She shook her head violently, trying to clear the images. “And I’m serious about the escort all the way to Twelfth Street, Jackie.” The calm side of her brain scoffed. What, the kids, just successful at driving from Kansas, were not going to be able to make it across the small village without incident?
“Lights and siren all the way.” Taber’s droll humor read the undersheriff’s mental anguish just right.
“Please, no. But I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” She thrust the Charger in gear and pulled onto the interstate, not even noticing that the powerful car scorched burnouts for impressive yardage. In another moment, she had Leister Conservatory on the phone. The operator had a soothing contralto when she asked how the call might be directed, but Estelle was in no mood to be soothed.
“Dean Baylor’s office, please. Or his cell phone.”
“Just one moment.”
The moment was only seconds, but felt as if it had lasted an hour. At last, the dean’s secretary, Lucy Delfino, came on the line, sounding a little out of breath.
“Ms. Delfino, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman over in Posadas, New Mexico.”
Before she could continue, Delfino chirped with delight. “And how are you? My gosh, I haven’t seen you since Chelwood Commons! If you’d called five minutes later, I would have missed you! We’re all in kind of an uproar at the moment. We were just on our way to dinner, and then on to a student recital. It’s just a lovely evening. I hope your day is going well?”
Estelle almost burst out laughing. I won’t mind so much when he’s fifty-two and she’s fifty-five. But fifteen and eighteen? Instead, she took a deep breath. She had no desire to discuss previous concert venues, even though the Chelwood Commons concert off Chicago’s Lakeshore Drive had been a marvelous, cherished experience. And her day hadn’t been up there on the perfect-day charts. Her fingers clutched the steering wheel so hard they left dents in the leather. “Ms. Delfino, I need to speak with Dean Baylor.”
“Now, Dean Baylor is on leave for health matters, Sheriff. We’re expecting him back in March or April, if all goes well. But Dr. Gunnar Peterson has taken over as acting-dean, and he’s in his office right now. That’s what I meant when I said we were in an uproar.” Lucy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “At least I think he’s in his office. This is his second day on the job, so he’s working late. We all are. Would you care to speak with him?”
“I would. And please forward my best wishes to Dean Baylor.”
“I will do that. Just one moment.”
The voice that came on the line was brisk, carrying a heavy Scandinavian accent. Peterson ended each phrase with a curious upward rush, as if preparing the conductor’s baton for the following, decisive downstroke.
“Yes? This is Dr. Peterson. And how may I help you today?”
“Doctor, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman from Posadas, New Mexico. My son is one of your students. Francisco Guzman? He’s one of the senior…”
“Francisco!” Peterson blurted. “My word, yes. Young Master Guzman. I had the honor of teaching Francisco in advanced theory last semester. My word, what a talent. What a scholar. And what an honor to talk with you. It’s sheriff, is it?”
“Undersheriff, yes. And thank you. I’m curious if you know where Francisco is at the moment.”
“Of course we do. And by the way, his recital last week? It was magnificent. He and another student—Miss Angela Trevino? I will tell you this…I have never seen two, ah, two souls who can join in musical flight the way those two have.”
It’s the “souls joined” that concerns me, she wanted to say. One surprise after another. “I’m thrilled to hear that, Dr. Peterson. That’s in part why I’d like to talk with him. With Francisco.”
“Yes. Well, of course. Let me ask Ms. Delfino about the young man’s schedule.”
“And of course he’s not there,” Estelle said aloud, but apparently Dr. Peterson had already shifted the phone away from his ear.
In a moment, his lilting voice came back on the line. “Mr. and Mrs. Trevino, those would be Angela’s parents, came to school and picked up their daughter, and, it seems, your son, for a very special family observance. It seems that both Angela and her maternal great-grandmother celebrate their birthday anniversaries on the same date.”
None of which puts the two kids shooting a stop sign at an interstate exit ramp in New Mexico, driving a fresh-off-the-showroom-floor Corvette, Estelle thought.
