The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15

by Steven F Havill

  Withering into herself, the now eighty-year-old Serafina was a wrinkled little gnome, only her thick, luxuriant hair-now iron gray-a reminder of the long years past. Her right eye showed the first signs of clouding, but she recognized the undersheriff with a little gasp of delight.

  “Estellita!” she cried, and held out both arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.” It was hard to imagine that this tiny bag of bones was the same fearsome woman who had nailed four senior boys for smoking funny tobacco behind the high school’s vo-tech building.

  Serafina cocked her head as far as her stiff neck allowed and looked up at the undersheriff. “How’s that husband of yours?” she asked in Spanish.

  “He’s too busy,” Estelle laughed.

  “That’s always the case. And the boys?”

  “They keep me young.”

  “The oldest boy…he continues with his studies?” Serafina held out two arthritic hands and played a phantom keyboard.

  “More than ever,” Estelle replied. “We have discussions about where he wants to study when the time comes.”

  “And it will come too soon,” Serafina said. “Don’t be in a rush.”

  “How is Esmeralda doing these days? It’s been years since I’ve seen her.”

  Serafina made a wry face at the mention of her daughter. “She doesn’t visit much anymore,” she said. “Not enough time to bother with an old lady.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Her family is well?” Estelle had a vague recollection that Serafina and Octavio Roybal had raised only the single daughter, Esmeralda, who in turn had moved away to raise her own family.

  “I hope so,” Serafina said. “That’s the big news, you know. You’ll come in for a few minutes? I know you’re busy today.”

  Estelle was fascinated that the tiny village’s grapevine was flourishing even in the few moments it took the undersheriff to drive from one house to another.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have some coffee,” Serafina offered, but Estelle held up a defensive hand.

  “No, thanks so much, Mrs. Roybal.” Estelle followed the elderly woman as she shuffled inside, one tiny, slow step at a time. The home displayed the much-worn pathways of the very elderly. The large cushioned chair, with back and arms covered with graying, tattered doilies, faced the television across the room. The TV set was one of those cabinet affairs with light maple woodwork, and Estelle saw that the picture would be much brighter if the thick layer of dust was wiped from the screen.

  A path worn into the amorphous designs on the carpeting led to the simple kitchen, and another to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Serafina’s world was gradually collapsing inward to a few well-worn, predictable routines.

  “What’s the big news?” Estelle asked.

  “Well, now, you won’t guess who’s visiting tomorrow,” Serafina said. “My granddaughter called and said she’d like to stop by. That’s Ezzi’s oldest, Irene. She’s an honor student now, you know. But…,” and Serafina lowered her voice as if she didn’t want the ghosts to hear, “she’s had a crush on that Danny Rivera since I don’t know when. Not that it does any good. Mr. Danny doesn’t show any signs of wanting any part of the big wide world.” She turned and beamed at Estelle. “Irene is going to have to come to him, you know. But that’s fashionable these days.”

  Serafina pointed a crooked finger at the envelope that Estelle had brought inside with her. “You have something for me?”

  “I have a photo or two, Mrs. Roybal. A couple of strange faces. I need to know if you’ve seen either one around the village.”

  “I don’t get out so much, you know. I can’t even walk through the orchard anymore. I used to enjoy that. All the birds, you know.”

  “I understand that.” And it’s not an orchard now, Estelle thought-the gnarled old stumps, tinder dry, hadn’t seen irrigation or fruit for ten years. She removed the photo of Christopher Marsh but hesitated. Maybe life should reach a point of serenity, she thought. Serafina Roybal had known her share of heartache over the decades. She’d seen prize students go on to enjoy successful lives but suffered the ones who were killed on prom night in a tangle of metal and broken bottles, or those who were expended by their governments. It seemed unfair to inflict Chris Marsh on this gentle woman.

