Final Payment

Chapter Six

Estelle watched her son’s dark face as the music soared, and she found herself wishing that she could share the images that formed in his vivid imagination. She knew that the seven-year-old was excited about the bicycle race on the mountain, and wondered if some of the dashing up and down the piano keys played videos of cyclists in his mind.

Francisco had settled on Mozart’s Sonata in F for his recital piece, a lengthy challenge for the little boy. On more than one occasion, Estelle had sat beside her son on the piano bench, reading through the piece with him as he played-even though Francisco himself rarely looked at the music. No musician herself, Estelle knew enough to be able to follow his progress, and she could see that the problem wasn’t the sonata’s fourteen-page length. The little boy’s capacity at the keyboard was far greater than perhaps even the seventeen-year-old Mozart could have imagined when he wrote the challenge of his sonata.

No, the problem was Francisco’s agile little mind itself. Something in the sonata’s images cracked him up every time he played the piece-not an unusual reaction when he played the piano. He mimicked the motif in variations of his own, he giggled and composed little answers to Mozart’s questions and comments, and he sometimes went off hiking on his own, deep into his own musical world.

Estelle understood that, no matter how astonishing her son’s talent, he was still bridled by a seven-year-old’s healthy lack of discipline. If there was another trail to skip down, another tonal butterfly to chase, another dark canyon to explore, Francisco did so.

Edith Gracie, Francisco’s piano instructor, remained unconcerned. “We need not worry,” she was fond of saying. Easily said, Estelle thought. And on Saturday, she worried, and not necessarily about her son’s pending performance.

She knew that Sheriff Robert Torrez, Captain Eddie Mitchell, the two Toms, and photographer Linda Real had spent most of the day out at the airstrip, combing the area where the three bodies had been found.

Working with them were Lieutenant Mark Adams of the New Mexico State Police and two of his officers, along with Agent Barker Rutledge of the Border Patrol. An area roughly the size of a football field had been meticulously gridded and would be searched and combed foot by foot. Estelle was skeptical that the search would uncover anything-she was convinced that the three victims had arrived by plane, taken a few dozen steps, and been murdered. The killer had then left as unobtrusively as he had arrived-long gone from the country, certainly from the county.

At the same time, the bike race organizers were putting the finishing touches on their first-year project, and no doubt County Manager Leona Spears was in the thick of it. EMTs would follow the cyclists in chase vehicles, and in those sections where a truck or car couldn’t go, organizers had arranged for motorcycle or four-wheeler coverage. There was no way to make a bicycle race entirely safe-that was both the nature of the beast and its attraction for riders. There was a price for carelessness or inattention. But the organizers had a myriad of volunteers to watch the route during the race. If there was a section not covered foot by foot, it would be out on the flat sections of Country Road 14, out on the prairie where the biggest safety threat was an occasional wandering prairie dog or slithering rattlesnake.

And so, with phone near at hand and nana Irma Sedillos, the younger sister of Gayle Sedillos Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, on hand in case Estelle had to be called away, the undersheriff spent a rare Saturday at home.

Well aware that he would be performing in front of a small crowd of family and friends, Francisco worked his practice sessions as diligently as his effervescent personality would allow.

The afternoon was broken by a single phone call. Dr. Alan Perrone announced that preliminary toxicology tests showed that the older male victim had a residual blood alcohol level high enough to measure-in Perrone’s words, the victim would have been “comfortably sauced” when he stepped off the plane.

“Odd to travel that way,” Estelle remarked.

“Maybe he hated flying,” Perrone said. “Or a case of the nerves. Or maybe he’s an alcoholic. Or, or, or…We’ll know more after the full autopsy.”

Knowing that one victim was a drinker got them nowhere, and Estelle shoved the whole affair toward the back of her mind, letting it stew. She had left word with dispatch that she would be unavailable for any calls that evening, unless the world itself came crashing down. The phone stayed mercifully silent, and at 6:30 p.m., they drove to the school as a family, a rare treat.

