Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “Well,” Francisco said brightly, “let’s just all pop back on board, and have Ms. Steinbrenner, Captain Oakes, and Second Officer Dave Lloyd hijack us someplace quiet and wonderful for a couple of days.”

  “You keep thinking,” Angie muttered. “I like the idea of a quiet rocking chair in front of a roaring fire, and I bet I know where there might be both of those just a short drive from here.”

  “Are you doing okay?” Estelle asked.

  “Actually I am, thanks—now that we’re sure.” She patted her belly. “There’s a wonderful obstetrician in Berlin…probably several dozen of them, I’m sure. But Dr. Stein is special. I wish I could wave a magic wand and transport her to the states when the festival is finished.”

  “Magic wand.” Francisco nodded toward the jet.

  “Yeah. Well, we’ll see.” She beamed at Estelle. “Anyway, all is well, we’re delighted, and after all the music the baby’s heard these first two months, and has yet to hear over the next seven, he’ll probably wind up being a NASCAR driver. Who knows?”

  “A boy, though?”

  “Oh, we don’t know. And I don’t want to know. It’s just easier than calling him ‘he, she, or it.’”

  “I like the sound of NASCAR driver,” Francisco said. “I vote for boy.”

  “And Danica will cut your chauvinistic throat, dude,” Angie said.

  Myriad questions swirled through Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s head, but she shunted them all off to one side, content just to bask in the presence of these young world travelers.

  “Ah,” Francisco said as his brother reappeared, this time accompanying Tasha, with First Officer Mary Steinbrenner immediately behind. The young couple descended to the tarmac, and Tasha stopped, extending both arms in a broad salute. Her smile was radiant, and then she bent at the knees, dropping down so that she could pat the ground with both hands. Steinbrenner stepped close, perhaps thinking that the young woman had started to collapse, then smiled with relief. She angled off toward the fuel truck to engage Jim Bergin in conversation.

  “May I present my brother and his better half, Natasha Abdullahi Qarshe? Tasha, this is our father, Dr. Francis Guzman, and our mother, Estelle Reyes-Guzman, undersheriff of Posadas County, upon whose firm ground you are now safely standing.” Francisco ended his introduction with a stiff bow.

  Better half, Estelle thought. What exactly does that mean? Ms. Qarshe matched Carlos’s five-ten, with a willowy body, black hair secured in a casual ponytail, and skin the color of burned toast.

  “It took me a moment to dig out a clean blouse,” Tasha said. “How to embarrass myself.” She extended both hands in greeting, and her grip was strong. Estelle found herself looking into a pair of deep-set eyes so dark that the irises were invisible, surrounded by exotic facial features—slightly aquiline nose, high and prominent cheekbones, and a generous, full-lipped mouth.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Estelle said.

  The wide, brilliantly white smile returned. “Your son warned me that I would be meeting the most beautiful woman in the world. And here I thought he was exaggerating.” She released her right hand and reached for Dr. Guzman’s. “And here you are, Doctor.” She looked from one to the other, and then back again. “An astonishing couple.”

  “So, let’s boogie,” Francisco said. “The flight crew needs to get us out of their hair, and have made a slight change of plans. Instead of staying in Posadas, they’re going to deadhead up to their hub in Denver. They tell me that they have a little electronic issue that needs to be resolved before they tackle trans-Atlantic again the day after tomorrow.”

  Aft of the Gulfstream, First Officer Steinbrenner continued to engage Jim Bergin, who nodded patiently.

  “There isn’t a chance you all might be marooned in Posadas for a week or so?” Dr. Guzman asked. “We’d like that.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Francisco said, but Carlos didn’t sound so optimistic.

  “When they end up giving a concert while marooned in Tahiti,” the younger brother said, “you’ll know the mechanics didn’t get the instruments repaired just right.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  With enough luggage stowed in the back of Francis Guzman’s SUV to provide for a week’s marooning, Francisco waved off a side trip to the hangar and a visit with his vintage truck. “Maybe later,” he said. “Right now, we all need home.” Estelle marveled at his restraint, and then at his thoughtfulness for the comfort of the other weary travelers.

