For a moment Tejada was tempted to agree. It would be a successful end to the case. Cordero would be garroted for the murder of his employer, and the newspapers would print an article about a dangerous Red who had taken advantage of an elderly lady’s kindness. The lieutenant would be able to go back to his father and present him with Doña Rosalia’s murderer, and Sergeant Rivas would not need to visit the Casa Ordoñez again. Elena could have her vacation in Madrid before they had to return to Potes. There’s a good chance Cordero is guilty, Tejada thought wistfully. He had the opportunity, and he could have gotten hold of poison. So what if he didn’t have a motive? Reds don’t need one. So what if someone else paid him to kill her? The fact is, he’s still the guilty party. And if we get him on terrorism charges, he’s a dead man anyway. But there were degrees of guilt, and if Alberto Cordero had been hired by someone else, the lieutenant wanted to know who that person was. Even if it was a family member. Especially if that person was a family member.
“Let’s hold off on that until we get the lab results as to the wine and find a motive,” he said. “I have another week here anyway. I can work on the case to make it tighter.”
“Yes, sir.” Rivas was a little surprised that Lieutenant Tejada had rejected the opportunity to close the case quickly and quietly. “Of course, the disposition of Doña Rosalia’s estate isn’t really our business in the normal course of things,” he reminded the lieutenant gently.
Not unless it has to do with her murder, Tejada thought. “I know,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, Rivas. I was just going to speak to Felipe Ordoñez today and the girl . . . what was her name, Villalobos?”
The sergeant shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Yes. Amparo Villalobos. We don’t have an address for her. But she first came to our attention in Alberto’s statement, and anything he’s said is suspect now, isn’t it?”
“Anything anyone has said is suspect,” Tejada corrected. “But I can’t think why Cordero would have lied about her being a regular visitor to the house. And if she befriended my aunt, she might have an idea about who would want to kill Doña Rosalia and why.”
“We don’t have her father’s name or her second surname,” Rivas said. “Might be hard to find her in a directory.”
“If she’s known to my cousin Fernando, I can ask him,” Tejada replied. “Where’s his file?”
The sergeant blinked. “His file, sir?”
Tejada scowled. “I told you yesterday to pull the files on all of Doña Rosalia’s potential heirs. I need to check his address. And phone number, if possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Rivas gulped back his startled question as to why the lieutenant did not know his own cousin’s address. After all, Lieutenant Tejada had been stationed far from Granada for a long time. “I’ll get it.”
He left the office and returned within a few minutes with the addresses and phone numbers of both of the Ordoñez brothers. Mollified, Tejada thanked the sergeant and then dialed Felipe’s number. There was no answer. He tried Fernando. A servant answered. The lieutenant gave his name, and after a few moments Fernando Ordoñez came on the line. “Hello? Carlos?” Ordoñez spoke a little too loudly, spacing his words carefully as if he was unsure of being understood. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Tío Fernando, it’s me.” Because Rivas was still in the office Tejada did not roll his eyes. He remembered that his cousin had never liked technological innovations. “I was wondering if you could tell me the address of Amparo Villalobos.”
“Amparo? Why do you want to speak to her?”
“Because she was a regular visitor of your mother’s.”
“Yes, she’s a good little soul. Bernarda’s always been grateful to her. She lives over on Tablas. Down toward the hospital.”
Tejada did roll his eyes this time. “You don’t have an exact number?”
“I know where it is. Bernarda might have it.” If Fernando Ordoñez had been twenty years younger he would have asked the lieutenant to hold the line while he found the address. Since he had never mastered the intricacies of a device he disapproved of and did not trust that his caller would remain on the line if he put the receiver down, he added loudly, “But if you want to see Amparo, why don’t you drop by this morning? She’ll likely be visiting Bernarda soon.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
“See you soon, then?”
“Yes, see you soon. Good-bye, Tío.” Tejada broke the connection and turned to Rivas. “I’m going to go over to Fernando Ordoñez’s house to try to interview Señorita Villalobos there. I’d like to try to find Felipe Ordoñez as well. He doesn’t seem to answer his phone.”