The acoustics of the Little Theater were as elegant as the gymnasium that the “theater” had once been. A decade before, when the original Posadas High School gym had been declared insufficiently grand for athletic events, the district had built a new facility, leaving the old, open-girdered hulk to be divvied up between the special education and the home economics departments. Somewhere in the planning, the modest theater had been included in the old gymnasium’s renovation.

The metal folding chairs were arranged in a dozen crescent rows, each row including fifteen seats, far more than the modest recital required. A section had been reserved for the sixteen student musicians at front and center.

Estelle snuggled up as close to her husband as she could, her shoulder nestled into his. Sitting on Dr. Guzman’s right, Bill Gastner, former Posadas County sheriff and padrino to the two Guzman boys, was engrossed in quiet conversation with Leona Spears. The large woman had worn one of her most flamboyant muumuus for the occasion.

Estelle tried to relax, but a collection of butterflies danced in her stomach. From where she sat, a few seats to the left of center and five rows back, Estelle could see Francisco’s dark little head bowed in deep conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl whose piano lessons at Mrs. Gracie’s were scheduled immediately after his. Both children ignored the small audience around them. Estelle also recognized Melody Mears, Sergeant Tom Mears’ daughter. Melody was half-kneeling on her chair toward the end of the row, surveying the audience. She caught Estelle’s eye and waved, her smile brilliant. Melody’s parents, Tom and Pat Mears, sat to Estelle’s right and two rows closer to the front.

She could imagine Sheriff Bob Torrez’s growl of impatience at having two of his officers wasting time watching children play music while a multiple homicide remained unsolved.

Although she understood the purpose of having the children sit separated from their families-encouraging dependence on their own hard work, their own music to comfort their preperformance fidgets-Estelle found herself wishing that her son was sitting beside her now. On the short drive to school, Francisco had been his usual loud, excited self. But nervous? It was hard to tell. He had talked about his music, and about Melody’s-and she found it odd now that her son had chosen to sit several seats away from Miss Mears.

Normally, she would have taken an interest in the audience-scanning the faces, watching the whispered conversations as part of an occupational habit. Now, she watched her son-what she could see of the top of his head, that is-and wondered just how much the seven-year-old understood about what the various adults seated behind him expected of him. Did he know how excited they were?

Onstage, Francisco’s piano teacher, Edith Gracie, conferred with the other instructor with whom she had coordinated the evening’s recital-the high school band director. He shrugged helplessly at something the elderly woman said, and Mrs. Gracie took him by the elbow. The conversation continued at the bass end of the grand piano’s keyboard.

“Maybe they’re missing a chord,” Francis said in a conspiratorial whisper. His arms were locked around their younger son, Carlos, and the little boy’s eyes were huge and watchful.

Estelle grimaced. “When I was a senior here,” she said, “a couple of my classmates sprayed foam insulation in the piano before an assembly. That stuff you can buy in aerosol cans? That same piano, I’m sure. That’s how long it’s been around.”

Francis laughed and with Carlos’ hands in his mimed playing a piano. “Thunk, thunk, thunk. Maybe that’s what we need for this gig. Some insulation.” He nodded at the program. “At least no one is torturing a violin tonight.”

The confab onstage ended with Mrs. Gracie giving a quick, appreciative nod at something her colleague said, and then she walked to the edge of the stage, facing the audience of forty-five people. Estelle glanced at the single-sheet program as the audience hushed. Her son was listed toward the end, followed by Melody Mears and two other more advanced students.

“Good evening,” Mrs. Gracie said solemnly. Her voice was deep and rich, and she smiled affectionately at the row of student musicians for a moment before looking up at the audience. “We have a treat for you tonight, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Mr. Parsons and I are so proud of these young people. Now, some of our musicians are seasoned veterans. Jaycee Sandoval and I were discussing this very thing earlier today, and tonight marks her twentieth recital since she started playing piano when she was five years old. Can you imagine that?” She beamed at the older student sitting toward the end of the row whose name appeared last on the program.

“It would also be appropriate to announce at this time that Jaycee has earned the prestigious Marks Scholarship for musical studies at the University of New Mexico.” Mrs. Gracie waited until the applause had stopped.

