Widows' Watch
Page 19
Surrounded by trees, flowers, and bushes, the Castro house had evidently received its water allotment from the canal, because the yard was flooded. To get to the front door Elena had to hop from stepping stone to stepping stone. The lush shrubbery concealed peeling paint on the window frames and front door. Rusted tricycles, wagons, and toy cars littered the porch.
Mercedes Castro answered the doorbell and ushered Elena into a cluttered living room, explaining that her son and daughter-in-law were at work, her grandchildren at school, and she hadn’t yet found time to pick up. Elena had to work hard to keep the shock off her face. Mrs. Castro was dark-skinned with heavy, dark hair shot through with white and a good figure, but a terrible scar ran from the corner of her mouth across her cheek—deep, jagged, and disfiguring. Elena doubted that it had been stitched at the time of injury, but surely the poor woman could have gotten plastic surgery. Her husband would have had insurance from the school district.
If not for the scar, Mercedes Castro, who was probably in her sixties, would have been a beautiful woman. And how had she gotten that scar? Elena wondered. From the late Jose? If so, the evidence in this strange case was accumulating, the parallels doubling and redoubling. Mrs. Castro excused herself and went out to the kitchen. Elena moved a teddy bear and three coloring books off a wildly flowered chair and sat down. Mrs. Castro returned almost immediately with a tray containing empanadas on a blue-rimmed plate and coffee in matching stoneware cups. Elena recognized the pattern. Her supermarket had sold it last year at five dollars a setting with a twenty-five-dollar grocery purchase.
Taking a sip of her coffee, Elena said, “I understand you were at the Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center when your husband was killed.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Castro put two empanadas on a plate and passed it to Elena.
“Do you remember what you were doing that afternoon?”
“How could I ever forget? That was the afternoon I lost my dear Jose.”
Forking up a piece of empanada, Elena nodded sympathetically. Pineapple filling. Not her favorite, but the crust was delicious. Mrs. Castro plucked a Kleenex from a fake marble box on the coffee table, which was strewn with small plastic spacemen and brown flower petals from a bouquet of dying roses. The widow dabbed her eyes. “You were saying—” Elena prompted.
“Surely, you don’t think I lied about being at the center?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why do you want to know what I was doing?”
Elena sighed. “I’ve discovered by going back through the files that at least four older men have been killed in their homes during daylight hours while their wives were at Socorro Heights.”
Mercedes Castro looked astonished. “Jose was killed by a robber.”
“Maybe, but nothing of great value was taken.”
“The things were precious to Jose,” the widow protested. Her hand was shaking, and the cup rattled against the saucer as she put it down. “They took the watch the school system gave him. The ring that had been in his family for many years. The Empress Carlotta gave that ring to an ancestor of Jose’s, and his father brought it with him from Mexico when they emigrated. He was very proud of it.”
Elena didn’t know many Mexican-Americans who wanted to claim the patronage of the French colonialist government. “Did you ever talk about the ring at the center?”
“I—I’m not sure,” Mrs. Castro stammered. Her fingers went to her cheek, touching the scar. Then she dropped her hand quickly. “You think someone at the center—because of something I said, someone—” Tears gathered in the woman’s eyes.
“We don’t know, but with four deaths, possibly five, we’re trying to make connections, so if you could tell me who you were with and what you were doing that afternoon—”
Mercedes inspected her bright, shapely fingernails. Elena looked at the nails too, wondering if they were plastic, the kind stuck on at nail shops with trendy names. A friend had told Elena it cost forty dollars to get that done, and then your real nails developed fungus infections underneath. Yuck. She finished off her first empanada.
“I was playing bridge,” said Mercedes Castro.
Two wives playing bridge when their husbands died! “Do you remember who your partners were?”
She shrugged. “Some Anglo women.”
“You didn’t know them very well?”
“I knew Portia Lemay because she was a realtor; she found this house for my son. The others, I don’t remember. I didn’t play much bridge.”
“How did you happen to be playing that day?”
“I think—” She paused. “One of them had an appointment, and so—maybe, Portia suggested I sit in, and I agreed because she was a nice woman, and she got my son such a good price on this house.” Mercedes nodded. “But I felt sort of uncomfortable. Anglo strangers—and me with—” She touched the scar again. “I guess it’s silly to be embarrassed, but afterwards I was sorry that I’d agreed to play. If I’d been home, maybe Jose, my husband, wouldn’t have been killed.”
Two widows who had sat in! “You don’t remember the names of the other women?” Elena decided against mentioning the names of Dimitra’s bridge partners. If there was a connection to the bridge group, and she couldn’t imagine what it would be—Portia Lemay, Margaret Forrest, Emily Marks, and Lydia Beeman, co-conspirators with a serial killer? A bizarre idea. Still, if there was some sort of connection, she didn’t want to screw up her case by suggesting testimony to a witness. Thinking of Dimitra, she asked, “Did you ride with any of the women—there or back?”
“No. I drove Jose’s car. If I hadn’t, he might have gone out himself, and then—” Mrs. Castro blinked back more tears.
