Before She Dies

by Steven F Havill

  “Who are the boyfriends?”

  “Torrance and Prescott most recently. But Jane Ross—Tammy’s boss when she was working at Ross Realty?—Mrs. Ross says that Tammy talked a lot about some guy she’d met down in Cruces during the half year she spent at the university.”

  “That’s not surprising. And she was in Cruces more than two years ago.” I knew that Tammy Woodruff’s work and school record had been as checkered as her romance list. She’d briefly tried a dozen or more occupations before evidently deciding that the best career for her was living off her father’s incomprehensibly soft heart—at least until a suitable, deep-walleted boyfriend could be found. “Who were Tammy’s girlfriends?”

  Deputy Bishop looked puzzled. “She was spending all her time chasin’ the boys, sir.”

  “She has to have a girl friend, Howard. Someone for girl talk. We know that wasn’t her mother. And the odds are good that if she does have a best friend—girl friend—then there’s a well of information there.”

  “I don’t know,” he said dubiously.

  “Start with the high school yearbook for the year they graduated. Look at the pictures in the activity section. Maybe rodeo club. Who the hell knows. Talk to Glen Archer. He’s been at the school ten years or more, so he was principal the year Tammy graduated. See who her girl pals were. And then see if she was still hanging out with one or more of ’em.”

  I silently cursed the bad luck that had put Estelle Reyes-Guzman in a wheelchair. She could talk information out of a stone, and in a tenth of the time it would take the other deputies. As I watched Howard Bishop ease his county car back out onto Bustos Avenue, I wondered if I had been focusing on the right set of tracks. I sat in 310 with the door open for a few minutes, watching the light traffic of Posadas.

  Sheriff Martin Holman had talked to the Woodruffs the night of Tammy’s transfer from crushed truck to ambulance to helicopter, as had Sergeant Torrez. The couple had been hit hard by their daughter’s death, and since those terrible moments had been holed up in their Posadas Heights home.

  A scant twelve hours had passed since the first rap on their front door by Martin Holman. Twelve hours wasn’t enough time to think about the healing process—that would take months, even years. But Karl and Bea Woodruff might be able to think again, if someone with a light touch talked to them.

  I closed the door of 310 and headed for the hospital. When I arrived, Estelle Reyes-Guzman was helping Linda Real deal with the reporter’s bizarre mother. Mrs. Real had decided it was an appropriate time to visit and complain. She glared balefully at me, but didn’t repeat her earlier litigious threats.

  Estelle agreed with my suggestion, and Robert Bales, the hospital administrator, suggested we use his office. I went home, showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform. And then I drove across town to Karl Woodruff’s home.

  I hadn’t seen Woodruff since the two of us had talked in his drugstore Monday. When he opened the door, he looked like his own father. Dark circles under red eyes, drawn cheeks, blotchy, pale complexion—even his hair looked more heavily streaked with gray.

  “Bill,” he said, and held open the storm door.

  “Can you give me a few minutes, Karl?”

  “Of course.” He beckoned me inside.

  After he had shut the door, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Karl, is Bea here?”

  “She’s resting.”

  “It’s really important that we talk with you both, Karl.”

  His brow furrowed and he looked at his watch. “We’re expecting some relatives from out of town before long.” He managed a smile. “You picked the one time when the place hasn’t been full of neighbors. I had to shag everyone out so Bea could have some peace and quiet.”

  “I understand. And I know it’s not a good time for me to be here, either. I wouldn’t be bothering you folks if I didn’t think this was important. What we really need is to talk with both you and Bea. Detective Reyes-Guzman and I.”

  “Oh,” Karl said, and it came out as more of a groan, the kind of noise he might have made as he pulled out a really deep sliver.

  “We have an office we can use at the hospital, if you would.”

  “The hospital?”

  “The detective was injured last night. She’s in a wheelchair and can’t travel yet.”

  Woodruff frowned and looked at the floor. After a moment, he shook his head and half turned away. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, and walked across the living room toward the hallway.

