The president of Posadas State Bank and twin brother of Sheriff’s Department Lieutenant Tom Mears, Dennis was a model of decorum, and it must have embarrassed him to be so persistent. But he hadn’t tried her cell phone, which ran the risk of interrupting her in the middle of something important—in this instance district court testimony during a domestic violence docket.
Equally curious about the other messages, Estelle plucked off the note from Camille Stratton. Brassy Camille, former sheriff Bill Gastner’s oldest daughter and denizen of Flint, Michigan, surely had both her father’s contacts and Estelle’s cell, but she hadn’t gone that route either. Like Dennis Mears, Camille had left no message when she had called at 10:26 that morning.
The remaining note, posted from Estelle’s youngest son, Carlos, had come in at 10:46. “Mr. Mears is trying to find you,” her son had reported.
The undersheriff looked up at the wall clock. Now a minute or two after twelve, odds were good that the banker had left for lunch, either at Rotary, which met on Wednesdays at the Don Juan, or with one of his colleagues. Estelle dialed the bank anyway.
“Good afternoon, Posadas State Bank. How may I direct your call?” Rosie Ulibarri sounded cheerful.
“Rosie, this is Estelle. I see that Dennis has been trying to reach me all morning. Did I catch him?”
“Well, yes, you did,” Rosie said with enthusiasm. “Hang on, please. Oh, and how are those kids of yours?”
“Hale and hearty, thank you.” Rosie Ulibarri had no children of her own, but made up for it by nesting any child within reach.
“Everyone is still talking about that wonderful concert last winter. When do we get an encore?”
Estelle laughed. “I’m not in the loop,” she said. “But soon, we hope.”
“Has he been home for the summer now?”
“The conservatory is year-round, so no. If we’re lucky, we’ll see him on Labor Day weekend. Maybe.”
“They do make them work, don’t they? And he is how old now?”
“Francisco is fourteen in October. Carlos just turned ten last Sunday.”
“My goodness.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Listen to me. Estelle, forgive an old maid’s rambling on. Here’s Dennis.”
“Thank you, Rosie.”
Circuits clicked, and Dennis Mears’ quiet voice came on the line.
“Estelle, I don’t mean to pester,” he said without preamble, “but you know how time slips away. Is there a possibility that you could swing by the bank this afternoon sometime? Or if it’s easier, I can drop by the S.O.”
“How about two at your place?” Estelle offered.
“Could we make it one?”
She glanced at the clock. The banker’s lunch hour had already been shaved of four minutes. “One is fine, Dennis. This is concerning what?”
Mears hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if we could discuss it in person, may we?”
“You bet. Your office at one o’clock.” She hung up, more than a little puzzled. If the bank president wouldn’t discuss the topic over the phone, his absolute discretion was being put to the test. If it were an issue with her husband’s clinic, which now included a dental suite as well as general family surgery and a full-scale pharmacy, Mears would not have called Estelle. The Guzmans’ personal accounts were impeccable, well-padded, and under the care of a CPA. Mears wouldn’t have bothered her about a goofed check.
That left the Sheriff’s Department as the most likely target of concern, and there were any number of ways that some of the deputies, hard-pressed to make ends meet, or not mindful of their credit card balances, could misstep with the bank. Still, Estelle couldn’t image Dennis Mears calling her. She wasn’t in charge of Sheriff’s Department employee banking unless one of them had tried to rob the place.
She sighed and reached out to paste Camille Stratton’s note on her desk calendar. What Bill Gastner’s daughter wanted was anyone’s guess, but long-distance from Michigan didn’t necessarily add urgency. Camille called often, keeping close tabs on her aging and stubborn father—and at the same time, nurturing the ties with the Guzmans and their two boys, for whom Bill Gastner was an active godfather—their padrino.
Even as Estelle withdrew her hand from the calendar, her desk phone rang, the dispatch circuit blinking.
“Estelle, Camille Stratton is on line two. Did you want to talk with her?”
