At the same time, the bike race organizers were putting the finishing touches on their first-year project, and no doubt County Manager Leona Spears was in the thick of it. EMTs would follow the cyclists in chase vehicles, and in those sections where a truck or car couldn’t go, organizers had arranged for motorcycle or four-wheeler coverage. There was no way to make a bicycle race entirely safe-that was both the nature of the beast and its attraction for riders. There was a price for carelessness or inattention. But the organizers had a myriad of volunteers to watch the route during the race. If there was a section not covered foot by foot, it would be out on the flat sections of Country Road 14, out on the prairie where the biggest safety threat was an occasional wandering prairie dog or slithering rattlesnake.
And so, with phone near at hand and nana Irma Sedillos, the younger sister of Gayle Sedillos Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, on hand in case Estelle had to be called away, the undersheriff spent a rare Saturday at home.
Well aware that he would be performing in front of a small crowd of family and friends, Francisco worked his practice sessions as diligently as his effervescent personality would allow.
The afternoon was broken by a single phone call. Dr. Alan Perrone announced that preliminary toxicology tests showed that the older male victim had a residual blood alcohol level high enough to measure-in Perrone’s words, the victim would have been “comfortably sauced” when he stepped off the plane.
“Odd to travel that way,” Estelle remarked.
“Maybe he hated flying,” Perrone said. “Or a case of the nerves. Or maybe he’s an alcoholic. Or, or, or…We’ll know more after the full autopsy.”
Knowing that one victim was a drinker got them nowhere, and Estelle shoved the whole affair toward the back of her mind, letting it stew. She had left word with dispatch that she would be unavailable for any calls that evening, unless the world itself came crashing down. The phone stayed mercifully silent, and at 6:30 p.m., they drove to the school as a family, a rare treat.
The acoustics of the Little Theater were as elegant as the gymnasium that the “theater” had once been. A decade before, when the original Posadas High School gym had been declared insufficiently grand for athletic events, the district had built a new facility, leaving the old, open-girdered hulk to be divvied up between the special education and the home economics departments. Somewhere in the planning, the modest theater had been included in the old gymnasium’s renovation.
The metal folding chairs were arranged in a dozen crescent rows, each row including fifteen seats, far more than the modest recital required. A section had been reserved for the sixteen student musicians at front and center.
Estelle snuggled up as close to her husband as she could, her shoulder nestled into his. Sitting on Dr. Guzman’s right, Bill Gastner, former Posadas County sheriff and padrino to the two Guzman boys, was engrossed in quiet conversation with Leona Spears. The large woman had worn one of her most flamboyant muumuus for the occasion.
Estelle tried to relax, but a collection of butterflies danced in her stomach. From where she sat, a few seats to the left of center and five rows back, Estelle could see Francisco’s dark little head bowed in deep conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl whose piano lessons at Mrs. Gracie’s were scheduled immediately after his. Both children ignored the small audience around them. Estelle also recognized Melody Mears, Sergeant Tom Mears’ daughter. Melody was half-kneeling on her chair toward the end of the row, surveying the audience. She caught Estelle’s eye and waved, her smile brilliant. Melody’s parents, Tom and Pat Mears, sat to Estelle’s right and two rows closer to the front.
She could imagine Sheriff Bob Torrez’s growl of impatience at having two of his officers wasting time watching children play music while a multiple homicide remained unsolved.
Although she understood the purpose of having the children sit separated from their families-encouraging dependence on their own hard work, their own music to comfort their preperformance fidgets-Estelle found herself wishing that her son was sitting beside her now. On the short drive to school, Francisco had been his usual loud, excited self. But nervous? It was hard to tell. He had talked about his music, and about Melody’s-and she found it odd now that her son had chosen to sit several seats away from Miss Mears.
Normally, she would have taken an interest in the audience-scanning the faces, watching the whispered conversations as part of an occupational habit. Now, she watched her son-what she could see of the top of his head, that is-and wondered just how much the seven-year-old understood about what the various adults seated behind him expected of him. Did he know how excited they were?
