Elena agreed, her mind wandering off to the interviews she hoped to conduct that morning. Forty-five minutes later she was in Kern Place, an older neighborhood near the university, large trees, delicious houses whose interior walls curved up into their ceilings, with graceful arches and French doors leading from room to room. The Stoltzes had owned a house on a quiet back street, occupied now mostly by young families with children. Elena had trouble finding people who had known the Stoltzes. Her first success was an old man who had been a friend of Herbert’s.
“Why shouldn’t he get off?” said Mr. Evans, who was short, stout, bald, and wearing eyeglasses as thick as the bottom of a highball tumbler. “He supported the woman for forty or fifty years; then she up and decides to leave him. Marriage is about loyalty. I’d say she got what she
deserved. That jury shouldn’t have found him guilty at all. The suspended sentence was an insult to a man who served his country honorably in two wars.”
“Do you know whether he abused her?” asked Elena.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did her physical injury.”
“Of course he didn’t! He was an officer and a gentleman. His kind doesn’t go around hitting women. I don’t know what the police are thinking of. Hiring women officers. A male wouldn’t be asking me these stupid questions. Good day to you, young woman.” The elderly gentleman slammed the door in Elena’s face.
She found one other person on the street willing to talk about the Stoltzes and knowledgeable enough to do so, Mrs. Viola Ramsey, an older lady digging up bulbs and geranium plants in her front yard. “I let the geraniums rest in the garage over the winter months,” she said, “and replant them the next year. Do you like spring flowers? Daffodils? Tulips? Iris?”
“I certainly do,” said Elena.
“So do I,” said Mrs. Ramsey. “When I see the first daffodils, I feel as if life is starting anew. I’ve been digging up bulbs and separating them. Here. You must take some home with you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I can’t. It would be considered—I don’t know—unethical, I guess, for a law officer to accept—”
“My dear, it’s not as if I’m offering you a bribe. I’m just giving you bulbs I’d have thrown away. These irises are the most beautiful red-brown shade, and I have yellow ones too. Some beautiful tulips. Daffodils.”
Elena looked longingly at the basket.
“Is your car unlocked?” asked the lady.
“In Los Santos? Of course not.”
“Well, give me the keys. You go sit on my front porch in the glider and turn your head. Look at those sweet children playing next door, and I’ll just slip these into your trunk. You’ll be the victim of reverse thievery.”
Mrs. Ramsey deftly snatched the car keys from Elena’s hand and pattered off with her woven basket of bulbs to that rotten Ford Escort, whose fuel pump had turned off, leaving Elena stranded on Murchison. Unable to resist the temptation, imagining the scene Lieutenant Beltran would make if he knew she had accepted gifts from a witness, Elena sat down on the glider and watched two little girls playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of the old Stoltz house.
It was nice to know that little girls still played hopscotch. Elena used to play in front of Grandma Waite’s but never in Chimayo because there were no sidewalks on which to chalk the squares. She supposed she should arrest those children for defacing a public sidewalk. Hopscotch graffiti. By the time that bizarre thought had occurred to her, Mrs. Ramsey had plopped herself down beside Elena on the glider, setting it into gentle motion. It had a soft squeak, not abrasive, rather soothing in fact.
“Now what was it you wanted to ask me, Detective? Goodness, I’ve never been interviewed by a policeman—police person. Is that the thing to say? I do try to be politically correct, but it’s hard at my age.”
“I wanted to ask you about the relationship between Herbert and Frances Stoltz.”
“Well, dear me. That was a tragedy all around, wasn’t it? Frances was the loveliest woman. And he killed her. I couldn’t believe it. And then someone killed him. Almost as if God stepped in when the courts wouldn’t.”
A familiar theme in this case, thought Elena. “Before he killed her, did he abuse her?”
“You mean did he beat her up?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s pretty much what I mean.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say so. Of course, she broke some bones, but then that’s old age for you. Our bones get brittle. I think I’d have noticed anything else because I saw her most every day. She did spend a lot of time at the center, which Herbert didn’t like at all.”
“Why not?”
“He thought she should be home working in the house and yard. He fired their maid when he retired. Herbert was an Army officer. He had a good pension, so he had no call to fire the maid. It’s not as if maids are all that expensive around here, and with Frances getting older, it was downright unkind.
“The thing is, Herbert must have been forty-some odd years in the Army if you count his cadetship at West Point. By the time he retired, he was used to running things. Commanding, you know? So he commanded Frances. Poor woman. Herbert trailed her every step, telling her what to do and how to do it. That’s probably why he fired the maid. He didn’t speak Spanish well enough to boss her around.
“So there was Frances, who’d been running her own house all those years, often as not without him because he was fighting in some war or on maneuvers. Then Herbert retired and took over. Not in the sense that he helped. He would have thought that beneath him.
