by J. A. Jance
“Does that mean you were there, too?” Joanna asked. “For the interview? I thought you were just going to the morgue to make arrangements to bring Marcella’s body home.”
“It’s a long story,” Jaime said. “I happened to be there at the time and was able to help out. They needed someone to translate, and I was the only one who spoke Spanish. While we were just asking general questions, it didn’t matter that much, but once we saw the picture, Detective Caldwell terminated my involvement. She took Lupe Rivera to her office and has an official translator helping with the next part of the interview. Beaumont dropped me off at the hotel.”
“Has anyone been able to figure out Rivera’s connection to Marcella?” Joanna asked.
“Not so far,” Jaime said. “Once they take him into custody, I’m sure someone will ask. For right now, though, it looks like he may have taken off and left his wife and kids to manage on their own, which isn’t going to be easy. The way I read the situation, he has a green card. She doesn’t. Neither do the kids.”
“How are you doing?” Joanna asked. “You sound tired.”
“I am tired,” Jaime admitted. “At this point, I’m not sure why I bothered coming. Delcia was on the phone with the M.E. while I was still on the plane. She helped my mother order a casket through Costco.com. They’ll deliver it to the M.E.’s office here in Ellensburg sometime on Monday. They’ll release the remains to me at that time and give me the necessary paperwork so I can fly home with the casket Monday evening. I’ve hired a hearse from a funeral home here to get the casket and me to the airport in Seattle. Norm Higgins from the funeral home in Bisbee will send a hearse to Tucson to meet the plane. He’s cleared the funeral-home chapel schedule on Tuesday, so we can hold the service at our convenience. Since it’s going to be private-family only and officiated by Father Rowan-we can be pretty flexible about timing.”
It seemed to Joanna that Norm Higgins of Higgins and Sons Funeral Chapel wouldn’t be thrilled to hear that a casket was coming his way from Costco.com. She herself never would have thought of ordering one online.
“Good,” she said.
“And Delcia has spoken to the Bisbee Bee,” Jaime continued. “Someone from there called to see if we would be posting a paid obituary. She told them to forget it-that the family doesn’t want an obituary, paid or not. As you can well imagine, my parents don’t want a lot of publicity about this. Thankfully, though, we don’t have to worry about someone coming after Luis looking for the money Marcella and Marco stole. According to Beaumont, it’s been returned.”
“It has?”
“That’s what he said. Someone came around to see Marcella’s landlord and asked about it. The landlord went to Marcella’s place, found the money where she’d hidden it, and gave it back to whoever came looking for it.”
“That’s a relief,” Joanna said.
“I’ll say. Beaumont also said that once Marcella got to Washington it seemed like she was trying to get herself straightened out. She was working at a regular job for the first time in her life-waiting tables in a restaurant-and staying out of trouble. She had asked Marco for a divorce so she could marry a new boyfriend-a nice one. According to Beaumont, the guy is a truck driver who had even given Marcella an engagement ring. He’s hoping we’ll let him come to her funeral.”
“Will you?” Joanna asked.
“I don’t know,” Jaime said. “The idea that Marcella would ever hook up with someone decent sounds far-fetched, but Beaumont gave me his name and number. I thought I’d give the guy a call and check him out.”
By then Butch had parked the car in the Rob Roy Links lot and had been waiting patiently for Joanna to finish the call. Meanwhile, most of the wedding party had walked into the restaurant. Finally Butch gestured at his watch. “We need to go in,” he mouthed.
“I have to go,” Joanna told Jaime. She didn’t say she was going to the rehearsal dinner. The fact that Jaime was missing Frank Montoya’s wedding was one detail that didn’t bear repeating. “But if you need anything…” she added.
“Yes, boss,” Jaime said. “I know who to call. Thanks.”