“I have to add, Sheriff Guzman, that we had something of an upheaval here with Dean Baylor’s unexpected illness. I’m not sure we would have interfered with genuine family plans of this nature in any case, but I understand your concern. Now, this might put your mind at ease somewhat. Dr. Trevino, that is Angela’s mother, is provost at Castleton State, near their home in Emporia. There was to be a brief recital arranged at Castleton just this past Wednesday night, and I confess it was a somewhat private affair—it’s not on our usual conservatory calendar of events, so it was not posted in the conservatory newsletter. Provost Trevino arranged the whole thing, but just for the family and friends. Small and intimate, she told us.”
“I’m delighted.” Estelle’s tone suggested that she was anything but. She computed hours. A Wednesday night recital…and now here they were, late Friday afternoon, almost evening. From Castleton, Kansas. The ’Vette hadn’t been loafing at fifty-five, and Francisco had no driver’s license. That didn’t concern Estelle so much as where the kids might have spent Wednesday and Thursday nights. Maybe they cruised straight through, chaste in their deep bucket seats.
“It’s been a hectic summer schedule for the students, and sometimes a little time away from such concentrated studies can pay huge dividends. I’m sure Francisco mentioned the two recitals? So special.”
“I’m sure.” She braked hard, waiting for a moving van to negotiate its way around a sagging pickup loaded with bales of hay and pulling a stock trailer loaded with at least four saddled horses, their muzzles savoring the air rushing past. The moment the moving van was safely back in lane, she pushed the Charger hard. “And no, he didn’t mention them.”
“Well, the one for Miss Trevino’s great-grandmother, and then this next weekend for Francisco’s own grandmother’s one hundredth?”
“Of course.”
“Because neither was, or is, a school function, travel arrangements were made by Provost Trevino.”
“They certainly were.” Estelle’s jaw muscles ached. “Dr. Peterson, thank you. I’ll get back to you.” She switched off before he had a chance to reply.
Her own thoughts swirled, and she forced herself to relax, even letting the speed drift back to a sedate ninety.
“My son has his own life,” she said aloud, then shook her head and replied, “Not at age fifteen, he doesn’t.” For the rest of the drive to Las Cruces, she debated with herself, trying to imagine what her husband would say, what Oso would think. Of all the scenarios she had imagined as a parent, this was not on the list. Her fingers drifted to the autodial several times. Dr. Francis Guzman’s calm serenity was but an electronic connection away. Still, she hesitated. If he was working, cell phone interruptions, especially of this nature, were anathema. If he was home, the fancy Corvette would be now parked at the curb in front of their Twelfth Street home, and he’d be greeting the road-weary kids, enjoying the surprise.
Nothing in the past years had prepared her for something like this, she reflected. She had long marveled at her supremely gifted son’s deep common sense and obviously firm foundation, traits that made his astounding musical gifts all the more endearing. He was not a primo don, not a neurotic, drug-spaced basket case whose only exception came at the keyboard. He was, most of the time, thoughtful and considerate. The year before, he’d refused to fuss during a concert in Mazatlán, Mexico, even when it became apparent that some threat might exist for his personal safety—even when he had found himself surrounded by protective federales.
His world w
as family and music; increasingly over the past few years as his concert venues multiplied, she was not always sure of the order of the two. That he had elected to make the trip for his grandmother’s birthday pleased Estelle deeply. Doubly so that he had included someone else’s special relative in the effort. The how of the trip was another matter that she would have to reconcile…that and not being included in the advance planning so that everyone could enjoy the twinges of anticipation.
“Just how far can titanium apron strings stretch?” she finally asked aloud, and laughed helplessly. The car was not full of helpful spirits ready to offer reply. The obvious trouble was that after more than two decades with the Sheriff’s Department, she’d seen more than her share of crushed and mangled cars, with lives inside snuffed in an instant.
It was a year to be treasured when no high school student wrapped himself around a tree or dove his car into the abandoned reservoir up on the mesa…or, as had young Efrin Garcia the night before, crashed his truck into a utility pole after slaughtering a deer.
