Widows' Watch

by Nancy Herndon

  Elena made notes. If Castro left the ring uncleaned, he must have been pretty sure his wife wasn’t going to accuse him—neither she nor anyone else in the neighborhood.

  “I never understood how he could treat her that way,” said Arthur Fallon sadly. “Such a beautiful woman. My wife told me—this was years ago, before Clara died—that he’d come home from school and shout at Mercedes, accuse her of having affairs. The man was crazy. Mercedes was a virtuous woman. A good Catholic. She deserved better.”

  “Do you yourself know of any abuse, Mr. Fallon? Not gossip but—”

  “Bruises. She always wore long sleeves, but we were having a block party one night, and Mercedes was lifting a pot of beans. Her sleeves slid back, and I saw the bruises. And she knew I’d seen. She turned red and left the party early. The poor woman was ashamed. And for something that wasn’t her fault.”

  “Anything else?” Elena asked. She hated to quiz him, to remind him about the unhappiness of a woman he’d obviously cared for.

  “Black eyes. She claimed she couldn’t get used to her bifocals and ran into things, but the truth was she never wore them except for reading and driving, and no one saw her run into anything. There was a broken arm once. Harriet said that Mercedes claimed the dog had tripped her. I hope she’s doing well at her son’s. Have you seen her?”

  “Yes,” said Elena. “She fed me some wonderful empanadas, but she said her husband never abused her.”

  Arthur Fallon sighed. “She would say that. Even now she’s defending him.”

  “Why don’t you visit her, Mr. Fallon? I’m sure she’d appreciate a call. She’s home by herself out there in the Upper Valley with everyone at work or school. She must be lonely. Away from her old neighborhood and friends.”

  “Do you think I should?” He looked eager and hopeful.

  “I really do,” said Elena, hoping that her suggestion would generate happiness, not trouble.

  34

  Thursday, October 7, 12:05 P.M.

  Elena headed for her cubicle with the intention of typing in reports on the interviews with Mercedes Castro, Harriet Up-church, and Arthur Fallon before she went out to lunch. She had discovered things, significant things. She just wasn’t sure yet what they meant. A few feet from her desk, she stopped short. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

  Harmony swung Elena’s chair around from the lighted computer screen. “Amusing myself until you got back. I thought maybe you’d like to go out for lunch. I’m buying.”

  “Wonderful,” said Elena, “but you shouldn’t be using the police computer.”

  Harmony laughed, tossing her hair back over the shoulder of her deep rose blouse. “Well, you don’t have a typewriter or a computer at home. No wonder you don’t write very often.”

  “Frank took the typewriter with him.”

  Harmony frowned. “Something needs to be done about him.”

  “That’s why I got the restraining order.”

  “Anyway, I was typing in some recipes for you.” Harmony handed Elena a small pile of printouts.

  “When did you learn to use a computer?”

  “Just now. It doesn’t seem too difficult.”

  Elena groaned. Everything about computers seemed difficult to her, but her mother had evidently mastered the art in fifteen minutes.

  “By the way, I’ve sent for an herb garden. It will fit in your kitchen window and provide you with all the medicinal and culinary herbs you need.”

  “Come on, Mom! I don’t have—”

  “And it won’t take any time. Just water it while you’re fixing your own dinner, then clip the herbs and follow these recipes. They’re mostly herb teas—for insomnia, headaches—”

  “O.K., O.K.” Elena accepted another handful of printouts, folded them and stuffed them into her large handbag. “Where do you want to go to lunch?”

  “I have one more to type.”

  Because she had reports of her own, Elena agreed and used Leo’s computer while her mother labored across the aisle. Then, since Harmony was still staring at the screen, Elena went through her messages. Ah! Chantal Brolie had returned her call. She dialed the number and reached a lady with a delightful accent. The widow had taught high-school French, a language Chimayo schools hadn’t even offered. “What time would be convenient for you?” Elena asked after identifying herself and her reason for calling.

