Convenient Disposal

Chapter Twelve

By the time Estelle walked through the front door of the Guzman home on South Twelfth Street, the village had settled into late-night silence. Eddie Mitchell was still a passenger in a patrol car somewhere to the north, speeding down the Rio Grande valley. In the basement darkroom of the Public Safety Building, Linda Real had begun processing reel after reel of film. The “two Toms,” Mears and Pasquale, were organizing and processing what little physical evidence had been combed from the Acosta property.

Both Sheriff Torrez and Deputy Jackie Taber prowled the county, and Estelle listened to the muted, cryptic radio traffic as she drove home. And even as she juggled her house keys, Estelle turned and glanced up and down the street, as if hoping that she might catch a glimpse of Kevin Zeigler’s trim, dapper figure hustling from one island of light to another under the streetlights.

Before she could slide the key into the lock, she heard the door rattle. Her husband pulled the door open, bowing slightly as he held it for her, then pushed it closed behind her. She set her briefcase down and snuggled into his bear hug. They stood silently for a long time. Francis rested his chin on top of Estelle’s head and she swayed gently to the rhythm of his pulse.

“Nasty day,” he whispered after a moment.

“And we don’t know where it’s going, except nastier,” Estelle murmured.

“You’re going to squeeze in a little sleep, I hope.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She snuggled her face tighter against his chest.

“Are you ready for some good news?” he asked.

“Con los brazos abiertos,” Estelle whispered fervently. She didn’t move.

“You missed Tia Sofia’s call a few minutes ago.”

“Ah,” Estelle groaned. “Missing her call isn’t good news, oso.” She thumped her forehead against his chest. “She’s coming, I hope?”

“If it’s convenient,” Francis said.

“It’s always convenient,” Estelle said. She took a half-step back and looped her arms around her husband’s neck. “And I need to talk to her.” Francis looked quizzical, an expression that deepened when she added, “I found out about one of my husband’s family genes today.”

“Mine?”

“Oh, si. At least, that’s the easy explanation, since I don’t know where mine have been. I had a parent conference with Myra Delgado, this morning.” She unlatched from around his neck. “Los hijos are asleep?”

“Sure.” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the dining room. “Everyone with any sense is asleep. I sent Irma home around nine o’clock, when I got here. So…what did Myra have to say?”

“Un momentito.” Estelle bent down to retrieve her briefcase. She tossed it into the nearest chair, at the same time toeing off her sturdy, black shoes. The hallway leading to the boys’ bedroom sank into darkness. A year or so before, both Francisco and little Carlos had decided that a night-light gave monsters too much advantage.

The door to their bedroom was ajar, and Estelle eased it open. Enough light from the kitchen and living room filtered in that she could see the two small forms, Carlos on the left and Francisco on the right. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to night sounds. Francisco shifted, a little rustle of pillow and blanket. Estelle slipped over to his bedside and sat down on the edge. She was sure her eldest son was awake…he slept like a wolf pup, deep in his dreams for a few minutes, then awake to shift and rearrange position before drifting off again.

Estelle knew she didn’t have to worry about waking Carlos. The four-year-old slept the night through, polishing his imitation of a sandbag.

“Hey, hijo, ” she whispered. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out Francisco’s right hand, and she tickled his palm with her index finger. His hand instantly became a spider, darting a few inches away and pausing, two fingers stretched out and testing the air. Estelle smiled and reached up to stroke black hair out of his eyes. “Did you have a good day?”

He nodded. “Melody said you were at school,” he said with just a hint of accusatory whine.

She left her hand on his forehead, her thumb lightly tracing the arch of his thick eyebrows. “Yes, I was.”

“She’s funny.”

“Melody? That’s for sure, hijo.” Featherlight, the tips of her fingers felt the outline of his skull and, with a twinge, she realized clearly what had nagged at her for most of the day-even while the larger share of her consciousness was concentrating on Carmen Acosta and Kevin Zeigler. As clearly as she understood her son in the larger sense, she knew that she had no idea what was going on inside that small, six-year-old head.

“Tia Sofia is coming,” the little boy whispered, as excited as if he were announcing an imminent Christmas.

“I hope so, hijo.” One of Estelle’s favorite photographs was framed on the fireplace mantel in the living room. It showed three figures, sharply side lit by morning sun and dwarfed by the yawning vista before them. Sofia Tournal, her husband’s aunt, sat on the very edge of a rock ledge jutting out from the rim of Cat Mesa, north of Posadas. On either side of her square, strong form stood the two boys, Francisco leaning an elbow on Sofia’s left shoulder, Carlos encircled by her right arm.

That day had been quiet, the wind nothing but a whisper, just enough to sweep away the heat as the sun warmed the jumbled limestone. Estelle had snapped the picture, then returned to the van to reload the camera. She’d lingered there, loath to interrupt the quiet moments between Sofia and the boys.

“I thought that maybe Sofia might help us find just the right piano,” Estelle said. Francisco didn’t reply, but she watched his hands curl together under his chin and felt the slight hunch of his shoulders. She knew that body language well, that curling inward with delight lest a hand too quickly stretched out might destroy the moment of anticipation. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes.”

She smiled at the one-word response. “I think it would be nice to have a piano,” she said. She covered both of his hands in hers. After a moment she bent down and brushed his cheek with her lips, lingering for a moment by his left ear. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she whispered.

Before leaving, Estelle crossed the bedroom and bent down to unwad the blanket from around her younger son’s head. Carlos slept deeply. If a four-year-old could ever be described as introspective, that would describe Carlos. The clandestine rendezvous with the school piano wouldn’t have surprised Estelle had it occurred in two years’ time with her younger son. But for the extroverted Francisco to keep the secret was a genuine surprise.