She’d seen ruinous teenaged love affairs; she’d witnessed myriad family disputes that fractured relatives apart. In a small, rural community described as “boring” by some, drugs reared their ugly heads all too often. The many shades of the nightmare were impossible to reconcile.
Estelle imagined the maroon Corvette gliding through the night. Didn’t Provost Trevino, Angela Trevino’s mother, remember how quickly, how effortlessly, a teenager could drift off to sleep? And she had approved this trip? A push of that damn right-hand foot pedal could rocket the ’Vette to nearly two hundred miles an hour. What was she thinking?
Chapter Twenty-one
Dana Gabaldon’s parents, the Summers, lived in a new development west of the river, their brick fascia house on one of the cul-de-sacs nestled at the base of the first river bench. Dana’s Kia was parked in the driveway, sharing the space with a Day Cruiser stern-drive boat, expensive enough to pay for a couple of Kias.
Estelle took a moment to talk her nerves down as she wrote the routine trip comments in her log, concentrating on that entry and the purpose of her dash southeast. If Dana Gabaldon knew anything about Coach Clint Scott’s murder, that would be evident now. If she had heard nothing, that could be useful now, as well.
She glanced up and saw that Dana Summers Gabaldon had stepped outside and now walked slowly along the winding flagstones through the cactus garden. Her hands were jammed in her back pockets, and she walked with head bowed, like someone who was keeping a watchful eye for snakes. She made no effort to hide her early pregnancy with child number two, but her turquoise blouse was loose and comfortable. Once blond, Dana’s auburn hair now showed bronze highlights.
The undersheriff closed her log and got out of the car. “Good evening, Dana.”
The young woman tried to smile, but had a hard time making it stick.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, not exactly the greeting Estelle had expected. I didn’t do it! would have surprised the undersheriff less. Or a quick hide in the back bedroom. Or a parent to cover for her.
“For what, Dana?”
“For evading you when you called earlier.” She turned and looked back toward the house for a moment, then pulled her right hand from her hip pocket and held it out toward Estelle. “Hi.” She managed to crowd considerable relief into that one syllable, and her grip was strong. “I’m sorry to make you drive down here.” Her hazel eyes held Estelle’s.
“I really wanted to talk with you, Dana. So meeting you here is a good thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She nodded and stepped over to the car, turning so she could rest her rump against the back fender. She slipped her arms across the top of her belly.
“Let’s find a quiet spot,” Estelle said. “Can I buy you an iced tea or something?”
Dana pushed off. “Please come inside, Sheriff. Mom and Dad went out to the airport.” She smiled tightly. “He’s working on his sailplane this evening. We’ll have peace and quiet. And Adrianna is down for the count.”
“Perfect,” Estelle agreed. “When’s the baby due?”
Dana held the storm door for her. “Early March. We’re trying to decide whether to take a sonogram or not. Maybe it’s better to be surprised.”
Well, maybe. “Eddie must be thrilled either way.” At the post office, Dana’s husband had seemed excited, in his own quiet way.
“In orbit,” Dana replied. She gestured toward the living room, where the seventy degrees felt like winter. Without asking, she slipped into the kitchen, ran ice from the fridge ice maker, and filled the glass from the sun-tea pitcher. Enclosing the glass in a red-checked napkin, she handed it to Estelle. “Wherever is comfortable for you.”
Estelle settled at the end of a long, curving sofa set. “Dana, we’re concerned about Stacie Stewart.”
Dana didn’t reply, but movements to prepare her own iced tea were deliberate, even thoughtful. She returned to the living room and sat a cushion away.
With her right index finger, she traced the rim of her glass, forehead furrowed.
“We found her daughter and the family’s puppy locked in Stacie’s Volvo station wagon in the parking lot of The Spree earlier today.” Or was that yesterday? Estelle thought. The hours blended into an impossible potpourri.
No gasp of astonishment or incredulity greeted that, and Estelle continued, “A citizen was prompt in calling 911, fortunately. Sheriff Torrez responded and removed the child and puppy from the car. Both are fine, both are back with…” Estelle had been about to say their family. “Both are back with Todd.”