“Sure. And I’m meeting with Dennis Mears at the bank at one. I need to keep things clear. I don’t know what’s up with him.” She glanced at her calendar. “And I have another meeting at three. Don’t let me forget.”
“Who could forget Leona Spears?” Wheeler said dryly.
Sure enough—the great waft of the county manager’s perfume would mark the undersheriff’s office for the rest of the day. The grand lady—grand in many ways—would fill the doorway, her habitual, voluminous muumuu patterned as usual with gigantic sunflowers. Estelle was sure that Sheriff Bob Torrez, painfully taciturn and monosyllabic at the best of times, was embarrassed by Leona Spears. He ducked meetings with her whenever he could. But the department budget was the undersheriff’s turf anyway, and Estelle—who could talk easily with the stubborn sheriff—knew Bobby Torrez’s wants and wishes list. And she found it easy to enjoy the ebullient county manager’s company.
She pushed the button for line two.
“Camille? What a nice surprise!”
“Well, good afternoon to you, hermana.” Camille Stratton’s Midwest twang grated on the Spanish. “Say, did you happen to talk with Dad this morning?”
“I haven’t. Court’s been taking a lot of time this week. We’re going to try for dinner tomorrow evening.” She glanced at her calendar to make sure that Friday was still clear.
“Court,” Camille said with disgust. “I was so relieved when that silly manslaughter lawsuit against Dad got tossed. I mean, there were absolutely no grounds, but you know how those things can drag on and on and on until every last lawyer has sucked up every last shekel.”
“Worrisome,” Estelle allowed. “And we’re all glad it’s over.”
“Well, if you shoot somebody, I guess you can expect that to happen, but Dad certainly didn’t have any choice, did he? The asinine judge should have just chucked the whole thing on day one.”
“Everyone gets to have his say, silly or no,” Estelle said.
“I suppose. Anyway, done is done. Did you happen to talk with him yesterday?”
Estelle’s mind went blank. Had she? Court proceedings had taken all day on Tuesday, and then her mother had been a worry—detached, far from her usual acerbic self, obviously preoccupied about something—but at age ninety-nine, who knew what? Estelle talked with former sheriff Bill Gastner so routinely that for a moment she had to think hard. “The last time I talked with Padrino was Sunday night at dinner, Camille. Carlos made green chile lasagna.”
Camille laughed. “God, those kids of yours. We need to clone them. And, oh,” she said suddenly, “we had some friends over the other day and watched the CD of the Posadas Concert with Francisco and that other youngster. His classmate.”
“Mateo Atencio,” Estelle prompted. “The flutist.”
“About the tenth time for us, I think. Just breathtaking. And I think my youngest—she’s home now from Berkeley—is in love with your son. Or maybe it was Mateo who made her swoon. Or both. Hell, I don’t know. Anyway, once again it was quite a treat. Mark did some Internet skimming and found that the boys are giving a concert in Chicago in late September. Did you know about that one? At the Garden Auditorium downtown?”
“September fourteenth.” Estelle had noticed the concert promo in one of the Leister Academy’s flyers. “Quite a venue.” She hadn’t taken time to read the details, but had been struck by the name of the place, and the small color photo included that showed an indoor glass dome with Lake Michigan in the background.
“We were thinking of going…it’s not all that far. Anyway,” she said, “if you see Dad today, would you
have him call me? I’ve tried about six times yesterday and today. I think his answering machine is off or something.”
“That’s not surprising. But, yes, I’ll swing by there this afternoon if I can’t make contact before.”
“I’d appreciate it. I know I’m a worrywart, but with Dad, there’s no telling. I wish we could find the old badger some live-in romance or something.”
Estelle laughed. “He’s been spending a lot of time out at our new astronomy theme park. That’s his current romance. Right now, they’re in the middle of building the tramway up the side of the mesa. That’s neat to watch, but I think Padrino is more interested in the site archaeology.”