Her husband had settled onto the large sofa in the living room. “So,” he said as Estelle reappeared. He watched as she shrugged out of her jacket and then slipped the bulky, holstered automatic and handcuff case off her belt. She dropped everything in a pile at the opposite end of the sofa and then eased down beside her husband, sitting on the very edge of the cushion.

“So tell me what the kid’s teacher had to say,” Francis said. “A six-year-old forcing his teacher to call the cops is quite an accomplishment.”

Estelle smiled and dug a knuckle into her husband’s ribs. “You know, mi corazon, I see so many kids in trouble that that’s the first thing that crossed my mind when the school called.” She shook her head, and then recounted her visit to the elementary school. Francis listened with a bemused expression.

“He just sneaks out at lunch?”

“Well, sneak isn’t the right word, oso. He just goes. He never told his teacher that’s what he’s doing. She always thought that he was going to the restroom, just across the hall.”

“All by himself?”

“Solo.”

“That in itself is amazing for a first grader. They tend to be herd animals, don’t they? I can imagine Carlos sitting off by himself, but not Mr. Motion.” Francis caught Estelle’s hand and entwined fingers. “And he bangs on the piano down in the band room.”

She shook her head doggedly. “Not bangs. I listened to him. It sounds like he’s working out particular sounds and combinations.”

“Huh,” Francis said. “Every day for three weeks?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“And why doesn’t Myra just tell him to get his little butt back to the class? Or group.” He grinned. “The herd. They generally don’t let first graders roam much, do they? Isn’t that the grade where they all line up along the wall to be counted? Seems to me I remember something like that.”

Estelle paused. “Myra was struck by how much it meant to Francisco to be able to do that. To be able to go off by himself.” She turned to face Francis more squarely. “When you think about it…”

He nodded. “I can’t imagine him keeping it a secret. That’s remarkable.”

“But he has. He hasn’t told his teacher, he hasn’t told any of his classmates as far as we know, he hasn’t told me or you.”

“What’d he say when you mentioned your visit?”

“I didn’t mention it. Melody Mears told him that I’d been at the school.”

“Ah.”

“What’s a six-year-old going to think,” Estelle said, lowering her voice. “If the adults find out that he’s where he’s not supposed to be, what are they going to tell him to do?”

“Get back in line.” Francis mimicked the order.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think he’ll just talk to you about it, if you ask him?”

“I don’t want that,” Estelle said quickly. “Myra thinks it’s fine. I think it’s fine. I want to leave it alone. He’s found this private time for himself.” She hesitated. “But we need to buy a piano, oso.”

Francis untwined his fingers and clamped his right hand on her left thigh in his strong grip. “Probably we do.” He grinned. “Next thing you know, they’re going to want a puppy or something.”

“Then the dog can howl in concert,” Estelle said, “and Carlos and I can be one big case of hives from the dog hair. Did Sofia say when she’s coming?”

“Ah,” Francis said again, making the connection. “She thought this weekend, if we weren’t busy.”

“Were you going to call her back?”

“I was…or you can.”

“Would you ask her to come Thursday or Friday? That way we can drive to Cruces when the piano store is open.”

Francis grimaced. “Wouldn’t one of those small electronic keyboards work? I mean, to start with?”

“If it will, that’s what they’ll decide,” Estelle said. “But I want to do this right, oso. Sofia will know.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Francis agreed. Of his vast, extended family, Francis Guzman was the only member who lived in the United States. His Aunt Sofia, widowed for more than two decades, had enjoyed a long, distinguished, and highly profitable career as an attorney in Veracruz…and had been the major financial force behind the new Posadas health clinic.

“But she mustn’t buy it,” Estelle added firmly. “I want to do that.” She leaned toward her husband. “Or we want to do that. But Sofia knows Francisco, and she knows music, and she plays beautifully. That’s why I want to talk with her.”

Francis looked bemused. “And suppose that this old lady and the six-year-old kid together decide in their own mystical way that the only thing that will do is a fifty-thousand-dollar Steinway, just like the one Sofia has in her parlor in Veracruz?”

“That won’t happen.”

“She said,” Francis quipped.

Estelle laughed. “If it does, I’ll find a part-time job.”

“Something you can work between midnight and three AM”

“Is that the time slot that’s available?”

“Just about.”

Estelle took a deep breath. “If they lose interest in the piano, we can always sell it.” She covered his hand in both of hers, feeling the heavy scar that crossed from the base of his thumb to the base of his ring finger, a souvenir from a biking accident several years before. “It would be good for you to play again, too.”

He laughed. “Oh, sure. It’s been so long I don’t know where middle C is anymore. Anyway, this is going to be interesting. What if the only time Francisco will touch the piano is when he’s alone? Are we all going to have to stand out in the backyard when he practices?”

“I don’t know,” Estelle said. “One step at a time. First, I want to talk with Sofia.” She relaxed back, comfortable against her husband. For a few delicious seconds, her mind roamed among thoughts of her children. And then the image of Melody Mears danced back into her memory, and Deena Hurtado, and the limp, bloody form of Carmen Acosta. She groaned and leaned forward.

“What?” Francis said. He ran a hand up her back as she leaned over toward her gear at the end of the couch. She retrieved the small cellular phone.

“I need to see if Eddie Mitchell is back yet,” she said.

“At midnight?”

Estelle grimaced in resignation. “He’s bringing back evidence that’s going to determine what direction we go come morning,” she said. “It can’t wait.”

“And come morning, you’ll be really sharp without any sleep,” Francis said.

“This won’t take long.”

“She said.”