A Discount for Death

Chapter Eight

In 1952, after pouring an eight-block series of concrete slabs along North Third Street as the start of a housing development for copper miners’ families, the developer-in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity-had planted a row of elm trees along the new curb. Somehow, the tree roots had burrowed their way down to adequate water, and while the houses along Third remained scrubby and minimal, the elms flourished.

The lot at 709 Third Street was blessed with two gigantic trees that straddled the tiny, square residence.

Estelle stopped the unmarked county car and looked up the short gravel driveway. A dilapidated blue Ford Courier pickup truck was parked behind a tiny imported sedan whose make Estelle didn’t immediately recognize.

She reached for the mike, then changed her mind, digging out the small cellular phone instead. Brent Sutherland, the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office, answered as if his hand had been poised over the receiver, waiting for the first call since the sun had cracked the horizon.

“Good morning. Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Sutherland.”

“You sound cheerful this morning,” Estelle said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sutherland replied brightly and then, as if reading out of one of his beloved self-motivational books, added, “After all, this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

And I wonder if that sunny thought crossed Perry Kenderman’s mind when he got up today, Estelle thought. “Yes, it is. Do you have time to run a couple of plates for me?”

“You bet,” Sutherland said. “Fire away.”

“The first one is New Mexico Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln.” While Sutherland repeated the number, Estelle idled the car ahead a few feet so that she could see the license on the little import. “The second is New Mexico One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike.”

“Ten four. It’ll be just a minute.”

She settled back in the seat, phone resting lightly on her shoulder. The pickup lacked a tailgate, the left taillight assembly, and the back bumper. What looked like an aluminum ramp lay in the back, the sort of thing a bike owner would use to load a motorcycle up into the truck’s sagging bed. The little truck’s right rear tire was soft, adding to the derelict tilt of the aging suspension.

In less than a minute, Sutherland’s smooth, efficient voice was back on the phone. “Ma’am, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Eight Two Seven Kilo Thomas Lincoln should appear on a blue nineteen seventy-seven Ford Courier pickup truck registered to a Richard Charles Kenderman, two four four De La Mar, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”

Estelle frowned. Richard Charles, she thought. “Do you know him?”

“Sure don’t,” Brent said. “But he’s got to be related to Perry. Not that many Kendermans around these parts.”

“See what you can track down, will you? What’s the other tag?”

“One Eight One Thomas Edward Mike should appear on a white nineteen ninety-four Nissan registered to a Barbara Cole Parker, seven oh nine Third Street, Posadas. No wants or warrants.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out of the car for a while at that address, Brent.”

“Okay. And before you go, I have a note here from the sheriff to remind you of your appointment at zero nine hundred.”

Estelle glanced at the dash clock. In two hours and three minutes, the Posadas County Grand Jury would convene to decide the fate of insurance agent George Enriquez-on the first day of the rest of his life.

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Brent.” Across the street, a truck started up with a plume of blue smoke, then backed out of a driveway and headed south. From the first house north of the Parkers’, a small, ratty dog trotted out to stand in the street, watching the truck depart. After a moment, the animal turned, glanced at Estelle’s car, and sauntered back onto the brick path that connected house to sidewalk.

When the undersheriff got out of her car, the dog stopped and regarded her, tail a motionless flag at half-mast. Then the ears dropped, the tail flicked, and the dog approached, nose close to the ground.

Estelle stopped on the sidewalk and let the little animal sniff the cuffs of her slacks.

“You know exactly what happened last night, don’t you,” Estelle said. The little dog jumped sideways at the sound of her voice, ears pricked and tail wagging. With no head-scratch forthcoming, the animal turned to pursue interests elsewhere.

Estelle walked up beside the pickup. It was unlocked, the keys in the ignition. The ashtray yawned open, full to overflowing with cigarette butts. A light film of dust coated the dashboard, the perfect canvas for a welter of finger- and handprints and smudges. A hole gaped in the narrow dashboard where the radio had been.

The driver’s door was only partially closed, and Estelle lifted the latch. The rich, cloying fragrance of burned hemp wafted out. “Party time,” Estelle murmured and nudged the door shut. She walked forward past the truck and glanced at the sedan. Other than a cardboard carton that had once held canning jars and now might be home to any number of things, the inside of the Nissan was clean.

As she stepped to the front door of the house, Estelle paused to survey the neighborhood. Little boxy houses nested in small yards with occasional chain-link fences and shaggy, unkempt elms as yet untouched by breezes. At 6:57 that morning, the neighborhood was quiet. Inside the Parker house, she heard a child’s voice, then an adult’s, low-pitched and gentle.

Barbara Parker might have drifted off to sleep after the brutal evening the day before, after cops had left and well-meaning neighbors had gone home, after the children were settled. Perhaps she’d jarred awake at dawn, then forced herself to slip into her daughter’s bedroom to see if the girl was still lying there innocently asleep, the whole incident nothing more than the mother’s personal nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, Estelle rapped on the door.

