Bitter Recoil

Chapter 18

Lucy Grider might have been able to provide some answers. I was surprised when Estelle sent Paul Garcia to Encinas to interview her. I had to agree that Paul was as diligent a rookie as I’d ever seen-it was hard to be irritated at him for chasing brushfire smoke when, in the process, he’d stumbled onto a murder.

Estelle coached him on what questions to ask and then we headed home shortly after eight that evening. This snowball of events was leaving us miles behind in its wake.

“I want to talk with Nolan Parris,” she said as we turned into the dirt lane that led to the Guzman adobe. “And I want to talk with him tonight.”

I should have guessed that was coming. She pulled into her driveway and asked, “Will you go with me?”

“Of course,” I said. “If you feed me first.” Francis pulled into the driveway before we reached the front step. He hadn’t slammed the Isuzu’s door before Estelle met him. The two kids embraced for a long time.

“Seems like a couple of days since I’ve seen you,” she said, and Francis laughed and removed her Stetson so the brim wouldn’t hit him in the mouth when she hugged him. Their nap that afternoon had done some good.

“You don’t like clandestine meetings out in hidden arroyos?” he asked. I went inside so they’d have a minute together without a chaperone. I tossed my hat on the two-cushion sofa and pulled the holstered revolver off my belt.

The telephone was on the wall by the doorway to the kitchen. I dialed zero and then Martin Holman’s home number in Posadas. The call went through after I gave the mechanical-sounding operator the billing. It rang twice, and then another robotic voice said, “I’m sorry, that number is temporarily out of service. If you need assistance, please stay on the line and an operator will help you.”

I hung up, perplexed. Holman didn’t earn a bundle as sheriff of Posadas County, but he sure as hell earned enough to pay his phone bill. Maybe his four-year-old had jerked the cord out of the wall. The little bastard was capable of that and worse.

Estelle and Francis came in the house just as I was dialing the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Gayle Sedillos was working the desk. She was the best dispatcher we had. Estelle had started that way. But unlike Estelle, Gayle had no aspirations beyond the desk. She answered the phone after the first ring.

“Where’s Holman?” I asked the instant she said she’d accept the call.

“He hasn’t gotten hold of you, sir?”

“No. What’s he want?” Holman always wanted something, and most of the time it could wait.

There was a pause at the other end, and I could hear voices. Then Gayle said, “Sir, Bob Torrez just came in. Let me have you talk with him.”

I glanced at Estelle and looked heavenward. She grinned. Deputy Bob Torrez picked up the phone. His voice was usually so soft I had a hard time hearing him.

“Sir?”

“What’s up, Bob?”

“Sheriff Holman was trying to get hold of you earlier today,” Torrez said.

I glanced down at the unchecked answering machine where his message no doubt awaited. “We were out,” I said. “What’s he want?”

“His house burned down last night.”

“His house burned down?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No, sir. But the house was a complete loss. And his two dogs.”

“How’d the fire happen?”

“We don’t know, sir. But we’ve sealed the place off. The sheriff’s out there. And the investigators from the fire department are still out there.”

“Are they going to need an assist?” Sheriff Holman had lived in the village of Posadas and the volunteer fire department was eager and generally efficient. But the two men who called themselves investigators were good-intentioned amateurs.

“They haven’t said,” Torrez answered.

“Call the state office and get somebody over from Cruces,” I suggested. “And you’re sure everyone’s all right?”

“Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman sent the family to Deming to stay with relatives. And he’s staying at the Essex Motel.”

I groaned. “Christ, nobody wants to live in a motel, Bob. Holman knows where the key to my house is. Tell him to use it.”

“I’ll pass the message along, sir. He wanted to know when you were planning to head home.”

“It’s going to be a day or two. We’ve got a little action up here, and I’m giving Estelle the benefit of my vast wisdom.”

Torrez took that seriously as he did most things. “Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman wanted to know if you were coming back tomorrow.”

“I’ll see. It’s unlikely though. Just tell him to use my house and call the state fire marshal’s office, if he hasn’t already.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me talk with Gayle now.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the dispatcher came on the phone, I said, “Gayle, is there anything the Holmans need that you know of?”

“I don’t think so, sir. But I’ll ask. They sure lost everything, though.”

“Well, tell him to use my house instead of camping out at the damn motel.”

“I’ll do that. How’s Estelle doing?”

“Fine. You want to talk with her?” She said yes, and I held the phone out to Estelle. They talked for ten minutes. Maybe Holman would have enough on his mind that he wouldn’t rant about the phone bill.

Estelle finally hung up and for the first time since I’d set foot in San Estevan, the three of us had dinner together.

I damn near drooled a puddle as I watched the enchiladas sink in a sea of fresh green chili. Francis handed me what I hoped would be the first of several cold beers. He poured a glass of red wine for Estelle. Estelle must have read something on my face, because she said, “Vitamin W. It goes with Mexican food better than that stuff you guys drink.”

The fire of her chili was undiminished…it made even the cafe’s burrito grande seem like a bland milk shake. I wiped my forehead, blew my nose, and panted. “God, this is good. Destructive, but good.”

“Destructive, hell,” Francis said. “Did you know it’s been proven in the lab that green chili kills bacteria?”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Does the kid start kicking when you eat this stuff?”

Estelle laughed. “Not at two months, sir.”

“What are you going to name him?”

“Or her,” Francis said and handed me another beer.

“Ask me again in seven months,” Estelle replied.

“Is your mother going to come up here?”

“For the grand event, you mean?” Estelle shook her head. “We’re going to Tres Santos.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They’ve got a pretty good clinic there,” Francis said.

I frowned and said, “Huh,” for want of anything better.

“My mother is too frail to travel up here,” Estelle said. “This probably will be the only grandchild she lives to meet. There are worse things than being born in that big adobe house in Mexico.”

“Huh,” I said again. I shrugged. “What do the Guzmans think of that idea?”

“They’re going to be there, too.”

Estelle offered seconds and like a fool I accepted. “El Padrino should be present, too,” she said.

“I’m flattered. But I’ve had so many days off that Holman’s not going to let me take another one for five years.”

“Are you going back tomorrow?”

“Probably I should.” I glanced at my watch. It was night shift time again. “You’ll wrap this up this evening, after we talk with Parris.…I’m interested in what he has to say about his prints being on the truck.”

“Do you think that Cecil Lucero shot his brother?”

“Don’t you?”

She toyed with the remains of the enchilada on her plate. “I don’t know. Usually, when I’m sure of how something happened, I can picture it in my mind.”

“The two of them got out of the Scout and walked a ways up along the arroyo,” Francis said. “Kenneth went down into the arroyo. Cecil shot him from up above.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s where Paul found the seven shell casings this afternoon, Estelle,” I said.

“The M.E. will tell you for sure about the angle of the bullets,” Francis said. “After the shooting, Cecil walks back toward the Scout. He’s nervous. So like most of us would, he turns around to look back up the arroyo. He can’t see his brother’s body, so he steps closer to the edge to try another view.” He shrugged.

“What’s the problem with that?” I asked.

“I’d feel better if we’d found the last casing,” Estelle said. “I’d feel better if I had that.”

“There are any number of ways it could have happened that make sense,” I said. Estelle nodded, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. I pushed my plate away and stood up. I said what she really wanted to hear. “Let’s go see Parris.”