Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “Merry Christmas, hijo.”

  “I think so. My screwed up internal clock says it’s already mid-afternoon.”

  “Berlin time, I suppose that it is. You guys really have to fly out tomorrow?”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have a big Christmas shebang for you.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Tell you what, I’ll stop somewhere today and buy a half dozen sweaters. Then we can trade them back and forth. Anyway, you have the tree, and that’s all that counts, as far as I’m concerned.” The “tree” was a tiny thing that stood on the living room windowsill behind the piano, handcrafted out of various colors and textures of paper, with a small string of mini-lights giving it cheer. Irma Sedillos and Carlos had constructed it during one holiday a dozen years before. It generally remained on the windowsill, its delicate illumination bouncing off the polished ebony surface of the piano, until mid-April, when Estelle forced herself to tuck it away.

  “It looks like you’re headed out this morning?”

  “I’m afraid so, for a little bit, anyway. I’m meeting Bobby down in Regál in a few minutes.”

  “They don’t give you Christmas Day off?”

  “They? Nope, ‘they’ don’t. The holidays are when family disputes are often at their worst. Christmas isn’t as bad as New Year’s Eve, thankfully.” She plated the scrambled eggs and cut a slice of cherry pie. “Festive colors,” she observed. “You’re sure you don’t want something?”

  “Coffee.” He jerked his hands up like a spastic robot, and turned to the coffeemaker. “Must have coffee.” For a couple of minutes, she leaned against the counter and ate as he fussed with the coffeemaker. “Do you have any idea how Padrino found out about our project with Teresa’s property?” he asked finally, satisfied that the drip was on the way.

  “Padrino knows?”

  “He does. Not in any great detail, but the gist of it, he knows.” He half-turned away from the gadget. “Not that I mind, not that it matters. I mean, he obviously didn’t tell you, right?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “I mean, he’s about the most tight-lipped old cuss that I know. Maybe my brother has been in contact with him.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe he had questions about construction that includes old adobe. Padrino’s lived with that for decades now. His place was old before he bought it way back in the day. He added on to it, changed this and that. Both Carlos and you have spent lots of time over there.”

  “It’s a grand place,” Francisco said pensively. “That big sunken living room could be easily modified to make a great home for the Steinway.”

  “You spoke with him last night?”

  Francisco looked up quickly. “Just for a few minutes, out at his truck, when he was getting ready to go home.” He nodded and poured a cup of coffee. Still thinking hard, he sipped, then sipped again. “He had two pieces of advice. And you know Padrino.” Francisco smiled. “He doesn’t pull punches.”

  Estelle slid her empty plate into the sink. “What did he suggest?”

  “First, that we, especially Angie, would hate Tres Santos. ‘Good-hearted neighbors will barge into your lives, whether you welcome them or not.’ That was his first admonition.”

  “How true.” She could picture the elderly Marta Diaz bustling next door after Angie’s baby arrived, sure in her ancient wisdom that Angie would need something, without ever considering that what the young mother might need was peace and quiet.

  “And he said, ‘You don’t want the border as a part of your lives. Maybe back in 1950, but not now.’”

  “He’s right about that. Things have changed with the border,” Estelle said. “And not for the better.” Despite the validity of the old man’s advice, she felt a keen sense of disappointment, a looming of St. Moritz, or Paris, or New York in the future.

  “And then he offered us his home.”

  “What do you mean, ‘offered’?”

  “He offered to give it to us, with a caveat.” He waited for Estelle’s reaction, and when no comment was forthcoming, said, “He wants to live there until he can’t any longer.”

  “Ay.”

  “Negotiating with him will be a challenge.”

  “How so?”

  “He wants to give it to us, for a dollar.”

  “Well…”

  “How can I do that? Come on.”

  “Because that’s what he wants? That’s his way. He gave your father’s new clinic almost four acres.”

  “That’s right. I remember that. But still, what’s the market value of that place? Three, four hundred thousand? Maybe more?”

