“Could she have known the crash would happen? Some sort of vehicular sabotage?”
“Vehicular sabotage,” Estelle repeated with a grin. “What a concept.”
“Has anyone thought of that?”
“I don’t think so,” the undersheriff said. “That’s the sort of thing that works really, really well in movies, Madelyn. It’s right up there in popularity with the explosive post that makes the car inexplicably flip over on cue. In this case, the most likely scenario is that the young man collected a grillful of venison, and then lost control.”
“Which prompts the most interesting question of all, at least for me,” Madelyn said. “How do you sleep at night with all these unsolved conundrums floating around in your head? How much of this do you take home?”
“I have a houseful of wonderful distractions,” Estelle replied. “And you have to remember that this is the exception, rather than the rule. As padrino says, our job is ninety-nine percent boredom, interrupted by one percent panic and mayhem. Most of the time, we’re looking for something to do.”
“You think very highly of him, don’t you. The ‘godfather.’ That’s how padrino translates, am I right?”
“Roughly. And yes, I do think highly of him. We love him dearly.”
“You’ve known him since the ice ages?”
“About that long. I first met Bill Gastner when I was twelve. He and my great-uncle Reuben visited Tres Santos. That’s about forty miles straight ahead south from here.”
“You guys don’t have jurisdiction over the border, though.…”
“No, not in any formal sense. In this case, someone stole several pallets of bricks from a construction site near Posadas. The bricks ended up in Tres Santos. Bill and Reuben went down to negotiate their return without involving the judiciales.”
“Your uncle stole them? Is that what you’re saying?”
“‘Informal time payment’ might be more accurate,” Estelle said. “Anyway, that’s when I met Bill Gastner for the first time. Twenty-seven years ago. Sometimes it seems a lifetime away, sometimes like yesterday.”
“Memory lanes are like that,” Madelyn said. Below them, the village of Regál was still in deep shadow, the buttress of mountains hiding them from the sun until late morning. Despite the promise of a mild February day, with the sky clear of clouds, a few wisps of piñon smoke perfumed the village. “You’d think a place like this would be so far out of the way that nothing would touch them,” the writer said.
“These folks argue about immigration and abortion rights and taxes and Iraq like everyone else,” Estelle said. “And water rights, and the cost of gasoline, and who’s sleeping with whom.”
“When’s the first mass?” They could see that the iglesia’s parking lot was still empty.
“Eleven o’clock,” Estelle replied. “First and only. Father Anselmo has mass in María at eight, then comes over here.” As they drew closer, Estelle could see a trace of smoke from the church’s single stovepipe. Emilio Contreras would be at the iglesia, chasing the chill, dabbing the last bit of dust from the furnishings. In the old days, he might have had to rouse a few illegals from their snoozing on the pews.
“Do you ever go?” The question surprised Estelle, and she looked across at Madelyn. “Or does your job make that sort of thing difficult?” When the undersheriff didn’t respond immediately, Madelyn added, “Or is that question too personal?”
“No,” Estelle said. “And no, I don’t go.” The response sounded more abrupt than she intended, but the writer accepted the explanation with a nod.
“It would be hard, I guess,” she said. “You spend a career working with the most base of human ulterior motives, and it would be a challenge to sit in a group of people, hearing all the hypocrisy.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Estelle said. “I just don’t think about it. It’s not something that I consider.”
“Even last year, when you were hurt?”
“Especially not then.”
At the bottom of the hill, Estelle slowed and turned into the dirt lane that first passed by the Contreras home, then meandered through the village.
“What will happen to the young man you apprehended yesterday?” Madelyn asked as they passed by the driveway to Joe and Lucinda Baca’s adobe.
“Immigration will return him to Mexican authorities,” Estelle said. “From that point it’s completely unpredictable.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. He’ll try again, no doubt.”
“No doubt. And that’s part of the dilemma with Joe and Lucinda. They make a tempting target. All that money makes an easy target.”