People who aren’t citizens of this country are at a distinct disadvantage in dealing with law enforcement. They often come from places where cops have an inarguably upper hand. Lupe Rivera wasn’t a suspect in Marcella’s homicide and so far no one had mentioned that word in her presence. Her husband was the guy with the problem. Lupe would have been well within her rights to have refused to speak to us, but she didn’t, mostly, I believe, because she was petrified.
While we were still at the house and still using Jaime Carbajal as her translator, Detective Caldwell managed to make it sound like going back to the sheriff’s department in Ellensburg to continue the interview and record it was the most routine thing in the world.
Lupe made a small attempt at objection. “But what about the boys?” she asked.
“I’ll look after them,” Mel offered helpfully. “They can come with me. Maybe they’d like to go get something to eat.”
It was another of those good cop/bad cop, divide-and-conquer routines that Mel Soames does so well, and in the end, that’s how we did it. I drove Jaime Carbajal into Ellensburg and dropped him off at the Best Western. Then I drove back to the Log Jam Diner in Cle Elum where Mel had taken the two boys. Tomas was cheerfully mowing through a platter loaded with pancakes-the Log Jam is an all-day breakfast kind of place-while Alfonso sat staring out the window. His arms were folded stubbornly across his chest. He had refused Mel’s offer of food. Even the glass of water in front of him remained untouched.
“Where’s my mom?” he asked as I scooted into the booth next to Mel. “What did you do with her?”
“Your mother is fine,” I said. “She’s still with Detective Caldwell. She’ll bring your mom back to your house as soon as they finish.”
“You’re lying,” Alfonso insisted. “You won’t bring her home. You’re going to send us back to Mexico.”
“I ordered a burger for you,” Mel told me, then she turned to Alfonso. “You’re wrong,” she said. “We’re not from Immigration. That’s not our job.”
“Why are you here, then?” Alfonso asked.
Mel took a long meditative bite of her hamburger and chewed it thoroughly before she swallowed and answered. “We’re here because of your father. Has he seemed different lately?”
Done with talking, Alfonso shook his head and turned away. Tomas poured several more glugs of maple syrup onto a pancake that was already swimming in the stuff. Then he looked up at Mel.
“Papa has been mad,” Tomas said. “At everybody.”
Alfonso glowered at the younger boy and aimed an elbow in the direction of his little brother’s rib cage, but Tomas neatly dodged the blow and went right on talking as though nothing had happened. “He’s even mad at Mama,” he added. “He hit her.”
I’ve heard that kids learn new languages faster than older people can. Tomas’s English was far better than his mother’s, and better than his older brother’s as well. Fueled by his sugar-high short stack, he seemed ready to tell all.
“He hit your mother?” Mel asked. “When did that happen?”
Tomas shrugged. “The other day. Sunday night, when they had a big fight. They thought we were asleep.”
My burger came. It had obviously been sitting under a warming lamp for some time, and it wasn’t anything to write home about. Not eating it gave me a chance to study Alfonso. He was biting his lip. I guessed Tomas wasn’t the only one who knew about the fight.
“Why did your parents fight?” Mel asked.
“Mama was mad because Papa had been gone all weekend. She was yelling at him about that. That’s when he hit her. He was drunk.”
He said the words quietly and with no particular malice. That was simply how things were; how their lives were.
Then Mel sprang her trap. “Did you know your father lost his wallet?”
Alfonso shook his head.
“Just no
w?” Tomas asked.
“No,” Mel said. “It happened a couple of months ago. Someone found it and returned it. We wanted to find him and tell him thank you. We think his name is Miguel.”
Mel had mentioned the napkin fragment that had been found in Tomas Rivera’s wallet-a torn napkin with the name “Miguel” written on it along with a no-longer-functioning cell-phone number. She brought it up innocently enough, but the reaction from both boys was nothing short of electric. Tomas dropped his fork into his plate, slopping a spatter of sticky syrup onto the table. Alfonso drew in his breath in a sharp gasp. The wary look that passed between them spoke volumes.