“Well, no wonder, then. I’m glad he’s busy.” Camille laughed ruefully. “A cranky, busted-up seventy-six-year-old heart and stroke patient climbing around on cliff-side boulders and such, swatting at rattlesnakes? That’s not much of a worry. Especially since he refuses to carry his cell phone at least half the time. And I bought him one of those medical alerts he’s supposed to hang around his neck. Does he do that? Noooooooo.”
“He does what he does, whether we know where he is or not. And loves every moment of it. He’s incorrigible.”
“Ain’t that the truth. When you see him, have him call me, all right?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“How’s your hunky husband doing? You know, Mark and I want to visit down there sooner rather than later. Mark is fascinated by the international clinic concept that Francis has going. Especially since you guys have let the dentist in.”
“Camille, I wish you and Mark would treat us with a visit. Francis is talking about adding a veterinarian to the mix, if you can believe that.” Estelle knew that, with his own wealthy patient load, oral surgeon Mark Stratton would find the small, rural Posadas clinic a culture shock, with its large percentage of patients from south of the border.
“Ye Gods, dogs and cats. Just what he needs. But look, is there any chance of you guys coming for the Chicago concert? We could have a nice reunion over here. It’s been too long. And you know our guest room situation. We could quarter an army.”
“We have been talking about it.”
“Well, talk some more, and then do it. These moments are fleeting. I mean, fourteen years old and in concert at the Garden? Who woulda thunk? Next thing you know, this handsome little kid musician is going to be celebrating his fortieth birthday for God’s sakes, and where will we be? You could bring Dad up with you. September is easy traveling. He’d love it.”
“I’ll talk to him about that.” Bill Gastner had visited Flint on more than one occasion, and loving it had never been a description he’d used.
“And you’ll check on him today for me? He thinks I try to smother him from a distance, but my gosh, Estelle.”
“He’s a tough case,” Estelle laughed. “We’ll be in touch, though. Thanks for calling, Camille.”
“And do think about September. Really do.”
“I really will.”
She hung up and took a long, deep breath. Camille’s agenda was indeed to smother her aging father with long-distance care. Bill Gastner didn’t accept smothering well. On the infrequent occasions when Camille visited Posadas, Estelle had learned to stay well out of the epicenter. Still, because she had promised to do so, the undersheriff dialed Gastner’s home phone. No answering machine came to life even after a dozen rings, and no life in the cell phone.
She had fifty minutes before her appointment with Dennis Mears—she could be at Gastner’s spreading adobe fortress in three. On her way out of the Public Safety Building, she stopped at dispatch. “By some remote chance, does three hundred have his radio turned on?”
Wheeler frowned and turned just enough to touch the transmit pedal with his foot. “Three zero zero, PCS. Ten twenty?”
The radio remained silent. “Who knows?” Wheeler shrugged. “Half the time he forgets.” Long retired, Bill Gastner still carried a Sheriff’s Department radio in his SUV. Never a meddler, never looking to be underfoot, he still continued to be a valuable information resource for the department, a walking Posadas County gazetteer.
“Okay. I’m going to take just a minute and swing past his place. Camille is fretful. Then the bank, then Leona in my office.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anything else on the horizon?”
“It’s been a long, boring day,” Wheeler replied.
“Did the sheriff happen to mention that he would attend the meeting with Leona later today?”
“I saw him for a minute or two when my shift started, then he went out. Lemme see.” Estelle could picture Ernie twisting to look at the staff in-out whiteboard. “Doesn’t say. When he comes in, I’ll remind him about it.”
“Good. Because the county manager might have some questions for him.”
Chapter Three
Bill Gastner’s spreading adobe hunkered under clusters of scruffy trees and one or two towering cottonwoods trying to compete with a pair of giant elms, a place Estelle referred to as a “Badger Den.”
The undersheriff pulled into the graveled driveway, the crunch of tires loud on the stones. Nosing the county car up to the garage, she switched off the engine and out of habit sat for a moment, windows down, feeling the summer heat waft in with a bouquet from the thick hedge of creosote bush by the front door. Thirty percent humidity hardly qualified as muggy, but the overcast was a welcome relief from the usual five or six percent.
“Hey!”