  “Two-thirty,” said Mrs. Brolie pleasantly. “This is a secure enclave, so I’ll tell the guard to expect you.” Elena hung up and turned back to her mother.

  “Done,” said Harmony and zipped the recipe from the printer. “Sergeant Escobedo was telling me about a place where they have salpicon. You know we don’t make that at home. I’d like to try it.”

  “That would be on the Westside near the university or way up northeast off the interstate on the access road. Either one’s a long way.”

  “Now Elena, I’m sure Manny won’t mind if you take an extra few minutes.”

  Elena threw up her hands and said, “Which did he recommend, Julio’s or Casa Jurado?”

  “Both,” said Harmony, “so you can pick whichever one’s closer since you’re in a hurry.”

  “O.K., we’ll take Brown over the mountain to the Westside. The interstate’s bound to be pretty crowded. And I’ll drive,” she added. Before her mother could object, Elena had to take another call.

  “Detective Jarvis?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Michael Futrell. We met at the bicycle race.”

  “Oh sure.” The good-looking criminology professor.

  “I’m sorry to call you at work, but your home phone isn’t listed.”

  “Most cops’ aren’t.”

  “Of course. Look, I wondered if you’d like to go out Saturday night.”

  “On a date you mean?” she asked, surprised. She’d decided he wanted to interview her, not date her.

  “Well, yes. On a date. Is that against the rules?”

  “No, but—well, Saturday?” Shoot! She was tied up with Colin Stuart, Sarah’s ex-beau. “I’m afraid I already have plans.”

  “O.K.” There was a pause. “Well, goodbye.” He disconnected before she could say that she’d like to have gone out with him. Now he’d probably never call again. Elena hung up and went to the car with her mother.

  “Who was that?” asked Harmony. “It sounded as if you were turning down a date.”

  “It was Michael Futrell, the—”

  “—criminology professor. He seemed like a nice young man. Why would you—”

  “Because I’m going out with you and Lance and Colin Stuart, Sarah’s hand-me-down.”

  “Well, you could have asked for a rain check. I hope your experience with Frank hasn’t soured you on marriage, Elena. No matter how Grandmother Portillo feels about divorce—”

  “Mom!”

  “I won’t say another word,” Harmony promised. “Let’s see. What shall we talk about that won’t set you off. Ah! Today I suggested to my weaving class that we have a sixties fashion show. I thought it was a wonderful idea, but it seems that they aren’t interested in the sixties.”

  “They probably remember those years with horror.”

  “Oh, surely not. Anyway, they voted for a regular fashion show. And then that Lydia Beeman—do you know what she said? She said she didn’t object to a fashion show because, in her opinion, older women should pay attention to their appearance as well as their health, but she refused to wear heels. She said high heels are the American equivalent of Chinese foot-binding, and whatever outfit she wore in the show, she’d wear sensible walking shoes with it. Isn’t that something?”

  “Well, Mom, you’re always wearing sandals—or boots. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

  “Sandals can be dressy. So can boots,” said Harmony loftily. “Lace-up
walking shoes don’t go with anything but slacks, and not even dressy slacks.”

  Elena grinned and accelerated from the Murchison light.

  Harmony exclaimed over the houses in Kern Place on the other side of the mountain. At Casa Jurado on Cincinnati she said, “Just order me the salpicon,” and went off to examine the paintings for sale, not to mention the neon cactus at the cash register and the thick stained-glass windows inset in the front wall.

  “Delightful,” she said to the owner and introduced herself.

  Elena had to lure her back to the table for lunch.

  “I think Leo’s idea is absolutely charming, don’t you?” said Harmony once they were seated.

  “What idea?”

  “He hasn’t told you? You didn’t notice the article in the paper this morning?”

  “I didn’t see the paper. You had it.”

