Estelle snapped open her briefcase and pulled the manila envelope out, then followed Betty inside the small house, past a porch littered with children’s toys, bikes, and a row of folding chairs stacked neatly against one wall.
“Grandchildren,” Betty said as she pushed open the door.
The thick adobe walls muffled the sound, and Estelle felt the atmosphere close in around her. The paint scheme was white with turquoise trim, the white so bright it appeared self-illuminated. A flotilla of inexpensive Mexican rugs protected the floor’s polish. Tiny windows, still reflecting the heritage when windows were gun ports first and sources of light and air only secondarily, were all lace curtained and closed.
“Come on into the kitchen,” Betty said. “Let’s see what goodies I can scare up.”
Just before the doorway, they passed a deep nicho where a crowded collection of framed photos was displayed. Estelle paused.
“Nineteen is the answer,” Betty called. “That’s the grand total of grandchildren…so far. And six great-grandchildren. Sometimes when everyone is here visiting, I’m sure I’ll go nutzo. That’s why I take so many walks.” A clank and clatter were followed by the sound of running water. “Plain tea is your favorite, as I remember?”
“It is. Thank you.” Estelle stepped into the kitchen, and Betty saw the envelope for the first time.
“Whatcha got?”
“I wanted to show you a photo, if you’d be willing.”
“Is this one of those ghastly things?”
“Well, sort of. Yes.” Estelle pulled out the eight-by-ten of Christopher Marsh, not such a bad portrait after all, considering how a tumbling truck had rearranged his body parts.
“Oh, yuck,” Betty said, sounding exactly like the elementary school teacher that she had been for thirty years. “Is this the driver of that little truck that crashed up on the pass? I heard about that.”
“Yes. His name is Christopher Marsh.”
“Oh my. So young, too.”
“Twenty-one.”
“He wasn’t from around Posadas, was he?”
“We think Las Cruces.”
Betty took one last look, grimaced, and handed the photo back to Estelle. “Do we know what happened yet?”
“It appears that he swerved to avoid a deer, Betty.”
“They need a fence, or something, along that stretch of highway. I mean, it’s just lethal. I’ve come close to collecting Bambi any number of times…and not always when I’m in a car.”
Estelle drew out another photo, this one of the truck. She slid it across the table. “Had you seen this vehicle around the village in the past few days?”
Betty took the photo and scrutinized it carefully. “Is this…Well, no, it’s hard to tell.…This looks like it might belong to one of those parcel delivery outfits.”
Their eyes met and Estelle let Betty mull over what she had said. It took a moment to ascertain that the crushed vehicle in the photo was a truck, rather than a car or SUV, yet something had jarred Betty’s memory.
“It’s a Chevy S-ten pickup,” Estelle said. “This torn metal here was a matching white camper shell. Do you recall seeing a truck like that around the village in the past day or two?”
“I think so.” Betty bent forward, leaning on her clasped hands, looking hard at the photograph that rested on the table in front of her. “They’re around all the time, you know. More often UPS, though. Who drives these little white ones? Is that FedEx?”
“Not in this case,” Estelle said.
“What’s the other one? I’m trying to recall. And yes, I think I saw him.” She tapped the picture. “I’m quite sure…I can’t be positive, of course…that this might be the truck that came with Joe and Lucinda’s sweepstakes prize.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Joe and Lucinda Baca?” the undersheriff asked. “You mean when they won the state lottery?”
“Oh, that’s ancient history,” Betty said. “My goodness, when was that, in November? No…they won this sweepstakes thing just a bit ago. In fact, they won twice, of all things. And they weren’t the only ones.” She got up as the teakettle started to whistle. “I have some of that Chinese white pear tea,” she said. “How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.”
After selecting a pair of thin porcelain mugs from a corner cabinet, the older woman concentrated on serving the tea. Estelle watched her, enjoying the fragrance that swept up from the boiling water.
