Widows' Watch

by Nancy Herndon

  “Oh, all right, but it was your idea to turn bisexual, not mine,” she snapped. “And don’t think you’re ever getting back in my bed. I’m not risking AIDS.”

  “I don’t have AIDS,” muttered Lance.

  “Who said I wanted back in your bed?” snapped Sims.

  “Right, you want him. Well, O.K. It’s not as if I ever enjoyed fucking with you, Bayard. It’s just too bad you didn’t find out you were gay before we got married.”

  “Shut up,” shouted Beltran. “We’re not interested in your—”

  “This is called negotiation,” Opal interrupted. “You cops ought to try it. You’d save the taxpayers money. I’d be one of the savees if my husband didn’t insist on living out in the boondocks growing a bunch of goddamned grapes and vegetables. I’d a hell of a lot rather eat frozen stuff than something that just came out of a garden with bugs and dirt all over it.”

  “Always the philistine,” muttered the chairman of Gourmet Cookery.

  “Philistine, schmilistine. I’m pulling down three hundred thou a year. That buys a lot of Eggs McMuffin.”

  “I can’t believe you said that, Opal. Have you been eating Eggs McMuffin when you could be home having eggs Benedict?”

  “Ah—Professor Sims, counselor.” Elena tried to sound tactful but firm.

  “O.K.,” said Opal Sims. “Here’s my offer. No divorce. We stay together for the kids. If I feel like sex, I’ll find my own partners. As for you and Potemkin, since it turns out he’s not a murderer—”

  “That has not been established,” said Beltran.

  “For God’s sake, check the statements. They were with each other. Anyway, as long as you’re discreet, you two can get back together.”

  “I accept,” said Bayard Sims, all smiles.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lance quietly.

  “It does look as if Potemkin is in the clear,” muttered Beltran. “On the other hand, Sims lied once. He could be lying again to save his—his—” Beltran obviously had a hard time using the word lover in reference to two men.

  “His sweetie?” suggested Opal Sims maliciously.

  “Lance, I know you’re angry because I lied, but you have to understand—the children, the scandal. Our relationship is too precious to let—”

  “Could you talk about this somewhere else?” Beltran looked as if he might throw up. Elena, however, thought it was one of the best shows she’d seen in C.A.P.

  “Of course,” murmured Bayard Sims. “Lance, perhaps we could—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Lance!” Sims had gone pale. “The way is clear. Our future, within the bounds of discretion—”

  “No.”

  “I beg you—”

  “Oh, lighten up, Bayard,” said Opal Sims. “It’s only sex.”

  Elena had been comparing the statements of the two men. “I’d have to agree that you’re off the hook, Lance,” she said kindly. She didn’t blame him for dumping Sims. Who, male or female, would want to have a lover with a wife like Opal?

  Beltran frowned. “I’m not completely—”

  “So they’ll both take lie-detector tests,” said Opal impatiently.

  “They’re not reliable,” said Lance.

  “Christ, what a worry wart! Even if you fail, it’s not admissible in court.”

  “I’m the one they think murdered someone,” said Lance stubbornly.

  “You can count on my testimony,” said Sims.

  “What? At a trial?” Lance looked horrified.

  “Well, I’m out of here,” announced Opal. “Come on, Bayard. You have to pick the kids up at school. If we didn’t live in goddamned New Mexico, they could take the bus.”

  “Am I free to go?” asked Lance as the Sims left.

  “Go on,” muttered Beltran.

  “I’ve got a new lead, Lieutenant,” said Elena when Lance had closed the door politely behind him. “It’s kind of weird. Looks like maybe the Potemkin murder was done by a serial killer.”

  “Nonsense,” said Beltran. “Sometimes I think you’re weird, Jarvis.”

  “Well, I’m my mother’s daughter,” she replied cheerfully. She could see that he was about to protest, so she added quickly, “But I promise I won’t start any demonstrations in front of headquarters.”