  Five minutes turned into ten, and just about the time I was looking about for a comfortable chair, Woodruff reappeared.

  “Can we meet you there in twenty minutes?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be happy to drive you down there and back.”

  He smiled faintly. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The couple had their own private sense of time, because it was more than an hour later when Karl and Bea Woodruff settled into the leather chairs in Robert Bales’s office. Estelle Reyes-Guzman had drawn her wheelchair up near one of the large brown hassocks and propped her leg cast up. That and having a checkered afghan loaned by the hospital auxiliary draped around her shoulders made her look frail and vulnerable.

  Bea Woodruff winced as she looked at Estelle’s plasterwork, arm sling, and forehead stitchery. “You should be home in bed,” she said. I saw her back straighten a little as she focused on someone else’s troubles.

  Estelle smiled and reached out a hand, taking Bea Woodruff’s in hers. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” She leaned forward in the wheelchair, still holding Bea’s hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff, we have reason to believe that your daughter’s death was not accidental.” The room fell silent and Karl and Bea’s eyes were locked on Estelle. Tears flowed down Bea’s cheeks, but she ignored them, letting them drip off to make tiny dark blotches on her blue linen dress.

  “We feel that there is no way, no physical way, that Tammy could have driven up that road as far as she did, given the level of intoxication in her blood that the medical examiners believe existed.”

  Again, the couple remained silent. “Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff,” Estelle said, “we believe someone was with your daughter Sunday night and again on Monday. Someone she knows. Perhaps someone she had come to trust.”

  “What can we tell you?” Karl Woodruff asked. “I mean, who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we need to know, sir,” Estelle said. “Do you know Patrick Torrance?” Estelle’s voice was almost a whisper.

  The Woodruffs nodded, and Karl started to say, “But he’s…”

  “We don’t believe Patrick Torrance had anything to do with your daughter’s death, Mr. Woodruff. I know it looks that way, with the crash happening on County Road 14 on the way to the Torrance ranch. But the evidence just isn’t there. We also have heard that Tammy had been seeing Brett Prescott.”

  Karl Woodruff nodded. “We thought well of him, too. And I’ve known the family for years. Surely…”

  “Can you think of anyone else she was seeing?”

  Bea Woodruff leaned back into the dark leather and rested her head, eyes closed. Karl sat hunched, his hands covering his face.

  “I hadn’t seen my daughter for three weeks,” Bea Woodruff said finally. She rocked her head from side to side. “Three weeks. We had some stupid…some stupid little argument, and she wouldn’t come over to the house.” The woman groped toward her purse, and Estelle leaned over with a box of tissues.

  “What was the argument about?”

  Bea Woodruff honked, dabbed her eyes, and waved a hand in dismissal. “You know. One of those silly things. I had talked to Jane Ross—she and I are such good friends—and Jane agreed to offer Tammy another chance at the realty. You know, I always thought that Tammy would be so good at that. She’s so good with people, you know.” She leaned her head back again and closed her eyes. “I just mentioned it to Tammy, and she exploded. Such a temper she’s always had. Told me to stop meddling. That she did
n’t want to earn a living ‘selling land to fat, rich Texans.’ Those were her exact words.”

  “And that was three weeks ago?”

  The woman nodded. Estelle looked at Karl. He was working his hands as if he had a ball of putty between them.

  “Sir, do you know anyone else with whom she may have been associating?”

  Karl shook his head. “I learned a long time ago that Tammy and I could stay on the best of terms if I didn’t pry,” he said softly.

  Estelle shifted in the wheelchair, moved her leg a fraction, and then cradled her face against a fold of the afghan in her right hand. She looked like a little kid.

  “Who was Tammy’s best friend?” Estelle asked. Both of the Woodruffs looked puzzled. “Her very best friend.”

  “You mean, like a girlfriend?” Bea asked, and Estelle nodded.

