Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 13

My office door was locked when I arrived that evening, and it took a moment to fumble for the right key before I pushed the door open. The interior of the Posadas County Public Safety Building-a grand name for an aging adobe-had been remodeled the previous year, making room for the updated computers, wiring conduit, massive files, and more computers.

Posadas County residents hadn’t paid a cent in raised taxes for the expensive renovation. The gleaming hardware, updated information-retrieval systems, and even the new furniture were all testimony to Sheriff Martin Holman’s grant-writing talents. No one had ever convinced me that a tiny New Mexican county with fewer than eleven thousand residents needed any of it, but I had learned to keep quiet.

Parts of the renovation I liked. Parts of it made me grimace.

In most places throughout the building, the floor was beautiful polished tile that didn’t generate either static or warmth. It was easy for a lackadaisical trusty to mop clean, and drunks could vomit all over it, or even bleed on it, and it could be wiped clean in a jiffy. On a cold winter’s day, it was as comforting as an ice cube.

The tile ended outside my door, and I could walk across aging boot-polished wood to my leather swivel chair and oak desk. But sure enough, time marched on. A single computer terminal perched on my desk, its bland face dark.

And it stayed dark, most of the time. In spare moments the previous spring, Gayle Sedillos had surreptitiously helped me explore some of the machine’s surface mysteries. When things were really slow-say in deep February on a weekday night-it was sort of fun to watch the toasters float across the monitor’s face. Sheriff Holman had been quick to point out that the screen-saver program, flying toasters and all, was somehow more economical that just leaving the damn thing turned off.

That was as far as I’d gotten. Estelle Reyes-Guzman could make the computer do magic, of course, and that was just fine with me.

That evening, Gayle followed me to the door of my office. She waited patiently while I found the correct key. “Sir,” Gayle Sedillos said as I headed for my desk, “there are a couple of messages that came for you this afternoon.”

“Aren’t you due to go home?” I asked, taking the yellow slips of “While You Were Out” paper from her.

“I thought I’d stay for a few minutes and give Ernie a hand,” she said. Ernie Wheeler, our other senior dispatcher, didn’t need any hand. He was as steady as they come.

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after seven. “Don’t wear yourself out,” I said. “Something may break tomorrow. We’ll need you sharp.”

Gayle nodded and turned to go. “And Estelle just called,” she added over her shoulder. “She wondered if you were here yet.”

“I’m here,” I said. My daughter had indeed overheard the conversation up on Cat Mesa that promised a visit to the office, and as part of a compromise package with Camille, I had agreed to spend most of the day resting. At first, it had seemed like a waste of time, but then I got a lot of thinking done.

I looked at the papers Gayle had handed me. One of the slips was from Marjorie Davis, asking if I’d call her at home when I got in. After twenty-five years of watching reporters work, I knew damn well what the problem was. It wasn’t just that the youngster was lost on the mesa.

The Register had a midweek edition coming out, and that meant Ms. Davis was staring at a deadline, with editor/publisher Frank Dayan staring at her. If something broke and they missed it, all the metro dailies around the state would beat the little Posadas Register to an important local story, and the Register would end up looking lame and late playing catch-up the following Friday.

I dropped the note on my desk blotter, near the phone, and grinned. The double whammy was that Wednesday was the day the grocery stores ran their full-page ad spreads. That meant lots of readership for the right story, if it broke in a timely fashion.

“Marjorie, Marjorie,” I said, and looked at the other notes. One was from Sam Preston at Preston and Sons Real Estate, and I knew what he wanted. The third was from Stanley Willit, with an out-of-state area code. Gayle’s neat handwriting recorded that he’d called at 4:45 P.M. I had been in the middle of a nap at that time, and if Willit had managed to find out my home phone and had rung the house, my daughter Camille hadn’t admitted to fielding the call.

I got up and walked out to the newly designed skylight area that included the dispatcher’s console, electrically controlled access doors to the rear lockup area, the sheriff’s office, and the personnel lounge.

“I thought you were going home,” I said. “But as long as you’re here, this Willit person…” Gayle nodded. “Is he related in some way to the Apodacas? Holman mentioned that he’s been calling.”

“I think so,” Gayle said. “I think he’s actually Mrs. Apodaca’s stepson from a previous marriage. I think that’s what Sergeant Torrez said.”

“That makes as much sense as anything, I suppose,” I said. “And Bob would know.” Gayle smiled. Bob Torrez kept track of things like family trees. He had plenty of practice with his own. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”

“He didn’t say, sir. He just called a little while ago. I guess maybe it’s because it’s your land that’s somehow involved.”