“Do you remember anyone else who was there that afternoon? T. Bob Tyler, for instance. Do you know him?”
“The ranchero?” Mercedes smiled through her tears. “That one is such a flirt. Always calling me pretty.” She flushed. “Before. When I was pretty.”
“Was he there that afternoon?”
Mercedes didn’t remember.
“I have another question, and I hope you’ll answer me truthfully. Mrs. Castro, before the death of your husband”—Elena heard the front door open and hurried on—”were you a battered woman?”
“What?” Mrs. Castro looked confused, even frightened.
“Did your husband ever abuse you, hurt you?”
“What kind of a question is that to ask my mother?”
A slender man, late thirties or early forties, stood in the doorway. He looked tired and grumpy; his chinos and sport shirt were wrinkled. Shift-worker, Elena guessed. “We’re investigating the death of Mrs. Castro’s husband,” she said to the newcomer.
“My father was the victim,” said the man angrily.
“My son, Jose, Jr.,” said Mrs. Castro, her fingers twisting in her lap.
“A whole year you haven’t solved my father’s murder, and now you come around upsetting my mother.”
Very defensive, thought Elena. “We’re following new leads.”
“What do new leads have to do with the question you asked my mother?”
Elena said quietly, “Other men have died under much the same circumstances as your father. There’s reason to believe that their wives might have been abused.”
“Mother wasn’t,” said the son.
Elena reached out to take Mercedes’ hand. “Is that true, ma’am?”
Mrs. Castro snatched her fingers away. “It is as my son said.”
“Again, I hate to ask rude questions, but that scar on your face—how did you—”
Again Mercedes’ hand rose compulsively to the scar, the slender fingers and beautiful fingernails covering it. “Just an accident,” she said, brown cheeks flushing.
“What kind of an accident?”
“A kitchen accident,” snapped Jose.
“Please let your mother speak for herself.”
“It’s as my son says.”
“My mother was always clumsy with knives. Now, why don’t you leave? Can’t you see you’re upsetting her? She still hasn’t recovered from my father’s death.”
“That’s true,” said Mercedes. Tears slipped down her cheeks as the son stood glowering.
Elena sighed. If there were secrets here, she wasn’t going to get them from the mother or son. She’d have to try the neighborhood where Mercedes and Jose had lived before his death. “Thank you for your time,” said Elena, rising.
The son looked smug. Why? Because he’d gotten rid of Elena without giving anything away? She left, checked for the address of the old family home, which was in East Central, not that far from her own neighborhood. It would take twenty minutes to get there. She drove out of the water-soaked Upper Valley onto Doniphan and from there to the freeway, which took her around the mountain to the other side of town. As she drove, she thought about Mercedes Castro’s face and couldn’t imagine any scenario involving a housewife and a kitchen knife that would produce a scar like that.
33
Thursday, October 7, 10:25 A.M.
The Castros had lived in a square, two-story brick house with a columned veranda set high off Copper Street. A fancier neighborhood than Elena’s, but probably just as old. It had been only a year since the murder. There should be neighbors who remembered things about the family.
Elena tried the house next door but found no one at home. On the far side, a short, slender woman in her middle forties answered the door. She was wearing a navy blue suit and matching pumps.
“Yes?” she said impatiently.
Elena identified herself and explained that she was investigating the murder of Jose Castro.
“Him.” The woman made the word into a curse.
An interesting reaction. This lady didn’t seem to think the death any great loss. “I’d like to talk to you about the family for a few minutes, ma’am.”
“I wasn’t even at home when he was killed.”
“I wanted to ask about his wife.”
“Well, if you think Mercedes killed him, you’re wrong. If he’d killed her, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but she’d never have killed Joe.”
Elena’s attention sharpened. “Maybe you could tell me about that.”
“Oh, all right, come in. I’m Harriet Upchurch.” They walked across a polished wood floor highlighted with a figured runner whose primary color was dark red, then through double doors into a living room furnished with Duncan Phyfe pieces. Elena recognized the style, because she’d been required to take a fine arts course in college. Since she registered late that semester, Rock Music, 1954–1974, was full. Art appreciation courses were closed except for—yuck!—Interior Decoration Through the Ages. Elena had learned more about furniture she didn’t like than any sensible person should be expected to know. Mrs. Upchurch’s living room did have handsome French doors that led out onto a side patio sheltered by ivy-covered trellises.
“That’s lovely,” said Elena, admiring the setting and the white outdoor furniture with ivy-printed cushions.
“Yes,” Harriet Upchurch agreed, “but I’ve had to replace the furniture several times, and those doors are another target for thieves. They’ve been broken open twice in the last four years, but I don’t suppose you deal with burglaries. Your card said ‘Crimes Against Persons.’ Not that I don’t feel pretty personal about having my house burglarized. What was it you wanted to know?”
“You said Mr. Castro might have killed his wife. What did you mean?”
“Men like that—they hurt their wives for a while, years even; then they kill them.”
“And you think Mercedes Castro was a battered woman?”