“It’s not like they keep it in bundles under the bed,” Madelyn said. “At least I hope they don’t.”
“No matter where it’s kept,” Estelle said. As she drove around another apple orchard, its irrigation pipe discharging a meager stream into the freshly hoed ditch, she slowed the car to a walk, then eased into Serafina Roybal’s narrow driveway. The retired schoolteacher’s Jeep Wagoneer had been backed out of the small shed and parked near the rose trellis on the southwest side of the adobe. The entire truck was evenly covered with fine dust and sparrow droppings. The left rear tire was just a couple of pounds above dead flat.
A small station wagon was parked close to the kitchen door, and Estelle pulled in directly behind it.
She keyed the mike. “PCS, three-ten.”
“Three-ten, PCS.”
“Ten-twenty-eight New Mexico niner-eight-niner Charlie Bravo Nora.”
“Ten-four.”
She waited, mike in hand.
“This doesn’t work?” Madelyn said, tapping the flat computer monitor.
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t know what happened. It’s scheduled for replacement next week. I’m getting a new car with a whole raft of new gadgets coming on board.”
“Three-ten, niner-eight-niner Charlie Bravo Nora should appear on a 2003 Subaru Outback, color green over silver, registered to Irene Merriam Salas, 301 College Lane Circle, Las Cruces. Negative wants or warrants.”
“Ten-four. Thanks, Brent.” She slid the mike back into the rack. “It appears that the granddaughter is visiting,” she said, switching off the car. “Serafina said yesterday that she was going to. I think it’s best if you stay here.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Dressed in a blue robe that touched the floor, her steel gray hair in a single long braid that reached below her waist, Serafina Roybal opened the front door before Estelle reached the single step leading to the porch.
“You’re just in time for coffee,” Serafina said. Her voice was husky. “My soul, twice in two days. This is a treat, young lady.”
“Good morning, Serafina,” Estelle said.
“Who’s that with you?”
“Every once in a while, we have civilian ride-alongs,” Estelle replied, and she saw a trace of that wonderful skeptical look that students would have been favored with when they were less than honest with this formidable teacher. Estelle was surprised to hear herself add, “She’s a writer for one of the national women’s magazines.”
“Ah, now,” Serafina said. “That’s nice. You both come in.…The coffee should be ready by now.”
“Serafina, I can’t stay,” Estelle said. “I just stopped for a minute to ask a couple of questions left over from yesterday.” But she was talking to the elderly woman’s back, and she followed Serafina inside. The house was dark and musty, and the aroma of coffee was strong along with the rest of the potpourri that a home produces. Across the room, the television was on but muted. Ignoring it, the elderly woman made her way toward the kitchen.
“I’m so pleased that you came this morning. Such a surprise, you know.” She walked back to the doorway to the living room and held out both hands as if she wanted a hug. “My granddaughter came last night. It’s been far too long, I must say.”
Estelle stopped near the television, looking at the collection of photos that rested on top of t
he console-most of them showing Octavio Roybal, including several of him as a young stalwart, smart in his army uniform. Arranged to one side was a group of photos of Serafina’s daughter, Esmeralda, and her daughter Irene. In the first, the toddler sat on her mother’s knee on the front step of the iglesia. The photo showed a pudgy toddler who beamed into the camera. A second snapshot caught Irene at about age eight as she sprayed a compliant dog with a garden hose. Finally, a formal high school graduation photo in a gold frame presented Irene in an elegant pose in cap and gown.
“Your granddaughter has grown up,” Estelle said, picking up the latest photo.
“Such a dear,” Serafina said. “I can’t believe that she’s a junior in college already. She manages to break away now and then, and I’m so glad that she visits. Young folks don’t always have time, you know.”
“Time slips away,” the undersheriff said. Irene looked like her grandmother-square, almost stout, with a strong jaw, and the same shock of unruly hair that would go first salt-and-pepper and then steel gray as she matured.
