One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what are your druthers for the rest of the afternoon? I plan to keep slugging along, and you’re welcome to stick it out to the bitter end. I want to talk with the widow again, and then I’ll need to refuel. That’s the schedule.”

  “I’m fine, sir. I have a couple of things I need to get done before five, but otherwise, I’d like to see where all this is heading.”

  I grinned. “So would I. Let’s sit down with Marilyn Zipoli for a few minutes.” I rested my hand on the personnel folder. “She’s not going to be thrilled with any of this.”

  “It’s hard to imagine that she wouldn’t know about the drinking.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Marilyn Zipoli did not want to talk with us. We were a hundred yards away when she saw our county car approaching, and she wrapped up her sidewalk conversation with another woman abruptly. I saw her reach out a hand and touch her companion on the elbow, turning at the same time toward the house as if she’d heard the telephone imperative. The other woman said something, and morphed Marilyn’s touch into a hug. They separated, and the woman crossed the street, heading for the house where the old yellow dog guarded the patch of shade by the garage. With an economy of motion, the woman stooped to pick up something on the sidewalk that offended her sense of tidiness, and entered the house.

  Marilyn knew we were approaching-you can’t disguise the squat, light-bar-decorated profile of a police car, after all. And she could guess that we might want to talk with her. Perhaps she even had a question or two for me. But by the time we pulled to a stop at the curb, it seemed to me that the neighborhood had drawn in on itself.

  If Marilyn Zipoli was in no mood to deal with us, I can’t say that I blamed her. We’d chosen a good time-the curb was empty of visitors, with only the daughter’s little Honda in the driveway. Marilyn would be starting to feel the weight of the day, and the dreaded approach of another sleepless night. We wouldn’t help bringing in all the dirt.

  There were a myriad ways to offend her by being overly blunt or pushy-or even obsequious. We didn’t need a hostile widow on our hands.

  I fussed with junk that littered my rolling office, and Estelle Reyes waited patiently. Her hand had strayed to the door handle, though, so I knew that she waited.

  “I’d be willing to bet a week’s pay that Marilyn Zipoli is inside, watching us through the curtains,” I said. “We want her to think that there’s something specific that we’re after, something specific that you and I have to discuss before getting out of the car. If there’s some reason, however obscure, that our visit might put her on edge, we want to add to that tension.” I smiled at my companion. “However innocently. What we don’t want is for her to clam up. We don’t want to make an enemy of her. That doesn’t accomplish anything. All it does is force us to take the long way around.”

  “And if she’s completely innocent of any…” Estelle paused, searching for just the right word. “Any nefarious designs, then what?”

  I chuckled. “‘Nefarious designs.’ I like that. Estelle, I have every confidence that Marilyn Zipoli had nothing to do with her husband’s death. She didn’t hire a hit man. If we’d found him slumped in his truck, a bullet behind the ear, maybe I’d think differently. But not this way. So, that being the case…if everything in the Zipoli household is pure as the driven snow…then she isn’t watching us through the curtains at this very moment. She has no reason to avoid us.”

  With a vigorous pull on the steering wheel to help launch my mass upward off the soft seat and out of the car, I almost beat Ms. Reyes to the pavement. Almost. As I rounded the left front fender to join her on the sidewalk, I said, “You see?”

  “Yes, sir. She was at the south window.”

  “Unless their dog or cat stroked the curtain.”

  “A dog would be barking, and a cat wouldn’t bother.”

  I smiled at that. As I stepped up onto the first concrete riser leading to the front door, I glanced at Estelle again. “It’s nice to be as welcome as the plague.” I pushed the doorbell, and heard no response from inside. I pushed it again, and that time heard footsteps padding toward us.

  Marilyn opened the door wide, the way folks used to living in a small town do, rather than to the narrow little security slit favored by folks nervous about home invasions.

  “Oh, hi.” She didn’t add the it’s only you that her tone implied. She gave the screen door a push, enough for me to grab it easily. “Come on in. I’m right in the middle…” She waved a loose-wristed hand by way of explanation.

  “We’re sorry to intrude,” I said.

  “You do what you have to do, sheriff. I’m trying to deal with things that I just don’t understand. Even my know-it-all neighbor across the street isn’t of any help.” She left us in the foyer with that comment, and walked off toward the living room. We could follow or not-who the hell cared. I carried Larry Zipoli’s personnel folder, his records now encapsulated in one of our large manila envelopes-the legal kind with the string that winds around the closure doohickey. I hadn’t decided how much to show Marilyn, if any.

  Marilyn walked across to the impressive dining room table, a six place set now pressed into service as a cluttered office. She picked up a sheaf of papers and held them out to me. Even without my glasses, I could read the black, somber logo for Salazar and Sons-the oldest and now only funeral home in Posadas. The page included an unctuous paragraph or two about final parting, perfect ceremony, and lots of talk about “loved ones” and “memories.” Nowhere did it discuss the ramifications of having a hole blown through one’s skull while sitting in a county road grader. The rest of the document appeared to be a contract and listing of services-the cold, hard economics of death.