  “He bought it sight unseen, except for a few photos,” Angie said. “One of those Internet wonders.”

  “So it’s a surprise for you too, hijo.”

  Francisco shrugged as if they’d been discussing picking up a dozen eggs on the way home. “We have better surprises coming up,” he said.

  “Speaking of which,” Estelle said, “if Tasha rides in the front with Francis, you two guys can crowd into the back. Angie can ride with me. That might be the easiest arrangement for tender tummies.”

  By the time Estelle settled into her car, the fuel truck had pulled clear of the Gulfstream, and the jet’s engines began their shriek.

  “It’s good to be on the ground,” Angie repeated fervently. “And so good to see you folks.” She shifted in the seat, angling her knees away from the racked shotgun, the computer terminal, and the emergency equipment control panel.

  “Have you had the chance to talk with your mother recently?” Estelle asked.

  “I called her last night. You knew that she moved to New York?”

  Estelle nodded. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  “A tough summer, all around. Then my mom got her act back together and moved to the apartment of her dreams in Manhattan.” Angie smiled. “Turns out that Kansas just wasn’t her most favorite place to live, after all.”

  “An acquired taste, perhaps. Some folks swear by it.”

  “Or swear at it, in her case. My father loved it, she just put up with it for his sake. Shortly after my father’s death, she put the house on the market and the agent called her the next day with a solid cash offer.”

  “Then she made the right move,” Estelle said.

  “And the next wonderful news is that she’s joining us in Berlin for New Year’s. We’re so pleased about that, because this trip we just don’t have the time to include New York.”

  They turned out of the airport’s driveway onto State 76. As she turned to check for traffic, Estelle saw that Angie was gazing at her.

  “Are you okay with this?” The girl rested her hand on her belly.

  “Am I okay? I’m delighted, as long as you both are. I’m glad you found a physician you can trust.”

  “She’s wonderful. I guess what I meant was are you okay that your son and I aren’t married?” She flashed a huge smile. “Yet.”

  Estelle’s phone played its E-flat chord, and she groaned as she slid the instrument out of her pocket. “Life goes on,” she said. “Guzman.”

  “Hey.”

  “So, O-positive on the bloody stick,” she prompted the sheriff, not adding that Dr. Guzman already had given her a heads-up on the blood.

  “Yup. And Stout says that agrees with Fitzwater’s personnel file. The guy donates blood twice a year.” When Estelle didn’t respond, Bob Torrez added, “Yeah, I know. O-pos is the most common type…about four out of ten have it, or something like that.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it much.”

  “Nope. And O-pos is more common in Hispanics than in Anglos, by a small margin.”

  “And that doesn’t narrow it much, either.”

  “Nope. I talked to Posey just now.”

  “What’s he tell us?” Doug Posey, one of the district officers for New Mexico Game and Fish, had been notified about the deer taken near the Regál water tank, but as far as Estelle knew, had not yet visited the site. A single deer, whether
taken legally or poached, wasn’t cause for much excitement.

  “I told him about the bloody stick. He said that they did a little study last year after a poaching deal. As far as they could tell, muleys all have the same blood type, at least within the herd. It may be different from white-tail blood, or different races of muleys over a wide area.”

  “Why were you checking that?”

  “Just curious. The blood on the stick is O-pos human. We’re sure of that. It wasn’t deer blood. And the type matches Fitzwater.”

  “And the hair? Most likely not deer hair, either, then.”

  “We haven’t seen a hair comparison yet, but it’s hair, not fur, if you know what I mean. Kind of blondish hair.”

  “So…who clobbered whom?”

  “That’s the question, ain’t it? That and one other little thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “We ain’t got shit that says the three incidents are related—the dead deer and Fitzwater’s blood up there and Connie Suarez lyin’ dead down in the trailer. Or how Fitzwater’s Glock come to kill Connie. If the Glock is the murder weapon. If it wasn’t just dropped.”