“Just a minute!” a voice called, and Estelle heard the conversation continuing as footsteps approached the front door. It opened, but the woman’s back was turned momentarily as she said, “Make sure you put the top on Mindi’s,” and then she turned her attention to the visitor. “Hello,” she said. Maybe thirty-eight, maybe fifty-five, it was impossible to tell. The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, the black circles under them accentuated by the prematurely wrinkled skin of a heavy smoker. An inch or so shorter than Estelle’s five feet seven inches, she was fine-boned and so thin that her faded jeans molded over the projections of her hip bones.

“Good morning,” Estelle said. “Mrs. Parker?”

“Yes.” The woman’s tone was neutral, carrying no particular greeting or curiosity.

“I’m Estelle Guzman with the sheriff’s department. I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched. “With two little kids, this is just about mid-morning. What did you need?”

“I need to talk with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Parker.”

“I think I know you, don’t I? You’re a social worker or something with the department.”

“I’m Undersheriff Guzman. I’m investigating your daughter’s death, Mrs. Parker.”

“I talked to the officers last night.” She said it without petulance and opened the door. She beckoned Estelle inside. “You don’t look like you got much more sleep than I did.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “The kiddos are having some breakfast, so you’ll have to put up with that.”

Estelle smiled. “I’m used to it. I have two of my own.”

Barbara Parker shot a quick glance at Estelle as she walked toward the kitchen. “I tell you, without these two little poppets, I don’t think the sun would have bothered to come up this morning.”

A little boy with wheat-colored hair that had been buzzed uniformly close to his skull was kneeling precariously on his chair, holding a quart milk carton with both hands, and using the milk carton for balance. In a high-chair with its back to the kitchen sink sat a sober little girl. She looked at her grandmother, then at Estelle, then at the bright blue plastic cup between her tiny hands.

“This is Ryan,” Barbara Parker said, watching the boy’s maneuvers with the carton. She snapped the cover on the little girl’s plastic cup and then took the carton of milk from Ryan and set it on the table. Freed of the challenge of the milk carton, Ryan scrambled down out of his chair. “He’s four. And this is Mindi. She was two in August, weren’t you, sweetheart.” Ryan approached Estelle, his broad face puckered into a frown. Estelle sank to one knee so the two of them were eye to eye. She held out a hand. As she did so, her jacket drew away enough that the boy saw the gold badge clipped to her belt.

“How come you got that?” he asked. He allowed Estelle to take his hand.

“Because I’m a police officer,” she said.

“Oh.”

“My name’s Estelle, Ryan.”

“Okay.” He nodded, and Estelle released his hand. He didn’t move away but reached out and smoothed a wrinkled picture that had been magnet-tacked to the refrigerator door. The crayon sketch showed a huge, glowering sun. The four letters of Ryan’s name stretched across the blue yard in front of a red house. “There was two policemans here.” He reached up and placed a hand against the side of his face. “The lady looked funny.”

“She had an accident a long time ago, Ryan.”

“Like mommy?”

Estelle nodded. “Sort of like that.”

“Mommy died.”

“Yes.”

“Did that lady?”

“No, she didn’t die.” She glanced up to see Barbara Parker gathering Mindi out of the high-chair. Ryan reached out and touched the dark arc of Estelle’s right eyebrow, the light tentative touch of the artist trying to fix a shape, a texture, a color in his mind.

“You got funny eyebrows,” he said.

“I think so, too,” Estelle agreed.

“He’s a young man who says exactly what’s on his mind,” the boy’s grandmother said.

“I’m familiar with that,” Estelle said, and pushed herself to her feet. Ryan backed off, scrubbing his back along the smooth surface of the refrigerator door.

“Let’s sit,” Barbara said. She edged one of the kitchen chairs out with her toe, then sat down with Mindi in her lap. The child seemed content with her plastic, lidded cup. Ryan walked a wide circle around Estelle and clambered back into his chair.

“I got this,” he said and hoisted the cereal box.

“Just keep ’em in the bowl, sport,” Barbara Parker said.

“I understand that you’re a counselor at the schools?”

Barbara nodded. “Of a sort. I’m the district’s occupational therapist. I work with kids all day long, all ages, all makes and models,” she said. “But I’m lost right now, I can tell you.”

“It’s not easy,” Estelle said.

The woman shook her head and tears welled to the surface once again. “Oh, boy,” she said and reached behind her to the box of tissues on the kitchen counter. Mindi rested her head back against her grandmother’s shoulder and regarded Estelle solemnly. Both hands remained locked on the plastic cup. Estelle smiled at the child but saw no response behind the brown eyes. Ryan picked up a spoon and began a methodical thumping on the edge of his plastic cereal bowl. Sugar-coated cereal pellets about the size and shape of rabbit droppings scattered across the table. He seemed in no hurry to drench the mound with milk.