Onstage, Francisco’s piano teacher, Edith Gracie, conferred with the other instructor with whom she had coordinated the evening’s recital-the high school band director. He shrugged helplessly at something the elderly woman said, and Mrs. Gracie took him by the elbow. The conversation continued at the bass end of the grand piano’s keyboard.
“Maybe they’re missing a chord,” Francis said in a conspiratorial whisper. His arms were locked around their younger son, Carlos, and the little boy’s eyes were huge and watchful.
Estelle grimaced. “When I was a senior here,” she said, “a couple of my classmates sprayed foam insulation in the piano before an assembly. That stuff you can buy in aerosol cans? That same piano, I’m sure. That’s how long it’s been around.”
Francis laughed and with Carlos’ hands in his mimed playing a piano. “Thunk, thunk, thunk. Maybe that’s what we need for this gig. Some insulation.” He nodded at the program. “At least no one is torturing a violin tonight.”
The confab onstage ended with Mrs. Gracie giving a quick, appreciative nod at something her colleague said, and then she walked to the edge of the stage, facing the audience of forty-five people. Estelle glanced at the single-sheet program as the audience hushed. Her son was listed toward the end, followed by Melody Mears and two other more advanced students.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Gracie said solemnly. Her voice was deep and rich, and she smiled affectionately at the row of student musicians for a moment before looking up at the audience. “We have a treat for you tonight, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Mr. Parsons and I are so proud of these young people. Now, some of our musicians are seasoned veterans. Jaycee Sandoval and I were discussing this very thing earlier today, and tonight marks her twentieth recital since she started playing piano when she was five years old. Can you imagine that?” She beamed at the older student sitting toward the end of the row whose name appeared last on the program.
“It would also be appropriate to announce at this time that Jaycee has earned the prestigious Marks Scholarship for musical studies at the University of New Mexico.” Mrs. Gracie waited until the applause had stopped.
“We expect grand things from all of these young musicians. Four of them have not played before an audience prior to tonight, and isn’t that wonderful?” She held out her own program toward the musicians, letting them bask in the moment. “We’ll begin tonight with Toby Escoba, a student of Mr. Parsons. Toby is fourteen, he’s an old hand at performance, and you may recall his beautiful trumpet rendition of Mozart’s ‘Laudate Dominum’ at the Christmas concert last winter. As your program notes, he’ll be playing Wahlberg’s ‘All That Jazz,’ with Mr. Parsons accompanying on the piano.” She turned and patted the Baldwin’s broad flank and then waggled a finger at Parsons, who had settled on the piano bench. “We certainly hope this old thing doesn’t fall to pieces.”
A student with shoulders suited for a linebacker vaulted onto the stage, ignoring the two steps. His trumpet looked fragile in his beefy hands. He took a moment to smooth out his music on the rack, blew silently through the trumpet’s mouthpiece, and fluttered the valves. Mr. Parsons, a large, well-padded man, sat quietly at the piano bench, waiting. Finally, Toby took a deep breath, shook his right hand as if the fingers had gone asleep, and then nodded at his accompanist. A dozen bars of the dissonant music left Estelle wonderi
ng how it was possible to distinguish correct notes from strays. The Baldwin held together, the trumpet blasted and screamed, and Toby Escoba beamed when the audience burst into applause twice before he finished.
Through it all, Estelle’s son Francisco remained remarkably quiet, occasionally bouncing half out of his chair, or turning to the girl on his left for another whispered conference.
From Toby’s romping beginning, the recital continued demurely with a simple piano solo played by a beginning student so tiny that her feet swung twelve inches from the stage floor. She played solemnly, brows beetled with concentration, her stiff little fingers robotic. As the concert progressed from student to student, Estelle found herself referring back to the printed program, as the names marched toward her son’s.
When Pitney Clarke was introduced, the tall girl seated beside Francisco rose, and to Estelle’s surprise, so did her son. They made an interesting pair-seven-year-old Francisco darkly handsome in black slacks and shoes and his favorite plum-colored pullover, Pitney tall and graceful in a black skirt and long-sleeved white blouse, frilly around the throat.
