Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  Estelle took a sip of tea and savored the complex flavors. “Al Fisher impresses me as the hunter in the group.”

  “Now his specialty is rattlesnakes, and more power to him, I say.”

  “Yuck,” Betty added. “Those nasty little green things. Mojave greens, I think they call them. He dries the skins and makes hat bands out of ’em. And every once in a while he gets one of those Western diamondbacks, the really big ones.” She shivered dramatically. “Big enough to make a belt for a fat lady.”

  “But not deer?”

  “Who, Al? Well, see—” Flora stopped, an action that was obviously hard for her.

  “He killed three greens on my little back patio last summer,” Betty interrupted. “Three. They scare me to death.”

  “But not deer? He doesn’t hunt deer?”

  “I think he hunts anything that moves,” Betty said. “I see him with that little gun of his, hiking the hills. You know, on a couple of occasions, I’ve given him a lift home. He’ll hike up to the pass, and sometimes he’d walk back along the road. If I see him, I’d always stop. Hiking up to the pass is one heck of a deal.” She grimaced at the memory. “One time I picked him up, he had that darn canvas bag with him. That’s the way he carries the snakes, you know. They’re all dead, of course, but still…yuck.”

  “Flora, did Al shoot this most recent deer? The one taken up by the water tank? The one that Lupe butchered and wrapped?”

  Flora didn’t hesitate a heartbeat, and Estelle had the impression that the woman knew the question was coming. “What did Lupe tell you guys?”

  “He said he shot it with his thirty-thirty. That obviously isn’t the case.”

  “I would think,” Flora said slowly, measuring each word, “that you people would put more energy into dealing with Connie Suarez’ death than worrying about who shot or didn’t shoot one sorry little deer.”

  “Exactly,” Estelle said. “Just between you and me,” and she saw the light of anticipation in both women’s eyes, “we have ample evidence that more went on up at that water tank than a simple case of deer poaching.” She shrugged. “Al bags a tempting deer, and asks your husband to use his license tag and then butcher and wrap the meat. That’s simple enough, and it’s no big deal, at least to me. And I’m not investigating that. We’re working on Myron Fitzwater’s disappearance. Flora, that may very well be tied with Connie Suarez’ death.”

  “So you do think Myron might be responsible?” Betty asked.

  “Now I thought that Connie killed herself,” Flora said. “It’s hard to believe, I know.”

  “It is hard to believe,” Estelle echoed.

  “Right on the heels of Al’s brother? Now, he was just down here on Friday, I know. We saw his truck over at Al’s. And then all this.” She shook her head sadly. “Young people these days.”

  “Did Al bring the deer carcass over to Lupe’s by himself, or did his brother help him?”

  “I just don’t know,” Flora said. “I was busy over at Isabel Apodaca’s most of that day. She and Maria and I were molding the last of the candles for the Christmas Eve mass.”

  “But you do know that Al shot the deer.”

  This time, Flora Gabaldon did hesitate before saying meekly, “Yes.”

  “And how do you know that, if you were busy over at Isabel’s?”

  “Lupe told me that evening, when I got home.”

  Betty reached over and took Estelle’s empty cup. “You’re thinking that there’s a connection, aren’t you? Between Darrell Fisher’s death and Connie’s.”

  “We’re investigating that.”

  “And Myron Fitzwater’s disappearance.”

  “Yes.”

  Betty Contreras’ face looked stern, the same expression she would have used to freeze a recalcitrant second-grader in his tracks. “And somehow Al is right in the middle of it. You know…” She paused to take a deep breath. “Al and Myron didn’t get along all that well. They certainly weren’t the best of buddies, I know that. I’d talk with Al now and then, and he didn’t have much good to say about young Mr. Fitzwater. I always thought that it was a jealousy thing, myself. Al had a fondness for Connie, I know that. Despite living under the same roof with the sweetest girl in the world, sometimes that’s not enough to stop a young man’s roving eye.”

  “Only that?”