“We expect grand things from all of these young musicians. Four of them have not played before an audience prior to tonight, and isn’t that wonderful?” She held out her own program toward the musicians, letting them bask in the moment. “We’ll begin tonight with Toby Escoba, a student of Mr. Parsons. Toby is fourteen, he’s an old hand at performance, and you may recall his beautiful trumpet rendition of Mozart’s ‘Laudate Dominum’ at the Christmas concert last winter. As your program notes, he’ll be playing Wahlberg’s ‘All That Jazz,’ with Mr. Parsons accompanying on the piano.” She turned and patted the Baldwin’s broad flank and then waggled a finger at Parsons, who had settled on the piano bench. “We certainly hope this old thing doesn’t fall to pieces.”

A student with shoulders suited for a linebacker vaulted onto the stage, ignoring the two steps. His trumpet looked fragile in his beefy hands. He took a moment to smooth out his music on the rack, blew silently through the trumpet’s mouthpiece, and fluttered the valves. Mr. Parsons, a large, well-padded man, sat quietly at the piano bench, waiting. Finally, Toby took a deep breath, shook his right hand as if the fingers had gone asleep, and then nodded at his accompanist. A dozen bars of the dissonant music left Estelle wondering how it was possible to distinguish correct notes from strays. The Baldwin held together, the trumpet blasted and screamed, and Toby Escoba beamed when the audience burst into applause twice before he finished.

Through it all, Estelle’s son Francisco remained remarkably quiet, occasionally bouncing half out of his chair, or turning to the girl on his left for another whispered conference.

From Toby’s romping beginning, the recital continued demurely with a simple piano solo played by a beginning student so tiny that her feet swung twelve inches from the stage floor. She played solemnly, brows beetled with concentration, her stiff little fingers robotic. As the concert progressed from student to student, Estelle found herself referring back to the printed program, as the names marched toward her son’s.

When Pitney Clarke was introduced, the tall girl seated beside Francisco rose, and to Estelle’s surprise, so did her son. They made an interesting pair-seven-year-old Francisco darkly handsome in black slacks and shoes and his favorite plum-colored pullover, Pitney tall and graceful in a black skirt and long-sleeved white blouse, frilly around the throat.

Pitney carried a portfolio of music, and she took her time arranging it on the piano. She whispered instructions to Francisco, who apparently had been nominated to be her page turner. He nodded quickly, even impatiently, as if he’d attended to this chore a thousand times. Serenity and ferocity appeared to be Pitney’s favorite emotions as she tackled the long and complex Schubert piece, with many passages sounding as if they required at least a dozen fingers.

The young musician managed Schubert’s intricacies well enough, but to Estelle’s untrained ear, it sounded as if the composer had written one page nicely, then copied it a dozen times, with each copy held at a slightly different angle for variety.

The communication between the two children at the piano was easy and natural. As each set of pages drew to a close, Estelle saw Francisco lean a little so that his shoulder touched Pitney’s side, and at the right moment, Pitney would offer just a hint of a nod. Francisco would reach forward, perilously close to the keys and the young lady’s lap, and snatch the page. At one point, Estelle sensed that her husband was looking at her. She glanced over at him and saw his raised eyebrow. She wound her hand around her husband’s, including Carlos in the process. There were plenty of secrets in Francisco’s little head-apparently Pitney Clarke was one of them.

The Schubert concerto worked toward its conclusion, and after he turned the last page for Pitney, Francisco sat back on the piano bench, frowning darkly, concentrating on the keyboard. Estelle realized that she was holding her breath. Sure enough, the little boy’s hands reached out, fingers soundlessly caressing the bass keys. Pitney’s fingers floated downward through the concerto’s final resolution, but it was Francisco who played the final, complex chord so infinitely pianissimo, so seamless with the girl’s own playing, that it blended perfectly.

And then he was a joyful seven-year-old again, snatching his hands off the keys and bouncing off the piano bench as if springloaded. Pitney, far more demure at fifteen, stood and acknowledged the audience, then turned and held out her hand to Francisco. The two of them left the stage.

“That’s an interesting expression on your face, querida,” Estelle’s husband whispered.