  “Have you taken the deer carcass apart yet? The skull?”

  “That’s next. Posey is going to be in town later tonight. Him and me were going to go down and talk with Lupe again after we dig the slugs out of the skull.”

  “Slugs, plural?”

  “Lookin’ like two, and a third maybe grazed. The two didn’t exit. And not lookin’ a bit like a high-powered rifle, either.”

  “Lupe said…”

  “Yeah, I know what he said. That he bagged that deer with one shot from his Marlin thirty-thirty? It ain’t lookin’ like that’s the case.”

  Estelle fell silent, thinking about Lupe Gabaldon and elderly, matronly Flora, the couple living in their cozy little place out of the hustle and bustle. “I’ll be home for a while, if you need me.”

  “Yup. Tell the kid that if he’s ready to sell that truck, he’s got an eager buyer.”

  “They just landed, and Francisco didn’t even look at it, Bobby. How’s that for self-control?”

  Torrez grunted something incomprehensible and switched off.

  “Wow,” Angie said in wonder. “I couldn’t help hearing some of your end. Somebody is shooting deer out of season? I thought game wardens dealt with that sort of thing.”

  “It’s a mess, Angie. One big unhappy mess. And I wish it was just deer that they’re shooting.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The living room of the Guzman home had gone from achingly empty to bursting at the seams, the kitchen from a pair of unfinished pies to a wealth of food, a large portion of which was the younger brother’s creation, kibitzed to completion by Tasha Qarshe’s affectionate encouragement. The two piecrusts that Estelle had made and then stowed in the fridge were rescued and completed by Carlos, with two more sour cherry pies added to the inventory.

  To add to the hubbub, Bill Gastner arrived ten minutes after the first lasagna went into the oven, and the new flurry of introductions and explanations swirled through the group. Never particularly reserved, Gastner regarded Tasha with interest as the girl re-entered the living room after a foray into the kitchen. She stopped beside Estelle, who had settled in the rocker. Tasha bent and draped a long arm across Estelle’s shoulders, turning to whisper something in her ear.

  “Kitchen is his favorite word,” Estelle replied with a laugh to whatever the girl had said.

  Gastner held up a hand to catch the young woman’s attention and then gestured toward the couch. “So, young lady. Sit still for a moment and tell me about yourself.”

  Tasha looked quizzical. “Myself?”

  “How did you happen to meet our chef of the moment? Let’s start there.”

  “Ah, that.” She straightened up and moved to the end of the couch. “Truly the ‘Small World’ department, sir. You see, I attended a concert in Palo Alto—well, at Stanford—by Rafael Duprés, the classical guitarist? Perhaps you’ve heard him play?”

  “And perhaps not,” Gastner said agreeably. “He hasn’t come to Posadas yet.”

  “Well, someday, perhaps. He’s magnificent. At any rate, this was in September. Before the concert, I was out in the lobby, looking at one of the posters advertising upcoming artist performances. Perhaps you can guess who was featured for an October recital.” She looked across at Francisco, who sat sideways on the piano bench. “Here is this huge photo of the artist sitting at the piano, right hand resting on the music rack, left hand on the keys, eyes closed, this soulful expression on his handsome face.” She laughed as Francisco struck the pose.

  “You have to catch naps when you can,” he said.

  “Just enchanting. Then I sensed this presence directly behind me, and I turned.” She paused and sucked in a breath, one slender hand going to her mouth dramatically. “And there he was.”

  “Except he wasn’t,” Carlos added from the kitchen doorway.

  “No, he wasn’t. But this young man who bore a striking resemblance to the maestro smiled at me as if we’d known each other for decades, as if we had agreed previously to meet at the concert. ‘Would you like to go?’ he asked. And I pointed at the “Sold Out” banner across the poster. He dismissed it. ‘I have tickets.’ I was speechless, but I managed to say something really intelligent, like ‘you do?’”

