Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Twelve

Outside, I saw that Estelle and Ricardo Mondragon had skirted the corner of the building and were standing behind the bulk of my SUV. I joined them, and Ricardo was too worried by this strange change of pace in his day to manage a greeting. He eyed Socks, who was slobbering all over the door and window, trying to force his tough little body through the narrow opening. I’d broken my promise to the heeler, bringing nothing from the kitchen but aromas.

“Ricardo,” Estelle said, “Fernando tells me that earlier today, you took a meal over to Mr. Payton’s house on Ridgemont.” He nodded and thrust his hands in his pockets. A burly guy with unruly curly hair that lined his forehead in neat ringlets, Ricardo would have looked right at home in one of those commercials for an Italian restaurant where the chef punches, pats, and flings the pizza dough with an expression of contented pride-except Ricardo Mondragon’s face was empty of anything except apprehension.

“Was Mr. Payton all by himself when you saw him?” Estelle asked.

“He was all by himself,” Ricardo replied. His speech was without accent, but cadenced with a great deal of care, as if the words were slippery and elusive. “Is that your dog?”

“Sort of,” I said, and let it go at that.

“You spoke with Mr. Payton?” Estelle prompted.

“Him and me talked a little. I took the cooler out to the kitchen for him.” He pulled out a large handkerchief and massaged his broad nose. “They said that he died.”

“Yes, he did. Sometime after you left, Ricardo.”

“He was a good guy. Everybody gets old and sick.” Ricardo Mondragon still lived with aging parents, and although he might not ponder his future when they passed on, everyone else who knew him probably did.

“Yes, he was a good guy. Did he take the casserole out of the cooler, or did you?”

“I guess he did, ’cause I didn’t. I put the cooler on the counter.”

“When you left, he was all by himself?”

“Yes, ma’am. He said he didn’t need no help.”

“Did you open the wine bottle for him?” That question out of left field startled me but didn’t jolt Ricardo’s passive expression. He gazed at Estelle, then at my truck, then at the sidewalk.

“I saw that.”

“You saw the wine bottle?”

“I saw that, yeah. It was on the table. He had a big glass of wine all poured. He had some, ’cause I could smell it.” Ricardo frowned and shook his head. “I asked him if I could throw it away for him.”

“Throw the wine away?”

“The empty bottle,” Ricardo corrected. An empty container on the dinner table would prompt that response from the fastidious busboy, I supposed.

“Did you offer to open the new bottle then?”

“I didn’t see no new bottle.”

“Ah.” Estelle opened her small notebook and rustled through several pages. “Do you happen to know what time it was when you left Mr. Payton’s house, Ricardo?”

“It was eleven fifty-two.” The precision of the response amused me, but not a trace of humor touched Ricardo’s face.

“Did Mr. Payton say anything about bringing the dish back to the restaurant when he was finished?”

“He always does that. Somebody does.”

“And you didn’t see anyone else at Mr. Payton’s house? No one called, no one came by? You didn’t see anyone coming down the street as you drove away?”

He shook his head slowly. “How come you gots to know all this stuff?”

“That’s just what we do, Ricardo. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

“You got to know anything else?”

“I may have to talk with you again, if that’s okay.” Estelle made it sound as if Ricardo Mondragon actually had a choice.

“That’s okay.” He looked for a long moment at his watch, and I could see his lips moving. “You should come in for dinner.”

“We’d like to, but it’s going to have to be some other time,” the undersheriff said. “Thanks for talking to us, Ricardo.”

“Dr. Gray and his wife are coming for dinner,” he said, and nodded off toward the parking lot. I hadn’t seen the county commissioner’s gray Lincoln slide into the lot, but Ricardo Mondragon had. “I’d better go.”

“Thanks again,” Estelle said. We watched him hustle off, and Estelle sighed. “Would that all witnesses were like that,” she said, and reached out to touch my arm. “Let me show you.” I ambled over to her car, and that prompted a flurry of pathetic yips from my captive. By the time I’d grunted into the passenger seat of the undersheriff’s Crown Vic, she’d selected several eight-by-ten digital photos from the envelope that she had never offered to Fernando Aragon.

Linda Real must have scrunched into the corner by the fridge to take the portrait of George’s kitchen caught in the first photo. I examined it for a long moment, then accepted the second one she offered, this time a close-up of the glass casserole dish. It was the same photo I’d looked at on the computer screen.

“I don’t like this,” I muttered.

Linda’s photos were in flawless focus, once I’d figured out which portion of my trifocals to use. In the photo of the casserole, the garnish of tomatoes and lettuce couldn’t hide the little pieces of diced green chile. After a long moment of scrutiny, I looked up at Estelle. “Diced, not sliced,” I said. “Fernando said he uses the canned chile for sauce base. He got a little carried away this time. Or Aileen.”