  “Hijo, probably the last thing Padrino needs, or wants, is more money. I’m sure he offered his home to you because he loves you unconditionally, because he believes in your career, because he knows that this could be a wonderful, secluded spot for you, away from the world.” She smiled. “For those odd few moments when you’ll be home.”

  “You think I…we…should consider the offer?”

  “For many reasons, I think that you and Angie should give it serious thought.”

  “Well, as one of my favorite people on all of earth is fond of saying, ‘Ay’.”

  “We’ll talk about it this afternoon, or tonight. Whenever.”

  “He invited us to stop over today to tour the place. You know—with an eye toward a possibility.”

  She waited until he set the coffee cup down, then hugged him hard. “I need to get dressed.” She looked up at him. “That would be some Christmas gift, you have to admit.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “We’ll talk about it tonight.” She slapped both his upper arms simultaneously, hard, and glared at him with mock ferocity. “And don’t be driving that old unlicensed truck on the highway, hijo.” The ferocity vanished in an amused grin. “Bobby Torrez would love to confiscate it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  By dint of breaking a few speed limits herself, Estelle arrived at Betty Contreras’ driveway at 5:58 a.m. Two minutes later, the sheriff’s aging pickup—what he called his “undercover unit,” rumbled down the hill into Regál, swung in a wide loop, and pulled up driver-to-driver beside Estelle’s unit, a pungent odor of burned oil arriving with it.

  “I was guessin’ you’d sleep in,” he greeted.

  “I could have. Bobby, this is the only day I have with the kids, so I’m kinda antsy.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Mr. Sympathy, she thought.

  Without further comment, he handed a folder across. Estelle turned on the interior reading light and swiveled it to shine down on the pages. She leafed through the images. Linda Real had done a masterful job. The illustrated rifle slugs were clear against a black background, enlarged to fill an eight-by-ten sheet.

  “Twenty-two for sure?” The projectiles appeared to be solid lead, and the scale laid across the bottom of the photos showed slightly more than an exact twenty-two caliber. The legend box in the corner announced that both projectiles were .224 inches base diameter.

  “The third one just cut the fur on the back of the neck behind the ears,” Torrez said. “These two entered just behind the eyeball, punched into the brain through that thin orbit bone. Didn’t make it out the other side.”

  She slid the photos apart. “Who’d you bribe at the hospital?” The X-ray image of the small skull was equally sharp, showing the two slugs in situ, less than an inch apart. In the final photo, the two small holes were difficult to see clearly in the fur covering the deer’s skull, but again, a ruler had been carefully placed. The holes were slightly less than half an inch apart.

  “They kinda wondered,” Torrez said evasively, perhaps a little reluctant to implicate a cousin.

  “Heck of a double tap,” Estelle observed.

  “If the deer hadn’t been runnin
’, the third one might have been with the group,” Torrez said. “As it was, it’s only a couple inches out.”

  “Pretty fancy shooting.”

  Torrez shrugged, unimpressed. “Good semi-auto, good low-power scope, kinda short range—no big deal. But the shooter sure didn’t get buck fever. I’ll give him that.” He pointed and Estelle looked in her rearview mirror. The state Game and Fish truck pulled up behind her charger. Lieutenant Doug Posey took his time getting out and then closed the driver’s side door as if it might shatter if he pushed it too hard. Estelle unbuckled from the Charger and met Posey by the back fender. His twenty-seven years with the Game and Fish Department had apparently agreed with him—as tall as Torrez but thin as a rail, he still looked much younger than he was, until he removed his Stetson and revealed a polished, hair-free dome.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said. “I hear your two urchins flew in yesterday.”

  “Merry Christmas, and yes, they did.” And once more, Estelle marveled at the tenacious tendrils of the community grapevine.

  “Well, if I had a wife and kids, I’d want to be home for the holiday, too.” He extended a hand to Torrez. “Long time no see, Robert.”