  “This young man was killed up on Regál Pass Wednesday night. The crash wasn’t discovered until last night,” the undersheriff said, still holding the photo. “I apologize for this, Mrs. Roybal. But I need to know if you recognize him.”

  The old woman took the picture without hesitation and straightened in her chair, holding the photo in both hands down in her lap. Her face took on the same severe expression that she had reserved for student papers that weren’t up to snuff.

  “Do you recognize this man?” Estelle asked.

  “Who is this?” Serafina replied. “His name, I mean.”

  “His name is Christopher Marsh. We think that he lived in Las Cruces.”

  “A car accident, you said.”

  “Yes. His truck hit a deer.”

  “Oh my.” She lifted her eyebrows philosophically. “You know, he impressed me as such a nice, thoughtful young man.”

  “You recognize him, then?”

  “He was a deliveryman,” she replied, using the single Spanish word repartidor. “I don’t remember the name of the company.”

  “Do you remember the vehicle he was driving?”

  “No. I don’t pay attention to things like that.”

  “But you had packages delivered here?”

  “I won a drawing by some magazine company. Not so much, but every little bit is a help, no? Such a surprise.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Not so much of a surprise as when I won not once, but twice.”

  “Would you tell me about it?”

  “There is nothing to tell, Estellita. It was just one of those sweepstakes that come along. Usually I throw them away, but this was a personal letter, and I read it.” She glanced at Estelle. “I didn’t have to do a thing, you see. Nothing to fill out. Maybe I’m just foolish, but it turned out all right.”

  “How much did you win?”

  “The first time it was about three thousand dollars,” Serafina said. “Of course, I had to pay some fees. That was a nuisance, but this young man made it easy for me.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He said that his company usually requires a cashier’s check from the bank. But it’s hard for me to get into town now. He said that his company would accept a personal check, since the amount wasn’t so large.”

  Estelle did a rapid mental calculation, using the 17 percent figure for fees and exchange rate penalties that Joe Baca had mentioned. “You had to pay approximately five hundred dollars?”

  “Yes. But they accepted my check.”

  “And in return?”

  “He delivered the official check right then. The check for what they said I had won.”

  “For more than three thousand dollars.”

  “Yes.”

  “Serafina, you said the first time. This happened again, then?”

  “This young man,” and she held up the photo, “said that it wasn’t uncommon for someone to win more than once. He had his own theory that maybe it was some kind of computer error.” She shrugged. “Maybe so. Anyway, the next time I won twenty-eight hundred dollars. Not so much.”

  “What did you send in the second time?”

  “Nothing. I sent in nothing. Not the first time, either. He came right to the door.” She frowned. “I would never send anything off. I know those scams are so common.”

  “And you paid that time, too? Four or five hundred in fees?”

  “Yes. But overall, you see, I came out ahead. Did you talk with Joe? I saw your car over there.”

  “Yes. He had similar good fortune, it seems.”

  “I should say so. Only he won much, much more. And on top of the big lottery as well. My heavens, the stars were looking out for us.”

  “But this man came to yo
ur door.” Estelle held up Marsh’s photo.

  “Yes. The two times about which I’ve told you.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I don’t see so well anymore, you know. I don’t think so.”

  “Do you happen to have the letters that they sent to you? The magazine company?”

  “I save everything,” Serafina said with resignation. “An affliction of an old lady. Even if I know it doesn’t matter, I save it. The challenge is in the finding.” She held up a hand and rose unsteadily from her chair. “Let me see. You’re sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  “No thank you, Serafina.”

  Estelle watched Serafina make her way toward the bedroom. From where she sat, the undersheriff could see a small yellow nightstand, the corner of the bed, and another door that would lead to the bathroom. After several moments, Serafina reemerged with several papers.

  “I’m so pleased that you stopped by,” she said. “You know, last year you gave us quite a scare, young lady.”

  “I scared myself,” Estelle said. “That’s the letter?”