Serafina headed back toward the kitchen. “I hope she comes back in time for you to say hello,” she called. “She walked over to talk with Danny Rivera for a little bit.” She smiled. “He thinks that he wants to buy my old car, and they backed it out of the shed this morning. He needs to find a tire, I know that much.”
Estelle reached out for the mug of coffee. “And you know,” Serafina continued, “I’m glad that you stopped by. I’m so addled headed these days. If I wanted to sell the Jeep, is there anything special that I have to do?”
“Just fill in the back of the title certificate,” Estelle said. “That transfers ownership. Then the buyer needs to add the vehicle to his insurance, and register it with the MVD. They have to have it insured before the MVD will issue the registration. It’s pretty simple.”
“So I just sign the title?”
“That’s correct. If you want a bill of sale, the MVD has blank forms that you can use. I’ll be happy to help you with it, if you like. You don’t have to have one, but a bill of sale is always a good idea.”
“Well, we’ll see,” Serafina said. “Why Danny would want such a monster, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Those were good, rugged trucks,” Estelle said. “You drove it over the pass to school for a lot of years.”
“It’s really like new, you know.” Serafina waved a hand in dismissal. “I mean, if you don’t consider that it’s a filthy mess at the moment, with a flat tire. But really, it’s all road miles, you know. They say that’s good. None of this stop-and-go. But now I didn’t drive much, you see. A big old boat like that isn’t worth anything anymore. I’d be just as happy to see it put to use.”
She motioned toward the living room. “Let’s sit. These old bones don’t work like they used to.” Estelle followed her out and crossed to the TV console, setting down her coffee cup as she sat in the straight chair near the wall heater. The aroma of the coffee was strong, but now she could smell the fragrance of Serafina’s visitor, light perfume, maybe shower potions, that drifted out from one of the bedrooms.
“I can’t stay long,” Estelle said. “I stopped by because I’m still hung up on this sweepstakes thing.”
“You worry me a little bit with all this,” Serafina said.
“I’m sorry if I do, but I keep wondering how you heard about the sweepstakes originally, Serafina. You gave me the copy of the first letter that you kept. But in the beginning, did they contact you first, or did you have to send something in? How did that all work?”
Serafina sipped the coffee tentatively, grimaced, and said, “I didn’t ask if you take cream or sugar. This is pretty strong. I think I lost count when I was putting the coffee in.”
“Neither one, thanks.”
Serafina relaxed back in the Morris chair. “Let’s see, now. I received a letter, right out of the blue. Just a routine mailing, I think. At least, that’s what I thought it was, at first. Then I saw that it was from Canada, and I’m something of a stamp fancier, so the first thing I did was cut off the postage. I have a grandniece who saves stamps, you see. Then I saw that it was a formal business letter, and that’s when I read the whole thing. And land, if I hadn’t won a little bit. It was the same the second time.”
“Just like that? A letter from out of the blue.”
Serafina nodded. “But isn’t that the way of it? Those notices from the publishers’ thing…they just arrive unannounced. Except this time, it wasn’t a come-on. It was just a formal letter saying that I had won, and what to do in order to claim the prize. None of the usual folderol with all the bright lights and fanfare.”
“It said that the check would be delivered by courier, then.”
“Certainly. And that made me feel a little better, too, knowing that I’d be dealing with someone face-to-face.”
Estelle reached across and picked up the coffee cup, looking down into the brew thoughtfully.
“I’d like to know how they selected your name,” she said finally. “That’s the thing I can’t stop thinking about.”
Serafina chuckled. “Oh, in this day and age? Our names are common fodder, I’m sure. Use a credit card once and that’s it. Of course, I don’t do that. But buy a set of charity Christmas address labels just once, or send away for a magazine. Our lives are open books, dear. But what difference does it all make? They did just what they said they would do.”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t have to drink that if you don’t care for it,” Serafina said, and Estelle placed the cup back on the console.