Rivas glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty, sir. He might be at work.”
Tejada considered telling the sergeant that if Felipe Ordoñez was out of bed—much less doing any sort of work—at ten-thirty in the morning he had changed greatly. “I suppose anything’s possible,” he said. “I’ll try to report back here this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.” Rivas’s tone became official. “Would you like to work with a partner, sir? Guardia Medina has no duties for the day.”
Tejada was grateful Rivas had mentioned Guardia Medina as his option for a partner. He suspected that Rivas wanted Medina out of the way. He also suspected that the sergeant did not realize how well Tejada knew Medina. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m visiting as a family member. I’d like to keep things informal.”
“Very good, sir. What are my orders?”
Tejada considered for a moment. “Keep working on Cordero. If he’s holding out information about the bandits he may have given himself a twenty-four-hour deadline. They do sometimes, you know. See if he says anything about Doña Rosalia when he cracks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why don’t we try to run checks on all of Doña Rosalia’s household. No one suspected Cordero of anything like this. Some of the others might have surprises in their pasts as well.”
Tejada headed for Fernando Ordoñez’s home. It was a cold, cloudy day, and the few pedestrians on the streets walked quickly. Not the sort of day to tempt anyone to take a stroll, Tejada thought, and then remembered his cousin Felipe with inexplicable unease. Felipe going to work in the morning was laughable. Felipe out of bed on a cold October morning was unheard of. Of course, Felipe in a bed other than his own was entirely probable, but it occurred to the lieutenant that neither his family nor his friends nor members of the casino appeared to have seen Felipe Ordoñez lately. “Spending all his time in flamenco bars and cabarets” was the general verdict. It was possible that Felipe was merely enjoying himself in private, but Tejada could not help thinking it was a little strange that a man who was—the thought came as a shock—nearly fifty should disappear into anonymous bars and brothels so completely and so soon after his mother’s funeral.
Felipe, Tejada recalled, was the one person who had not shown any interest in Doña Rosalia’s will. His father had said that in his Aunt Rosalia’s missing will, Felipe had been disinherited, but he had said the same thing about Daniela, and she was most certainly interested in the contents of her mother’s will. And Fernando Ordoñez had mentioned that his younger brother had dismissed his valet several years ago, as if money were a concern to Felipe. Surely it was odd that he had not inquired about his inheritance. Unless he already knew that he had been disinherited. But he would only know that if he knew the provisions of Doña Rosalia’s most recent will. Which has disappeared, Tejada thought. Like Felipe. He could not think of any reason Felipe Ordoñez would wish to disappear, but he had to admit that his cousin’s lifestyle would make such a disappearance easy. But perhaps someone else had wanted to make Felipe disappear. Tejada felt a sinking in his stomach. He knew from previous experience that it was easiest to get away with murder if no one was likely to search for the victim. He’s probably just fine, Tejada thought. But I’ve got to find him to make sure. Disappearing like this is too much of a coincidence. And if he’s disappeared, it damn well has something to do wi
th his mother’s death. Then, with a flash of something that he decided was anger because it was too sharp and bitter for sorrow: And if Alberto Cordero masterminded Tío Felipe’s disappearance as well as Doña Rosalia’s murder, I’ll join the Communist Party!
Fernando and Bernarda Ordoñez lived in a spacious townhouse just off the Puerta Real. The lieutenant was evidently expected. A butler showed him into a guest parlor immediately, barely stopping to ask if he was Carlos Tejada. Fernando Ordoñez and his wife both rose to greet their guest. Perhaps because of Fernando’s dislike of the telephone, they had evidently heard nothing of the lieutenant’s dispute with his father, and they were affectionate in their welcome. After urging Tejada to sit, offering him coffee and refreshments, and lamenting that they had not met earlier in his stay, Bernarda de Ordoñez, who had not seen him for many years, asked the usual run of questions and then said, “Fernando tells me you want to meet Amparo.”
Tejada explained again his reasons for wishing to see Señorita Villalobos and added, “I understand she’s remained very close to you?”
