Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “‘Ruined’ the heart is what I remember him saying.”

  “That ain’t what happened, though.”

  Estelle reached out and closed the bedroom door. “What did you find out?”

  “I recovered the spent bullets from the deer’s skull. Two of ’em, anyways. The third just grazed the soft skin behind the ears.”

  “So he shot several times?”

  “Nope. He ain’t no Rifleman. And the slugs I recovered were twenty-twos, nothin’ heavier.”

  Estelle fell silent. After a moment, she asked, “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t think any of this happened the way Lupe says it did.”

  She took a long, deep breath of resignation. “You’re down at the office?”

  “Yup. I got Linda comin’ in after a little bit to document the skull. I want nice clear eight-by-tens when we go down to chat with Lupe.” Torrez made a little snorting sound as if a laugh was bubbling to the surface. “And him bein’ the old-timer that he is, I’m bettin’ that the deer heart is wrapped up in his freezer. And I’m bettin’ that it ain’t got a hole blown through it by a thirty-thirty.”

  “What’s Posey think?”

  “He’s kinda curious.”

  “I bet he is. He’s going down with you in the morning?”

  “I was thinkin’ first thing. Before Lupe has a chance for his second cup of coffee.”

  “Or now, while he’s too tired to think straight.”

  Torrez scoffed gently. “That would be you, I’m guessin’. Look, I need some time to get the pichures in order, and Posey was out all last night, so he ain’t too excited about it. Look, I know it’s Christmas, but how about six tomorrow morning?” He paused, giving Estelle time to think, then added, “Your company ain’t going to be out of bed by then, anyways. We can scoot down and do our business, and get you back home.”

  “You should spend Christmas morning with Gayle, Gabe, and little Sophie, Bobby. And your folks, and a hundred other relatives. Bullets in a deer’s skull can wait. Lupe’s not going anywhere.”

  “Maybe not. But the longer we sit on this, the harder it’s going to be. You know that, and I know that. Your guys are stayin’ all day tomorrow? Jettin’ out Wednesday early?”

  “I think that’s the plan, Bobby.” She clearly understood by his tone where this was heading. Robert Torrez was hunting.

  “That’ll work, then. See you at six. You want I should pick you up, or what?”

  “I’ll meet you at Betty’s at six. Right at the intersection.”

  “You got it.”

  “Give my love to Gayle and the kids. Enjoy Christmas Eve, at least.”

  “Yup.”

  She stood for a moment, silent phone in hand. Robert Torrez was eager to be on the hunt. When that happened, holidays and company didn’t matter much.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When Estelle left the bedroom and returned to the kitchen, the dishes were cleared, washed, and stashed away. Half of one of the sour cherry pies—its finely pinched crust the work of her son’s culinary talents—was wrapped in kitchen film. The others had vanished.

  A large architectural rendering covered part of the dining room table, along with a series of smaller drawings, and Estelle instantly recognized the building, and the country reflected by the large map and the various printouts from the computer’s satellite imagery.

  “Is everything all right?” her husband asked.

  “We’re not sure.” Estelle only half-heard the question, so transfixed was she by the works spread before her. “This is Mamá’s old place in Tres Santos.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

  “The Rio Plegado,” Francisco said. He leaned over the table and ran his index finger along the watercourse. “The old school, and higher up here on the bench, the new school. The old church is gone, but the new one shows up pretty well. Your mother’s original house is this little speck, just high enough above the river to be safe.” He tapped the array of buildings to the northeast of Teresa Reyes’ small cottage. “The Diaz family’s hacienda. Ramón is eighty now, Mamá, but both he and Marta are doing well—spry and hard at it. And what I think is neat is that seven of the eight Diaz children live in this little mini-village here.”

  “Federico and his wife moved to Mexico City some years ago,” Estelle said. “They lived in Mamá’s house for a while, then they moved.”

  Francisco reached out and pulled a small rendering across the table. “This is Teresa’s place.”

  “Yes.” She felt a twinge. ”That,” and she lightly touched the drawing, “is the tree stump into which Pancho Villa supposedly carved his name in 1913.” She picked up the drawing as if it were rendered on the thinnest tracing paper rather than the heavy artist’s stock that had been used. “This is amazing.” She turned it slightly and looked at the signature.

  “The fastest pencil in the West,” Francisco said.

  “When did you do this?”

  “Last week,” Carlos said. “A rush job.”

  “You remembered the place well, hijo.”

  “Well, Ma, there isn’t a whole lot of detail to remember. Your mom’s house is a small box, with some vigas, stuff like that.”

  “And this,” Francisco said, “is what we’re thinking about.” He turned a larger rendering so that it faced Estelle. She involuntarily took a step backward. She recognized Carlos’ work—the meticulous architectural printing, the deft touches of shading here and there to highlight corners and overhangs, even the faint pencil-stroke images of three ravens far in the distance, riding the air waves over the mesa.

  It didn’t surprise Estelle that her younger son, in only his first year at Stanford, already had such masterful drafting skills—he’d been designing and drawing since he’d been old enough to walk and find paper and pencil. He’d taken every mechanical drawing and drafting class that Posadas Public Schools had offered. And finally, before transferring to Stanford, he’d experimented with two years in the state university at Las Cruces, exploring their curriculum.