“Even in the yard. Frances was so proud of her yard. She may have wanted a maid for indoors, but she did all the outside work herself. And Herbert trailed right after her, telling her how to do it. Deciding she should dig up something in one place and plant it somewhere else. Even telling her how to water. I can remember him standing behind her, saying, ‘Stop putting that water in the ground, Frances. Get some on the leaves there. They look thirsty.’ Insisting that she stand around holding the hose, watering every plant and tree separately. Well, that’s not the way to do it, not here in Los Santos. Because of Herbert, she lost a lot of shrubbery. You just don’t put water on the leaves, but then you probably know that. You seem to be interested in gardening.”
Elena nodded. The man had evidently abused Frances Stoltz physically (the A.D.A. hadn’t thought those breaks were the result of osteoporosis) and psychologically. And it seemed that Frances Stoltz put up with it, at least for a time. “Was that why she wanted to leave him?”
“I think it was the yard that did it. She had a beautiful rose garden out back, and it developed the worst case of black spot you ever saw. She lost six bushes that last summer. And all because Herbert had her out there in the evening watering the leaves. No matter how often she told him, he insisted that was the way to do it. Losing those rose bushes was the final straw for Frances. She told him she was leaving.”
“And that’s why he killed her?”
“I imagine so. Frances was a quiet woman, not given to arguing. But they had a couple of humdingers once she announced that she was leaving. Herbert had a fit! He simply told her he wouldn’t allow it, and Frances went right on packing her things. She was going to live with her daughter in Ohio. And she would have if he hadn’t shot her.
“My goodness, I cried. I can’t tell you how many tears I shed over Frances. If I’d known what he was going to do, I’d have gone right over there and taken her home with me, called the police. Maybe I should have guessed. The man had a house full of guns. Military, you know. They’re all in love with guns.
“And then he hired some smart lawyer who got him off. Must have cost him a fortune. That’s another thing. Herbert was so stingy. Frances had to have a radical mastectomy ten years ago. She must have been about sixty-five then. The cancer didn’t come back, but she wanted reconstructive surgery.
They were still rocking gently in the glider, but tears slipped down Mrs. Ramsey’s wrinkled cheeks. “Dear Frances. I still miss her. I visit her grave every year, and do you know, someone puts flowers on it, on both his and hers. I can understand on hers, but why his? He doesn’t deserve flowers. It’s not as if the children are in town.
“You know what I did? I hope you won’t arrest me for this. I took those flowers off his grave and threw them away. I didn’t even transfer them to Frances’ stone. I didn’t think she’d want his flowers, not after he killed her.”
Elena stared across the street at a house where a young man was scraping paint off his windowsills. The whole story was pretty depressing. “Do you know if Herbert Stoltz had any enemies?”
“No, not really,” said Mrs. Ramsey. “He didn’t see that many people, and at our age, even your enemies begin to die off. I’m sure it was a burglar, caught robbing the house. Must have killed Herbert and run out the back way. That’s why I didn’t see anything. I did hear the shot. I was having a nap, and I heard that gunshot. Knew just what it was. When I was a girl, out on the farm, we used to hunt or just shoot guns for the fun of it, my brothers and I, so I recognized the sound.”
“But you didn’t see anyone.”
“No, there wasn’t a thing you wouldn’t ordinarily see in this neighborhood. A few children playing. Ann Malone pedaling her bicycle up the street. She rode every day up to the week she died. Imagine having the nerve to shoot someone in the middle of the day with people around the neighborhood. It’s become a violent world since I was a girl.”
A bicycle? There had been one behind the Potemkins’. “You’re sure the bicycle rider was your neighbor?” Mrs. Ramsey nodded. “Did she have any reason to dislike Herbert Stoltz?” Mrs. Ramsey thought Ann Malone had considered him husband material, even considering that he’d killed Frances. “Did Mrs. Malone belong to the Socorro Heights Center?” No she hadn’t. Elena gave up on Ann Malone.
“Did you know any of Francis Stoltz’s friends at the center?” she asked.
“Can’t say as I did. I guess our lives were sort of compartmentalized. I knew her from chatting when we were working in our yards. Saw her at the grocery store. You know the one down on North Mesa and Kerbey? Occasionally, we’d have a block party but not very often. Frances had two sets of friends, same as I do. The neighbors and the outside friends. Hers were at the center. Mine are at the church. I go to St. Clement’s. Work a couple of days a week at the Bargain Box. You know the Bargain Box? You can get the most wonderful clothes there for practically nothing. If you have children, it’s a great saving. I’ll swear, some of the things have never been worn.”
“I don’t have any children,” said Elena. “I’m divorced.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. So many young people are. I think it’s sad.”
“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Ramsey.” Elena rose from the glider.
Mrs. Ramsey rose with her, picking up her trowel. “Back to the geraniums,” she said cheerfully. “Now, you plant those bulbs in November, and next year you’ll have wonderful spring flowers.”
“It’s really kind of you.”
“Not at all. It does my heart good to see young people taking an interest in growing things, when you’re all so busy. Jobs and homes and children. I don’t know how you do it.” Mrs. Ramsey preceded Elena down the steps toward the geranium bed. Elena climbed into the Escort, hoping it wouldn’t quit on her before she got back to headquarters and switched to her own truck, carrying all those bulbs. Red-brown iris. They were going to be a real joy next spring.