  Beltran stamped out.

  “You want to hear what I’ve dug up, Leo?”

  “Sure.” Leo began to practice a tap routine, fortunately without the tap shoes.

  “You’re going to dance while I’m talking?”

  “Yeah. And let’s start the cameras going in the other room. I can take the tape home and check out my routine for the talent show. You could make a few notes. Tell me what you think.”

  Elena groaned.

  “I can listen and dance at the same time.” He rushed into the next room, started the camera, returned, and bowed to the one-way window.

  “Well, I’ve got five cases that fit the pattern.”

  Leo did a slick buck and wing, then tapped gracefully around an imaginary cane. “How’s that?” he asked with a flourish.

  “Great. The really interesting one was five years ago. This guy killed his wife and got off. The other four wives were at the center when their husbands died. What do you make of that?”

  Leo, tapping away madly, didn’t answer.

  30

  Wednesday, October 6, 4:42 P.M.

  Elena got home from her shift to find Harmony weaving in the living room and Jose Ituribe repairing the love seat. At the large window that looked out on the front yard, Juanita Ituribe was perched on a kitchen step-stool, measuring. Her position looked so precarious that Elena dashed across the room and grabbed Juanita around the waist.

  “You shouldn’t be climbing ladders,” she cried. “What about your knees?”

  “I’m fine,” said Juanita. “I’ve had four Ibuprofen since breakfast.”

  “The Ituribes are here to help me with your living room,” Harmony explained as she started a new row.

  Juanita jotted a number down on a pad of paper, retracted the long, flexible arm of the metal tape measure she had been using, and said, “If you’ll let go of me, dear, I can climb down. I’m doing your draperies,” she added, taking a seat on the step-stool.

  “And I’m doing the upholstery,” said Jose. “Que lastima, what a mess you’ve got here, but your mother’s made almost enough fabric for me to do this love seat—shouldn’t take me more than two days.”

  “Are you and Juanita up to this?”

  “Of course we are,” said Juanita. “I worked in the pants factories for years. A few draperies won’t be nuthin’ for me. They’ll be a—how do you say it? A wind for me.”

  “A breeze,” said Jose.

  “Anyway, lots more interesting than putting in them studs on jeans. I’ve done some bartacking in my day. And if your mama weaves you up some more of the material, I can make you matching pants.”

  Elena smiled weakly. She couldn’t see herself going to work in a pair of pants that matched the colors of her upholstery and draperies. Coral, Hopi green? No way. “Thanks, Juanita,” she said tactfully, “but I can’t afford the cleaning bills.”

  Jose said, “You’re going to have the finest living room on the block, muchacha.”

  “I’ve had the most wonderful idea,” said Harmony after dinner. “You’re going to love it.”

  Elena groaned.

  “I’ve signed us up for the police talent show.”

  “Mom, you’re not a member of the department.”

  “I called Chief Gaitan this afternoon, and he liked the idea. We’ll bill ourselves as the new Judds, a new mother and daughter sensation.”

  “Mom, this is a small talent show in Los Santos, not Nashville, Tennessee, and the Grand Ole Opry.”
<
br />   “Umm. Now, we have to decide on our numbers and start practicing. Where’s your guitar?”

  “I don’t have it anymore.”

  “You sold it?” Harmony looked shocked.

  “No, it disappeared. I figure Frank took it with him for spite.”

  “Did he?” Harmony looked rather grim.

  “So you see, Mom,” said Elena, feeling a lot less angry with Frank than she usually was, “you’ll have to withdraw our names.”

  “Ummm,” said Harmony and resumed her weaving.

  Elena went to answer the telephone in the kitchen, taking her time, hoping she wasn’t being called out, since she’d been planning an early night.

  “This is Colin Stuart,” said the pleasant, formal voice at the other end. “I’m checking to be sure that we’re on for Saturday night.”

  “Oh.” Elena had forgotten about that.