“Now, I have chocolate-chip, and I have butter pecan sandies, and I have fresh banana bread.” The list was presented not as a choice but as a fait accompli, and Estelle watched with amusement as Betty loaded a Mexican stoneware platter with the baked goodies. Small wonder that Bill Gastner thought so highly of the Contrerases.
“I didn’t hear about this latest sweepstakes,” Estelle said. Curious for Frank Dayan to miss that one, she thought.
“Oh my, we’ve had a run, you know. Such good fortune. Twice now. I think someone’s computer has a glitch. That’s my theory, but of course I keep that to myself. Have a cookie.”
“And the truck? How was that involved?”
“Oh, the truck. Well, it’s my understanding that to collect the sweepstakes check, there’s a small charge, sort of like COD? I know that Serafina Roybal won a small amount, even before Joe and Lucinda did. It’s some sweepstakes from Canada. Calgary, I think. But she won a little bit, and then won again. See, that’s why I think that there’s a computer glitch of some sort.”
“So she won twice as well?” Estelle asked. She knew Serafina Roybal even better than she knew Betty, although she saw the elderly woman less frequently. Serafina, now a wrinkled, stooped widow, had taken the sixteen-year-old Estelle Reyes under her wing at Posadas High School, easing the girl’s transition into American culture in speech and drama classes and smoothing and extending her language skills in Spanish.
“She did indeed,” Betty said. “When the prize check comes, you have to pay the duty, and the taxes, and there’s something else.…” She fell silent, gazing at the pile of goodies. “What did Serafina tell me, now.” She brightened. “Ah…the exchange rate. That was it. Because the sweepstakes originates in Canada.” She held up both hands. “You have to pay the piper,” she added.
“She…Serafina…paid who, then?”
“Well, she paid via the delivery company. That’s how she knew that it was legitimate, you see.”
No, I don’t see, Estelle wanted to say. “Like if you order something COD, you pay the driver?”
“Yes. That’s exactly right. They have those electronic pad gadgets that you sign with the stylus?” Betty made a writing motion over her left palm. “And I suppose that’s part of the fee, too.”
“Do you know how much she paid?”
“I have no idea. It wasn’t all that much. But for it to happen twice, and within the space of just a couple of weeks…that’s what makes me think someone’s computer is all jazzed up.”
“You were saying that Joe and Lucinda won. They entered the same sweepstakes?”
“Yes,” Betty said, looking skeptical. “And that’s what really made me think someone better check their software. They had already won the state thing, and wasn’t that something?”
“I heard about that one,” Estelle agreed. Frank Dayan had heard about it as well, since the publicity that fell on state winners’ heads was automatic. “I don’t remember how much it was for.”
“One hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” Betty said with satisfaction. “One more number and they would have been millionaires. Just imagine that.” She took a bite of a chocolate-chip cookie. “Not that one hundred and sixty thousand is something to sneeze at. I think that they collected a check for about one thirty something after taxes were taken out.”
“And then they won the Canadian game, too?”
“Twice. Just like Serafina. When that delivery service brought the first check, the driver told them that it wasn’t unusual for someone to win more than o
nce. Serafina told me that. Apparently, once a number tricks the computer, then it’s more apt to do it again. That’s how he explained it.”
And how would a delivery driver know that, Estelle thought. “So they paid him some amount of money, and collected their winnings?”
“It’s-” Betty stopped, staring down into her tea, trying to stir the memory. “Oh, you’d have to ask them. It seems to me that Lucinda told me that they had to pay the percentage, but I can’t remember the amount.”
“They wrote a check for that amount, then? Some percentage of the prize?”
“Yes. That’s the way I understand it, but this is all secondhand, and I may just have everything all tied in a knot. I think that they paid the delivery service, just like a COD, and then they received their check. Right then and there. And sure enough. Twice. I wanted to ask Lucinda how much she and Joe won the second time, but I decided not to be a busybody.” She saw the ghost of a smile twitch the corners of Estelle’s mouth. “I know, I know,” she laughed. “But it was a lot more the second time.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Well, just a few days. I mean, the check was supposed to arrive like last Monday or some such? There was some holdup, and then I think it actually ended up coming this week sometime. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. This past Wednesday?”