  “I think we’ll be experimenting with lots of changes in this concept,” Francisco said eagerly. “Right now,” and he shifted another paper, “the entire original structure of Teresa’s four-room adobe has blended with the new structure, and accommodates a proposed music room off the southeast wing of the house.”

  “Whoa,” his father said. “I’m missing something.”

  “Ay, missing something is right.” Estelle pointed with her chin at the legend in the lower right corner. “‘Teresa Reyes Adobe Renovation, Tres Santos, Mexico.’ So this, and she touched the original rendering of her mother’s former home, “is Teresa’s original adobe. And now someone is having you design this massive project on the same property, Carlos? And somehow including the original little house?”

  “Someone,” Carlos agreed, and nodded at his brother.

  “Exactly,” Francisco said. “That’s what we’re thinking about.”

  “We?”

  Francisco sat down and looked up at his mother. “Angie and I, and we’re going to need all kinds of help, including the services of the most talented architect I know.”

  “Start at the beginning, hijo.”

  “Well, last year we decided, Angie and I, we need a quiet retreat somewhere when we’re not on the road. We’re in agreement on that. Angie has a rigorous practice and composing schedule, and so do I. We’ve discovered that when we’re ‘in the zone,’ as they say, we both tend to sort of implode. We don’t want the sound of traffic, or barking dogs, or sirens, or jets taking off…so, tell me that you know of a place more serene, quieter, than Tres Santos.”

  She turned and regarded her son thoughtfully. In the lines of his face, she could still see the little boy he had once been, the eagerness, the “anything is possible” expression. “You’re not kidding.”

  “No
. And now, Posadas is just a forty-five-minute drive north of this property. With a newly resuscitated airport that can handle jets, no less. We can fly in from anywhere in the world, just as we did today, grab the car, and be home here,” and he rapped the table beside the rendering, “in minutes.” He watched her face intently. “You think we’re nuts.”

  “Yes. Not for wanting peace and quiet, hijo. I understand that. And not for building an elegant, spacious home with facilities for your music. Most people—not everyone, certainly—but most people need an anchor, a place to be when they’re not traveling. I understand that. I understand that you would want that.” She stopped abruptly.

  “But…” Francisco prompted.

  “But I’m not sure you two have thought this through. Now, am I assuming correctly that you somehow plan to purchase the property from the Diaz family?”

  “Yes. We’ve investigated that already, primarily through the help of Colonel Naranjo’s wife. Eloisa handles many real estate transactions, and said that this one would be no problem for her.”

  “Even though the property is in what the Mexican government calls the restricted zone? You’ve explored that issue? Tres Santos is close enough to the border to be affected by that…all the restrictions on ownership by foreigners that the Mexican government has imposed.”

  Francisco nodded slowly. “Eloisa Naranjo is familiar with the complications of establishing the real estate trust, the fideicomiso, on our behalf. She also said that she can enlist the aid of an attorney friend in Janos, where a likely lending bank is. As you are aware, Ma, in the restricted zone, it’s the bank that actually ends up owning the property, and establishing the real estate trust for us.”

  “Yes. But, hijo, I can’t imagine you have time for all of this.”

  “I don’t. That’s why the experts are involved. To make sure our interests are considered fully, and also the third party’s interests.”

  She glanced at her husband, who was slouched back in his chair, feet extended under the kitchen table. He raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. A ‘third party’? Who might that be?”

  “You remember Mateo Diaz? He’s the second-oldest of the Diaz children.” He smiled. “No child anymore, of course. He’s forty, at least.”

  “Yes.”

  “If we do all this, he would like the opportunity to live in an included apartment on the property. A sort of caretaker for us, if you will.”

  “He’s the son who’s so badly crippled. Arthritis in his spine.”

  “Yes, he is. In fact, he tells me that he’s been to see the good doctor more than once.” Francisco grinned at his father. “He already uses a walker to help him maintain his balance. But his hands—his ability to carve the most wondrous things—those skills are undiminished.”

  “He has never gotten married.”

  “No. Of the eight Diaz children, he is the only one who is not.”

  Estelle walked slowly around the table and took a chair immediately beside her husband.

  “You’ve given a lot of thought to this adventure.”

  “Oh, yes. And lots more thought to come.”

  “And when you’re home, and working at the piano eight hours a day, or Angie is locked in to the cello, Mateo is going to be able to put up with your practice and composing schedules?”

  “Won’t hear a note, Ma,” Carlos said. “Acoustical engineering being what it is, their music room will be like being locked in a bank vault. Mateo won’t hear them, and they won’t hear his woodshop next door.”

  The two young women, Angie and Tasha, leaned on the kitchen counter, overseeing the gathering. Estelle nodded at Angie. “And you? What do you think about all of this?” She leaned forward and clasped her hands tightly on top of the rendering. “With a baby coming in six months? With trips back and forth across the border in these times? With a wealth of construction facing you?”

