Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  Time to leave, Devon told himself. As he downed the last of his beer, Juanito began another song. It was the corrido about the dead suitor. Alfonso was smiling, wagging his head as he rocked on his heels. Devon pushed away from the bar and headed for the door, brushing past Cayetano and the bearded man. He would have liked to hear the song again, but once he was on his way, he knew he needed to follow through. In addition, he thought it was a good bet that he would get to hear the song again before long.

  Down the unlit streets he walked in the moonlight, knowing his way almost as well as Juanito on his rounds. When Devon came to the house with the solid door and no windows, he mounted the step and listened. He heard soft voices within. As his heartbeat picked up, he rapped on the door frame. The voices quieted, and he heard footsteps. Then the door opened, and the wide-faced woman appeared with the light falling out around her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It is I. You remember me. I’ve been here two other times.”

  Her reddish hair showed as she moved her head to let the light fall on him. “Oh, yes. Come in.”

  She stepped aside and let him into the parlor. Perhaps because he had heard voices, he thought he detected the warmth and scent of women in the air as he stood in their recent presence. He heard the woman click the latch on the door.

  “Do you wish to see the girls?” she asked as she passed behind him.

  “I do not need to see more than one, if she is available.”

  “Let me see.” The madam stepped across the room, her high heels sounding on the floor as her hips shifted back and forth. She paused at the curtained doorway and spoke Ramona’s name. After that she rattled a sentence in which Devon heard himself identified as the blond American. The buxom woman passed through the curtain, and Ramona came out.

  She was wearing a seductive black dress, low-cut at the top and close-fitting at the waist. Her loose dark hair spilled down around her shoulders, and her dark eyes sparkled. From her forehead to her chest, the bronze complexion was lovely.

  “A pleasure to see you again,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Thank you.”

  She led the way to the divan and let him sit down first; then she sat next to him with her hip touching his. “And you continue to have a good stay in Tinaja?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “They treat you well?”

  “Everyone is courteous. It would be impossible to complain.”

  She laid the back of her hand against his thigh. “And I hope we have treated you well here.”

  “Excellent.” He let his gaze travel across the smooth bronze texture of her skin from the indentation of her throat to the top of her bosom. Then he lifted his eyes to meet hers, soft and dark. Afield of energy hung in the air. “You are very nice,” he said, “and if ever I had an ailment, you have been the bestmedicine.”

  “You speak well. Where did you learn Spanish?”

  “In school, and then at work. I practice with the other workers.”

  “Oh, yes? What kind of work?”

  “As a gardener, planting trees, then in a restaurant, and later in a warehouse.”

  “It serves you well in your travel, doesn’t it?”

  “I would like to travel more. As I said last time, I have not been to Mexico, but I would like to go.”

  “You will enjoy it.” She touched his leg again. “And what of your visit tonight, to little Mexico?”

  He felt his pulse jump, and he smiled. “Like before? The same thing? Does that suit you?”

  “Oh, yes. If you like it.”

  “I would be enthralled.”

  He watched her stand up and smooth her dress, and then he followed her to the hallway, watching her shape as she walked.

  In the room he gave her a silver dollar, which she laid on the dresser top with a small clack. He sat on the edge of the bed and she stood facing him, her arms raised and her hands on her head. He reached up and around her, feeling for the buttons, and released them one by one. No need to hurry. She let the dress fall to the floor, and then he held her hand as she stepped out of it, picked it up, and set it on the chair. Now he reached for the hooks and undid her corset, slipping it downward and bringing more of her beautiful bronze skin into view. Lastly he slipped off her underpants, caressing her buttocks as he pressed the side of his face against her abdomen. She put her arms around him and brought him closer, and he lost himself in the smell of her bath powder and the texture of her skin as her long dark hair fell on his cheek.

  Later, as he lay under the covers with her, he dared to broach a subject. “I don’t suppose you are allowed to know any of your visitors outside of this place.”

  “No, not here.”

  “It is all business.”

  “Here, yes.”

  “In Tinaja.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I ever saw you somewhere else?”

  “For example?”

  “If I ever went to the Republic.”

  “Oh, I don’t know how you would find me.”

  “You don’t have an address there?”

  “No, not now.”

  He sensed that if he went any further he would cross a line into an area outside the bounds of the present arrangement. “It is difficult, then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, even if it is just business, it is very enchanting.”

  “Thank you. You are very nice. And gentle.” She sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for her clothes.

  He did the same on his side. After a few minutes she came around to let him button her up. She stood with her back to him, and he passed his hands over her hips before reaching for the buttons on her dress.

  “Is this your last visit, then? Are you leaving?”

  “I hope not. I haven’t planned when I’m going to leave, but I think I’ll manage to come here once again, if only to say good-bye.”

  She turned around and straightened her dress. “That would be fine.”

  He stood up and finished buttoning his shirt. “When I come back I can give you my address, already written on a piece of paper. Then if you ever wanted, if you were in another place, you could write me.”

  She put her hand on his cheek. “You don’t know me.”