  “I thought we’d go out for dinner and then some music.”

  “Fine,” said Elena, hoping he wasn’t thinking of anything classical, like the Los Santos Symphony. She’d sat politely through classical music at Sarah’s apartment when Sarah was trying to inject a little cultural sophistication into Elena’s life, but she could usually divert Sarah with conversation so the CD never got changed. Elena had a feeling there was no way she could manage to drag Colin Stuart out of a symphony at intermission, short of telling him she’d just developed acute appendicitis.

  “I wonder whether you’d mind if we take Lance along?” Colin was saying. “He’s offered to show us a few jazz places in Los Santos that aren’t after-hours clubs.”

  “Oh.”

  “I guess that seems strange, inviting someone else along on our first date.”

  “Not at all,” mumbled Elena, glad Lance was no longer a suspect.

  “Poor Lance is feeling rather blue over this business about his father and—ah—other problems.”

  “Well, he’s off the hook as far as the murder’s concerned.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you invite your mother? We’ll make it a foursome. Shall I pick you up at seven o’clock Saturday?”

  “Fine.” Now she understood. Colin Stuart was actually taken with her mother, just asking Elena out to please Sarah. “Well, I’ll see you Saturday.” Elena shook her head as she replaced the receiver on the wall bracket. Amazing. Gaitan knew her mother was married. Colin Stuart, having met the sheriff, definitely knew it, but he still wanted to spend the evening with Harmony, in return for which Elena would get to spend the evening with a homosexual. Lance was nice enough, but if anyone from the department saw her, they’d say, “Poor Jarvis. She’s reduced to dating gays. Can’t get a straight date.”

  “Mom,” she called. “That was Colin Stuart. He and Lance have invited us out to dinner and an evening of jazz.”

  “How thoughtful. Lance and I can talk poetry.”

  “Uh-huh.” Elena figured that her mother’s attention would be monopolized by Colin, and what the hell was Elena going to talk to Lance about? “Mom, if you don’t mind, I’m really tired.”

  “Then I think you should go straight to bed,” said Harmony.

  “You do?” Elena looked at her suspiciously.

  31

  Wednesday, October 6, 8:45 P.M.

  Harmony delayed forty-five minutes before digging out Elena’s address book. Then she leafed through to “J” and called her daughter’s ex-husband.

  When a gruff, blurred voice answered, Harmony said, “Is this Frank Jarvis?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Harmony Portillo,” she replied sharply. “Your ex-wife’s mother.”

  “Mrs. Portillo? I didn’t mean to sound like a shit—I mean—well, I was asleep.”

  “I’d like you to return my daughter’s guitar,” said Harmony. “If possible, please bring it to the house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be here by two o’clock.”

  “What? What?”

  “The guitar you took when you moved out. I want it returned.”

  “Hey, I don’t have—”

  “Of course you do. Unless you’ve sold it. Have you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then return it, please.”

  “Look, Mrs. Portillo, Elena’s always saying crazy things about me.”

  “You mean like your coming into her house without her permission and playing tricks on her.”

  “Hey, I don’t—”

  “You’re the person with a key.”

  “Not anymore,” he muttered.

  “There, you see. You could and did get in before she changed the locks. I saw you do it. Now Frank, I gave that guitar to Elena, and I don’t see any sense in your having it. You don’t even play.”

  “Maybe we could make a deal,” said Frank. “If I could find the guitar. You know—look around the pawnshops. Probably someone stole it the night her place was broken into and trashed. She probably didn’t tell you, but I took care of the guy who did it.”

  “That’s commendable, Frank. So you’re saying you can locate the guitar?”

  “I might be able to, but I’d like you to do me a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Well, Elena’s got this restraining order. I can’t even talk to her anymore, and I was hoping to get back together. Maybe you could put in a good word for me. Like tell her we ought to start dating again. I wouldn’t mind dating. And then we could—”

  “I’m not sure anything I say will help, Frank. It’s your aura.”