  “I have the first one,” Serafina said. “I remember that when it came in the mail, I thought it was a chanchullo,” and Estelle was surprised to hear her use the colloquial word that had come to mean “scam” or “trickery.”

  “Too good to be true?”

  “Exactly. Here. You read it and tell me what you think. While you do that, I’ll see if I can find the second one.”

  The letter, on heavy, high-quality paper, featured an impressive full-color letterhead from Canadian Publications Limited, located in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The letterhead included the street address, phone and fax numbers, and e-mail information. It was tri-folded in an equally high-quality envelope, with the same return address printed on the upper left corner. The Canadian stamp was a generic coil issue with perforations on two sides. Estelle held the envelope over toward the lamp to catch more light. The postmark was Canadian, dated December 10 of the previous year.

  She held the paper carefully by just the corners and read the text. It was lively, polite, and brief:

  Dear Mrs. Serafina Roybal:

  We are pleased to announce that your name has been selected as a second level prize winner in the Canadian Publications Limited Reader Awards Sweepstakes. Although you have not been selected for the Grand Prize, your winnings total $3,250.00. This sweepstakes reflects our commitment to generating reader interest in the periodicals distributed by CPL, but requires no purchase on your part.

  The check for the winning amount will be delivered to your home in Regál, New Mexico. Canadian Publications Limited has contracted exclusively with Global Productivity Systems, Inc., for delivery of prize winnings, with proceeds drawn on First State National Savings Bank of Las Cruces.

  As you are no doubt aware, transferring prize winnings from one country to another incurs certain tax charges, along with monetary exchange rate adjustments. At the current time, those charges amount to 16.981 % of gross winnings, and by law cannot simply be deducted from the winning amount.

  GPS, Inc., a bonded and certified parcel delivery firm that serves your area, has agreed to serve as the monetary transfer agent for your winning check. The driver who calls on you with the prize check will accept a standard cashier’s check for the monetary exchange adjustment, a total of $551.88. We regret the inconvenience that personal checks cannot be accepted. As well, GPS, Inc., will not accept cash payments.

  A GPS courier will contact you at your home on or about Dec. 14, 2007, to effect the transfer of funds. If this is not possible, feel free to contact our Funds Disbursement Office in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, at the number at the top of this letter.

  Again, our best wishes, and congratulations!

  Sincerely,

  E. Everett Walker, Jr.

  Vice President, Sweepstakes Coordination Operations

  “¡Caramba!” Estelle whispered to herself. “This is a good one.” She read the letter several more times. From out of the blue, money. No strings attached. And what was the catch?

  She looked up as Serafina shuffled back into the room. “I cannot find the second one, Estellita. But it was much the same. A little different amount, but otherwise, the same.”

  “Serafina, when the driver delivered the check, did you have to sign something?”

  “Oh, yes. One of those new gadgets with the little window. I don’t know how they work, but I know they’ve been using them for some time.”

  “And you had the cashier’s check?”

  “The first time, yes. Betty and I did errands, and I stopped in at the bank in Posadas. Not the second time.”

  Estelle made a passing motion with both hands. “He gave you a check, and in exchange, you handed a cashier’s check to him.”

  “Yes. You sound as if something is wrong, Estellita.”

  “I hope not, Serafina. But as you said, it all seems too good to be true. The bank accepted the prize check with no problem?”

  “Lucinda took it in for me. I didn’t hear anything, so I assume it was just fine.”

  “May I take this with me to make a copy?” Estelle asked, indicating the letter.

  “Of course you may, Estellita. And I’ll call to let you know when I find the second one. I know I have it.” She laughed gently. “Like so many things.”

  “I have one more thing of interest,” Estelle said. “Con permiso, another photo. And a sad, sad situation.” She slid the photo of the woodcutter from the envelope and handed it to Serafina. The old woman turned and held the photo close to her good eye, adjusting it so that the light bounced off just right.

  “Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him around the village?”