“I know she was. Good lord, I think the man beat her up every Saturday night. He was a drinker. One night a week he’d get drunk and go after her. And she adored him. Can you imagine? I told her she ought to leave him, go stay with her son, but she wouldn’t. Probably the son thought it was O.K.—what his father was doing. Then I said she should go to a shelter. She said, ‘How would that look? For a high-school principal’s wife to go to a shelter?’ I said, ‘How does it look for a high-school principal to be beating up his wife?’ Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you saw that scar. You know how she got that? He backhanded her. He was wearing this huge, ugly ring. Some ancestral thing. It made a terrible gash in her cheek. She didn’t even go to a doctor or a hospital. He probably told her not to.”
“You know for sure it was his ring that scarred her?”
“Oh yes. After he did it, he stormed out of the house, knocked down my trash cans driving away. I went straight over and found her in the kitchen bleeding into the sink. She tried to tell me she’d cut herself with a knife. I should have called the police then and there, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?” asked Elena.
“He’s dead. The bastard wouldn’t even consider plastic surgery for her face. Mercedes was a real beauty and a sweet woman. Of course, I never see her anymore. Does she look as bad as ever?”
“Pretty bad,” said Elena.
“That means the son wouldn’t let her have surgery either. Anyway, about a month or six weeks after the ring incident, someone went into their house and shot him. I thought, when I heard, ‘There is a God after all.’” Mrs. Upchurch nodded her head vigorously. “Not only did He see that Mercedes was out of the house so no one could blame her for Joe’s death, but He sent some lowlife good Samaritan to kill the man. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving victim.”
Mrs. Upchurch wriggled uncomfortably on the sofa, her spine upright but not touching the sofa back. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I kept my mouth shut at the time. I knew that Mercedes would be embarrassed if anyone knew what she’d been through with him. I hope you’re not planning on making trouble for her at this late date?”
“No, ma’am.” Elena thought of the widow with that dreadful scar, evidently keeping house for her son and his wife. “Poor woman,” she murmured.
“’Poor woman’ is right. Mercedes was so proud of her looks. She didn’t have much else. Her rotten husband was always telling her what a dummy she was, and she believed it. Then he destroyed her face and had the nerve to go around the neighborhood telling people it served her right for being so clumsy, and he wasn’t springing for plastic surgery. I’d say he got just what he deserved.”
“Sounds like it,” said Elena.
“Well, a sensible policeman! I suppose it’s because you’re a woman. If I’d told any of this to those detectives who came around last year, they’d have dragged poor Mercedes off to jail, even though she had an alibi.”
“Was there ever any talk of Mercedes having an—admirer?” Elena was thinking of T. Bob Tyler.
“You can’t be serious. Joe would have killed her.”
“Is there anyone else on the block who knew what was going on with the Castros?”
“Hmm. Maybe not anyone who’d talk about it. You just caught me in a moment of indignation or I’d have kept my mouth shut. It won’t help her to tell the police now. He’s dead.”
“We might catch his murderer.”
“Who cares?” Then Mrs. Upchurch reconsidered. “Oh well, you might try Arthur Fallon, across the street and two houses down. The place with the green shutters. I always thought Arthur was sweet on Mercedes, at least since Clara died. Not that he did anything about it,” she added hastily. “And don’t get the idea that Arthur killed Joe. Arthur left town right after Joe slashed her. Probably couldn’t stand to see the wound. Went up to Connecticut to visit his son. He felt terrible
when he got back. Mercedes had already sold the house and moved out. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to her.”
“Oh, good lord.” Harriet Upchurch looked at her watch and said, “I’m going to be late for my lunch date.” Elena and Mrs. Upchurch left the house at the same time, Mrs. Upchurch dashing to her car on spindly legs. Elena took a leisurely walk down the street to the house of Arthur Fallon, where she showed her badge and explained her errand.
“What do you want me to say?” murmured Arthur Fallon, ushering her into a living room that had probably once been very handsome but was now covered with newspapers, magazines, and TV Guides. He had a soap opera playing but flipped it off as if he were embarrassed to be caught watching. “I wasn’t here when Castro died.”
“I want to ask you about the relationship between the victim and his wife. Your neighbor, Mrs. Upchurch, said you knew them.”
The tall, stoop-shouldered man with thin, graying hair narrowed his eyes anxiously. “Mercedes was at Socorro Heights when it happened. That’s what everyone told me when I got back.”
“I know,” said Elena.
“So why do you want to know about them?”
“I’m trying to find out how she got that scar.”
Arthur Fallon winced. “What did Harriet tell you?”
“That Castro cut her with his ring.”
Fallon nodded. “That’s what everyone in the neighborhood believed. I didn’t see it happen, and she didn’t tell me, but I—I’ll swear I saw dried blood on that ring the next day at church. He made her go to church. Looking like that. She had the edges of the cut taped together with Band-Aids, and he was talking about how clumsy she was, cutting herself on the cheek.”
“You saw blood on the ring?”
“He was waving his hands around, and that ring had—it looked like rust in the carving around the stone. But the setting was silver; silver doesn’t rust. The stone was red too, maybe a ruby. He said it was. If so, it was poor quality. A muddy color.”