Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Five

The yellow ribbon blocking the kitchen door was down, the kitchen empty, George’s body gone. Just like that. Phil Borman stood out on the front step, smoking. He held onto the screen door as if the light breeze might tear it from its flimsy hinges. I heard him talking to someone out on the front step, a neighbor perhaps.

“There’s something apropos in all this,” Maggie Borman said. She reached out a hand to me and used my grip as leverage to rise from the sofa.

“How so?”

She held my hand in both of hers. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted to wait around until he didn’t have the strength to lift a fork, Bill. He said as much to me on a dozen occasions, you know. And more often here recently, after his last stroke. I think he could see what was coming.” She reached out and retrieved George’s unused alert button from the top of the piano. “Even this,” she said. “I bought this for him.” Maggie looked up at me, eyes appealing. “There it was on top of the piano, untouched. I wonder now if it could have saved his life.”

“Probably not,” I said. “But we’ll never know. George was George, Maggie. That’s all there is to it. He knew what he wanted.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she said. “He missed Mama so much.” She turned toward the kitchen just in time to see Estelle drop the small evidence bag holding George’s fork into the briefcase.

A small cooler with the Sheriff’s Department logo on the lid now rested on the floor. Arranged inside, as if for a picnic, were the various items that Estelle had gathered from the kitchen-the serving dish with its plastic lid, now encased in its own plastic cocoon, the empty wine bottle and its paper bag from the trash in one evidence bag, the almost full bottle in another.

“I was going to clean all that up…” Maggie said, starting toward the kitchen. She stopped as if the yellow tape was still in place.

Estelle smiled sympathetically. “That’s all right, Mrs. Borman. We’ll take care of it.”

“You’ll need to refrigerate that,” Maggie added, and I wasn’t sure what she was thinking-that somehow the undersheriff wouldn’t know that food spoiled?

“It’s routine to run some basic lab tests, Maggie,” I said. “We’ll all be just a little more comfortable when we know what triggered the episode.” We, I heard myself say.

She looked at me, puzzled. “Well, that’s certainly all right,” she said. “I don’t know what the procedure is. Will you see that the serving dish is returned to the restaurant?”

“You bet.” I was not surprised that Maggie was concerning herself with such trivialities. It’s trivia that sometimes gets us through the toughest moments. “And Maggie, if there’s anything I can do,” I added, resorting to the well-worn exit line, “you let me know.”

She looked as if she was about to take me up on that offer, holding up a finger and taking a deep breath. Then she deflated. “Oh, there’ll be lots to do, I’m sure,” she said.

I helped Estelle lug her equipment out to her car. With no further spectacle to watch, most of the neighbors had gone about their business. Depressed as hell, I waited on the sidewalk as Estelle finished up.

“Sir,” Estelle said, slamming down the trunk of her car, “I’ll give you a call as soon as Dr. Perrone has something for me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll get this off to the lab, and then we’ll see.”

“Are you ready for lunch yet?”

“Better still, why don’t you plan to come over for dinner tonight? That’ll give me time to ship this batch off to Albuquerque, and catch up on paperwork.”

I had been thinking of a midafternoon memorial burrito, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’d manage the hours before dinner somehow. “It’s a deal,” I said. “What can I bring?”

“Yourself, padrino. Los dos will be excited.” That was the charm of little kids, of course. They could see me five times in a week, and still be thrilled with yet another opportunity to drag me into their world.

“I was going to wander over to the hospital for a few minutes to see how Dale Torrance is doing, and then I need to run the permit paperwork out to the ranch. Pat is standing around out there waiting on all this. Dinner will work out just right.”

“Wish the Torrances well for me.” Estelle opened the car door. “See you at the house, then. Anytime is fine.”

I raised a hand in salute, still unmotivated to resume whatever it was that I was doing before this. Estelle was headed back to her office. Deputy Dennis Collins and Officer Beuler had left the neighborhood, no doubt already prowling the highways and school crossings. That’s what the young do when someone older dies, I suppose-pause a minute or two and then get on with life. Us older duffers reacted a little differently. Losing one of my oldest, closest friends had punched out some of my stuffing, and I wasn’t ready just yet to draw a line through George Payton’s name. George would have laughed at me.

I ambled back to the SUV and called the hospital, saving myself a trip of four blocks. Dale Torrance had been transferred to Las Cruces so that an orthopedic surgeon there could whack away at the lad’s wrecked knee. I switched off the phone, relieved that I didn’t need to visit Posadas General. Its antiseptic atmosphere wasn’t good therapy for me just then, anyway. I’d be apt to glance through some door left ajar and see someone I knew, withered and old, intubated and helpless.

The sun felt good as it streamed through the Chevy’s window. I sat for a few minutes, finishing Herb Torrance’s livestock transportation permit. Herb and Annie had gone on to Cruces, but Pat Gabaldon could sign off just as easily. It wasn’t as if a giant, bellowing herd was tramping across four states. The single, modest trailer load wouldn’t even leave the county. It was the sort of mindless attention to bureaucratic detail that allowed my mind to roam free, picking at this and that, remembering this and that.

By the time I returned to the Torrance ranch, Pat had the twenty-four critters all buttoned up in the trailer, the rig turned around and ready to head out the driveway. He was leaning against the front fender of Herb’s huge diesel dually one-ton pickup, cell phone pasted to his ear, and raised a hand in salute at the sound of my approach. Pat continued his conversation as he sauntered out to meet me. A short, compact kid in faded, sweat-stained denim, he ruined his cowpoke image with an Oakland A’s baseball cap worn askew, brim to the rear. He shared the old trailer behind Herb and Annie’s place, the modern equivalent of a bunk house, with Dale Torrance.