Estelle froze. The single word had been so faint that had she merely rustled her clothing, she wouldn’t have heard it. As it was, she had no sense of the direction from which the exclamation had come. She waited another few seconds and then got out of the car, closing the door without clicking the latch.
“I’m in…the garage.” This time, she recognized Bill Gastner’s voice, heard the strain of vocalizing only two words at a time.
“Padrino?” She tried the lift handle, but the door was held secure by the electric opener’s mechanism.
“Go through the house,” he said. “The…” and he hesitated. “Front door is open.” His voice was a faint rasp, and then just a little stronger as he muttered, “God damn it.”
“I’ll be right there.” Even as she turned toward the front door, she pulled the cell phone from her jacket pocket. The pleasantly musty air from the old house greeted her as she touched the speed dial.
“Ernie, I need an ambulance at Gastner’s. I don’t know what the deal is, but get ’em rolling. I’ll be back to you in a minute.”
“Roger that,” Wheeler responded, “We got…” but the phone was already back in Estelle’s pocket. The undersheriff turned right off the foyer, through a small bedroom that now stored the old man’s collection of “perfectly good” cardboard boxes, to the hallway and the door to the garage. The door was ajar, and she reached in and snapped on the overhead lights. One of the bulbs worked, enough to cast deep shadows around the shiny red Dodge Durango SUV.
“Hey.” Gastner’s voice was small and rusty.
Between the SUV and the collection of boxed and unboxed junk that had bred over the years, and the rows of shelved paint cans whose contents had crusted, there was at best eighteen inches of clearance to sidle along the vehicle on the driver’s side, the space in deep shadow. In that shadow lay an even darker shadow, securely wedged, head toward the rear wheel.
“Open the goddamn overhead door,” Gastner whispered. “The remote is on the visor. Damn button by the door doesn’t work.”
Estelle had already started to slide past the truck’s projecting mirror. She was five foot seven and slender. Gastner was an inch shy of six feet, rotund and beginning to stoop a little with age. How did he manage? One of her boots touched something.
“Don’t be walking on me.” He tried a half-hearted chuckle. By awkwardly straddling the fallen man’s legs and sliding along the side of the truck, she was able to reach inside the cab to the visor and push the garage door remote. With a rumble, the door start
ed up. The surge of fresh air stirred the other body odors of a man too long down.
The blast of daylight was harsh, and in the distance Estelle could hear a siren.
“Help is on the way,” she said, bending low to rest a light hand on his shoulder. “Are we going to be able to help you up?”
Gastner lifted his left hand just clear of the floor in protest. His face was inches from the back wheel, legs awkwardly crumpled toward the front of the truck.
“I think I broke my goddamn hip,” he growled weakly. “Hell, I know I broke it. So here I am.”
She reached over and took his left hand. His fingers were cool, and he returned her touch with a gentle squeeze.
“Concrete floor is damn hard.” He tried to shift his head. Estelle slipped out of her khaki jacket, wadded it into a small pillow, and lifted his head just enough to be able to slide it under.
“What brought you by?” His voice was a raspy whisper.
“Camille called a little bit ago,” Estelle replied. “She’d tried to reach you, but here you were.”
“Here I was.” He suppressed a cough. “Here I was. I heard the damn phone. She doesn’t give up, you know.”
The ambulance turned off Grande onto Escondido, charged past the trailer park, and swung into Guadalupe, backing into the driveway beside Estelle’s county car. Matty Finnegan was first out, crash kit in hand.
“Oh, good,” Gastner murmured. “My favorite.”
Always bubbly cheerful, Matty set down her gear and wormed her way along the truck to Gastner’s head.
“What did you do?” she said. “This is no place for a nap.”
“I tripped over my own goddamn feet,” Gastner managed. “I couldn’t catch myself. I think I broke my right hip.”
As he spoke, Matty surveyed the tight spot.
“How’s the pain?”
“Morphine would be nice.”
“How long have you been here?” She grimaced at the aroma.
Blood Sweep Page 2
