For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  Really. He should have kissed her last night. He’d never thought peanut butter was sexy. Whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and strawberry sauce, yes; they were all on the list of sexy foods, but peanut butter? On Queenie, sticky, gooey, salty-sweet peanut butter smeared on cheek, on her hand, on her clothes, the scent of it rising up along with soap and shampoo was the most erotic perfume he’d ever experienced. Last night, she’d smelled delectable. This afternoon she’d smelled so much more enticing, and he’d wanted to devour her, lick his fingers and smack his lips after. He should have planted one on her right in the middle of the cookie aisle. Worrying that he’d come across as an over-amorous teenager meant he’d missed a prime opportunity. So what if he’d made a fool of himself. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done that before.

  Time and place, time and place, you big moron. You had the time and place. She was there in front of you. You even had motive and opportunity. John groaned with annoyance, pent up sexual frustration, and a deep ache in his shoulder.

  “You all right there, old timer? Worn out by that little climb?”

  “Eat me, Duncan,” John said, massaging the discomfort from deltoid to tricep. His annoyance and pain were short-lived, but he let Ishimaru ring the doorbell at their first stop on Navajo Road.

  A thin, elderly man with a long nose opened the door. He put on a pair of black-framed glasses that made his brown eyes look huge.

  John recognized him. Joseph Hildebrand, a Texan, was a deacon at Immaculate Heart of Mary Catholic church, where he took his mother for mass every Sunday. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Hildebrand.” John held up his police badge, “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. You’re Bernadette Tilbrook’s boy. And I betcha you and the officer here want to ask me about the other night, when those lights were down in the canyon.”

  “Yes, sir. We do.”

  “Well, sorry. I can’t tell ya anything. M’wife and I were at our daughter’s house in Santa Fe. We came home after the police had set up stuff down there. The lights kept us awake. Found a body, huh? I heard it on the news.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you mind if we had a look at the canyon from your back yard?”

  Mr Hildebrand looked down at John’s feet and frowned. “D’ya got ta come in the house for that?”

  “It would help to see how much of the canyon floor can be viewed from the back part of your house.”

  “I can tell ya, you’ll see the end of Deer Trap Mesa, and we got a good view of the Sangre de Cristos Mountains and up towards Taos way, but you’ll see squat of the canyon floor. Well, c’mon in. Just wipe yer muddy shoes first or m’wife’ll skin ya.”

  Mr Hildebrand was right. Part of his yard was made of the same kind of volcanic stone as the rest of the mesa, but the canyon floor was obscured by the top of the mesa itself. John knew, after a quick look from the rear part of Hildebrand’s house and the back yard, that he and Ishimaru could knock the house to the left of the Hildebrand’s off their canvass list. After five short minutes, they continued on to the place on the right, a stuccoed, three-storied place with small windows at the front.

  John paused in front of the next house and waited for Ishimaru to tie his shoe. The mailbox at the end of the driveway had been bashed in on one side, probably by some kids playing mailbox baseball. Slightly squished, the stylized calligraphy of an A, R and E were all that remained visible of the homeowner’s name on the postbox.

  Shoe tied, Ishimaru fell into step beside John as they went up the front walk and wiped their boots clean on the welcome mat, badges in hand. The door opened before they had the chance to ring the bell.

  “It’ll only take about forty-five minutes, tops, and th—” a tall, sandy-haired man spoke over one shoulder and crashed straight into Ishimaru, nearly knocking the officer off his feet. “Holy crap!” The man leapt back over the threshold. Flustered, worried, words tumbled from his mouth, “Oh, God, oh, Jesus, oh God. I didn’t… I didn’t… it just… Oh, God.”

  “It’s all right, sir.” Ishimaru held up his hands. “I’m fine. I’m fine. My fault entirely. I’m sorry I gave you such a start.”