  “Well, I’d have shared. Leo is organizing a Tap Night for Los Santos. It’s something your friend Sarah Tolland told him about. The idea is that all the Los Santos tap dancers will gather at the Main Library downtown and tap their way to San Jacinto Plaza.”

  “Wonderful,” said Elena.

  “Isn’t it? I happen to know quite a bit about the plans because Leo’s wife called him, and I took the call.”

  “Mom, you’re not supposed to answer Leo’s phone.”

  “Well, I did. Unfortunately, Concepcion’s very upset. The article listed his home telephone number, and seventy people have called there to sign up.”

  “Oh lord,” said Elena. “Does she still have the flu?”

  “She does, poor thing. Imagine taking all those calls when you’re feeling terrible, aching in every joint, throwing up. I’m going to take her a nice herbal tea as soon as I get back to the house.”

  “You do that, Mom.” Here she was pursuing a serial killer, getting all sorts of crazy information that had to mean something, and Leo was organizing Los Santos’ first Tap Night. Wait till she got her hands on him.

  “It’s to be Saturday,” said Harmony. “Naturally, we’ll want to go.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight in the evening.”

  “He wants to go tap dancing downtown after dark? When the library closes, that area’s a hangout for prostitutes.”

  “Well, Leo’s a policeman. I’m sure he can take care of it. We’ll have to call Colin and Lance. We’ll need to eat dinner before or after the event.”

  “Ummm.” Elena wondered how Colin Stuart would feel about attending Tap Night.

  “Concepcion said Leo left this morning talking about television coverage.”

  “He might just get it. They’ll put anything on the weekend news programs.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it sound exciting?”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Elena dryly, trying to picture gangly Leo and seventy other Los Santoans tapping their way from the Main Library to San Jacinto Plaza, possibly trailed by flamboyant transvestite prostitutes. Too bad the city no longer had alligators in the plaza pool. With all that tapping, the creatures would probably leap out of the pond and attack the dancers, getting Leo and Tap Night on the national news as well.

  35

  Thursday, October 7, 2:30 P.M.

  Mrs. Brolie lived in Casitas Coronado, well up the mountain on the Westside. When Elena entered the apartment, it looked expensive. The living room ceiling soared two stories, with track lights and lovely pictures hung at odd but pleasing intervals up and down the high north wall, and they sat on an immense white sofa that curved around a large marble coffee table. Chantal Brolie was not beautiful, not young, but she was beautifully dressed.

  “Lovely place,” said Elena.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Brolie looked around with pleasure. “My husband, being an insurance salesman, was heavily insured. When someone killed him, I got it all.”

  Elena considered the notion that Hank Brolie had been killed for his insurance. “I’m looking into your husband’s death and several others, Mrs. Brolie. I found in the reports that you were at the Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center when it happened.”

  “Yes, I taught a French class there once a week. I was a French war bride many years ago, you see.”

  “So when Mr. Brolie died, you were teaching a class?”

  “No, playing bridge.”

  Bingo! “Did you do that regularly?”

  “As seldom as possible,” said Mrs. Brolie dryly. “I was sitting in for someone that afternoon.”

  Widow number three—sitting in. “Who?”

  She looked thoughtful. “Some friend of Margaret Forrest’s. Margaret was our accountant for ten years or so before she retired. Hank’s taxes were fairly complicated because he had a lot of business deductions.”

  “And Mrs. Forrest asked you to play?”

  “Whether she asked me or I offered, I couldn’t say.”

  “And the other members of the foursome?”

  “There was a funny little woman named Emily. I’m afraid I don’t remember her last name. But she was a terrible player, worse than me, and my husband always said I was hopeless.”

  Emily Marks, thought Elena. “And the fourth woman?”

  “I remember her very well. Portia Lemay. After Hank was killed and the insurance companies paid off, Portia found me this condo.” Chantal glanced at her home contentedly. “The previous owner had died, and the family wanted to get the will through probate in a hurry, so she got me a very good price. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks. I’m on duty.”

