Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Twenty-six

The county manager was waiting in the hallway outside his spacious office, standing with both hands on his hips as he looked up at a huge, mahogany-framed map of Posadas County, printed in 1923 and now preserved behind glass. I’d examined it many times and had a bare spot on my library wall that was large enough to handle the spectacular six-by-seven foot artifact. I knew that there were nay-sayers who would ask what features or historical treasures Posadas County might include that warranted it. Maybe when they built the new addition to the county building, some architect would rule it out and consign it to the pile of government surplus that was auctioned off once a year.

“Hey, guys.” Kevin Zeigler reached out to touch a spot of county that included Herb Torrance’s ranch. “I heard what happened.”

“Which time?” I asked.

“I heard about what happened to Pat Gabaldon,” he said. “And Herb’s son.” He turned away from the map and nodded pleasantly at Estelle. “Talk about a turn of rotten luck.”

“Indeed.” I filed away a mental note for a retirement project-a study of rumor logistics in a small community.

He beckoned as he made for the double door of his office complex. “Come on in.” The county manager’s digs were toward the far corner, hidden behind the racks of county records, the huge slant-topped cabinets that patrons could use to peruse the mammoth, heavy volumes, and the constant hum of a dozen computers. The place was like a clash of two ages, that of the quill pen and of bits and bytes.

The largest desk in the place belonged to Penny Barnes, Zeigler’s secretary. She was sitting with her nose inches from the computer screen, chin resting in a cupped hand, elbow on the keyboard tray. She looked up without turning her head as we passed and smiled as if she knew a private secret. Maybe her daughter, Gweneth of the Pharmacy, had called mom after our departure to spill the latest gossip.

Penny reached out a hand to Estelle, a sisterly sort of connection. “Are you keeping this guy out of trouble?” she asked.

“We try,” Estelle replied.

“Oy vay, vee try,” I added. Kevin waited patiently for us to file into his sanctum and then shut the door. Penny never changed position.

“So,” he said affably. “Nasty times.”

“Yes,” I said, taking advantage of an aging leather-covered chair that I knew had belonged to Efrem Martinez, county manager when I’d joined the Sheriff’s Department back in the dark ages. Zeigler waited until Estelle had settled in a southwesterny designed thing with sort-of Zia symbols laser cut out of the back and sides, and a cowhide seat. Then he perched on the corner of his desk, both feet off the floor, hands clasped in his lap.

“You wanted to know what the status was of the Payton property behind us, here,” he said, and nodded. “I like it when I get simple questions. Unfortunately for us here in the county, the status is simply that the property now will go through probate with the rest of George Payton’s estate.”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think that he left a will,” I said. “He and I talked about it a time or two, and George saw it as a damn nuisance. I don’t think he ever got around to it.”

Zeigler nodded slowly. “If that’s the case, we all wait a little longer. No doubt we’ll end up dealing with Maggie Borman.” He tried a smile, but it didn’t work. “That’s going to be an entirely different kettle of fish.”

Maybe or maybe not, I thought. I didn’t want to hazard a guess. Just when we think we know our neighbors, fate throws a curve ball.

“You and Mr. Payton hadn’t firmed anything up? Nothing in writing?” Estelle asked.

“You know,” Zeigler sighed, “I talked with George on Monday…no, Tuesday. Tuesday morning. I saw him in the hospital parking lot. He said he was going in to get a flu shot. He was proud that he was driving himself around. He said he wasn’t supposed to be out and about by himself.” The county manager shrugged. “Go figure. Anyway, he said that he wanted to get the paperwork done on the transfer, and asked if I’d have the county attorney swing his house one of these days so we could get the deal going.”

“One of these days,” I added, feeling vindicated that I’d pushed Dr. Francis Guzman into taking the first steps for the clinic, not falling into the trap of my usual procrastination. I had paid for a survey of my property, including the four acres that I gave the Guzmans. I sat at their dinner table a good many times, talking and listening them through their dream. I cheerfully admitted that it was all self-serving. If there was anything I could do to keep Francis and Estelle and my two godchildren from moving away to some hinterland, I was ready to do it. Four acres of brush and trees was a cheap enough price to pay.

“And you didn’t have a chance to talk with Simmons?” Estelle asked.

Zeigler laughed ruefully. “As you’re well aware, Mrs. Reyes-Guzman, the door to the county attorney’s office is about thirty feet from mine. The phone’s even quicker. E-mail takes a nano-second. After I left George that morning, the first thing that happened was a phone call from the county barns. They informed me that our best road grader blew a piston right through the block.” He held up his hands in surrender. “That’s ten thousand bucks that has to be found somewhere in the budget. And then one thing leads to another, as I’m sure you’re well aware in this business. I saw Paul Simmons yesterday morning, and forgot to mention the paperwork to him. By noon, I guess it was? By noon, it was too late.” He regarded Estelle quizzically. “What’s the sheriff’s department’s interest in this, anyway? And I mean beyond planning your own building renovation that this whole project is going to allow.”