“Does your father have a friend named Miguel?” Mel asked.
Now neither boy answered aloud, so I stepped into the melee to give Mel a hand.
“Does he?” I asked.
After a long silence, the younger boy finally nodded his head. “We’re not supposed to talk about him,” Tomas muttered with a sideways glance in his brother’s direction.
“Why not?” I asked. “Why aren’t you supposed to talk about him?”
“Because…” Alfonso said. His eyes brimmed with sudden tears. I knew he was wavering, so I focused my attention totally on him.
“Well?” I persisted.
Even so, Tomas was the one who answered. “Papa told us never to say his name,” the boy said. “He said Miguel is a bad man. That if we talk about him he might come here and kill us. Or else he’ll tell Border Patrol about us and they’ll send us back to Mexico.”
“Have you met him?” I asked. “If you saw Miguel again, would you recognize him?”
“I would,” Alfonso said. “He has a big scar on his face.”
“When did you see him last?” I asked.
“This morning,” Alfonso said. “Before we left for school. He came to the house looking for Papa. Mama told him he was too late, that Papa was already at work.”
Tomas may have gone to work, I thought, but he didn’t show up at work. Big difference.
“Did you hear what Miguel and your mother talked about?” I asked.
“He said that if Papa knew what was good for him, he’d keep his mouth shut.”
“Keep his mouth shut about what?” Mel asked.
Alfonso shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think Mama knew either, but after he left she was scared. And crying.”
And she was still crying this afternoon when we got there, I thought.
“Did you happen to notice what kind of a vehicle Miguel was driving?” Mel asked.
This time Tomas was the one who piped up. “One of those trucks like army guys drive.”
“A Hummer, you mean?” I asked.
Tomas nodded. “Except it wasn’t brown and tan,” he said. “It was yellow.”
“Washington plates?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Alfonso said. “I’m not sure.”
I signaled for the bill. “Time to go,” I said. “This is information Detective Caldwell needs to have ASAP.”
Joanna was polishing off the last of her creme brulee and chatting with Frank Montoya’s mother when the waitress came up and whispered, “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady. There’s someone who would like to speak to you. His name is Norm Higgins, and he’s waiting in the bar.”
Shaking her head in exasperation, Joanna put down her napkin. She had thought Norm might object to Jaime’s using a store-bought coffin, but she was astonished that the man would track her down at a private function to hassle her about it. After all, the Carbajals were the ones making Marcella’s funeral arrangements. Joanna had nothing to do with it. But then again, Higgins and Sons was a family-owned business. If their bread and butter was going away, Joanna supposed Norm had reason to be upset.
She walked into the bar and found Norm sitting in a booth at the back of the room. She didn’t know him well, but she recognized him. He was nursing a beer and seemed engrossed in watching a televised basketball game.
“Hi, Norm,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
She didn’t want to have a seat. Summoning her away from another function seemed incredibly rude. Not wanting to create a scene, however, she did as he asked and slipped onto the banquette across from him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m due back in the other room.”
That should have been enough of a hint, but Norm didn’t take it. Instead he sampled another sip of beer.
“I knew your father,” he said.
That was hardly surprising. In its copper-mining heyday, Bisbee’s population had topped out at around sixteen thousand. Once the mining activity disappeared, so did half of the population. In a town of eight thousand people, everyone pretty well knew everyone else.
“Old D.H. was a good guy,” Norm added. “Someone you could count on. I miss him.”
It didn’t seem likely that Norm had summoned Joanna into the bar to reminisce about her father.
“I miss him, too,” she said.
“But you’re a sheriff now, just like he was. DNA’s odd that way,” he added. “I studied to be a mortician and so did both my boys. Now it’s my grandson. Third generation.”
So? Joanna wanted to say, but she didn’t. Norm was clearly working his way up to something. She needed to let him do it at his own speed.