“Such fortune,” Estelle said. She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the low-ceilinged kitchen. “I wonder how they found out that they’d won?”
“Some notification came in the mail, I think.” Betty shrugged. “You know how those things are always popping up. Most of the time it’s junk. But not this time. It’s got the rest of us checking our mail a whole lot more carefully, let me tell you.”
“And not the Nigerian scam thing,” Estelle observed.
“Oh, no,” Betty said quickly. “The winnings are very, very real. You just ask Serafina or Lucinda, Estelle. There’s no complaint from them. It isn’t one of those scams where they talk you into sending your money away in the hopes of winning some big super-pot. No, no.” She made a seesaw motion with both hands. “You pay a little bit to cover taxes and the Canadian exchange rate, and then the Post Office hands you your check. That’s how I understand it.”
“Not the Post Office, though.”
“Well, no. It’s one of the parcel services. But the same idea. How about some more tea?”
“That would be wonderful.” She didn’t say that the aroma of fresh tea might mask the thick stench of rotting fish. A small window of possibility opened in her mind. There might be good reason why someone would rifle through the wreckage of the crashed truck-even Christopher Marsh’s pockets. Someone knew exactly what to look for.
From there it was a simple step to understanding why that same person might want to make sure that young Mr. Marsh would be in no condition to talk to rescuers. In all likelihood, the wreck, an unlucky turn of events, had prompted this particular falling-out among thieves.
When Betty Contreras was once more seated, Estelle reached out and rested her hand on the manila envelope once more. “I need to ask a favor,” she said.
“Anything. You know that.”
Estelle opened the envelope and drew out the photo of the young woodcutter. He appeared to be sleeping, leaning against the juniper, eyes not quite closed. His face drew the first glance, and it was only a second look that took in the ocean of blood that had pumped from his torn leg and soaked his trousers, his clutching hands, and the ground where he sat.
“I need to know about this young man,” Estelle said quietly, and handed the photo to Betty.
A series of emotions slipped across Betty Contreras’ face, preceded by a little backward jerk of her head that spoke as clearly as words.
While Betty examined the picture, and recoiled with revulsion when she finally saw the blood and realized that in all likelihood the young man wasn’t asleep, Estelle drew out a photocopy of the little note that had been found in his pocket. She slid the paper across to Betty.
“This was a woodcutting accident up north, outside of Reserve,” Estelle said. “The investigating deputies found this little folded scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket.”
Betty looked at the paper and then at Estelle. “That’s our phone number,” she said.
“Yes. It is.”
“Why would he have our phone number?” Her question didn’t sound altogether convincing.
“That’s what we’re wondering,” Estelle said. She watched Betty’s face as the older woman examined the photo.
“Was he working alone?” She laid the picture down thoughtfully. “But of course he wouldn’t be. I mean, I assume someone had to have gone for help when this happened. Up by Reserve, you say?”
“Between Reserve and Quemado. They were working on a firewood contract for a rancher up that way.”
“The poor boy,” Betty murmured. “No, I don’t know him. And I can’t explain the number.”
“Well,” Estelle said, “I told the investigators up north that I’d ask. If you recall something, give me a buzz, will you?”
“Most assuredly.”
“And maybe Emilio would know,” Estelle added.
“I doubt that,” Betty said. “But you’re welcome to ask him. You know right where he is.”
“That’s not his writing, though,” Estelle said, picking up the photocopy of the note.
“No. If Emilio had written it, it would look like something from one of those illuminated medieval manuscripts. He has the most beautiful penmanship.”
“I remember that he does,” Estelle said. “By the way, do you happen to have Joe and Lucinda’s number? I’d like to chat with them, but I don’t want to just barge in.”