“Yes, it is as if she were poor Jaime’s widow,” Bernarda agreed. “And honestly, Carlos, I wish that she had been. I can’t think of a girl I would rather have had for a daughter-in-law.”
“It must be a comfort to her that you feel that way,” Tejada said. He wondered if Elena was spending the morning with his mother.
“We’re all sorry she never became part of the family properly,” Fernando agreed. Bernarda blinked back tears. “The youngsters wanted to get married before Jaime enlisted, but the Villaloboses thought they were too young. And we thought so, too, God forgive us.”
Fernando cleared his throat noisily, and Tejada looked at the ground, embarrassed by the couple’s emotion. “Anyway,” Fernando spoke briskly into the pause, “Amparo’s like a daughter to us and always will be. We’d even like to see her married, a sweet girl like her.”
Bernarda nodded. “Yes, it breaks my heart to see her in black. She was just twenty when we lost Jaime. Just a child still. I was so pleased when Fernando said you wanted to meet her, Carlos. But of course I’d forgotten that you’re married. You’ll have to bring your—Elena, isn’t it?—to meet us.”
“I’d love to,” Tejada lied, with a flash of alarm. “I gather it would be possible to interview Señorita Villalobos here?”
“Yes, I telephoned her and asked her to come over today,” Bernarda confirmed. “She usually visits anyway, but since you had asked specially, I invited her. She said she’d be here by noon at the latest.”
“Thank you.” Tejada turned to Fernando Ordoñez. “There is one other thing. You haven’t heard from Tío Felipe by any chance?”
“Not since yesterday,” Fernando replied. “But I haven’t been looking for him. Why don’t you leave a message with the concierge at his apartment building? Or at the casino?”
“I will,” Tejada said, thoughtful. “Don’t you have any way to contact him in an emergency?”
“Not if he doesn’t answer his blasted telephone,” Fernando said. He glanced at the clock and stood. “I’m sorry, Carlos, but I must leave. I have an appointment at eleven-thirty. It was good to see you again.”
Tejada stood also and offered the older man his hand. “Likewise. Thank you for your help.”
“Anything, if it will help catch the man who killed Mother,” Fernando answered. He moved toward the door, adding, “If I see Felipe, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
The lieutenant made small talk with Bernarda for a few minutes. It was easy to bring the conversation around to Doña Rosalia. Fernando had told his wife about his conversation with Tejada the preceding day, and Bernarda was deeply shocked by the news that Doña Rosalia had been poisoned. The lieutenant knew this because she said so within ten minutes of her husband’s departure. “Poor soul.” Bernarda shook her head. “To die alone like that, without confession.”
“She lived alone as well,” Tejada pointed out.
“I always said that was very unwise.” Bernarda pursed her lips. “She was an elderly lady, and she could have suffered an accident very easily. And besides—she became confused in her mind sometimes, and she should have had her family around to care for her.”
“Really?” Tejada said, trying to decide whether Bernarda’s opinions were the result of posthumous piety or whether her husband had grossly misrepresented her relationship with her mother-in-law. “Did she not want to live with you?”
“With us?” Bernarda looked startled and faintly alarmed for a moment. “Goodness, no. She never liked this neighborhood. And it would have broken her heart to leave her husband’s home. No, no, that was out of the question. But,” she lowered her voice and leaned forward a little, “I really do think Felipe behaved very badly to her.”
“Felipe?” Tejada repeated, stunned. “What should he have done?”
“Moved back in with her, of course,” Bernarda said, as if surprised that the answer was not obvious. “He doesn’t have a family or business or a house to take care of. And at his age, living in a bachelor apartment is really ridiculous. The house would have been perfect for him. It was his childhood home, and it really did need a man to make sure that it was kept up properly.”
Tejada gritted his teeth to prevent his jaw from dropping. “You don’t think residing with his mother might have . . . interfered with his independence?” he managed, thinking how lucky he was to live in a blizzard-swept, Red-infested place like Potes, out of reach of family machinations.
Bernarda laughed. “Really, Carlos, he’s not a university student. Wild oats are one thing, but a man his age should take some responsibility for his home and his family. If he wasn’t going to get married he could at least have cared for his mother.”