“Mrs. Parker, who is Richard Kenderman?” Estelle asked.

“That’s my dad,” Ryan said loudly, spoon heaped with cereal. He shoved the sugar bombs into his mouth. More scattered on the table. Estelle watched him with interest. Barbara Parker dabbed her eyes, then reached across the small table, opened the milk carton again, and poured a flood over Ryan’s cereal. “Rick and Colette lived together for a few months some time ago,” she said, and shrugged helplessly.

“He’s Perry’s brother?”

She nodded. “Rick’s the younger of the two. And they’re as different as night and day, let me tell you,” Barbara Parker said. “Come on,” she said to Ryan. “Don’t make such a mess. You’re showing off.”

The boy made a face and tossed the spoon on the table. One of the cereal droppings flicked across the table onto Estelle’s lap. Ryan watched it go, then slipped down out of his chair.

“You want to see my new car?”

“Sure.”

“Ryan, you go drive it into the living room, and we’ll be right in,” his grandmother said. “One of those remote things,” she added as Ryan scampered off. She sighed. “We’ve got about thirty seconds of peace and quiet now.”

Estelle smiled in sympathy. “Tell me about Richard Kenderman.”

“He’s a heller, and I just hate it when he shows up, Sheriff,” Barbara said. “He and Colette lived together up until she started to show with Mindi. Then we didn’t see much of him for quite a while-a couple years or so. And then, a few weeks ago, he started coming by again.” She nuzzled the side of the little girl’s head. The child didn’t respond. “She’s got more than her share of developmental troubles, too.” Estelle saw that Mindi’s facial expression was more slack than uninterested.

“And Ryan is…”

“Ryan is from their first go-around, when C…Colette was still in high school.” She grimaced and glanced at Estelle, a flush rising on her cheeks. “I think.”

“And Perry?”

“Perry has a heart of gold, Sheriff. He and his brother don’t see eye to eye on much of anything, but Perry’s got a soft spot for Colette. Nothing pushy…just tries to be around when there’s trouble. And…” she shuddered a deep sigh. “Lord, I hate to say it, but Colette treats him like dirt. Borrows money from him, doesn’t pay it back, gets him to sit the kids…oh, you name it.” She leaned forward toward Estelle. “He’s just a decent, good guy. And you know…” she hesitated and dabbed her eyes again. “There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Ryan and Mindi. I think he loves ’em like they were his own. That’s more than I can say for their father.”

“What happened last night, Mrs. Parker?”

The woman didn’t reply immediately. She helped Mindi manage the cup, and the child’s eyes closed as she sucked on the plastic rim. “For the past six months or so…” and Barbara stopped. She shook her head, refusing to meet Estelle’s gaze. “Colette was doing so well. She’d moved in here, getting herself out of that little hole-in-the-wall apartment she had over behind the school. I didn’t mind.” She shrugged. “I was happy for the company.” Mindi’s face wrinkled up, and her grandmother removed the cup. “She started working at the deli, regular hours. The kids are even enjoying day care.”

“Which one?”

“Tiny Tots, over on Grande.”

“And then what happened?” Estelle asked.

“And then…and then I guess you could say that Rick happened again. He wants Colette to move to Las Cruces to live with him. Last time he was here, I heard them talking about that.”

“Colette didn’t want to go?”

Barbara Parker sighed. “I certainly didn’t want her to go. Uproot the kids and all. But she wanted to, depending on which day you asked her. You know how kids are, Sheriff. And Rick’s a charmer. There’s no doubt about that. He walks into the room, and Colette just melts. I don’t know what it is. Ryan thinks he’s Mister Wonderful, too.”

“Chemistry,” Estelle said.

“I suppose. I don’t see it. And Perry doesn’t see it, either. He knows what kind of thug Rick is. He knew what would happen if Colette went back to Cruces with his brother.”

“What do you think was going to happen?”

Barbara leaned her head to the left until her hair just touched Mindi’s. “Do you know what FAS is, Sheriff?”

“Fetal alcohol syndrome? Yes, I do, Mrs. Parker.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s Rick Kenderman’s gift to Mindi. I know, I know. Nobody held the bottle to Colette’s lips and forced her to drink while she was pregnant, but you know what I mean.” She shook her head helplessly. “She was doing so well, Sheriff. And now all of a sudden he’s back into her life.”

“That’s what the argument between Perry and Colette was about last night?”

Barbara nodded. “Perfect timing, I suppose. Colette’s been at the deli now for almost six months. The newness has worn off. She’s looking for something, although what I don’t know. The kids are doing well, but I guess that’s not enough for Colette. Rick comes back into her life, and off she goes. She’s supposed to pack everything in that awful little truck he brought up. Rick took her old Chevy back over to Las Cruces. It needs all kinds of work that he promises to do…and never will.”