  Mrs. Brolie picked up a crystal decanter and poured white wine for herself. “I’ve always been very grateful to Portia for finding me this place. And she helped me sell the old house, which I didn’t want to stay in.”

  “Why was that?” asked Elena.

  “Bad memories,” said Chantal Brolie.

  “Of spousal abuse? The computer turned up several domestic-violence calls involving you and your husband.”

  “But none the year before he died,” said Mrs. Brolie bitterly. “After the police came the third time, Hank found a new source of amusement that didn’t make any noise to alert the neighbors or leave any bruises to alert my friends.”

  “You were a battered woman?”

  “Yes. Whoever killed Hank did me a favor.”

  “What happened that last year before he died?”

  Mrs. Brolie stared bleakly through the sheer draperies beyond which the rugged, looming presence of the mountain was like a mist-shrouded dream. “We played Russian roulette. He’d put a bullet in the gun. He’d spin the chamber. Then he’d put the gun against my head and pull the trigger.”

  Elena shivered.

  “Or he’d hold my hair and point the gun at my eye. He told me people shot through the eye had been known to live, but they wished they hadn’t.” She was trembling and had to set her goblet down on the green-veined marble table. “That happened about once a month. I don’t know why I’m not dead.” She picked up the wine again. “There must have been some higher power looking out for me.”

  Elena nodded encouragingly.

  “Then he decided I wasn’t terrified enough, so he put two bullets in the gun, spun the chamber, and pulled the trigger twice. He said next time it would be three bullets and three shots. I went to pieces that month, waiting for him to kill me. And he was building up to it, accusing me of being unfaithful.”

  Her mouth twisted wryly. “While I was working, he thought I was having affairs with the principal and various teachers in the school. When I retired, he was sure every time I went grocery shopping I was on my way to an assignation. Of course, I never had any affairs. I’d have been afraid to. But Hank—Hank thought because I was French, I must be prowling for l’amour. That’s what he called it. And his French was execrable.”

  “What happened?” asked Elena, tha
nkful once again that she’d divorced Frank after the first attack.

  “He died,” said Chantal Brolie. “Someone shot him. Can you believe it? I couldn’t. For a month I thought he’d show up and say it had been one of his tricks, that now he was going to finish me off. It wasn’t until I moved that I finally began to believe I could live my life out in peace.” She took another sip of her wine. “Now I even go out with gentleman friends.”

  “Is T. Bob Tyler one of them?” Elena asked quickly.

  “The cowboy?” Chantal laughed. “He’s like a character in one of your Western films. But I wouldn’t date him. I prefer—oh—more sophistication. Hank is probably watching me from the grave, seething every time I accept a social engagement. But he needn’t worry. I won’t remarry. Because, you see, I thought Hank was the sweetest man I’d ever met, the kind American soldier who gave me food and silk stockings, after the war when we French were starving. And he wasn’t trying to seduce me. Hank wanted to marry me.” She shook her head. “Women are so easily fooled. Or maybe it’s that men are so cunning.”

  Elena mulled over this story. “Did you ever tell anyone what was happening to you? A friend? Maybe someone from the center?”

  “About the Russian roulette?” Her eyes became distant as she thought back to that time. “Margaret and I had lunch together about once a month, and the last time, the time he put the two cartridges in and pulled the trigger twice, I called her the next morning and told her that I couldn’t keep our luncheon date. Margaret didn’t argue, but she came over. Hank had left to play golf, and Margaret found me crying. She fixed me café au lait, she defrosted croissants—I hadn’t had any breakfast—and she got the whole story out of me.

  “Isn’t that strange? I’d forgotten. I guess she’s the only one I ever talked to. She offered to call the police or take me to a shelter, but I knew if she did, there’d be one last game of Russian roulette. I remember she said it was a wonder I’d survived, that mathematically, I should have been dead already. At three bullets and three shots, she didn’t think I had a chance. I told her I’d try to decide what to do.