Pitney carried a portfolio of music, and she took her time arranging it on the piano. She whispered instructions to Francisco, who apparently had been nominated to be her page turner. He nodded quickly, even impatiently, as if he’d attended to this chore a thousand times. Serenity and ferocity appeared to be Pitney’s favorite emotions as she tackled the long and complex Schubert piece, with many passages sounding as if they required at least a dozen fingers.
The young musician managed Schubert’s intricacies well enough, but to Estelle’s untrained ear, it sounded as if the composer had written one page nicely, then copied it a dozen times, with each copy held at a slightly different angle for variety.
The communication between the two children at the piano was easy and natural. As each set of pages drew to a close, Estelle saw Francisco lean a little so that his shoulder touched Pitney’s side, and at the right moment, Pitney would offer just a hint of a nod. Francisco would reach forward, perilously close to the keys and the young lady’s lap, and snatch the page. At one point, Estelle sensed that her husband was looking at her. She glanced over at him and saw his raised eyebrow. She wound her hand around her husband’s, including Carlos in the process. There were plenty of secrets in Francisco’s little head-apparently Pitney Clarke was one of them.
The Schubert concerto worked toward its conclusion, and after he turned the last page for Pitney, Francisco sat back on the piano bench, frowning darkly, concentrating on the keyboard. Estelle realized that she was holding her breath. Sure enough, the little boy’s hands reached out, fingers soundlessly caressing the bass keys. Pitney’s fingers floated downward through the concerto’s final resolution, but it was Francisco who played the final, complex chord so infinitely pianissimo, so seamless with the girl’s own playing, that it blended perfectly.
And then he was a joyful seven-year-old again, snatching his hands off the keys and bouncing off the piano bench as if springloaded. Pitney, far more demure at fifteen, stood and acknowledged the audience, then turned and held out her hand to Francisco. The two of them left the stage.
“That’s an interesting expression on your face, querida,” Estelle’s husband whispered.
Chapter Seven
Estelle took a deep breath, listening to the applause.
“Who’s Pitney Clarke, do you know?” her husband asked, tapping the program.
“Her lesson with Mrs. Gracie is right after Francisco’s. Her mom works for New Mexico Cellular.”
“Ah,” Francis said. “Interesting rapport between those two kids.”
“Apparently so.”
If she had a problem deciding how to introduce Francisco, Mrs. Gracie had solved it neatly. Mike Parsons, the band director, stepped onstage. Applause greeted him and he nodded curtly, all business.
“Do you like what you’re hearing?” he asked, his foghorn voice reaching effortlessly to the farthest corners of the theater. The audience applauded politely. “So who’s next?” Glancing at the program as if he might have forgotten, he continued, “Francisco Guzman is seven years old, and is already one of Mrs. Gracie’s stars…as well as being a veteran page turner.” He frowned with mock severity at Francisco, who was already half standing. “Please welcome a remarkable talent playing a composition by another rare one…Mozart’s Sonata in F.”
“Relax, querida,” her husband whispered. “My hand’s about to fall off.”
Estelle flexed her fingers, realizing that she’d been crushing every hand she could reach into a clammy ball. She tousled Carlos’ silky black hair, and he leaned back against his father, perfectly confident and at ease, ready to listen to the stories his older brother was about to tell.
Now all by himself on the stage, Francisco was diminutive against the black expanse of the piano. He slipped onto the bench and regarded the keyboard as if someone had switched the blacks and whites while his back was turned. With his left hand, he reached out as far as he could, spanning the bass keys. He straightened, then did the same, reaching to his right. Estelle could see that in a year or two, her son might be able to reach the pedals without straining and pointing his toes. The little boy looked out at the audience and grinned impishly.