  “In the first place,” she said, and I could hear the anger in her tone, “I’ve known Art Salazar for years, sheriff. Just years. I’ve handled his accounts at the bank, I’ve…well, you know. This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

  She picked up another folded document and handed it to me. Estate Planning and You was printed on top. The glossy folder was a handy guide for preplanning the disposition of a body when its owner had no further use for it. Inside were several photos meant, I suppose, to be soothing. I was just too cynical to understand why photos of wooded glades with muted sunlight should make me feel better about shuffling off my mortal coil, or the coils of those nearest and dearest to me. Would my relatives head for the forest to chat with my ghost?

  “Maybe you can explain this to me,” the widow said. “If you looked at that, what would you think?”

  I skimmed the preplanning folder. Simple questions with blanks thoughtfully provided for the answers outlined the mortal one’s wishes, and in this case, it appeared that Larry Zipoli himself had filled in the answers. “None,” his blocky printing declared under preferred religious services. Cremation was checked, with ashes returned to family. Perhaps Larry wanted to rest on the mantle, his ashes participating in family gatherings. After preferred memorial service, he’d printed, a bit impatiently, “Whatever they want to do. Won’t matter to me.” What a touching sentiment.

  The third page of the folder nailed the nitty-gritty of this process. Total cost estimated for services had prompted a flurry of printing, the ball-point pen pressed hard into the heavy stock paper. “Cremation services, $679.95.” He’d checked the cost somewhere, or been offered a bid. Below that, he’d added, just in case there might be some shade of misunderstanding in the grief of the moment, “No other services. No embalming. No good wood to be wasted. No broke ground. No memorial stone no where.”

  No, no, no. Larry Zipoli made it clear-when it’s over, it’s over. He had signed and dated it two years previously. End of argument.

  “He knew his mind,” I said gently. That didn’t assuage Marilyn much. The anger still flamed her cheeks, at the same time simmering the tears that gathered. “You were okay with this?”

  “We talked about it back when Larry was facing his
gall-bladder surgery, sheriff. We both knew how dangerous that can be, especially with someone whose weight is over the top like Larry’s was. I got the forms from Mr. Salazar, and managed to corral Larry long enough so he would jot down some answers.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know. It’s hard to take something like this seriously. And I can tell you right up front, Larry didn’t take it very seriously. But the whole process gave him the willies. I know that. The last thing he wanted was to be embalmed, Sheriff. He thought that was one of the most repulsive, pointless things.”

  “Most of us don’t,” I said. “Take it seriously, I mean. We leave relatives to clean up after us.”

  “And what a mess.” She waved the document. “And none of this makes it any easier. Look, I know that he didn’t want anything to do with a church service, or with any of that stuff. That’s what he called it. ‘Any of that stuff.’ Larry wanted his ashes scattered,” she said. “You know what all this reminds me of?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember that article about the car dealership up north? They’d take the customer’s car keys-the keys for the trade in? They’d take them and not return them until the sale was made. Make the customer a captive audience. That’s what this reminds me of. They have my husband’s…” she paused and shook out a ragged sigh. “They have my husband’s body because that’s where the hospital sent it.”

  “I’m sure Art will work with you.”

  “Yes, he will.” The determination in Marilyn’s voice was hard. “And that’s what I’ll do. Larry loved the Butte, so that’s where he’ll go.” She referred to Elephant Butte, the enormous lake that puddled the Rio Grande over by Truth or Consequences.

  “Fair enough.” I handed the preplan back to her. I noticed that it had been signed by her husband in November two years previous. I’ve always thought of November as a dark month-an appropriate time of the year for such sober thoughts. Things have to be damn sober to sit down and preplan the end of days.

  Marilyn didn’t bother wiping away the tears that coursed down her face. I could remember my own grandmother, a spare, hard-limbed old lady, saying to me after my childish blubbering was over and I had subsided into silent, persistent tears, “Billy, your eyes be leakin’.” That was the case with Marilyn this time. No heaved sighs, no shaking voice, no huffing as she tried to catch her breath. Just leaking eyes.

  Marilyn handed me the letter, the contract thoughtfully prepared by Salazar and Sons. “Now, this is what reminds me of the car dealer, Sheriff.”

  Cutting to the chase, I flipped to the last page. Total Services included an impressive figure well over twelve thousand dollars, including a 1 °C Sealtite coffin for more than four grand. A plot in Posadas Memorial Park took another chunk, with various other charges tacked on for this and that…even grave closure for $645.00. I was sure that Louis Trenton, who operated the backhoe at the cemetery, didn’t pocket that.

  “Now,” Marilyn said again. “You’re a detective. You tell me how we get from this,” and she shook the preplanning folder sharply, “to that.” She waited expectantly.

  “Did you discuss this with Salazars?” None of this was within my province as undersheriff of Posadas County, but if Marilyn churned up enough rage at Art Salazar to shoot him through the eyebrow, it would be.