Swamped by a wave of pity for Felipe, Tejada suddenly wondered how much of the family shared Bernarda’s attitude and how much pressure they could bring to bear on a man in Felipe’s position. Probably not enough to make him commit murder. But perhaps enough to make him want to disappear.
The clock chimed a quarter to twelve, and Bernarda added easily, “Fernando and I had hoped for a little while that Felipe might think of our Amparo. She was always so good to Doña Rosalia. Sometimes I think she was at the Casa Ordoñez more than I was. She would have been a good companion for both of them.”
“Señorita Villalobos?” Tejada blinked and did some rapid mental arithmetic. “But Tío Felipe must be twice her age!”
“Age doesn’t matter so much for a woman in Amparo’s situation, almost a widow,” Bernarda said, a little primly. “Amparo’s always been very mature and serious minded. And Felipe is so youthful. He could certainly make himself attractive to a girl like her if he tried.”
Ingrained good manners prevented Tejada from saying that he thought the Pyrenees would become flatlands before Felipe made an effort to attract a girl who was a virgin at twenty-seven. He leaned forward, afraid that his thoughts might show in his face. Bernarda, misinterpreting the gesture, raised the tray of cookies sitting beside her. “Would you like another?”
“Thank you.” Tejada took a cookie to cover his embarrassment, holding it gingerly by the edges to avoid spilling confectioner’s sugar. He ate quickly, wondering what on earth had possessed Bernarda to imagine that her brother-in-law might marry her late son’s fiancée and worrying absently if he could surreptitiously lick his fingers to avoid having them remain sticky with sugar. It was real sugar, too, although that made sense, considering Don Fernando’s business. Sugar. . . . “Villalobos and Rioseco!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“What?”
“Amparo Villalobos,” Tejada amplified, forgetting about his sticky fingers. “She must be related to the Villaloboses of Villalobos and Rioseco? The refinery corporation?”
“That’s right.” Bernarda nodded, pleased that Tejada was once more relating to the world of Granada’s elite. “Except that the Riosecos are out of the business now. It’s just Amparo’s father.”
�
�Her father must own some very desirable lands,” Tejada suggested, understanding now why the Ordoñezes were so anxious to have Amparo marry into the family.
“I suppose so.” Bernarda was uninterested. “I know Fernando’s mentioned that we share a boundary with them. And Jaime and Amparo were very excited about uniting the estates.”
“Real love match then?” Tejada commented. He recalled his cousin Jaime as an insufferable monarchist, whose fervent belief in a lost age of chivalry was matched only by his constant need for money. He had once commented to a friend that it was a shame Jaime had been born too late to die in a fruitless quest for gold in South America and be made a duke for his pains. He had remembered the casual slur when he learned of Jaime’s death in combat in ’38 and felt guilty. Now he remembered it again and was struck by its appropriateness.
“Oh yes.” Bernarda was apparently unaware of any irony. “Well, when you see Amparo you’ll understand why all the boys were in love with her. If you’d been here in those years, you would have been yourself.”
The door opened and spared Tejada the effort of responding to this dubious assertion. “Señorita Amparo,” the servant announced without formality.
The woman who entered the room behind him was in fact a notable beauty. Her hair, visible beneath an elaborately draped mantilla of black lace, was blond and ringletted, its fairness in striking contrast to her enormous dark eyes. Considerably shorter than the lieutenant, she had a good complexion and a figure that even Felipe Ordoñez would have stopped to look twice at, elegantly swathed in black silk. As joined to these advantages was one of the largest dowries in Granada, Tejada could well believe that she had been much sought after. She came forward now and kissed Doña Bernarda affectionately, greeting her and asking after her concerns with the familiarity of a frequent and welcome visitor.
“And this is Carlos,” Bernarda said, turning her guest to greet the lieutenant. “He asked to meet you especially.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Amparo put out her hand, smiling. Tejada kissed it, because she obviously expected him to, and murmured something polite. “You’re here because of poor Doña Rosalia, rest her soul, aren’t you?” Amparo continued when they were once more sitting.
The Summer Snow Page 19