  “Yep,” the sheriff said, and drew his hand back into the truck. “Let’s go do it.”

  Estelle handed Posey the folder containing the photos. “This is what was recovered from the skull.”

  “Huh.” Posey turned the prints this way and that, holding them down so the headlights of his truck played over the glossy paper. “Okay. And just to make sure I’m up to speed, Lupe claims he shot the deer with a thirty-thirty.”

  “Yep.”

  “These are all filed away in an evidence bag for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “But we don’t really care about the deer, do we?” He grimaced. “Listen to me saying that. But that’s the direction this is all going. If Lupe shot the deer the way he says he did during season, and has a tag for it, then that’s that. I guess based on this evidence, I could write him a ticket for use of an illegal gun, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Anyway, let’s clear this up and I can go home to my imaginary wife and kids.”

  “He didn’t take it with one shot through the heart with a thirty-thirty, guaranteed,” Torrez said. “You ready?”

  “Let’s wake people up,” Estelle replied.

  Lupe Gabaldon didn’t need waking. He stood on the small front porch of his home, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other. He watched the three vehicles maneuver for a spot to park, with Torrez nosing his pickup into the Suarez’ driveway across the lane.

  “You want some coffee?” he greeted, lifting his cup.

  “Is Flora up and at ’em?” Lieutenant Posey asked.

  “Oh, long since,” Lupe said. “She went over to have breakfast with Betty. One of their Christmas morning traditions after Betty’s husband died.” He pointed at Torrez with his cup. “When Bobby here called me last night and said he wanted to stop by this early in the morning…” He didn’t finish the thought, but instead said, “Two old maids together on Christmas morning.” He chuckled. “You need to talk with her too?”

  “Maybe. But if she was in bed, I didn’t want to disturb her.”

  “Oh, no. She’s down the road. Come on in.” He held the door for the trio. The adobe was snug and fragrant, the woodstove on the west wall alive with a bright fire.

  “Why don’t you sit here?” Lupe touched Estelle’s elbow and indicated a slender, straight-backed chair near the kitchen door. “If Bobby sits on it, he’ll break it.” He turned to Torrez. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mr. Lieutenant?”

  “Absolutely,” Posey said. “Black, please.”

  Estelle’s gaze roamed the room, taking in the impressive collection of carved creatures. Lupe returned with two mugs filled, and saw Estelle examining one of the carvings, a museum-quality rendition of a cow elk with twins in trail.

  “That’s the work of one of the Diaz boys. Juan, the youngest boy. He did that.” He pointed across the room at a mountain lion creeping down a snag. “That’s one of Roberto’s.” He looked back at Estelle. “You know them all, I guess. The Diaz boys?”

  “Certainly. They’re a talented family.”

  Lupe sighed with satisfaction. “I go down there, maybe once a month, to see what they have. Sometimes I’m lucky. They sell fast, you know. If I don’t get there first…”

  Sheriff Torrez, growing impatient with small talk, rapped the manila folder of photographs against his thigh. “We got to talk about your deer, Lupe.”

  “Well, okay.” The old man looked expectant, but not the least bit apprehensive or worried.

  “What day did you bag him?” Posey asked.

  “I got to think about that.” He moved to the old sofa and sank down, careful not to spill his coffee. “What day did I tell you?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.” Posey grinned, at ease with having to hear the tall tales fishermen and hunters were so adept at spinning.

  “I think it was Thursday. Thursday in the afternoon. Not late. I’d say just about one o’clock.”

  “You hunt up around the water tank often, I imagine.”

  “Not so much now.” Lupe shrugged. “It’s a long hike and a steep hill.” He huffed a deep breath. “I was winded yesterday after that hike to see what you guys were doing up there.”

  “So how did it happen this time?”

  “How did what happen?”

  “You and the deer on Thursday.”