  “Well, Myron had a way about him. You know how a young man who’s full of himself sort of struts? Myron loved working for the Forest Service, I’m sure. He liked driving that fancy truck; he didn’t have to wear a uniform, but he made his work clothes look sharp.”

  “He wore a gun from time to time?”

  “I’ve seen him with one.” Betty looked at Flora, who nodded. “I don’t think he was supposed to, but he did from time to time, especially if he was by himself.”

  “Can you tell me what time of day Al and Darrell visited Lupe and dropped off the deer carcass?”

  Flora shook her head. “Lupe could tell you, of course.” Or he could make up a good story, Estelle almost said. “Now, if I had to guess, I’d say sometime in late afternoon. Well, it was coming on to dark, so very late. I say that because when I left Isabel’s, it was five-thirty. I looked at the clock, and knew that Lupe would be getting antsy for his dinner. When I got home, he was just finishing up with the meat wrapping. When he does that, you know—when he butchers, he gets right to it. He keeps all his equipment spotless, and wants the game processed promptly.”

  Betty reached out and laid a slender hand on Estelle’s wrist. “And this is such an awful way for you to be spending Christmas Day. The youngsters are able to visit?”

  “Yes, both of them. That’s where I’m heading right now.”

  “Well, yes. Don’t let us keep you. Maybe you’ll be able to bring them down for the ten o’clock service this morning.”

  “Unlikely, but you never know.” Estelle rose and extended a hand to Flora and then Betty. “If you happen to think of anything else that I should know, you’ll call?”

  The women nodded, and Estelle was sure what the topic of conversation would be after she left. The list of what they probably knew, but hadn’t told her, was most likely a lengthy one.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “Posey with you?” Al Fisher twisted to see past Estelle and Torrez.

  “Nope,” Torrez said, and let it go at that.

  “So Merry Christmas and all that. And yeah.” His smile was smug. “I shot that deer. And then gave it to Lupe and he put his tag on it. He can’t hunt no more, so there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “Sort of like a designated hitter,” Torrez said.

  Al laughed. “That’s a good one. But yeah, that’s the way it is. Exactly.”

  “You own a twenty-two rifle?”

  “Sure I own one. That’s what I shot the deer with. Lupe, he was just playing with your minds, you know. Havin’ some fun. He’s quite the storyteller.”

  “You’re quite the snake hunter, too, I’m hearing,” Estelle offered, and Al’s eyes squinted momentarily. “Is that just another village story, too?”

  “I done my share.”

  “You get a good price for the skins?”

  “Good enough. So what was it you guys wanted, anyways?”

  “I’d like to see that rifle, Mr. Fisher,” Torrez said.

  “Well, Mister Sheriff, you can, easy enough, but aren’t you supposed to have a warrant? I mean, this is my home. You can’t just barge in and take stuff.”

  Torrez frowned and looked at his surroundings. He was standing on the stone front porch of the modest home tucked among the boulders. “Barge in? What’d I miss?”

  “You know what I mean,” Al Fisher puffed. By standing on the top step, he could look eye to eye with Torrez.

  “Suit yourself, then. A deputy will be here with a warrant within the hour,” T
orrez said. “I just thought I’d save us some time. I’m just curious, is all. A triple tap like you used on that deer is pretty darn good marksmanship.”

  “Well, at twenty-five feet and with a scope, it ain’t hard, guy.”

  “A few game law violations, though. A twenty-two ain’t legal for deer, even if you had a license…which you didn’t.”

  “You enforcing game laws now, Sheriff?”

  “Can, if need be.”

  Al Fisher laughed again, a short knowing chuckle, as he shook his head. “You’re somethin’ else, guy.”

  “So you shot the deer on Friday, were up half the night with your brother and little nephew, then turned around and went pig hunting on Saturday,” Estelle said.

  “So? Winter’s comin’ on. It’d be nice to have something in the pantry, don’t you think? Or are you guys taking on the feral pig controversy over in Texas now, too?”

  “When you got the pig, why didn’t you take that carcass over to Lupe for processing, too?”