  John bit back a laugh. Not because of the slapstick comedy stylings of Ishimaru and a man so startled he’d nearly crapped his pants. It was because Farley, Queenie’s boss and suitor, filled the entire doorframe behind the two men. He had a thick ham sandwich in his meaty paw. Whatever wholegrain breadcrumbs and mustard his goatee hadn’t collected, the white cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt did. It was stained with flecks of yellow. Tomato seeds were stuck to the fabric in squelchy red globules. His wide face was as pink and sweaty as it had been last night.

  John figured the man probably had some serious high blood pressure.

  Farley licked mustard and mayo from the edge of his mouth. “What’s going on?” he said. “You okay, Gordon?”

  ”It’s the police.” Gordon had the same watery blue eyes as Farley, and he wheezed, having a little trouble catching his breath.

  “I see that. Can I help you fellas?”

  “Dr Farley, isn’t it?” John said.

  “Uh-huh. Go ahead Gordon.” Farley waved his hand. “I’ve got this.”

  Coughing, Gordon trampled off to a white Jeep parked at the curb.

  John said, “This is Officer Ishimaru. I’m Detective Tilbrook with the Los Alamos police.”

  Farley swallowed what he’d been storing in the side of his cheek. He blinked a few times. “We’ve met, haven’t we? Where do I know you from?”

  “Last night. At Dr Heston’s place.”

  “Ah, yeah, that’s right. You were there.” A funny, wistful little smile made his goatee twitch. “This is about the kids smashing car windows on this street last week, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Gordon, remember to get green bananas!” he called out before Gordon slammed the Jeep’s door. “You fellas moved a lot faster than I thought you would for car vandalism. The kid next door left his Playstation and three iPods in the car—can you believe that, three iPods? What kid needs three iPods? Anyhow, four cars on this street and two, or maybe it’s three, on San Juan were hit too. Next door had stuff stolen from the back seat. Please tell me you found his Playstation. I’m tired of hearing him cry about it.”

  John glanced at Ishimaru. “No. sir, I’m sorry, I have to admit I don’t know anything about those robberies. I’ve been out on leave.”

  “That vandalism and robbery are still being investigated, sir,” Ishimaru said. “This is another matter altogether.”

  “It figures. You guys never recover electronic stuff, do you? Well, what’s insurance for, right?”

  “Again, I’m sorry.” John nodded. “Have you got a few minutes? We’d like to ask you a couple of questions and have a look at the canyon from your back yard.”

  “Well, I just came home for lunch. I have to get back to work soon. Can you come back later?”

  “This won’t take long.”

  After a bite of his sandwich, Farley nodded, mumbling something that sounded like, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  “Thank you,” John said. “This may seem unusual, but I understand the back of your place has some floor to ceiling windows. We’d like to take a look at the canyon from your back yard and the back of your house as well. May we come in?”

  Farley exhaled and pushed open the storm door. A chunk of ham fell from his sandwich and landed on the floor. A dog scrambled across the slate floor. Head low, it growled at John and Ishimaru and stood over the pink pork, teeth bared.

  “Get on the rug, Lawrence!” Farley said in a curt tone.

  Blue-gray and white Lawrence stepped backwards, tail between his legs. He plopped on a small rug on the slate and huffed, his eyes focused on Farley.

  Farley didn’t bother to pick up the scrap of ham. After another bite of sandwich, he jerked his chin, “Okay,” he said.

  Lawrence raced forward to gobble the bit of meat.

  “This way now, boys.
We’ll go out through the kitchen.”

  They followed the burly man farther into the house. John’s boots shush-shushed over the plastic floor runner that stretched across pristine celery-green carpeting. The runner was yellowed with age, while the carpet was brand new or incredibly well preserved. Plastic slipcovers entombed a floral-print couch and matching chairs within a sunken living room. Curtains a shade deeper than the carpeting were drawn across the windows making up the far wall of the living room, obscuring the view of the back yard and canyon. Farley led them left through the dining room, past the ugliest clock John had ever seen—a bronze replica of an atomic mushroom cloud—hung on the wall of the dining room, right above a plastic-topped King Louis-the-whatever sideboard adorned by cherubs.