“Surely I do.” Betty rose, jotted down a number, peeled off the Post-it note, and handed it to Estelle. Her flowing schoolteacher’s script favored elegantly swooping curves on the 8s and bold, horizontal strikes for the tops of the 5s, nothing like the choppy block letters on the woodcutter’s note. A perfect match would have been convenient, Estelle thought. “It’s not mine, is it,” Betty asked, and Estelle glanced up quickly at her, intrigued at the odd tone in her voice. “The handwriting, I mean.”
“No, it’s not. I’m just wondering who would have given your telephone number to a woodcutter working one hundred and fifty miles away.”
“Maybe someone wrote down a number incorrectly. Our prefix here is so much like so many others. And the last four digits-the eight-four-eight-five-that could be misprinted a dozen ways, too.”
“You’re right about that.” Estelle looked at the wall clock and sighed. “I need to run.”
“Take some goodies along for those two boys of yours,” Betty said, and she didn’t wait for a response. Collecting a small tin from one of the bottom cupboards, she filled it quickly with a generous collection. “Oh…and I have a picture for you,” she said as she handed the tin to Estelle. “I meant to give it to you months ago, and it kept slipping my mind.” She held up a hand like a tour guide demanding attention, and sailed off into the living room.
A moment’s rummaging through a small album by the fireplace and she found the five-by-seven print. She held it fondly, then extended it to Estelle. “I took this of the altar after Emilio finished that night.” She didn’t bother to explain what “that night” was, and didn’t need to. Estelle felt a stab of gratitude mixed with an odd, deep sadness. Centered among a sea of short, white candles on the altar was a family photo-her family. The portrait included her and Francis, with the two boys perched on their laps.
“Teresa loaned me that photo,” Betty whispered. “Our prayers were all with you that day.”
Betty didn’t need to explain when that day was. “I appreciate that, Betty,” Estelle said, and started to hand the photograph back.
“No, you keep it,” Betty said. “You keep that.” She patted Estelle’s arm affectionately. “You and your husband have done a lot for this community. It’s only natural that they should hold you in t
heir prayers when something like this happens.”
Estelle slipped the photo in the manila envelope, along with the photos of two other people who might have benefited from a few kind thoughts.
Chapter Sixteen
Joe and Lucinda Baca’s home was another quarter mile east, and to reach it required a circuitous route through the village, finally reaching a fork in the two-track a quarter mile beyond the abandoned adobe that had once belonged to Joe’s late brother. The lane then wound through an old apple orchard much in need of pruning, and forked again.
Estelle slowed the county car, steering onto the left shoulder to avoid the apple limbs that hung over the narrow lane. A large stump marked another turn, the wood scarred barkless from the dozens of times that a bumper had nicked it during the driver’s careless or inebriated moments.
The right-hand trail led to Joe and Lucinda’s. A portion of their home dated back to the early 1930s, when Joe’s father had built a two-room adobe and stone dwelling, its back nestled into a gathering of car-sized boulders that he hoped had finished their tumble down the mountain. Estelle remembered tales about her great-uncle Reuben and Joe as they laid up stones for the fireplace-one batch of mortar, then a wine break. Another batch and beer. That the fireplace finished up more or less vertical and plumb was a testimony to dumb luck.
As the family grew, so did the home. Now, with Joe Baca having already celebrated his seventieth birthday, the place was a rambling ten-room adobe with attached garage and a scattering of outbuildings.
Estelle pulled in behind Joe’s pickup and once more keyed the radio.
“PCS, three-ten is ten-six at Joe Baca’s in Regál.”
“Ten-four, three-ten. Be advised that you have a visitor here in the office,” Gayle Torrez said.
Estelle pulled out her phone and touched the auto-dial for Dispatch.
“Who have we got?” she asked when Gayle picked up the phone.
“The lady from the magazine is here,” Gayle said. “Madelyn Bolles?”
The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15 Page 11