  “I do,” Carlos interjected. “I did.” He leaned against the kitchen archway.

  “To make a very long story short, we went to the Duprés concert and managed to finagle seats together. Afterward, he let it slip. He said something innocent, like, ‘So, will you go to my brother’s concert with me?’ His brother.”

  “And that’s when you refused to go…” Francisco interrupted helpfully.

  She made a contrite face. “By the time the concert came around, Carlos had been living in my apartment for two weeks.” She held her shoulders up in an enormous shrug. “What was I to do?”

  Gastner frowned, but his eyes twinkled. “So he’s a free-loader, to boot.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It must be serious if you’ll even go so far as to get airsick for him.”

  “It’s his culinary skills, sir.”

  “Ah. Understandable, then.” Gastner’s face softened a little. “I have lots more questions, you’ll be delighted to know.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “You may, by the time I’m done. Interrogation comes easy to us old has-been cops.”

  She folded her hands primly between her knees, back ramrod straight, and looked expectant.

  “Home is…”

  “Where Carlos is.” Her answer was so immediate that Francisco clutched his chest in mock romantic agony, and Gastner twisted around to grin at Estelle.

  “She’s sharp. How about B.C., then? Before Carlos.”

  “I was born in Boston, and lived there until three years ago, when I enrolled at Stanford. My mother is first-generation Irish, my dad still cherishes his Somali citizenship. He and my mom are partners in McKinney, Qarshe, and O’Hanrahan in Boston.” She flashed a smile. “My mom is the O’Hanrahan part. Their firm specializes in design and engineering of container ship load-handling equipment—elevators, cranes, waterproof hatches, that sort of thing.”

  Gastner raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations on choosing your parents well, young lady.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And if we can enjoy the rest of the evening without your calling me ‘sir,’ I’ll be delighted.”

  Carlos appeared again. “Maestro, the lasagna will be ready to serve in fifteen minutes. Is there a chance for a short thematic piece to set the mood? And, Ma, I forgot where you hide the candles.”

  Gastner rose from the heavy straight-backed chair he had appropriated and moved to the end of the piano where he settled a hand
on the raised lid. “You charter a jet to fly all the way over from Germany to play for a damn dinner party. How special is that?” He rapped a knuckle on the ebony finish. “You and your brother and the young ladies have made this a special Christmas, Bud. Thanks for that.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “How long have you known Lupe Gabaldon?” The question came at 9:35 that Christmas Eve, after enough food, laughter, music, and banter that Estelle Reyes-Guzman had almost begun to think that life couldn’t be any better. Five minutes before, a sleepy Bill Gastner had excused himself, gladly accepting a steadying hand from Francisco as he made his way out to his SUV. Estelle watched as they stood for a few moments on the sidewalk, the eighty-four-year-old and his twenty-five-year-old godson, engaged in quiet consultation—about what, only they knew.

  Then, just as Francisco came back inside, her cell phone had begun to spin circles on the polished surface of the piano where she’d placed it, its audio silenced—just in case.

  For a moment, coming as it did without so much as a simple “hello” of greeting, Sheriff Robert Torrez’ question about Lupe Gabaldon formed in Estelle’s brain an enormous clot, a classic non-sequitur stall.

  “You there?” Torrez prompted.

  “I’m tempted to say ‘no’.” Estelle walked past Francisco, out of the room and down the hallway to their bedroom. “But, yes—I’ve known Lupe all my life. At least it seems that way. As long as I can remember.”

  “He’s something of a bandit.”

  “Well, by today’s standards, I suppose. Like my Great Uncle Reuben. Or Soloman Apodaca. Or any of those viejos. They’ve lived long enough to see lots of changes in their world.”

  “You remember what he told us up on the hill, though, about the deer?”

  “Yes. He said he took it with his thirty-thirty.”

  “Yup. Claimed one shot through the heart.”