  While the dining and living areas were a shrink-wrapped French and country mix, the kitchen was a different matter. It was something out of the ‘80s, with a distinct Miami Vice look. The cupboards were flamingo pink, the granite countertops white-flecked gray. A pink, white, and gray dinette set sat in front of a large picture window. At the table, a thin, elderly man in a gray sweatshirt blended right in with the décor, except that he had peanut butter in his salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Dad,” Farley polished off the last of his ham, “this is Detective Tilbrook and Officer...” He glanced sideways at the policeman in uniform.

  “Ishimaru.”

  “They’re here to look out the windows and they want to go in the back yard.”

  “Hello,” the tiny man said, smiling without the teeth that sat on a placemat beside the peanut butter and jelly sandwich on his plate. “Would you like a sandwich, Detective and friend?”

  “No thank you, Mr Farley.”

  “Ivers. I’m Donnie’s stepfather.”

  “Excuse me, Mr Ivers,” John nodded again. “Dr Farley, did you notice anything happening down in the canyon on Monday?”

  “Monday.” Farley pulled the napkin from his shirt and used it to brush crumbs from his goatee. “Actually, no. I had a meeting in town with some government people.”

  “We had pea soup for lunch Monday, Donnie.”

  “No, Dad, that was Monday night.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Donnie, where are your manners? Just because your mother’s not here doesn’t mean you get to be rude. Ask your friends if they’d like a sandwich. Do you boys like peanut butter and jelly—I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Detective Tilbrook, sir, and Officer Ishimaru”

  “A detective? Like Columbo or Barney Miller, huh?”

  “Something like that, Mr Ivers.”

  Lawrence wandered into the kitchen. He sank down beside Mr Ivers’ feet and began to lick up blobs of jelly and peanut butter that had dropped on the floor.

  John glanced at Dr Farley. The man’s mouth was set in a grim line as he exhaled. “Dad, we’re going out on the patio.”

  “Did you and Gordon take down the Christmas lights like I asked you to?”

  Farley moved towards a set of sliding glass doors. “I’m going to do that now. Eat your lunch, Dad. This policeman’s going to look out the windows in the living room.” He jerked his head at Ishimaru, indicating he should go in the other room.

  ”Lunch?” Mr Ivers said. “Let me heat up the pea soup for you, Donnie. That’ll go nice with your ham sandwich.” He stood and called out, waggling his finger at the departing Ishimaru. “Stay on the carpet runner when you take Lawrence outside, Jay. You know my wife won’t be happy if you get mud on her rug.”

  “That’s not Jay, Dad.”

  Mr Ivers squinted. “Oh. Well, tell your friends to stay on the carpet runner. And Jesus, wipe your mouth, Donnie.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Where’s Jay?”

  “Jay’s not here today, Dad. Gordon is. He went to the co-op to buy fruit. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Oh. When you’re done outside, put that napkin in the washer with your other dirty things, and don’t leave the wet clothes on top of the machine again. Three times of that in one week is enough. You and your brother are old enough to know better.”

  “Right, Dad,” Farley mumbled, leading John to a set of sliding glass doors. There were little daisy decals across the center of each glass pane.

  “We’ll be quick,” John said when he stepped out onto the patio behind Farley. It was clear what was going on with Mr Ivers.

  The bearded man sighed as he shut the door. “He has good days and bad days. This is a half and half day.”

  “Dementia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  “Thank you. He’s eighty-seven and was doing pretty well up until this past January. We had him in at Aspen Ridge Lodge, but he’s better here, at home, around familiar things. Some days he’s teenage Benny Ivers, some days he’s my father and it’s 1974, ‘84, or earlier. The thing with the clothes, he forgets that he’s taken them out of the machine. He’ll wash and fold the same load five or six times. Then there’s what he remembers and what he thinks he remembers.” Farley chuckled, “The other day he was teary eyed when he told me Colonel Blake died. You know who Colonel Blake is?”

  “Colonel Blake? You mean Henry Blake? The guy from M*A*S*H?”