“Well, let’s call him and find out,” I said. “Maybe he wants some kind of memorial marker erected, or some such.”

Gayle nodded.

“Or a neon-lighted mausoleum,” I added, and Gayle nodded again. “This is an interesting world we live in,” I said, and walked back to my office.

I settled back in my leather chair, pulled the telephone within reach, and dialed. A male voice answered on the fifth ring.

“Yello?”

“Stanley Willit, please. This is Undersheriff William Gastner from Posadas County, New Mexico.”

“This is Willit.”

I waited for a couple of seconds, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts, since he’d been the one who had called first. The line stayed dead, though, so I said, “Mr. Willit?”

“Yep. This is Willit.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Who’d you say you were?”

I took a deep breath and repeated myself, adding, “I’m returning your earlier call.”

“Oh, good.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Say, can I call you back in just a couple minutes?”

“Sure,” I said, and started to give him the number. Before I’d gotten through the area code, I’d collected a dial tone. With a shrug, I punched another line and dialed Marjorie Davis’s home number. She answered on the second ring.

“Marjorie? This is Gastner.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d return my call.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can I be direct with you?”

I chuckled. “Do you mean there are times when you’re not?”

“Well,” she said, then let it drop. “Was there some special reason why Estelle had her little boy with her up on the mesa this morning?”

“You’d have to ask her that, sweetheart,” I said. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d think it’s because they’re related, somehow. They hang out together a lot, she and the kid.”

“Come on, sir. Please.”

“Marjorie, let me suggest the obvious. Give Estelle a call, and ask her.”

“I did. Erma Sedillos wouldn’t let me talk with her.”

I chuckled again. “I guess I could have predicted that. And by the way-not that it’s any of my business-what are you planning to do with the pictures you took of my daughter and the youngster? Is that front-page stuff?”

“Frank wants to use it.”

“Well, then, far be it from me to suggest to you and Frank how to do your jobs.” I kept my tone gentle and even jocular, but an uneasy feeling settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

Gayle Sedillos appeared in my doorway and held up two fingers, and I nodded. I covered the receiver with my hand and mouthed, “Go home!” She waved a hand in agreement.

“Marjorie,” I said into the phone, “Estelle will be here in about half an hour. I need to take another call, so why don’t you either ring back or, better yet, come on down in person. We’ll figure something out.”

“Do you think she’ll talk with me?”

“I don’t know, Marjorie. I gave up trying to read Detective Reyes-Guzman’s mind a long time ago.” That wasn’t strictly true, of course.

I punched the button for line two and prepared myself for Stanley Willit. But in the past two minutes, he’d become a new man.

“Undersheriff Gastner, Stanley Willit. Listen, sorry to cut you off like that, but in this crazy country, you just never know.” He waited a heartbeat or two for me to agree, but I let the line hang silent, and he continued. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but Gloria Apodaca-that’s Florencio Apodaca’s wife-is my stepmother.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “So I understand.” Sgt. Robert Torrez’s lineage chart for Posadas relationships maintained its reputation for accuracy.

“Gloria Apodaca’s second husband was Howard Willit. He owned a big furniture store in Las Cruces for years and years. Howard Willit was my father. His wife, my real mother, died when I was born, and just a short time after that-oh, I suppose I was two or three years old-he married Gloria.”

“I see.”

“Then about 1945, my dad was killed in a car crash up in Alamogordo. About a year after that, Gloria sold the store and all of my father’s holdings and moved to Organ. You know that tiny little village just east of Cruces? Up in the hills?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where she met Florencio Apodaca, and they got married sometime in 1948. I don’t remember exactly just what the date was. I was about twelve years old, I suppose.”

“And then your family moved to Posadas?”

“No, no. We lived in Organ for, gosh, close to fifteen more years. Florencio had a business where he made old-fashioned-style Mexican furniture. You know, that adobe hacienda casa stuff. He had himself quite a business going, when he wasn’t drinking himself unconscious. Then we moved to Deming, and then when I went off to the military, they moved a couple more times. They finally settled in Posadas around 1970 or so.”

“Mr. Willit, all this is fascinating, but just what is it I can help you with?”

“Well, see, that’s just it. My mother-that is, my stepmother, although she was always like a real mother to me-Gloria had a good deal of money in her own name. From the sale of the store and all. She always kept that aside-for her old age, she used to say.”

“They were elderly,” I said, remembering the two of them hobbling down Escondido Lane on warm evenings, usually arguing with each other.