Frances and Herbert Stoltz—he drove her crazy for years and then shot her when she wanted to leave. A wonderful woman, according to Mrs. Ramsey. Probably well-loved by her friends at the center. But would they murder for her? It was hard to believe. They didn’t seem like crazies, those women she’d interviewed between hands of a bridge game. Had T. Bob been a friend of Frances Stoltz?
40
Saturday, October 9, 7:30 P.M.
“I planned something a little more upscale in the way of dinner,” said Colin Stuart as he popped a blob of sticky rice covered with raw fish into his mouth. “However, this sushi is excellent. Won’t you try one?”
“No thanks,” said Elena, having read in the newspaper that sushi caused horrible diseases. Of course, she’d once read that broccoli could kill you, so it was hard to know what to believe. Still, the idea of raw fish didn’t appeal to her. She didn’t eat ceviche in Mexico, although the lime juice was supposed to “cook” it, and she had turned down the opportunity to try beef tartare, which was raw meat with raw eggs. Sarah Tolland had tried to introduce her to beef tartare on one of their weekly dinners out. Elena had a paper plate that contained Tandoori chicken, which was quite nice and unquestionably cooked. It came with a small mound of bright yellow rice.
She and Colin were sitting on a bench in San Jacinto Plaza, waiting for the tap dancers to appear, and sampling the wide array of ethnic cuisines. On the other side of Colin, Elena’s mother and Lance Potemkin sat discussing modern poetry and eating spicy Mongolian beef. Colin devoured the last piece of raw fish and rice, then said he’d go for more food and was taking orders. Elena asked for nachos from the G & R booth. Her mother said she’d try the Tandoori chicken this time, plus any vegetarian dish they offered at the Delhi Palace booth.
Lance wanted sushi, having sampled Colin’s. “Beer all around?” asked Colin and off he went.
Lance turned to Elena and said, “I hope now that I’m off the hook in my father’s murder—I am, aren’t I—?”
Elena nodded and forked up the last piece of chicken.
“I hope that you haven’t gone back to thinking my mother killed him. The way he treated her while he was alive was bad enough without her getting blamed for his murder.”
Elena’s mouth was full of chicken so she couldn’t answer, but Harmony said, “I’m sure no one thinks your mother did it, Lance. She was at Socorro Heights.”
Elena swallowed. “Do you think she killed him?”
“Of course I don’t!” Lance exclaimed.
Elena wondered if that was why Lance had wanted to come along. So that he could argue his mother’s case with her, not to mention give his poetry a boost with Harmony.
“Here we are,” said Colin Stuart, distributing food from a shallow cardboard box.
“Oh, good,” said Elena. “You brought me some of their hot sauce. It’s the best in town.”
“Really? What makes it the best?”
“A lot of cilantro, for one thing,” said Elena, “maybe garlic, besides the usual tomatoes and jalapeños. You want a bite?” She was applying salsa to a nacho with a white plastic spoon. Once she finished, she held the nacho out to Colin. Looking somewhat surprised, he opened his mouth. The salsa dribbled onto his chin and from there onto the lapel of his sport coat.
“Elena, look what you’ve done,” cried Harmony. She poured beer onto a paper napkin and rubbed the stain off the lapel, leaving the dignified Colin smelling like a brewery.
“The sauce is excellent,” he said politely. Having ordered a tortilla and a small helping of fajitas from Wings, the restaurant a
t the Ysleta Pueblo, he offered Elena a bite, and she accepted. She’d only eaten once at Wings, when she and Leo were on an agg assault out east. She had thought the fajitas were great.
“I wonder when the tap dancers will arrive,” said Colin.
Elena peered into the street. “I don’t hear any tapping. Maybe they had trouble at the library. It gets kind of sleazy over there after dark.”
“At a library?” Colin looked surprised.
“Prostitutes of both sexes hang around there, particularly the transvestites from Mexico.”
Harmony quirked her eyebrows. “Elena, I really don’t think that’s a proper—”
“Good grief, Mom, I’m sure Colin’s heard of prostitutes.”
“I meant that it sounds racist to say the cross-dressers come from Mexico. The universities are into political correctness these days, you know.”
“My mother once belonged to a church group that was trying to find new occupations for prostitutes,” said Lance. “You can tell from that that she’s a good woman and would never—”
“I’m really sure, Lance, that nobody thinks Dimitra a murderer.” Harmony patted his arm. “I told Elena the first time I met Dimitra that your mother didn’t have the right aura for murder.”
“You see auras?” asked Lance.
“How do they look?” asked Colin. Immediately he, Lance, and Harmony became involved in an aura discussion while Elena finished off her nachos and filched fajita meat off Colin’s plate, along with a tasty fried green onion. She’d like to have taken his tortilla and added onions, salsa, beans, and guacamole. Earlier Colin had been taking separate samplings of each item with a plastic fork. He should have been mixing everything into the tortilla and rolling it. Maybe he was worried about getting more food on his sport coat. Suddenly Elena heard a sound that cut through the crowd noise on the plaza.
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