  “Yeah. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about a TV show. He can tell you about some stupid Columbo or Quincy episode he watched thirty years ago, but he can’t remember that my Mom’s gone or that he’s already made a pot of pea soup. We eat a lot of pea soup here. We’ve been playing around with different medications, and I have a home care nurse who comes four times a week. My half-brother, you met him when you came in, is here when I’m not. We don’t leave my dad on his own for long. If he goes outside, the dog goes with him and keeps him from going too far—he’s a herding dog, it’s his nature—and Lawrence knows the way home. My dad can bathe and eat and dress, thank God, but the doctors say eventually he’ll need full-time care.” Farley rubbed the end of his goatee and sighed. “Sorry to dump all this on you. Like I said, there are good days and bad days.”

  “It must be difficult.”

  “Difficult and expensive.” Farley gestured to the back yard. “Well, there you go.”

  “I won’t be long,” John said.

  As with the Hildebrand place, a portion of the back yard was made of rock. On one side of the patio was a long patch of grass. An outcropping formed a low, natural wall about two feet high. It was shared with the neighbors on either side. On his side, on top of the wall, Farley had two broken terracotta pots and three intact ones with dead chrysanthemums in them. Careful not to upend the lifeless flowers, John stepped up onto the wall. His disappointment was immediate. Beyond the wall, the yard sloped about ten feet to the twisted remains of a broken cyclone fence then fell away. Ponderosa pines, piñon, and scrub oaks obscured the Barrancas Canyon floor. John walked farther along the top of the wall and saw nothing else but a stunning view that ran north from Wheeler Peak, down along the entire Española valley and across to the Sangre de Cristos Mountains and Santa Fe, the cliff faces of Deer Trap mesa and the houses that ran out the length of Otowi Mesa.

  He hopped down from the wall and moved back to the patio. “You’ve got one hell of a nice view.”

  “Yes. What is it you’re looking for anyway?” Farley said, fingers fiddling with the handle on the sliding glass door. He looked as forlorn as the dog had when it waited to eat a scrap of ham.

  “Anyone who may have seen people walking on the mesa, or hiking down in the canyon on Monday. Do you think your father may have noticed anything?”

  “You can ask him,” Farley shrugged, “but what he tells you might be an episode of The Streets of San Francisco.”

  John thanked Mr Ivers and Dr Farley for their time and left for the house next door. They stepped around toys littering the front walkway. Ishimaru pushed aside a battered tricycle and rang the doorbell of the Tierney residence.

  Mrs Tierney had orange play
-doh in her black hair, a big purple stain on her pink t‑shirt, and a screaming, squirming three-year-old over her shoulder. Drawn and haggard, she let them inside, her reluctance plain on her face—but an idea sparked in her tired blue eyes. “See, Vivian? I told you the police come for naughty little girls. Here,” she said, thrusting the toddler into John’s arms. “Tell her how you’ll take her to jail if she doesn’t behave.”

  John caught a whiff of applesauce, peanut butter, and grape jelly as twenty-five pounds of kid went completely still in his hands. He hoped like hell the child didn’t pee all over him in fear. “So, he said with a gentle but stern tone, “are you really being naughty?”

  The little girl nodded, eyes round and wide.

  While John wrangled the little girl, Ishimaru knew the drill. He stepped in to ask questions. “Ms Tierney,” Ishimaru said, shooting John a ha ha ha sucker smirk. “We’re investigating an incident in—”

  “Was another car broken into? I hope it was the Snowden’s two doors down. Serve them right. They always leave their garage door wide open and that big dumb dog of theirs gets out, scares the kids, and makes a mess of the garbage. Please tell me someone took the stupid dog.”

  Ishimaru’s mouth twitched. “No. No break-ins or dog-nappings.”

  “Did you find my son’s Playstation and iPods?”

  “No, ma’am, this is regarding another matter. In the canyon. We noticed your back yard has a clear line of sight to the canyon floor. Can you tell us if you might have seen anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary happening at any time Monday? Were there kids wandering round out on the mesa or any hikers you noticed?”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be joking.” She rubbed her forehead hard, grinding the bright play-doh deeper into her hair. “Do I look like I ever have time to stop and enjoy the view?”