“Well, she finally gave in here a year or so ago, and she transferred her account to their joint bank account. I don’t know who convinced her to do it, but she shouldn’t have.” I heard a rustle of papers. “I’ve got a whole slew of documents here, letters from mother. After she made that initial transfer, the first thing Florencio did was go out and buy a new pickup truck.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. “He’s been driving the same old truck for years.”

“That was just the beginning,” Willit said, and for the next ten minutes I sat patiently and listened to a litany of purchases, most petty, all paid for with old Howard Willit’s furniture-store money.

“And so,” I said to cut Stanley Willit short, “what can I do for you? There’s nothing wrong with a man spending his wife’s money, especially if it’s in a joint account.”

“That’s my point,” Willit said. “Last year, she told me that Florencio had started buying land around Posadas.”

“That’s a thought,” I said, Posadas had never made any of the “fastest-growing communities” lists.

“He’s got at least three sons from a previous marriage of his who are all starting to come out of the woodwork. So I guess he figures to set them up. Anyway, my mother said she was going to pull her money-what there was left of it-out of the bank and put it somewhere safe. She said that’s all she and Florencio argued about anymore. Money, money, money.”

I almost said, “But she isn’t your mother,” but I caught myself in time. “She was well into her eighties, wasn’t she?”

“Eighty-four. Florencio is two years younger, I think.”

“But then she died,” I prompted. “And by New Mexico’s law, right of survivorship gives her estate to her husband, unless she directs otherwise in her will, and as long as they were legally married. Did she leave a will?”

“That’s one reason I’m calling. I don’t know. She said she was going to write one. I don’t know if she ever got around to it.”

“The elderly often don’t, Mr. Willit. Have you asked Florencio?”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“Ah. By law, I don’t suppose he has to, either, sir. Under ‘joint tenants,’ he’s free to do as he likes.”

“Maybe so, but I want you to listen to this last letter. Wait a minute.” More shuffling followed. “Here we go. It’s dated September twentieth of this year. I won’t bore you with all the chitchat, but right here, it says, ‘It’s very sad what he said he might do. I don’t care, old as we are. There’s still a little more,’ and right here I can’t read what she wrote, but I guess she’s talking about her money.”

“Did you hear from her after that?”

“No. That’s the last letter I got.”

“Did she normally write to you regularly?”

“Oh, once or twice a year, I suppose. Maybe four times, counting Christmas cards and so on.”

“Did Florencio write to you, or contact you in any way, when your mother died? When Gloria died?”

“I didn’t know she had died until last week. I telephoned, hoping to talk with her, and Florencio said that she’d passed away. He told me that she hadn’t wanted a funeral service of any kind.”

“I see. Have you talked to him since then?”

“No. He won’t talk to me. But listen. It doesn’t make any sense that he’d bury my mother just across the street in some vacant lot like that. Good God. And she was a devout Catholic. She’d have wanted services of some kind, I’m sure.”

“Well, sir, it’s hard to tell what he was thinking. The very elderly sometimes get a few screws loose, and what seems simple and logical to them is pretty bizarre to the rest of us. Actually, it’s not a vacant lot, if you remember correctly. It’s a quiet, shaded spot, almost like a park.” I thought of the jumble of low shrubs and realized my description was a bit optimistic. “There’s no law that says he had to use the cemetery, and with all you’ve mentioned about his ways with money, maybe the whole idea appealed to him.”

“Well, it doesn’t appeal to me. I mean, there’s no protection for her grave from possible future development, no care, no maintenance. And from what the sheriff told me earlier, it’s not even Florencio’s property. It’s yours.”

“True enough.”

“And we haven’t settled a more important issue, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“I think he killed her.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” I said, trying to keep the grin out of my voice.

“Well, it’s perfect,” Willit said. “She’s very elderly, so no one suspects because of that. He prepares her grave all by himself, like some innocent, half-senile old fart, and even carves a crude cross for special effects. People look at it and say, ‘Isn’t that sweet,’ and he’s home free.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Willit.” But I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Words similar to Willit’s prediction had been spoken as Camille and I visited the grave the day before.

“Why not? Two, three years, who’s going to know the difference? Especially if she’s just wrapped up in an old bedsheet or something like that. The body will be decomposed before long. That’s why I’m going to Posadas this week. Tomorrow, if I can make arrangements. I want a court order signed. It’ll make things a lot easier if you’d sign a statement saying that you don’t want her buried on your property.”

“I really don’t care one way or another, Mr. Willit, but a court order for what?”

“Exhumation. I want to find out what killed my mother.”