  “My what?”

  “Your aura. It’s very bad. I noticed the day you let me into the house. My goodness, you project bad vibrations even over the telephone.”

  “What’s an aura?”

  “I suggest, Frank, that you go to a curandera. She might be able to help you with herbal medicines.”

  There was a silence. Then Frank said, “You mean one of those crazy old women who grind up weeds and—”

  “The one I have in mind is a woman of great power. Whether or not you consult her, I’d advise you not to say anything unpleasant about her. She might put a curse on you.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Frank and laughed.

  “Well, that’s my suggestion. You certainly don’t have to follow it.”

  “Hey, I’ll go. What’s her name?”

  Harmony gave him the name.

  “Address? Phone number?”

  Harmony provided those. She had visited the woman herself, just in case Joaquina, back in Chimayo, decided to take amiss the scolding she’d received for giving Sarah Tolland that purgative at the barbecue.

  “O.K., listen, I’ve got it,” said Frank. “You think this will help me with Elena, right?”

  “I really can’t promise anything, Frank,” said Harmony, “and I don’t think even the curandera can help you unless you return that guitar.”

  “The guitar. Right. I’ll look into it tomorrow. And the curandera.”

  “You do that. A man with an aura like yours needs all the help he can get.”

  “But you’ll tell Elena I’m having my aura fixed? What is it?”

  “The colors projected by your soul. Good night, Frank.” She hung up before he could say anything else. Harmony didn’t truly think the curandera could help Frank where Elena was concerned. She wasn’t even sure she’d want that, although Elena had been evasive about why they’d broken up. Harmony did believe in lifetime commitments, having contracted for one herself and been very happy with it. However she hadn’t always been such a strong advocate of marriage, not when she was a young woman who believed in free love, free speech, and the freedom to smoke a little pot when she felt like it.

  The important thing was that they’d get the guitar back and win first place in the police talent show. Harmony was very proud of Elena’s voice. The girl could have been a secon
d Joan Baez. Humming “House of the Rising Sun,” Harmony resumed weaving.

  32

  Thursday, October 7, 8:05 A.M.

  As soon as she got to her desk, Elena called Socorro Heights to find out how long T. Bob Tyler had been on their rolls. Six years, they said. That put him within her time frame. Now if she could just take to heart the idea of an old cowboy as serial killer. Glancing across the aisle, she caught sight of Leo rising to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Taking some personal time.”

  “What about interviewing the widows?”

  “It’s not as if talking to old ladies is a dangerous assignment. You can go on your own. I’ve got something important to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ll tell you if I get it off the ground,” said Leo mysteriously. “You’re going to love it.”

  “That’s what my mother said last night,” Elena muttered, “and it turns out she entered us in the talent show. Fortunately, Frank stole my guitar.”

  “Too bad. I know you can’t beat me, but I’d like to see you try.” He ambled off, lanky and cheerful. Elena consulted her next-of-kin list. The telephone directory showed no number for Mercedes Castro, but the late Jose had had a son, and the directory listed seventeen Jose Castros.

  On Elena’s fourth try a surprised voice said, “I’m Mercedes Castro.”

  Elena introduced herself, explained that she was looking into the unsolved murder of Mercedes’ husband, and asked for an interview.

  “He’s been dead a year now, and we told the police everything we knew when he was killed,” said Mrs. Castro.

  “Still, ma’am, there might be something we missed.”

  “Come over, then. I’ve just finished making empanadas. Maybe you’d like one with a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful.” Elena loved the small fruit tarts so popular among Mexican-American families. Aunt Josefina had made them every Tuesday of Elena’s childhood, and every Tuesday Elena had stopped by after school. “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  She couldn’t find a number for Marcia Cox, whose husband, Porfirio, had been murdered four years ago. However, Chantal Brolie, a widow of three years, was in the book. Elena called and left a message on an answering machine. Then she drove to the Upper Valley.