He had not carried any music onstage, and the piano’s black music rack was empty. His left hand curled under his chin in a gesture that Estelle recognized as the little boy’s way of holding on to some inner, personal delight. Finally, both hands drifted down to the keyboard, and the first chord, a full, rich F, burst forth. He held it longer than he ever had in practice, longer than the composer indicated it should be, but it was Francisco’s story now, not Mozart’s.
The piece that reminded Estelle of squirrels arguing over nuts continued without hesitation until the presto movement, the opening measures of which had always reduced the little boy to hopeless giggles. Carlos emitted a tiny squeak and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth, but this time his older brother was undeterred. He pushed the piece faster and faster, then let it gradually relax, as if the squirrels, now sated with acorns, were too fat to move. The story ended with the same F chord that started it, played so softly that the sound disappeared in the big room before Francisco removed his hands from the keys. Only when he turned a bashful smile toward them did the modest audience erupt in applause.
Bill Gastner leaned forward, reached across Francis and Carlos, and patted the back of Estelle’s hand. “You can relax now,” he whispered. “The kid did good.”
After a brief stop for a chat with Melody Mears, Mike Parsons lumbered back onstage as the applause continued.
“Well,” Parsons said, pausing as Francisco took his seat. “Remember you heard it here first.” He beamed at the audience and rubbed his hands. “Melody, are you ready?” The girl nodded, and Parsons silently clapped his hands once. “I call Melody Mears ‘Miss Sunshine,’ because she lights up every room she enters. And so does her music. She’s been playing piano for six years, and the piece she’s going to play for you tonight is one of the all-time classical hits.” He beckoned toward Melody, who bounced out of her seat.
“Pachelbel’s Canon in D,” Parsons announced, and left the stage. He met Melody on the stairs, and she reached out a hand and whispered something to him.
“Sure,” he said to the girl, then turned to the audience. “Can we have our talented page turner back for an encore?”
Estelle watched with amusement as Francisco shot out of his seat and practically skipped to the stage. The Canon was another multipage opus, and Melody’s copy was tattered from handling. She smoothed it carefully on the rack, taking her time. Francisco squirmed on the bench beside her, then took a deep breath as his partner prepared to play.
The piece struck Estelle as repetitious but elegant, a haunting tune that once poured into the ears was hard to erase. Even though it was entirely possible that he had never seen the music before this moment, Francisco did a flawless job turning t
he battered pages.
Finally, as the applause swelled, Francis leaned close. “Company,” he said. A hand on her shoulder startled Estelle at the same time that she heard the unmistakable clank of hardware and creak of leather. She turned to look up into the face of Deputy Tom Pasquale, who then knelt in the aisle beside her.
“We’re going to need you,” the deputy whispered as quietly as he could, and pointed discreetly toward the rear door.
Francis laughed ruefully. “Too good to last,” he said. “I’ll make sure the kid makes it home through the crush of his adoring fans.”
“Ay,” Estelle sighed. Her eyes searched Pasquale’s face. “This can’t wait?” she asked, knowing the question was a waste of time. Her pager and phone were turned off, and instructions had been left with the dispatcher-and she had felt no quake of the world ending.
“No, ma’am. It sure can’t.” Pasquale straightened up, and she slipped out of her seat with an apologetic smile at her husband and padrino. Gastner, retired after twenty years with the Sheriff’s Department and knowing the drill, shrugged philosophically. Two rows ahead of them, Sergeant Tom Mears turned and looked at her, and Pasquale crooked his finger at him as well.
“A minute,” Estelle said, and she crossed quickly to the front row, kneeling by her son. Francisco hugged her fiercely, and she wasn’t sure if the heart she could feel banging away was her own, or her son’s.
Onstage, Mrs. Gracie waited politely.
“I’m proud of you, mi corazón,” Estelle whispered in her son’s ear. She gave him another hug and then rose. As the door closed behind them, Estelle could hear the elderly woman’s voice introducing Jaycee Sandoval, the final star of the show. The undersheriff wondered if Jaycee would need help turning pages, too.
Chapter Eight
“One of ours?” Estelle asked incredulously, and Pasquale nodded.
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