“Well, there’s that, too,” Estelle said. “It’s just that there are some puzzling things about the whole situation, that’s all.” Zeigler was a perceptive young man and looked as if he wanted to ask more questions, but he let it go. Estelle had managed to dance around Guy Trombley’s curiosity, hadn’t divulged anything at all to Gweneth Barnes, hadn’t discussed any of the possibilities with Herb Torrance, and certainly not with either Maggie or Phil Borman. She wasn’t ready to start now, even with the county manager, a man she clearly trusted.

Kevin Zeigler didn’t say anything but after a moment turned and looked at me as if I might have something to add. Maybe he was curious why a New Mexico livestock inspector would have an interest in the case.

“You’ve known Mr. Payton for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice subdued. He slid off the corner of the desk, moved around it, and slumped down in his fancy black leather ergonomic swivel chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the planning calendar.

“For decades,” I replied. “And as a matter of fact, in the missed opportunities department, yesterday I was supposed to have lunch with George. I got hung up when a horse stomped Herb’s boy and couldn’t keep the date.”

“I sorry to hear that,” Zeigler said. He adjusted his fashionable granny glasses carefully. “I heard that Mr. Payton suffered a heart attack. That’s not the case, then? There’s more to it than that, is that what you’re saying?”

I glanced at Estelle, not knowing how far she wanted to go fielding specifics about the case. Kevin Zeigler had been county manager for less than three years, a transplant from Socorro. I knew him well enough-or thought I did. During that time, I’d come to my own conclusions about the young county executive’s sense of discretion. Even so, his office, like any in the county building, hosted a fair amount of small talk and gossip. Estelle obvious shared my conclusions, since her response was immediate.

“We think there are some issues,” she said. “We want to make very sure, is all.”

“Ah,” Zeigler nodded. “I suppose so. Nothing is as simple as it seems at the get-go.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Whatever I can do to help clear things up,” Zeigler said, and I liked him all the more.

“We’re just getting started,” Estelle said. “Give us a few days. Once things are cleared up…” That was as far as she was prepared to go in discussing the case, and Zeigler was astute enough realize it. He settled back in his chair, staring at the mass of paperwork awaiting his attention.

“‘I ain’t going to pay no goddamn lawyers,’” Zeigler said, growling a fair imitation of George Payton’s crusty baritone. “That’s what Mr. Payton told me. That’s why I offered to have Simmons work up the paperwork for him. But that prompts an obvious question.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“Mr. Payton’s daughter is a realtor. It would seem logical to me that he’d just have her take care of the transfer.”

I laughed. “Sometimes being a relative works, and sometimes it doesn’t,” I said. “Maggie Payton is a wonderful lady, Kevin. But she and her dad were about this far apart in personality,” and I held my hands out, spread wide.

“And she might not approve of his giving the property away,” Zeigler added. “We were ready to pay fair market value for it, you know. It’s not as if we were trying to cheat Mr. Payton out of anything. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Once he decided to transfer the property for a dollar, that was that. No more discussion.”

“I’m sure she knew that,” I said. “That may be why she didn’t pressure him.”

“How much was the county going to offer?” Estelle asked.

“Eighty-five,” the county manager said without hesitation. “That’s what we’d penciled in. Just for the lot that borders our current county building property.”

“What was the current assessment on it?”

Zeigler frowned. “You’d have to ask Jack Lauerson to be exact, but the figure I remember is about sixty.”

I whistled. “Well, it’s location, location, location,” he said. “That’s what drives value in these things. The property is right downtown, an obvious addition to the county holdings. In fact, the expansion hinges on that property, so it jacks the value up even more. George could have held out and negotiated us up even more. In fact, if that property was on the open market, I’d expect it to go for close to a hundred. Maybe more.”

“It’s my understanding that George owned a lot of properties around the county,” I said.

“And some outside, I’m discovering,” Zeigler said. “What’s that guy’s name.” He leaned over and pawed through a mound of papers on the left side of his desk. “There’s a rancher up in Newton who wants us to extend a spur from County Road 14 to a piece of his property.”

“Waddell?” I offered.

“That’s it. Miles Waddell. He’s trying to pre-empt some development by the BLM over that way. It’s looking like the feds are going to develop something with the caves, as I’m sure you’re aware. Waddell called me a couple weeks ago and said that he was planning to trade a couple of pieces out of county to Mr. Payton for some little piece over that way.”

“I saw his drill rig,” I said.

“A little premature with that,” Zeigler said. “Anyway, there it is.” He glanced up at the clock. “I just saw Jack walk past, so if you’re needing to see him, this is a good time.”

“It would be,” Estelle said, and pushed herself out of the chair. “Are you going to be free for lunch?”

“I wish,” Zeigler said. “I need to head out to the county maintenance yard to see how much more money they’re going to need.” He smiled ruefully. “It never ends. You guys let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

With the old chair molded around my backside, I was perfectly comfortable, but I could see that Estelle was edgy, so we left the county manager to fight his own fires. A visit to the assessor would add some intriguing parts to the puzzle. It was apparent that George Payton had been a little busier than I ever would have suspected.