I looked in the rearview mirror and watched my little spotted prisoner in the SUV behind us. His tongue dangled so far out of his mouth that I thought it might have become unhooked at the back. “So,” I said, and Estelle tapped the photos on the steering wheel.

“I need to go to Albuquerque,” she said quietly.

“And what can you do up there that Tony Abeyta can’t?” I said. “One question’s been answered,” and I nodded toward the office. “We know who delivered lunch. If there was a question about the chile, I think we have our answer. Pride is a powerful motivator here. Chefs, you know.” I turned to rest my hip. “He says he never uses canned chile, but obviously he does. Are we hung up on that because there’s nothing else?” I asked. My cell phone buzzed and I fished it out of my pocket. “Hold on a minute,” I said into it without bothering to find out who it might be, then pressed it against my thigh to give us some privacy as I waited for Estelle’s reply.

“Do you think it was a heart attack?”

“I do, but then again, I’m no doctor, sweetheart. Now, maybe it wasn’t your usual garden variety coronary that warns a guy to change his lifestyle. It obviously was one of those massive infarcts that drops a person in his tracks. If you remember my performance a few years ago, you’ll recall that I managed what, a step and a half before I fell on my face? Now, I admit there are a few things here that need to be explained. You start talking about allergies and reactions, and it’s a whole new game.”

“And that’s what’s bothering me,” Estelle sighed. “I’m not saying that I think something is wrong, padrino. I’m just saying that something happened that I don’t understand. If Alan Perrone says that George suffered an allergic reaction to something fierce enough to trigger a heart attack, then I want to know what the cause of that reaction was. That’s all.”

“Fair enough. If it was in the food, the lab will be able to tell us,” I said. “Or a spider bite, or anything like that.”

“Your phone, sir,” Estelle said, and I realized that I’d forgotten all about it.

“Gastner,” I said into the little black gadget, surprised I wasn’t talking to empty ether.

“Bill, I’m comin’ up to the exit, and wondered where you’re at,” Herb Torrance said. “You got a minute?”

“Sure do. I have a critter in custody here for you. How about the motel right there at the exit ramp?”

“If that works for you,” Herb said. “I’m comin’ up on it right now.”

“Then give me five minutes.”

“Don’t forget dinner,” Estelle said when I snapped the phone closed. “We’ll see what we know.”

“I’m not likely to forget. Starve, maybe.”

She nodded. “I’ll tell Tony exactly what I’m looking for.” Her dark face broke into a wide smile and she nodded toward the center mirror. “Look at this.”

I turned and saw that Socks was now standing with front paws on the dash board, face against the glass, tongue dripping rivers. His eyes and ears were locked on us as if he’d been eavesdropping on the phone call.

“Okay, then,” I said, and laughed. “I need to get him back to Herb before he leaves his marker all over my cab.” I turned back to Estelle. “And if you happen to catch sight of young Mister Gabaldon in the next few minutes, give me a call.”

I struggled out of the car and turned, one hand on the roof and one on the door. “There’s a simple answer to all of this,” I said. “That’s the way these things work.”

“Nos vemos,” Estelle said.

As I drove south through town, Socks could sense change in the air. He couldn’t sit still, and as I pulled into the parking lot of the American Owned, American Operated Posadas Inn near the Interstate exchange, he started to huff little whimpers. The Torrances’ blue Chrysler was parked in the center of an empty parking lot. Socks recognized it, I suppose, since every nerve and muscle in his compact little body started to twang. Herb stepped out of the car and I thought the dog was going through the window. I made sure the short rope was secure before I opened my door, and Socks used me as a springboard, scrambling down and heading for Herb. The rancher said something and the dog dropped as if he’d been shot, adoring eyes locked on the Herb’s face.

“He and I were headed out to dinner.” I handed the rancher the end of the lead rope. “I promised him something to eat.”

“Don’t need that,” Herb said. He popped off the rope, gestured with one hand and the dog shot through the Chrysler’s open door. “I owe you something for the permit,” he said, and I consulted my paperwork, finding the receipt I’d already made out in his name.

“Fair and square,” I said, taking the money he offered and tucking it in the small bank bag. “Dale’s coming home tomorrow?”

“Suppose so, maybe,” Herb sighed. “Hell of a deal. Just about the last thing we need right now. Last thing he needs. If that kid didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all, seems like.” He surveyed the empty parking lot. “I’d best get home and see what Pat’s got to say for himself.”

“Let me know,” I said.

“Damnedest thing, “ the rancher said. “Thanks for takin’ care of the damn dog,” He slid down into the sedan’s low seat, pushing the heeler away from his lap.

“You bet.” I didn’t tack on the customary “any time.”