“Perry tried to talk her out of going?”

“Yes. He came over, still on duty, I guess. They were arguing out in the front yard, putting on a good show for the neighbors. Something about the truck set him off-I haven’t seen him so angry in a long time. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice until last night. I tell you, long suffering is the term invented especially for Perry Kenderman. But he got angry this time, and I think it was the sight of his worthless brother’s truck. Then she got angry. You know how it goes. She got on her bike, with Perry trying to talk some reason. She kicked him, actually kicked him. I was watching from the window. Then she slammed her boot into the taillight of his patrol car. Oh, boy.”

“And then they took off?”

“Yes.” She reached over and stroked a strand of hair from Mindi’s eyes. “It was just one thing leading to another,” she said. “Just so stupid.” She ran a finger lightly down Mindi’s cheek. “And I just know that if they hadn’t had a fight, you know what Perry would have done? Eventually, I mean? Colette would have talked him into helping her pack that stupid truck. And he would have done it.”

“When was Rick here, Mrs. Parker? The last time.”

“Friday night. He brought the truck up Friday night.”

“Did you talk with him at that time? Did he say what his intentions were?”

“No. And if I never talk to him again, it’s too soon. I’m sure he’ll figure out a way to come over and get his truck.” She wrapped her arms around Mindi. “That’s all he’s going to get, Sheriff. I’m fifty-one years old. However many good years I’m blessed with are going to these two. I don’t care what it takes.”

Estelle drew a business card out of her pocket and slid it across the table. “Will you call me, Mrs. Parker?”

“I don’t know what you can do.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to have another voice when you’re dealing with custody issues.”

“Richard Kenderman has no custody, Sheriff. Let me tell you that right now.”

“If he’s the father, yes he does, ma’am. Because there was no formal marriage involved, and Richard wasn’t actually living here, the court might order paternity testing…if he’s the father, he has a legitimate claim of custody, whether he lives here or not. That’s something that you’re going to have to deal with, I think. In the meantime, our concern is with his brother, Mrs. Parker. There’s one more thing I need to ask you. Last night, you told Sergeant Mears that Perry and Colette had been ‘going together’ for six months. “That’s not really the case, is it?”

“From Perry Kenderman’s view, it might be,” Barbara Parker said.

“And you told the sergeant that you didn’t hear what the argument was about?”

Barbara flushed. “I was trying to keep things simple for a few minutes, Sheriff. I wanted time to think. I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s the truth. And I really didn’t hear them…I’m assuming that they were arguing about Colette’s wanting to go to Cruces. Perry will tell you.”

Estelle nodded. She pointed at the card. “Use that, Mrs. Parker.” She got up and pushed the chair back in place. “I promised to look at Ryan’s car.”

“Oh, you don’t have to waste time on that,” Barbara Parker said. “He’s on to something else by now.”

“I don’t think it’s a waste,” Estelle said.

Out in the living room, Ryan Parker had indeed moved on to something else. He was curled up on the sofa, a large red cat stretched on its back across his lap. The cat’s front paws were poised like a boxer, waiting for the imminent attack of a tiny stuffed bear advancing over the top of a pillow.

Beyond the battle scene, the front window looked out on the street. Estelle saw an older-model pickup truck parked behind hers. Perry Kenderman, dressed in civilian clothes, was leaning against the front fender of Estelle’s county car, obviously waiting.

“Ay,” Estelle whispered to herself. She crossed to Ryan, bent down, and stroked the massive cat’s belly. The animal squirmed and purred. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“That’s Franklin. He’s lazy.”

“I see that.” She stroked the cat’s chin, and the animal closed his eyes, turning up the volume until the purr became a rattle. “Hello, Franklin. You take care of Ryan for me, okay?”

“Are you coming back?”

“Yes, I am.” She reached over and ruffled the stubble on Ryan’s head, then let her hand rest there motionless for a moment. The boy blinked, and Estelle felt the slight nod.

“That’s good,” he said.

Estelle straightened up and turned to Barbara Parker. The woman stood by the front door, Mindi in her arms.

“You know who’s waiting out front, don’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” Estelle replied. “I saw him.”

“I hope things work out for him. You know, I really like him. And none of this is his fault.”

Estelle nodded. “We’ll just have to see,” she said. “I need to ask you to stay inside with the children.” She stopped short of the front door and pulled out her cell phone. “Brent,” she said when Sutherland answered, “I’ll be talking with Perry Kenderman at the Third Street address. Have a unit circle around that way, code one.”

“I hope you’re not expecting trouble,” Barbara Parker said as Estelle put the phone in her pocket and reached for the door.

“I sincerely hope not, ma’am. But I’m not feeling particularly heroic just now.”