  He smiled. “That’s true. But I’ll come by here, one way or the other, before I leave town. Is that all right?”

  “I will always be happy to see you.”

  “Perfect.” He reached into his pocket and took out another silver dollar. “This is for you, not to share with the señora. If you want to buy something nice for yourself and remember me for it, that’s fine, and if you want to put it in your savings to start your business, that’s up to you.”

  “Thank you.” She crossed the room, opened a dresser drawer, and deposited the coin without a sound.

  At that distance, he could see her as a woman who had accommodated other men, and he had a fleeting thought, once again wondering whether the late Ricardo Vega had ever known pleasures such as these. When she turned, he sensed that their intimacy was ended for this time.

  He sat on the edge of the bed again and leaned over to pull on his boots. “It’s too bad about the young man who died,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. We heard of that. Poor boy.” She stepped into her shoes.

  “My friend Carlos is troubled about it, too.”

  “Carlos has a good heart.”

  “Yes, and he is afraid some people will think he did it.”

  She leaned her head back and shook her hair, then straightened the front of her dress again. “Oh, I think what most people say is probably the truth, that it is just a matter of whether anyone wants to do anything about it.” She held out her hand to help him stand up. “Very well, señor artista. Everything fine? ”

  “Everything’s perfect. I feel brand-new.”

  Chapter Eleven

  At breakfast, Devon’s most pleasant thought was of his visit to little Mexico, as Ramona had phra
sed it. He recalled how she touched his leg when she said it, and the memory brought a smile to his face. Her preference to keep things on a business basis left a lingering bittersweet effect, but it hadn’t diminished the pleasure, and it was probably good judgment. Who wanted good judgment, though, when he was close to a presence like hers?

  His thoughts wandered to less enchanting topics, such as the predicament of Carlos. Paralyzed and helpless, he would seem pathetic if it weren’t for his congeniality and if he didn’t remind Devon of his own passivity, which he hoped he was shedding.

  Interwoven with his impressions of Carlos were some less sympathetic ones of Don Felipe. To Devon it seemed evident that the master of the rancho had either killed Ricardo or had him killed, and in addition to having no remorse, he seemed to be successful at keeping others from saying or doing anything. And there was still a puzzle there. Devon did not think Don Felipe had the power to coerce Petra to lie for him, for she clearly loathed him and showed no sign of being under his will, but it still seemed as if she hadn’t told the whole truth when she answered the sheriff’s questions.

  Regardless of whether she varied the story, however, there were still two wrongs that were not being set right. One was that someone, probably Don Fe-lipe, was not being made to answer for Ricardo’s death; the other was that Don Felipe could get away with making Carlos keep his mouth shut. The basic injustice and Carlos’s compliance grated on Devon to the point that he decided it was unacceptable to let things go along on their own. Somebody had to do something, and it was clear that it wasn’t going to be Carlos. On a more subtle level, it looked as if it wasn’t going to be Petra, even though she had knowledge of Don Felipe’s obsession and was not afraid to act.

  When he had finished his breakfast of fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs, he handed in his room key and went out to stand on the front step of the inn.

  He felt as if his body was taking the sun’s energy right in; it made him feel strong and capable.

  He looked up and down the street. Aman in drab clothes and a straw hat was watering a burro in the stone trough. The animal was carrying a load of sticks, which reminded Devon of the joke he had heard the night before. It also made him wonder how far away the man had to go to find even slender firewood such as that.

  Devon stepped onto the sidewalk and turned. Down the street in the other direction, across from the town square and in the middle of the block, sat the sheriff’s office. Devon had walked past it a few times on his way to and from the place where he visited Ramona. His footsteps led him there now, without his having formally acknowledged to himself that he was going to speak with the tall-hatted, mustachioed Bonifacio. But that was the image he had in his mind now, and he knew that was where he was going.

  He rapped twice without getting an answer, so he tried the handle and pushed the door open. As he looked around the empty office, a heavy wood door opened in the back. A slender man with his head lowered was standing a step lower in a hallway that apparently led to the jail area. With both hands he lifted on the rope handle of a wooden mop bucket, complete with mop sticking out, and swung it up onto the office floor. As he straightened up, Devon recognized him as the bearded man he had seen with Cayetano the night before.

  “How can I help you, sir?” The man stepped into the room.

  “Is the sheriff here?”

  “Not right now, but he won’t be long.”

  “A few minutes? An hour?”

  “Not long. Have a seat if you please.”

  During the exchange, the man gave no indication of having seen Devon before, although Devon was sure that as the blond American he was conspicuous enough to be remembered. He took a seat in one of the two empty oak chairs across from the sheriff’s desk as the janitor stepped back down into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  A minute later the door opened again, and the sheriff appeared. With his hand on his knee he pushed himself up into the room. Once there, he stood up straight and pulled on his waistband. He was dressed very much as he had been before, with a dark brown hat, a plain brown vest, and a gray shirt. He was not wearing his pistol or a belt, and his trousers came up to the underside of his belly.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Devon stood up, took off his hat, and made ready to shake hands. “I would like to be able to speak with you for a moment, if you please.”