  “During high school, for example. I know she was popular, but most youngsters have got one person as a friend who’s special above all the others.”

  Bea almost managed a smile. “Oh, she and Elena Muñoz were inseparable since ninth grade. And oh, that Elena. Do you know her?” She looked at Estelle. “I think her parents are from Mexico.”

  “I know her parents,” I said, and both of the Woodruffs snapped around as if they were surprised to discover that I was in the room.

  “Well,” Bea said, “she was a wild one, I guess. You’d never guess it to look at her. Little slip of a thing. Beautiful hair down to her waist. Face like an angel. But she hated school, my goodness how she hated school. She skipped so much during her sophomore year that they finally suspended her.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “Doesn’t it, though,” Bea replied. “And she never went back. Then Tammy started to skip. Half the time she was with Elena, and who knows what troubles the two of them together could concoct.”

  “And after Tammy graduated?” Estelle asked.

  “No one, really. Not that I’m aware of,” Bea said. “I know she still spends time with Elena. I saw them coming out of one of the clothing stores a week or so ago as I was driving by. They had their heads together, giggling like a couple of little kids. I remember because I’d been feeling so badly for her…for Tammy, I mean. I so wanted her to be happy. And I saw her that day, and she looked so carefree, so radiant.” Bea leaned her head to one side, eyebrows arched as she reminisced. “Packages in one hand, arm-in-arm with a friend.”

  Mrs. Woodruff began to cry again, and Estelle covered the woman’s left hand with her own, and a handy tissue. I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with this recitation of the Woodruff family scrapbook. Estelle caught the agitation and shot me a quick look of impatience. I folded my hands on my lap.

  “Do you know where Elena Muñoz works now?”

  Bea shook her head, but Karl Woodruff replied, “She works at the Laundromat on Bustos and Second.”

  “We may want to talk with her at some time,” Estelle said. “Had Tammy been drinking more recently?”

  The abrupt change of subject startled Bea Woodruff and she glanced over at her husband. His eyes remained locked on the parquet floor tile.

  “I don’t think more…” she started to say, but Karl interrupted.

  “A lot more,” he murmured.

  “How do you know?” Estelle asked, and somehow she kept any accusatory tone out of her voice.

  “I could smell it from time to time, on her breath. When she came into the pharmacy. I saw an open bottle once in her truck.” He shrugged helplessly. “Of course, I should have said something.”

  “What did she drink, mostly. Beer? Hard liquor? Maybe scotch, vodka, things like that?”

  Woodruff nodded. “What difference does it make now? Beer, wine. She was particularly fond of rye whiskey.” He snorted. “The cowpuncher’s drink, I guess. I don’t know for sure what she liked or didn’t like other than that.” He looked up at Estelle, into those wonderful dark eyes. “She drank to excess. We know that. And it killed her. We know that, too.”

  “Sir, would you look at this list? These are the items that were found in the cab of her truck at the accident scene. Either in the cab or in the immediate area.” She slipped a single sheet of paper out of her leather folder and handed it to Karl Woodruff.

  He read the list and grimaced, then made a little whimpering noise as he looked away. “Jesus,” he said, and handed the list to his wife.

  Bea Woodruff read the list and I saw her jaw quiver.

  Estelle leaned forward. “Sir, we know that there is no way that Tammy was able to consume all that alcohol and still operate a motor vehicle. She would have been unconscious.” She reached over and indicated one of the items on the list. “A couple of six-packs, maybe. A few shots of rye, as you say, maybe at the Broken Spur on the way. But half a quart of vodka on top of everything else? Not someone her size. It would have put her in a coma.”

  I saw the muscles of Karl Woodruff’s jaw clench. “She wouldn’t have drunk that stuff, anyway.”

  “Sir?”

  “She couldn’t stand vodka, officer.” He reached up and touched his own forehead between his eyes. “It gave her an instant headache, right here. Made her sick.”

  Estelle leaned back. “Then someone else was either drinking with her at the time, or Tammy was planning to join someone and knew what his…or her…favorite drink was.”