Dana nodded, a single, slow bob of the head.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Dana took a deep breath. “May I tell you what happened?” She tried for a smile. “The whole sorry escapade?”
“Please.”
“Thursday night, Stacie and I went to the volleyball game—that was my idea, but Stacie was just a little excited, too. She used to play, you know. After the game, I got home about nine or so, and I was surprised when later that evening, Stacie called and asked me if I’d do her a favor. I mean, it was almost eleven when she called, and that’s way late for us.” She smiled. “I was up eating, which seems to be my favorite hobby just now. Otherwise I might not have heard my cell.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked if I’d pick her up at The Spree right at eleven the next day. Today, that is. She asked if I’d park at the end of the store, over by the employees’ door. She’d see me there. And that’s what I did.”
“So at eleven Thursday night…yesterday…she was already planning to go into the store, leaving her child and pet behind in the car. Why wouldn’t she just walk across the parking lot from her car to yours when she saw you enter the parking lot, Dana? Why plan to go into the store first?”
“I don’t know. Now, today when I stopped by the store, there were already cops there in the parking lot, so maybe…I don’t know. But see, she wouldn’t have known about that the night before. She wouldn’t have known that they would be there. I mean, when I got to the lot to pick her up, I could see one of your department units parked right by the front of the store, along the sidewalk.”
“And then?”
“She came out the side door, got in the car, and asked if I’d take her down to the Posadas Inn. That’s just a couple of blocks south, and I was sort of surprised that she didn’t just walk. But I mean, no biggie.”
“What was her mood?”
“I’m not much of a psychologist.”
“But nervous? Angry? Withdrawn?”
“Withdrawn is a good choice. Distant.” Dana nodded. “Distant. Usually, Stace is on the huggy side, you know? And kinda flighty. But she seemed determined this time. Serious and determined.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. She asked if I’d go right back to the store after I dropped her off and pick up Ginger and Rascal, that little Jack Russell they bought. Cute as a button, but oh, m
y God…”
“Had she mentioned anything about your taking the child and the puppy when she called the night before? About making a break, maybe? That she might be thinking of leaving home for a while?”
“No.” Dana tried to take a sip of the tea, wrinkled her face in anguish, and set the glass down on the table. “She never said anything about it.”
“What about at the game?”
“Not then, either.”
“At the game, she appeared relaxed? Everything was all right in her world?”
“Well, that’s always hard to tell, Sheriff. But I think so. Nothing out of the ordinary that I noticed.”
“So—as she asked, you dropped her off and then returned to the store to pick up Ginger and the puppy.”
“Well, that’s what I was supposed to do. She gave me a set of keys for the Volvo, and I asked her what I was supposed to do with the car, then. She asked if I’d park it back in their driveway.” She shrugged. “I mean, I was okay with that. It’s just a couple of blocks. But it seemed odd, even a little frightening to me. I mean, what was she thinking?” Dana sighed. “And she wouldn’t say. I mean, I said, ‘Isn’t there something I can do to help?’ And she’d say, ‘Just for a few days, Dana.’ And I didn’t mind that, ’cause see, we had been talking about me babysitting Ginger.”
She reached out and placed her sweating glass on a coaster. “It’s all so strange. I mean, if she was so intent on leaving town or something, or having some rendezvous with a tall, dark-haired stranger at the motel, why not just leave the kids in the house? Or ask me to come to the house for a little bit? I mean, what’s with the car left in the parking lot of a store? That’s really bizarre thinking.”
Estelle didn’t answer, but to her, Stacie Stewart’s convoluted plan was consistent with a mind trying to cope with a life that perhaps she didn’t understand. Nothing could be simple or straightforward. Or had she witnessed something the night before that had thoroughly spooked her? And yet, Estelle thought, Stacie had made no effort to avoid being seen by Deputy Tom Pasquale. If she was running then, she was a good actress, showing no panic.
Come Dark Page 15
