A Discount for Death

Chapter Five

Estelle Guzman pushed the doorbell button in the center of an enameled tin design that looked like a flattened, road-killed lizard. Inside, they heard the first notes of “Ave Maria” on the chimes. There was no response, no movement or shuffling from within. No dog yapped greeting or warning.

Estelle turned and lifted an eyebrow at Torrez. “Tell me I wasn’t dreaming when I saw the porch light turned off,” she said.

“Maybe on a timer. Or not. Maria marches to her own drummer.”

“She an aunt of yours?”

“One of the cousins.”

“She lives by herself?”

“Yep. Her husband Luis died a month or so ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pushed the button again, wondering how much information she could pry out of the sheriff, one isolated sentence at a time. She listened to the six soaring notes of the doorbell once more. With no response, she stepped back and drew out her telephone, dialing the number Dispatch had provided.

In three rings, a woman’s voice answered with a warbling “Yeesss?” that sounded as if she was holding the phone in one hand and a dripping egg beater in the other, interrupted mid-recipe.

“Mrs. Rubay?”

“Yes.” The reply was guarded, then brightened. “And whatever you’re selling, I’m really glad you called. I just declared bankruptcy and can’t find anyone who’ll take my checks.”

Estelle glanced at Torrez and grinned. “Mrs. Rubay, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Would it be possible to talk with you for a few minutes?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“We’re just outside your address. Is this a good time?”

“Sure. Hang on just a minute. I’m just cutting up my husband, and I don’t want the pieces to blow all over the dining room floor.”

The phone clicked off. “She’s butchering her husband,” Estelle said, and Torrez nodded.

“I’m not surprised.”

In a moment the dead bolt clacked. When the woman opened the door, Estelle realized that she knew Maria Rubay as one of the part-timers who worked at the post office. No doubt Cousin Robert would have dredged up that basic information eventually if pressed hard enough.

“Evening, Maria,” Torrez said. He ducked his head in greeting, both hands firmly in his back pockets.

“I was about to call the police because of all the vagrants standing around out in the middle of the street a little bit ago,” Maria said, and favored them with a warm smile, an expression that illuminated her classic oval face. She looked at Estelle. “You have an awfully nice telephone voice,” she said. “You could be one of those phone solicitors who keeps me such good company in the evening. Come on in.”

“Thank you.”

She held the door for them, looking up as Torrez slipped past her. “You’ve grown another inch or so,” she said, and her cousin actually laughed. “How did a family of runts produce you and your sister,” she added. She shook her head and then waved at the sofa in the living room. “Let’s sit.”

“We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rubay,” Estelle started, but the woman interrupted.

“Maria works just fine. And it’s no bother. I’m glad for the company. You know, I just don’t answer the door after dark. Especially with Luis gone now. I just ignore it.”

“I understand.”

“You want to see what I’m putting together, Bobby?” Before the sheriff could answer, Maria Rubay rose quickly to her feet. “Of course you do. Come into the dining room.”

On the table, a vast sea of family photos lay in no obvious order, with the scissors and glue holding down a pile of scrap. “I’m cutting Luis out of every old photograph I can find.” She leaned over the table and smoothed the large piece of tag board, the surface already a third covered. Luis Rubay’s pleasant face, dominated in more recent photos by his heavy Fu Manchu mustache and stubbly brush cut, gazed up at them in dozens of versions.

“When I’m all done, I’m going to have copies made for the family,” she said. “Nice idea, yes?”

“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. She glanced at the pile of photographic rubble to the left. “He was quite a fisherman, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, and I’m hacking out all the damn fish,” Maria said. “A trout is a trout. Maybe I’ll save one or two, just to make him happy.”

“It looks like he was a happy man, Maria.” And true enough, Luis Rubay’s engaging smile was missing only in one or two candid snaps.

“He was.” She straightened up and took a deep breath. “But you didn’t come to talk about this, I’m sure.” She cast a withering glance at the sheriff. “Although a little visit by Miss Gayle and his nibs here might be a nice thing, once in a while.”

“Actually, Maria, we’re interested in what you may have seen or heard earlier this evening. Right around eight o’clock.”

“Ah,” Maria said. “When the president was talking.”

“I missed that,” Estelle said.

“No, you didn’t,” Maria said. “Yakketty-yak-yak, my fellow Americans.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Didn’t miss a thing.” She smoothed the tag board collage again gently. “This is about all the racing going on outside?”

“We’d be interested in whatever you heard, Maria.” She withdrew the small microcassette recorder from her pocket, and Maria nodded.

“Long, dull evening,” she replied. “I went out to empty the garbage just before the prez came on, and saw the village cops careening around after a kid on a motorcycle. That’s the sum and substance of my evening. I assume there’s been an accident, and that somebody’s been hurt? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“We’d like to know what you saw, Maria,” Estelle said, and Maria smiled at her.

“A fountain of information you are,” she said with a chuckle. “Okay. I went outside, just before eight…that’s when the prez was supposed to start his spiel. I put the trash in the can. There’s a board fence right there, between me and Highland Court, as I’m sure you already know. And it continues around the front corner, too. I heard them first, you know. Before I saw them. Sound like that travels.”

“What did you hear?”