  Karl went back to kneading his invisible ball of putty. “I wish to hell I could believe that in a few minutes I was going to wake up,” he said. “Goddamned nightmare. I realize, sitting here, that my daughter is dead, and I can’t tell you people one thing about her life the past couple years. I don’t know who her circle of friends is. Hell, I don’t even know if she had a circle of friends. I don’t know what she was doing. I don’t know how she was spending her time. Or what trouble she was in.” He looked across at me, his eyes tortured. “And now she’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry, Karl,” I said.

  “And I can’t help her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. I didn’t know what else to say.

  Chapter 34

  An impossibly fat woman looked me up and down, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the lid of a commercial washing machine.

  “She called in sick today,” she said. “She ain’t here.”

  “She’s home, then?”

  “If she’s sick, that’s likely,” the woman said. “Her gal friend died, you know.”

  “You don’t say,” I replied. “I’ll check her house. Thanks for your time.”

  The fat woman watched without shifting position as I walked out of the Laundromat. As I pulled 310 away from the curb, she was still standing, watching.

  The telephone book listed Elena Muñoz at 223 Garfield, a little dead-end street that angled off of Pershing, two blocks east of the hospital. The address was a cinder-block house that had been a rental unit for twenty years.

  I stood on the concrete step and waited. The doorbell button lit when I pushed it, but I heard nothing. After a minute, I rapped hard on the door. While I waited, I turned and looked at the older model Ford Escort in the driveway. The tires were bald, and one taillight unit had been replaced with red plastic and duct tape. Life at the Laundromat wasn’t making Elena Muñoz rich.

  The door opened against the security chain, and I could see about two-thirds of Elena’s pretty face. Her hair was a mess, and the makeup around her eyes had blurred and run, no longer covering up the red from crying. She lifted her chin a little when she saw me, and said, “I wondered when you’d show up.”

  Elena Muñoz didn’t look like she needed threatening just then, so I smiled and thrust a hand in one of my pockets, trying to look a little more casual—like maybe I’d just stopped by on a lark.

  “Me in particular, or just the cops?” I asked.

  She looked past me at the Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked at the curb. “I thought maybe Bobby would stop by.”

  “Bobby?”

  “Bob Torrez. He’s my cou
sin.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Well, sort of.” She slipped the chain and opened the door. “More like third or fourth cousin. Come on in.”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  Elena turned and smiled, lighting up the tear stains a little. “I got nothing but time, mister.”

  “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “Why should I?”

  “You don’t have any idea who killed Tammy Woodruff?”

  Her lower lip jutted out like a second grader deprived of morning milk break. I thought for a minute that she was going to start crying again. A box of tissues sat on a small coffee table, and I pulled one out and handed it to her. She waved it away and sat down on the sofa with a thump, hands folded between her legs.

  I sat in a fake leather monstrosity opposite and waited.

  “Sure, I got an idea,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Well, it happened up on Fourteen, didn’t it?” She shrugged and turned away as if that were all the answer I needed.

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  She turned her head and glared at me through eyes brimming with tears. “So he lives up there. That’s what.”

  “Who lives up there?”

  “Torrance. That son of a bitch.”

  “Patrick Torrance, you mean?” I asked, and she nodded. “You think he killed Tammy?” She nodded again. “Why would he do that?”

  For a long time, she looked off to her right, eyes locked on something far beyond the cinder-block walls, beyond the yard outside, beyond Posadas.

  “I just think he did.”

  “Why?”

  “She said he threatened her.”

  “She told you that?” Elena nodded. “Why would he threaten her?”

  After taking a deep breath and wiping a drop off the end of her nose with the back of her hand, Elena said, “Because she was through with him.”

  “Come on, Elena. Tammy didn’t make a hobby out of monogamous relationships. We both know that. She’d broken up with him before. She left Brett Prescott and went back to Patrick. He knew what to expect.”