“Coffee and I don’t get along too well,” she said. “But thanks, Serafina. I really need to run. You said that Irene went over to Danny’s?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Now,” and she smiled slyly, “supposedly to try and find a tire from that mess over there. But they cut across the old orchard. I told them they should drive, but they wanted to walk a little. It’s such a short ways, and it’s such a beautiful day.”
“Maybe we’ll take a minute and stop by there, then,” Estelle said, pushing herself to her feet. As an afterthought, she asked, “At any point, did the sweepstakes company call you on the phone?”
“Oh, no. You know,” Serafina said, heaving herself out of the chair with great effort, “half the time, I don’t answer the phone anyway. It always rings when I’m right in the middle of something. Us old ladies don’t move so fast anymore. And most of the time, you know, it’s one of those recordings. They don’t give up easily.”
“No, they don’t,” Estelle agreed.
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine.”
“Little old ladies are the favorite target these days,” Serafina said. “That’s what the news is always saying.”
“Did you talk about winning with anyone? Relatives, maybe? Or someone here in town?”
Serafina’s eyes twinkled again, and she held a crooked index finger over her lips. “In a little place like this,” she said, “you talk to just one person and first thing you know, it’s a secreto a voces through the whole town. Joe and Lucinda, they know all about that.”
“You’re wise to be careful,” Estelle said affectionately. “But I confess I’m still curious. I can understand Joe and Lucinda’s names coming up.…There’s some notoriety there when they won the state lottery. I’m curious how other names are selected.”
“You could ask the company.”
“Yes, I could. And I will, tomorrow. Sundays are difficult.” She took her full coffee cup out to the kitchen, a tiny room whose surfaces were under years of enamel paint of various pastel colors, with a kitchen sink so stained by Regál’s hard water that it looked more like reddish brown stoneware than white porcelain.
Serafina had settled back in her chair and didn’t get up as Estelle returned to the living room. The television remained ignored, and Estelle wondered if it had been on all night. “You should visit more often,” the elderly woman said.
&nb
sp; “Yes, I should.”
“Bring your mother with you next time.”
“I think she’d like that.”
“Who’s that riding with you today?” Serafina asked, and Estelle felt a twinge of sadness at the repetition.
“Her name is Madelyn Bolles,” the undersheriff said. “She’s in town for just a few days.”
“A friend from college?”
“No. She’s a writer. She’s working on a profile of our department.”
“Ah. All right. Well, if you have to go, then you have to go.” She reached out a hand to take Estelle’s. “It’s always so nice to see you, querida.” She used the grip to boost her out of the chair and, with more of a hobble than a walk, escorted Estelle to the front step. She stood in the doorway watching as Estelle made her way back through the tall grama grass to the car. The undersheriff passed within half a dozen feet of the Jeep, and could smell the perfume of its sludgy oil and sun-baked paint and rubber.
“You look like something is bothering you,” Madelyn Bolles commented as Estelle slid back into the Crown Victoria.
“Lots of things,” Estelle said. She made no move to start the car. “It makes sense to me that if there’s a scam being worked here-and I think there is-the Bacas were the target. They’re the ones with the proceeds from an earlier win. They’re natural targets with deep pockets.”
“You don’t know yet that the sweepstakes thing is fraudulent, do you? I mean, didn’t you say that this lady won twice? And actually collected money?”
“Yes, she did.”
“You’re thinking that she was used to soften the other couple up for a bigger hit, aren’t you. People would hear about her success, and be suckered in?”
Estelle looked across at Madelyn. “Sin duda. That’s exactly what’s nagging at me. If come tomorrow Joe and Lucinda cash that last check with no problems, then I’m going to be really puzzled.”
“Just a tidal wave of good fortune? Isn’t that possible?”
“No. We know that Chris Marsh and his nifty little truck were fraudulent. He was posing as a deliveryman, Madelyn. His supposed delivery company doesn’t exist. It sounds good, it sounds like it should be a real company, but it isn’t. That makes the whole thing suspect.”
The Fourth Time is Murder pc-15 Page 25