  Fisher’s eyes narrowed again, an odd, not especially attractive quirk, Estelle thought.

  “Carcass is too heavy for Lupe,” he said. “A little deer cut into quarters is one thing—and I tell you, he ain’t going to be able to do that much longer, either. Pig’s too big, too much of a struggle for him.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  “Yeah, well.” He sighed and looked behind him, back into the house. “Tell you what, me being the thoughtful person that you think I am…if I show you that little gun, then you can go away and have a Merry Christmas? Hell of an overtime bill you’re rackin’ up.” Torrez said nothing in response to that jibe, and after a moment, Al nodded. “Hang tight a minute.”

  Torrez glanced at his watch, and sure enough, it was scarcely a minute before Al Fisher returned, a plastic rifle case under his arm. “Come on in for a minute.” He held the door for them, then entered and rested the case on the arms of a rocker near the door. He snapped it open.

  “I put this one together, and I gotta admit, I’m kinda proud of it.” He lifted it gently out of the case, removed the long magazine that was heavy with ammo, and racked back the bolt, popping a round out of the chamber. He handed the rifle to Torrez, who examined it from one end to the other.

  “You do the stock work?” The sheriff slid his hand into place, thumb comfortable through the thumbhole stock.

  “Yes, sir. It’ll be a little short for you.”

  Lowering the rifle, Torrez examined the muzzle, where half an inch of fine threads capped the barrel.

  “Suppressor?”

  “Could be, someday. I ain’t got one now.” He grinned. “That would be another law to bust, am I right?”

  “Be patient, and before long, they’ll be legal anyway,” the sheriff said.

  He handed the rifle back and watched silently as Al put it back in the case. “Walk up to the tank with us?”

  “Up the hill again?” He shrugged. “Sure, why not? But what for?”

  “I got a few questions, a couple things to clear up.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Lemme get my jacket and leave a note for Maria.” He ducked back into the house.

  “You have time for this?”

  “I think it’s better if we both go.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t really trust him. Not even a little bit.”

  The route Al Fisher took up to the water tank was a challenge. They cut up into the rocks just west of Suarez’ mobile home, and he zigzagged this way and that until they broke into the small clearing with the tank to the east. Pausing on the flat, Estelle sucked in deep lungfuls, trying to get her breath back. Torrez, half a dozen years older and now carrying some extra weight, thanks to his wife’s bountiful cooking, still breathed as if he’d taken a short stroll on a level sidewalk.

  “Now you know why Lupe don’t hunt much anymore. ’Course, the dumb deer come right into the village, so who needs to chase ’em up here?”

  “But you did,” Estelle managed between breaths.

  “I was comin’ up here anyways. That’s why I had that twenty-two. If I’d been deer hunting for real, I’d have had the 308.”

  “Why did you come up here?”

  “I wanted to check on the tank. Actually, I wanted to check on the valve. When Lupe put it in, he put in about the cheapest discount store junk he could find. It’s leaked since day one. I was going to get a good one, but I couldn’t remember what size the stem was comin’ out of the bottom of the tank. It’s a jerry-rigged piece of shit. Actually,” and he grinned, pleased with himself, “it’s a Lupe-rigged piece of shit. Lemme show you.”

  They skirted the tank, and he stopped and pointed at the wooden valve box. “The guts are in here.” He lifted the lid and with a stick raked away the black widow cobwebs. The glossy black widow huddled in one corner. Al pointed at the black nylon bulkhead that projected from the bottom of the tank. “See, that bulkhead’s two inches. And then it steps down, like twice more, until it joins up with the three-quarter-inch line that runs down the hill. That,” and he reached out with the stick, “is a three-quarter-inch valve, a little dinky thing. And he’s got it threaded onto a coupling, rather than just glued. One thing and another. So it leaks.” He bent down and stroked under the valve, and held up a wet finger. “Only thing it’ll do is get worse.”