  “I think that these days, it’s all in who we hire, Estelle. Mateo has told Francisco that he’ll gladly oversee construction—it is, after all, his home too. Or will be.”

  “And he’s already suffering health problems of his own.”

  “It’s interesting, Ma,” Francisco said. “He’s more concerned with his elderly parents than he is with himself. The other siblings may come and go…in fact Tinita and her new husband are in the process of moving to Mexico City.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep. That’s where Federico has a family outlet store. And who knows what the others might do over the years? For us, Mateo is the stabilizing factor. He has no visions of leaving Tres Santos. He makes a good living from his carving and his guitars. He and his brothers Juan and Federico are making exquisite instruments now. Very upper end, concert quality.”

  A ghost of a smile touched Estelle’s face. “I always imagined you ending up living in some place like St. Moritz, or Los Angeles, or Manhattan.”

  “Save me, please.” The young man’s face was sober. “When I stand and look out the front door…or the back door…what I don’t want to see is traffic. Or tourists. Or neon lights.”

  The room fell silent. “And in five or six years, when your child is ready for school? She’s going to travel with you, with all the upsets, the frantic schedules, all the strangers? How are you going to manage that?”

  “Others have in the past,” Francisco said. “Others have found a way.” He grinned. “When I was little, I remember our own Nana. You were often busy at all hours, and Papá’s patients didn’t always schedule themselves conveniently. Irma was a jewel, wasn’t she?”

  “She was. Irma Sedillos was a rare jewel.”

  “Perhaps there is another Irma Sedillos out there, just waiting. One thing I know for sure. The child will have a doting grandmother.”

  Estelle knew exactly what her son meant, but she quickly corrected him. “Two doting grandmothers.”

  Francisco and Angie both laughed. “One at each end of the country,” Angie said. “We’re covered.”

  An hour later, exhausted from an impossible day, Estelle snuggled against Francis, luxuriating in the warmth of his hand on her sore ribs. “Do you think they know what they’re in for?”

  “Of course not. That’s what makes it fun.”

  “You’re a big help.”

  “I’m serious,” Francis said. “The only thing that really makes me pause is that little Mexican village that stands to have its serenity disturbed. Tres Santos has enjoyed anonymity for hundreds of years. It’s not on the way to anywhere, and it’s not a destination. Now imagine who moves in, right off the cover of Rolling Stone.” His hand paused just under her right breast. “You’ve got a knot right there.”

  “A tender knot.” She sighed and stretched a little. “And you’re right. Is that tiny village ready for them? That’s something that they haven’t considered. But…”

  “But?”

  “But I like the tentative house plan Carlos has going. I like the way it blends in with the features of the land. Sprawling as it is, it still makes use of the river’s gallaria to blend and hide. It’s high enough above the riverbed to be out of harm’s way during a flood, but still benefit from the vegetation.”

  “They’ll make a convert of you yet. And, you know, having a little one around will be a joy. You can be that doting grandma.”

  “And grandpa.” She wiggled closer. “I like the sound of that.”

  “And not to bring up a less pleasant subject, what did Bobby want earlier? I heard something about six o’clock.”

  “That’s what time we’re meeting in Regál. We’re going to ruin Lupe Gabaldon’s Christmas Day.”

  “Lupe? Viejo Lupe?”

  “The very same.”

  “How’s he involved?”

  “We aren’t sure. But he lied to us, Oso. For no good reason. H
e told us that he shot the deer. And Bobby is sure that’s not the way it happened.”

  “The kids are wanting to go to Tres Santos tomorrow.”

  “I think so, yes. I’ll try to be back in time. Or maybe meet them down at the border. And Oso, please…a big favor. Let them use my Toyota. Or if you’re going down too, let them ride with you. Don’t let them take that damn Army truck that he’s got in the hangar at the airport.”

  “It’s not licensed, is it?”

  “No. A minor detail. But it has no top, no seat belts, no nothing.”

  “Maybe Bobby can confiscate it.”

  “An excellent idea, Oso. I’ll mention it to him.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  She tossed and turned, too much rich food on top of too much to think about. She forced herself to wait until the digital clock recorded four-thirty a.m., and shrugged off the bedding.

  “Merry Christmas.” Her husband’s voice was muffled. He turned his head slightly out of the pillow. “And eat something,” he added.

  “I was thinking of a couple scrambled eggs and a piece of cherry pie. Can I fix you some?”

  “Yuck. No.”

  She bent down and whispered with her lips touching his ear. “Merry Christmas, Oso. I’m still finding it hard to believe the kids and their girls are all here. That makes it the best Christmas ever.”

  “Francisco and Angie were up talking half the night,” Francis said. “They’re going to be pooped.”

  She patted his shoulder as she turned away. “The energy of youth.”

  “Hey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Wear your vest.”

  “I always do, Oso.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  She turned and looked down at him, scrunched in a tight ball under the comforter, head half-buried in the pillow. “Hibernate some more, querido,” she whispered.

  The second egg had just started sizzling when she felt an arm around her shoulders. She turned to see a tousle-headed Francisco, eyes heavy with sleep. Her son shut his eyes and let his head sag to her shoulder.