  “That’s all right. Sit down.” The sheriff waved at him, crossed the room, and sat behind his desk.

  Devon sat with his hat in his hand, waiting.

  “Very well. Go ahead.”

  “Perhaps you remember me. I was present with the señorita Cantera the other day when you visited Rancho Agua Prieta.”

  “Of course. You are the painter.”

  “That’s right. Well, as you know, I have become acquainted with some of the people there, as well as here in town.”

  The sheriff pulled at the corner of his mustache. “That’s normal.”

  “Yes. And so I share their sentiments about the death of the young man Ricardo Vega.”

  “Which sentiments, precisely?”

  “That it was lamentable that he died, a very bad thing, and it would only be right if his family were able to find out the truth.”

  “You must know the family very well, for you have learned more about their sentiments than I have.”

  “I have not spoken directly with Doña Emilia about the case, but I know she feels that way, and I also know that her nephew Carlos has compatible feelings.”

  “I would not have thought of those two first, nor would I combine them into a majority opinion.”

  “Be that as it may, I share the sentiment that it would be desirable to find out the truth.”

  The sheriff cocked his head. “I hope you do not think the idea is a novelty here.”

  “No. I would just like to offer my impression.”

  “Your impression of how desirable the truth is, or of the truth itself?”

  “Well, to put it in such few words, the truth itself.”

  “Ah. Were you there?”

  “No. By no means. But my impression is this: the master of the rancho has had the habit of threatening any young man who has expressed interest in his stepdaughter. He also threatens harm if the young man should say anything. The stepfather has a dangerous obsession, which may not be obvious in the public eye.”

  “What else?”

  Devon felt as if he had more to say, that he was being made to say it too quickly, and he wasn’t sure how to back up and develop it better. “Well, I think his motivation deserves to be considered.”

  The sheriff closed his eyes and dipped his head in agreement. Then looking vaguely in Devon’s direction, he said, “I have given it consideration.”

  “With respect, I do not wish to suggest how to do things, but I believe it could be looked into more deeply.”

  The sheriff frowned. “A second trp to the rancho would give me the same answers as before. Do you think either Don Felipe or the señorita would tell me anything different?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is needed is something new. New evidence.” The sheriff folded his hands across the crown of his stomach. “You have an impression, and perhaps it is valid, but it is not enough for me to intensify my suspicion.”

  Devon took a few seconds to let the statement sink in. The sheriff didn’t want to budge. “I wish I could make it clearer,” he said.

  The sheriff shook his head, and the tall hat wagged back and forth. “No, I understand you. You speak well.”

  Devon stood up. “Thank you all the same. I appreciate that you listen to me.”

  “At your service.”

  Devon walked out into the sunlight and put on his hat. Tenminutes earlier, he had the idea that the probability of Don Felipe being the culpritwas an open secret. Now he wondered if, as Ramona had suggested, the sheriff was reluctant to pursue that suspicion or if he was simply waiting for new evidence. Devon looked at the sun. It could be a lon
g wait.

  He went back to the hotel and got his things together for another day of work at the old church. When he went downstairs to hand in the room key, he waited a few minutes for the innkeeper to bring him a packed lunch. The tall, dark-featured man returned to the reception area with the small bundle wrapped as usual in coarse brown paper.

  “So you go again to the rancho?” he asked.

  “Yes. To the old bare walls. To study.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the innkeeper, as if he had needed a prompt to memory. After a few seconds he added, “Is that not difficult?”

  “In what way?”

  “Just from what one hears. That there has been danger there.”

  “At the church?”

  “Not exactly. At the rancho.”

  “You refer to the unfortunate thing that hap pened, perhaps on that rancho but perhaps on the rancho of the young man’s family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t feel that very much danger might be directed at me. For one thing, I am not a pretendiente of the young lady.”

  “Oh, I was not speaking of that danger, although the possibility exists there as well. What I was referring to is that the young man’s family is impatient for someone to do something, and they may decide, in the old way, to take care of things themselves.”

  Devon, sensing the need to speak on a general, discreet level, said, “The person who should do something does not seem very disposed. He says he needs more proof, but I wonder if he is trying not to get on the bad side of the master.”

  “It’s difficult to say.”

  “I appreciate your mentioning it, though.”

  “A precaution.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” The innkeeper made a small bow with his head. “At your service.”

  As Devon rode out of town toward the rancho, his hat brim blocked the glare of the sun, which was higher in the sky than it had been on recent mornings when he went to the ruins. In the warm air, the dust rose quicker and hung longer. Devon touched the horse with his heel so as not to lag.

  Coming to the crest of a long, slow rise, he saw a wagon on the road about half a mile ahead. It was loaded with burlap bags of something, probably grain. He kept the horse at a good fast walk, and in a little while he came up behind the wagon, veered to the right, and passed alongside at a distance of about ten yards. Sitting straight up in the saddle, he was able to count the sacks. Twenty even—probably a month’s supply of oats for the horses in the stalls. Life with its commerce and routines went on as usual.