  “Discuss? No, I didn’t discuss it.” This time, she sucked in a deep breath. “The body was taken to Salazar’s after the PM, sheriff. Directly from the hospital. They asked, and I said, of course. Salazar’s. Where else? They’re the only game in town. Now, I know that I have to pay for that transportation, and I’m sure I’ll be stuck for some outrageous figure that Larry’s insurance won’t pay. I called Salazar’s to make an appointment to talk about arrangements, but Mr. Salazar said it would be easier for him to put together a preliminary package-that’s what he called it-and bring it over to the house. I could look through it, and let him know. I mean, what’s he doing…testing the waters?”

  “Don’t people usually have to select a coffin and stuff like that?”

  “Oh,” and she turned to glare at the table. “There’s another brochure about them, too. Anyway, Mr. Salazar came to the house a little while ago and left this for me. Does he really think I’ll agree to this?”

  “I don’t know what he thinks,” I said. “As a businessman, I suppose it’s to his advantage to encourage some rethinking of the final process.”

  Marilyn glared at me-well, through me-for a moment. Her gaze shifted to regard the silent Estelle Reyes, and what that young lady thought was anyone’s guess.

  “I want what Larry wanted,” Marilyn said softly. “That’s all. It has nothing to do with money at this point. I don’t happen to have ten or twelve thousand dollars lying around the house, but I suppose I could get it. That’s not the point. I know what Larry wanted. You know, I don’t think anyone is ever prepared for this kind of earthquake, sheriff. None of us are going to die until we’re a hundred and two. But that preplanning thing was serious. What he put on that form is what he wanted. Only that.”

  “So that’s what he gets,” I said. “It’s as simple as Nicky Chavez here in Posadas trying his best to sell you a car. You want the basic model, but it’s to his advantage to show you the luxury model, making you think that you’ll feel better in the long run.”

  “Will I? Will I feel better?”

  “No. You’re not going to feel better for a very long time.”

  Her face softened, and she took a moment to mop up the tears. “I’ve always liked talking with you,” she said. “The unvarnished truth. You went through this with your wife, didn’t you.”

  “Yes.” Accident or crime, no matter how the loss occurs, the questions linger.

  She waited for a second or two to see if I’d elaborate, and when I stuck with unvarnished, she added, “They make me feel as if I’m somehow faulting my husband’s memory by following his wishes.” Marilyn laughed forlornly. “What the hell,” she whispered and turned her back to us, still mopping her eyes. “You didn’t stop by to listen to all my woes. What do you need to know?” She nodded at the envelope I held but didn’t ask or reach for it. “The neighbors all have questions that they’re afraid to ask. I can see it on their faces.”

  I needed to know who fired the bullet through Larry Zipoli’s skull, but that didn’t seem an appropriate question just then.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Would you like to sit down?” With a last disgusted look at the colorful and soothing brochures from Salazar and Sons, Marilyn Zipoli gestured toward the living room set-one of those matched things that sits empty most of the time waiting for a guest. I settled on the sofa and heard the wheeze of escaping air, I hoped from the cushion. Estelle settled like a graceful feather in one of the singles while Marilyn tried to make herself comfortable on the opposite end of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap.

  “What have you found out?” There was no eagerness in her question, just resignation.

  “We’re closing in on a scenario,” I said. Marilyn’s eyebrows twitched. “We have a witness or two who heard the shot, and who might have seen something.”

  “Something.”

  “And that’s about as concretely vague as I can be just now.” I held both hands out palm to palm, forearm holding the envelope on my thigh. “I spoke with Jim Raught earlier.” She didn’t respond. “I have to tell you, Marilyn, nothing in his attitude, nothing he said, leads me to believe that he might have anything to do with your husband’s death. His version of the fence deal was that the whole thing was petty.”

  She drew in a long, slow breath.

  “And it is Virginia Creeper, by the way.”

  “Oh, I know it is,” she snapped. “For heaven’s sakes.”

  “What actually happened with the fence?”

  “What do you mean, what actually happened?”

  “You said they argued over it, that Raught pulled it out of the ground. That eventually he threw it in the dumpster out in the alley. That’s not
what he said.”

  “The fence, the fence…” She looked heavenward.

  “So…what’s the deal?”

  There seemed to be something fascinating about the wadded up tissue in her hand, since that’s what she stared at for a long moment. “I would think it would be more important to find my husband’s killer than to worry about a stupid little fence.”

  “Amen to that. We spent a good chunk of time interviewing Jim Raught based on what you told us, Marilyn. And you know as well as I do that it isn’t the fence that concerns us. If the two gentlemen had called us to settle a property line dispute, we would have done so. A deputy would have talked with them both, and arbitrated a solution.” I smiled a little. “Well, in the best of all possible worlds, that’s what would happen. So the fence doesn’t worry me. I’m interested in arguments that your husband might have had that could have led to this tragedy. Whether it’s fences, or Virginia Creeper, or tiffs with the boss at work-whatever it might be, it’s arguments that escalate that interest us.”

  “You’ve talked with Tony Pino?” She jumped at that opening to change the subject.

  “Sure.”

  “And?”

  “That’s one of the reasons we dropped by, Marilyn.” I rested my hand on the envelope. “Were you aware that your husband had nearly a dozen written reprimands for drinking on the job?” The soft friction of Estelle’s pencil on her notepad seemed inordinately loud in the silence that followed.