“The two of them. I guess I didn’t notice until I actually saw the headlights and all, coming right down Highland Court toward me. They were both just ripping along.” She beckoned at the two officers. “Step outside. I’ll show you exactly where I was.” Estelle’s heart felt like a large chunk of inert lead sinking down through her innards. She realized that she had been hanging on to a slender hope that she was somehow mistaken, that Maria Rubay would tell them that Perry Kenderman had been stopped on the street, after all, had seen the speeding bike, and taken off in hot pursuit.

“Come, come,” Maria said, and took Estelle by the elbow. With Sheriff Torrez following, they walked across the kitchen, out the back door, and stood on the concrete stoop. “There’s los botes.” She nodded at the twin garbage cans. “And this is the fence. That’s Highland Court.” She stepped off the stoop and walked the eight short strides to the cedar fence and rested both hands on it, then pointed to the east, toward the intersection. “And that’s Twelfth.” She walked to the two trash cans. “Now, when I’m standing here,” and she planted herself in front of one of the cans, “I can see right through the gaps in this old fence. And what am I looking at?” She pointed east. “Right across Twelfth and on down Highland.”

“And where were the bike and the police car?”

“Like I said, coming right at me. Coming right down Highland Court, headlights bobbing, motors roaring.” She turned and raised her eyebrows at Estelle.

“So it appeared to you that the police car was in pursuit of the motorcycle.?”

“Certainly was. Flyin’ low, both of them.”

“And you’re absolutely certain that the police car was following the bike on Highland, westbound?” When Maria Rubay looked puzzled, Estelle quickly added, “You’re certain that the police car didn’t appear out of some other street to cut off the bike. The officer wasn’t on Highland Court on this side of the intersection, for example?”

“No,” Maria said patiently. “Most certainly not. One behind the other. Vaaarrooom. Vaaarrooom. If either of the drivers had lost control, they’d have crashed right into my house.”

“And what then? After you saw them race through the intersection and turn southbound on Twelfth, what did you do?”

“Then I went into the house to listen to the prez.” She rubbed her arms. “And this is a chilly breeze.”

“Did you put the garbage in the cans before or after you saw the chase?”

“Before. I crammed on the lid, put the board on top to keep the skunks out, and was about to turn to go back in the house when here they come.” She clasped her hands together. “Like I said, I heard them first and naturally enough glanced that way. Swoosh, whoosh, there they all go.” She shrugged. “Then I went back in the house.”

“Immediately?”

“And that means…what, did I stand around outside? No, I went right back in the house.” She grimaced and reached for the back door. “I heard the sirens later.” She held the door for Estelle and Torrez. “Just minutes later. And then a bit ago, I heard voices outside, snuck a peek, and saw the convocation. I should have left the porch light on for you, but it’s on a timer, and I didn’t even think. I heard the doorbell, but by then I was back to my project, and just ignored it.”

“That’s all right.”

“Nobody ignores the darn telephone, though, right?” Maria smiled conspiratorially.

“Usually not, no.”

Back inside the brightness of the kitchen, Maria looked sympathetic. “I’m not sure I told you what you want to hear, but that’s the way it happened. At least as far as I’m concerned.”

Estelle held the small tape recorder to her lips, forehead furrowed in thought. “Did you hear any other vehicles?”

“Around that same time? None that I noticed. There might have been another one on Highland, way on down the street. It seems to me that I saw some lights. But I don’t know. Maybe just someone backing out of a driveway, you know. I didn’t pay attention.”

The undersheriff switched off the recorder and slipped it into her pocket.

“You guys want a snack of some sort?”

Torrez shook his head. “Many thanks, Maria. A deputy may be coming around with a deposition for you to sign in a day or two.”

“Just whatever,” she said cheerfully. “Bring Miss Gayle over.”

“We’ll do that.”

Leaving Maria Rubay to her welter of photos and cropping, Estelle followed Robert Torrez down the long sidewalk to Twelfth Street. With hardly a glance up or down the street, Torrez crossed and then waited at Estelle’s unmarked car as she ambled toward him, head down and lost in thought.

“Score one for you,” he said when she reached the car. “And you were right about something else, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Maria called the bike rider ‘he,’ just like you said.”

“Whoopee,” Estelle said. She let out a sigh. “I’d just as soon be wrong about the whole mess, Bobby.” Torrez made no reply. Estelle turned and gazed across the intersection. “Your cousin sounded sure of herself.”

“Maria is sure of herself. Always has been. Even when she’s wrong.”

“I don’t think she is, this time. But if we talk to ten witnesses, we’ll hear ten versions,” Estelle said. “I’d like to talk to…what did you say her name was? Mrs. Corning?”

“Yep.”

“She’s not a relative?” Estelle managed a smile.

“Nope. And actually, it’s Miss Corning. She was my second-grade teacher.”

“Ah,” Estelle said. “Second grade. She’s something of an institution, then.”

Torrez hunched his shoulders. “I guess. Second grade was my three favorite years.”

“Then Miss Corning is something of a saint, too,” Estelle said, and glanced at her watch. “She’s awake, so let’s see if she answers her door. Then we can hear version number three.”

The sheriff’s broad face was impassive, but Estelle saw a little tick of his eyebrows and found herself wishing that she could read Robert Torrez’s mind.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just wondering how all this would have turned out if you hadn’t stopped at the dry cleaners.”

“Scary thought.”