  His face fell, sadness pulling the corners of his mouth down. “Darrell was going to help me with this, but he didn’t come down early enough on Friday afternoon. He’s got…he had…all kinds of fixtures, valves, and that kind of shit.” He shook his head in bewilderment and sat down with a spine-jarring thud, as if someone had pulled his legs out from under him. “I just don’t believe it. What he did, I mean. And I ain’t ashamed to say it…what Penny probably drove him to do.”

  “You think that’s the way it was?”

  His accusatory squint was immediate. “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

  “So where was the deer?”

  Al pushed himself to his feet, pushed the wooden lid back in place and took a step back, away from the plumbing. He leaned over, peering around the tank, mimicking his earlier hunting experience. “I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and here he comes, makin’ his way up the slope. I waited. See that double rock over there? That’s where he stopped. The wind was right, I guess, ’cause he hadn’t smelled me. I was pressed up against the tank, kinda thinking that maybe I shouldn’t take the shot, and then again, maybe I should.” He grinned crookedly. “The shoulds won out.”

  “So you shot right from here.”

  “Yep. Eased the gun up, then eased around the tank in slow motion. Bam, bam, bam, just like that.” He snapped his fingers three times. “And down he went. I field-dressed him right over there, and scattered the guts and stuff. He wasn’t some big old stud, and gettin’ the carcass down the hill wasn’t a big deal. Lupe was surprised.”

  “Lupe was?”

  “Yeah. He knew I didn’t have no license, and he knew usin’ a twenty-two was illegal. But he helped me anyways.”

  “So what time did you pull the trigger?”

  Al laughed. “Like I punch in with a time card, right?”

  “About what time?” Torrez asked patiently.

  “Probably about four o’clock or so. It wasn’t gettin’ dark quite yet, but by the time I field-dressed the carcass, even workin’ fast, the cold was settin’ in and it sure as hell looked like it might snow. So, yeah, about four.”

  “And what time did Myron Fitzwater show up?” Torrez asked.

  Al Fisher looked as if he’d been struck. “Huh?”

  “Fitzwater. With the Forest Service.”

  “I know who he is. What do you mean what time did he show up?”

  Torrez’ “lizard” stare locked on Al Fisher, the sheriff’s heavy-lidded eyes unblinking, not a trace of expression on his face. “He came up he
re and found you cuttin’ up the deer.”

  Al’s mouth opened in company with a frown. “You’ve been smokin’ that funny tobacco, Sheriff. Fitzwater was shoutin’ down at the trailer, arguing with Connie, is my guess. But he didn’t come up here. Not while I was here, leastways. Who told you that zinger?”

  “Traces of his blood says he did.”

  “His blood? On what?”

  “On the staff that probably cracked his skull.”

  Al Fisher’s face wrinkled up as if he’d smelled something rank. “Well, then, you can just go that route. Me, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You want to get me excited into saying something I shouldn’t, you’ll have to do a whole lot better than that.” He turned to look at Estelle. “Do you know what your friend here is talkin’ about?”

  “You’re a clever guy, Al,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Yeah, I illegally shot a deer. I gave it to Lupe. He used his tag. So what? You’re not turnin’ that into some big deal that it ain’t.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve had enough of this.” He held up an index finger, not quite close enough to be threatening. “And next time you guys come to my house, bring a warrant. Otherwise, I ain’t talkin’ to you. Same goes for Posey. You tell him that for me.”

  He turned his back on them like a petulant child and strode off down the hill, shoulders raked back as if he were right and the rest of the world was wrong. He took the direct line down through the rocks that would take him first to Suarez’ backyard before a jog over to his own home.

  “That’s what I thought,” Torrez said. “It ain’t easy gettin’ the truth out of that pup,” he said to Estelle. “I wanted to see what route he’d take down the hill if I got him riled enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “Hey, you’ve had fifteen minutes. How much more time at home did you want?”

  “I didn’t mean to groan audibly,” Estelle said. “But actually I did. The kids are down in Tres Santos with Padrino. I wanted to be here when they return. But go ahead. What did Mears say?”