetry. It’s not likely that I’m going to try to take Mrs. Portillo hostage. In fact, if I weren’t gay, I’d probably be in love,” said Lance, smiling sweetly at Harmony.

  Harmony’s infectious laughter floated out into the warm morning air as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “What a lovely compliment, dear.”

  If he thinks he can escape by buttering up my mother, he can think again, Elena decided grimly and waved him into the back seat. Leo then handcuffed himself to Lance, who didn’t like that at all.

  Harmony climbed into the driver’s seat, muttering that Lance had not killed anyone; they were just being silly. Giving Elena a pointed look, she said, “Now, Lance, you’re very welcome to stay at our house. You can sleep in Elena’s old room. It has an excellent bed, so you’ll get a good night’s rest.”

  “Actually, I have friends in Santa Fe,” said Lance.

  “Can they put us up too?” asked Elena, resentful that her mother had offered the suspect Elena’s comfortable bed.


  “I forgot about that,” said Lance, looking sulky. “Thanks, Mrs. Portillo. I guess I’ll have to impose on you.”

  “No imposition at all,” Harmony assured him. “Leo, you can have the room Two and Johnny slept in, and Elena, you can have Josie’s.”

  “Great,” said Elena. “I remember what the beds are like in there.” She sat sideways, watching Lance. If he made a move toward her mother, he was dead meat.

  “You’re not competing in a race tomorrow, Elena,” said Harmony. “Lance needs the firmest bed.”

  “Well, he can’t have the room to himself,” muttered Elena. “He’s under surveillance.”

  “In that case, you’d probably feel more comfortable sharing a room with me, Detective Jarvis, more comfortable than your partner would,” Lance suggested. He seemed to be enjoying the squabble.

  “I don’t mind,” said Leo. “Gays never get the hots for me.”

  “You just want the good bed,” muttered Elena.

  “Well, settle it among yourselves, children,” said Harmony. She revved the engine and peeled rubber down the quiet suburban street. “I have missed Ruben.”

  “Mom, you’ve been gone less than a week. And take it easy, will you? My mother thinks she’s good enough to race in a Grand Prix,” Elena added. By running two yellow lights, Harmony had made it to the interstate access road in about thirty seconds. “When we were kids, she used to say, ‘Buckle up,’ and then scare us all silly tearing over dirt roads to get to Mass on time. We all prayed on Saturday night that Pop wouldn’t be out on a call when it came time to head for the Sanctuario on Sunday morning.”

  Harmony laughed merrily and, zooming onto Interstate 10, cut off another pickup. The irate driver leaned on his horn. Elena noted that their suspect was terrified. Served him right. “Slow down, Mom. The speed limit’s fifty-five in the city.”

  Harmony took her foot off the gas, but by the time they passed the Executive Center exit, they were back up to sixty-seven, and Lance, who rarely rode anything but a bicycle, was clutching the leather strap that hung from the ceiling on his side. He could hardly reply to Harmony’s critique of his water metaphors in a poem about resurrection. Elena was pretty nervous herself, since her mother kept taking her eyes off the road in order to turn and talk to the prisoner.