  “Oh. Well, I see them.” He pointed at the northeast window, past the carved mountain lion. “Right through here?” He pulled the sheer curtain. “You can see Betty’s roof. The Contreras place? And just up the hill a little ways is that old path, right where we were yesterday. Part of that path is in the open, but you know that, ’cause you hiked it too. Now, those darn deer, they just walk around here, you know? Like they own the place. I look out the window and see them moving through the trees, and I’m thinking, well now, this is easy.”

  “So you got your gun and stalked up there.”

  Lupe nodded proudly. “They all ran up through the rocks, but this little buck, he thinks he’s not afraid of anything.” He held his hands up high in front of his mouth, miming being sneaky. “I’m real quiet. And he lets me get close enough. I use the water tank for cover, sure. I keep it between me and him.”

  “So one shot with your trusty thirty-thirty and down he goes.” Posey looked impressed. “Right through the heart.”

  “That’s the way it was.”

  “Who helped you drag the carcass down?” Estelle asked, and Lupe looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  “I took my time. It took me three trips. He wasn’t so big, but then again,” and the corners of his eyes crinkled, “I’m a little older than I was.” Estelle felt uneasy, knowing that Lupe Gabaldon was inventing a different story than the one he’d spun up on the hillside. Had he forgotten?

  “Mr. Gabaldon, I need to see the license tag you filled out when you harvested the animal,” Posey said. “You have that handy?”

  “Sure I do.” He frowned. “I got to think where I put it.”

  “It’s supposed to be with the carcass.”

  “Then that’s where it is.” He pushed himself off the sofa with a loud cracking of joints, steadied himself, and pointed toward the kitchen. “You want a refill while I look?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Estelle watched him leave the room, imagining him hobbling up through the woods, trying to be both stealthy and sure on his feet. Torrez rose and followed him to the kitchen. “While you’re diggin’ in the freezer, find me the heart, Lupe. I need to see that.”

  “What, you’re checking for heartworm?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Torrez was actually amused.

 
Gabaldon muttered something further in response, but by then both men were out beyond the kitchen, headed toward the utility room.

  “Have you ever dealt with Lupe on game violations before?” Estelle asked Posey.

  “Never. I don’t think he hunts much anymore.” He looked heavenward. “Or didn’t until he had a chance at an easy kill.” He rose. “Let’s see what Bobby’s found.”

  The kitchen was pleasant, with a back door leading to a utility and mud room where the freezer was stored. The freezer’s contents were neatly wrapped and organized, and Lupe had to root for only a moment before he straightened up with a shoebox-sized package labeled “HT/Liv/12-18.”

  “You do your own butchering, Lupe?” Posey asked.

  “Well, sure I do. I use that little shed out back.” He handed the package to Torrez, then reached out to the inside lid of the chest-style freezer and peeled off a game tag. “And there’s that.” He handed the tag to Posey. Turning back to the freezer, he rummaged some more, and patted several smaller packages. “I like the sausage. I make a lot of that.”

  Torrez retreated to the kitchen and crossed to the counter by the sink. He unwrapped the package carefully, and at one point glanced at Estelle. “You got your camera?”

  “Sure.”

  He nodded and exposed the frozen organs. “A thirty-thirty makes a pretty good hole,” he said, and turned the frozen heart this way and that. “So, Lupe. Come here a minute.”

  The old man thudded the freezer lid down and made his way out to the kitchen. Torrez handed him an envelope. “That’s our warrant, Lupe. To search for and confiscate any illegal game you might have.”

  Gabaldon looked at the paper as if it might bite him. “A warrant?”

  “Yep. Keeps us fair and square.”

  “I don’t understand you sometimes. I invited you into my home. You want to dig through my freezer, you just go right ahead. You don’t need no damn warrant. And I don’t have no illegal game. You got the tag right there.”

  “’Preciate that.” Torrez retrieved the warrant, removed it from the manila envelope, and placed it on the counter. “So show me the bullet damage.”