“In this kind of a business climate, when you’re trying to keep the wolf from the door-from the whole family’s door-you sometimes do things you’re not proud of,” Norm said. “You do things you would never do under ordinary circumstances.”
Joanna maintained her silence.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what?” he asked.
“I don’t need to,” she said. “It’s what you came here to tell me.”
Norm nodded. “You’ve met Alma DeLong?”
For the first time Joanna understood that the conversation had nothing to do with Delcia’s cut-rate arrangements for her sister-in-law’s funeral.
“Yes,” Joanna said noncommittally. “I’ve met her.”
“Not a nice person.”
“Not nice,” Joanna agreed.
“Forceful, though,” Norm said. “Very forceful, and a good saleswoman. Knows how to overcome objections.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Joanna said.
“I do,” Norm said mournfully. “That’s how I got into this mess.”
“What mess?”
“The group-sales agreement with Caring Friends. When clients check into her facility, they have a section of paperwork that deals with End of Life Arrangements. If the family doesn’t have a personal preference, they can simply agree that Caring Friends will handle things, which means that, for a steep discount, we get the business.”
“That may be goulish,” Joanna said, “but it doesn’t sound illegal.”
“Have you ever met my grandson, Derek?” Norm asked.
“A few times,” Joanna said. “Didn’t he play basketball in high school?”
Norm nodded. “Won a basketball scholarship to ASU. He dropped out after his freshman year, though. Now he works in the family business. And that’s why I’m here.”
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a camera memory card, and put it down on the table. He studied it in silence for a time before shoving it in Joanna’s direction.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Last fall my boys…” He paused and then specified, “my sons and I went deep-sea fishing down at Guaymas.”
He seemed to be wandering off on yet another tangent. Joanna wanted to grab him by the shirt, shake him, and say, “Get to the point!” Once again she kept still.
“We were gone for five days,” Norm said. “Came home with a whole carload of red snapper. But it was the first time we left Derek on his own. Left him in charge.”
“And?” Joanna prodded.
“While we were
gone, he had a call from Caring Friends, from Alma DeLong. She said one of their clients-a woman named Faye Carter-had died. When Derek went to pick up the remains and bring them back to town, Ms. DeLong presented him with a signed death certificate, but she seemed quite anxious to have things handled in an expeditious fashion. She showed Derek paperwork that indicated it was the family’s wish to have Faye cremated and that there was to be no service whatsoever. Ms. DeLong told him that she’d come pick up the cremains the next day. But when Derek brought the body back to the mortuary, this is what he found.” Norm nodded grimly in the direction of the memory card.
“Derek took photos?” Joanna asked.
“They’re pretty graphic,” Norm said. “Of course, if you’re accustomed to seeing autopsy photos…”
Joanna picked up the memory card and slipped it into her pocket.
“But Derek also knew Ms. DeLong was a good customer of ours. Since none of us was on hand for a consultation, he decided on his own to take the pictures, but he also did what she wanted him to do. Faye Carter was cremated the very next day. Her ashes were turned over to Caring Friends.”
“And the photos?”
Norm shook his head. He seemed close to tears. “That’s the bad part,” Norm managed. “Derek gave them to me. I was shocked when I saw them. Appalled, even. With elderly bedridden patients, there are bound to be bedsores occasionally, but this was dreadful. Criminal.”
“What did you do?” Joanna asked.
“I’m ashamed to say I did nothing,” Norm said. “I took the photos from Derek. I told him I’d handle it and report it to the proper authorities, but I never did. I didn’t want to rock the boat. Then I heard about Philippa Brinson. I knew Philippa Brinson from years ago, and I couldn’t stand the thought that if she hadn’t run away, Alma DeLong and her people might have done the same thing to her. It took a day or so for me to work up my courage to do something about it, but I did, and now you have them.”
And if you had spoken up earlier, Inez Fletcher might not be dead right now, Joanna thought in sudden fury. But there was no need for her to say it aloud. Norm Higgins knew it all too well.