  “No. This one is a stranger, Estellita. Whatever happened?”

  “It was a woodcutting accident. Up in the country around Reserve and Quemado.” Serafina looked at her quizzically and Estelle added, “This was found in his pocket.” She handed Serafina the copy of Betty Contreras’ telephone number.

  “This is Emilio and Betty,” Serafina said immediately.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And this was in the poor man’s pocket? Whatever for?”

  “Yes, and that’s the question. Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  “A few numbers…not enough even for this old schoolteacher to recognize. I wish I could help you, Estellita. So tell me…this prize thing. I won twice, and Joe and Lucinda won twice, and considerably more than I did. Is something wrong, then? Is that what you think?”

  Estelle put the photos and telephone number carefully back in the envelope with the sweepstakes letter that Serafina had given her. “Something is wrong, Serafina. Yes. I don’t know what it is, yet. Let me suggest this. You say that both checks were deposited in your account in Posadas?”

  “Yes. Both.”

  “Then don’t spend any of the amount. Just let it ride. If somehow this thing is legitimate, fine. If not, you’ll be protected-except for the amount you’ve already given them.”

  “And that,” Serafina said with finality, “is a total of nearly a thousand dollars. I can’t afford to see that just fly out the window.”

  “I know you can’t. And I hope I’m wrong. We’ll see what happens.”

  “I could understand a scam that seeks to collect thousands and thousands of dollars from some poor unsuspecting soul. But this seems too petty.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Estelle said. She didn’t remind the retired teacher that one of her own classmates during her junior year had been killed after an argument that had started over the disputed ownership of thirty-seven cents. Chris Marsh had managed to get himself crosswise with someone over far more than that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  From a small rise just beyond Serafina Roybal’s neat little home, Estelle could see Iglesia de Nuestra Señora a thousand yards away and the single vehicle parked near its entrance. Madelyn Bolles couldn’t have made the drive south from Posa
das so quickly. Bill Gastner had said that the reporter was driving a red Buick-this one didn’t have enough color to judge, and it didn’t glint in the sun.

  Before starting the car, Estelle drew out the letter that Serafina had given to her. Opening her cell phone, she dialed the Canadian number carefully, committing it to the phone’s memory. On a Saturday, she didn’t expect an answer, and in three rings was rewarded with an answering machine.

  “Hello. You have reached the corporate offices of Canadian Publications Limited, your source for the best in leisure, educational, and technical reading. Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday, from nine a.m. to five p.m., Mountain Time. If you know your party’s three-digit extension, you may enter that now to leave voice mail. Thank you for calling Canadian Publications.”

  Estelle sat for a long minute, staring at the phone. “Most strange,” she said aloud, and then dialed Dispatch.

  “Gayle, I need a favor,” she said when Gayle Torrez answered. “Will you give the Calgary Police Department a buzz for me? I need to know what’s located at this address.” She read the information from the letterhead, including the notation that Canadian Publications operated out of Suite 11-e.

  “That shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” Gayle said cheerfully. “I’ll jump on the Web and get right back to you.”

  “I’d rather that you call the Calgary police directly,” Estelle said. “I want to hear their take on both the address and the company working out of there.”

  “Copy that.” Gayle didn’t question the request, odd as it might sound. “Did you meet Ms. Bolles yet?”

  “No. I’m clear here for the moment. I’m going to stop at the church to see Emilio, then I’ll be heading back in.”

  Estelle left the envelope on the seat as she headed toward the church, meandering through the village where no single street took command of direction. In many places, she had to slow the Crown Victoria to a walk as she passed between stump and mailbox, or around a front porch, or through yards populated with dogs, cats, goats, and occasionally children.

  She reached the main highway just a hundred yards north of the border station. A Border Patrol SUV was parked at the end of the small building beside an unmarked sedan. At the moment there was no traffic, and she pulled across the paved road to the driveway leading up to the church parking lot.