“Dale’s still in surgery,” Pat said as I rolled the Blazer to a stop. He snapped the phone closed. “Herb says they don’t know how long it’ll be.”

“God damn nasty break,” I said. I didn’t explain why I had been delayed so long in town, but Pat had made good use of the time. Horses and tack were tended to and he’d trailered the cattle with just the help of Socks, the blue heeler, who now sat in the truck, tongue lolling, excited to be going someplace where he could chase things.

“I was going to head on up to the mesa,” Pat said. “Didn’t see any point in sitting around here.” He turned and maneuvered his wad of snuff a bit so he could spit.

“There’s that,” I agreed. “If I can get you to sign on the dotted line, we’re all set.”

Pat cocked his head and looked at the paperwork. One hand strayed to his hip pocket. “I ain’t got thirty-eight bucks,” he said.

“Herb’s good for it,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” Pat signed in cramped, angular printing, and I gave him Herb’s copy marked “paid”, which would make the state bookkeepers cringe if they knew. But they didn’t need to know. I included one of my business cards as well. “I can’t imagine anybody giving you grief, but if you have any problems, give me a call.”

“You bet. Thanks.”

With the great work of the state finished, I left the H-Bar-T ranch and drove north on County Road 14, a rough, jouncing ride that I usually avoided. But this particular day, it felt good to be out and away. The sky was touched here and there with jet trails that wafted out and turned into wispy clouds, the wind just enough to occasionally kick up a little dust and whip it around in tiny devils. I ambled along with the SUV’s windows open.

A mile north, beyond Herb’s last section fence, dust blew off the tops of fresh tracks that had turned off the main road. The derrick of a well-driller’s rig rose above the runty piñon and juniper a few hundred yards to the east. It surprised me that someone imagined that there was still water left under that dry patch of desert. Nosy as ever, I turned and followed the tracks. The trail wound along the flank of San Patricio Mesa, dodging stands of cacti, water-stressed juniper, creosote bush, and the occasional snarl of stunted oak. Amid a growing litter of beer cans, plastic oil jugs, plastic bags and similar touches of human grace, the two-track headed up a particularly picturesque canyon. It couldn’t continue in that direction for long, since the jumbled rock of the mesa edge reared up in the way.

A tawny swale of dry bunch grass had been flattened to dust by traffic, and the drill rig sat on its hydraulic feet, a flood of dried, cracked slurry paving the area around the drill hole. I parked and gazed at the rig, thinking this a damn odd place for a water well. The bulk of San Patricio Mesa protected the area from the breezes unless the wind was from the northeast, and the last time we’d had a ‘downeaster’ in southern New Mexico, the ice age was in control. A windmill in this spot would sit idle most of the time.

Turning in my seat, I surveyed the rimrock above me. No electric lines passed closer than those behind Herb Torrance’s house, a full mile away, with the buttress of a mesa between here and there. From the drill site, the land sloped down the swale, losing another hundred feet of elevation to the prairie to the north. In the distance, I could see the brown line of CR14 snaking off toward the state highway. Bringing in electric lines would be no problem, as long as the wallet was fat.

Switching off the SUV, I unbuckled and climbed out. Except for its being picturesque, I could see little reason to be drilling for water here, unless Herb had managed to pick up this piece of land from a neighbor and planned to extend his pasturage. That made sense. For him, it was convenient.

Off to the west of CR 14, I could see the rise of the hills behind Reuben Fuentes’ old place, long abandoned now. Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s great uncle had been as colorful as they come, and he and I had shared an escapade or two on both sides of the border-but that was long before Homeland Security took all the fun out of adventures like that.

Whoever owned the drill rig hadn’t painted his company name on the weathered doors, but the driver’s side wasn’t locked, and I helped myself. The cab reeked of oil, chewing tobacco, and diesel fuel. A broken clipboard lay on the seat with a receipt from Posadas Electrix under the clip showing that Scott Paulson had bought a new super-duty battery the day before. I didn’t know Scott Paulson, and that in itself was surprising.

Since this enormous, ponderous unit drove over the highways and bore a commercial license plate, there should have been a registration in the dash box. Should have been. I climbed down and surveyed the rig and walked around behind. The license plate was mud encrusted, torn and battered, and carried a two year-old tag. Knowing that it meant nothing to me, but still in my busybody mode, I jotted the license number down in a small pocket notebook, and then strolled back to my vehicle.

Gayle Torrez was working toward the final hours of her day shift and certainly wouldn’t mind something to do.

“Gayle,” I said when she answered the phone, “do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” she said. “What do you need?”

“I’d like a ten-twenty-eight on New Mexico alpha bravo kilo niner one zero one, if you’ll run that plate for me.”

“Sure. Do I dare ask what you’re up to this afternoon, sir?”

“Being nosy.”

“Ah, good.” She didn’t pursue the matter but sounded satisfied. I could hear the tappety-tap of computer keys in the background. After another thirty seconds, Gayle came back on the line. “Alpha bravo kilo niner one zero one should appear on a 1971 gray Brockway registered to Scott Paulson, 101 Commercial Avenue, Lordsburg. No wants or warrants.”

“Expired?”

“No sir. Current. Expires in October.”

“He keeps the new sticky tags in his pocket, I guess,” I said. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Are you behaving yourself?”

“As much as possible,” I said. “Is his nibs sleeping in his office?”

“I think he’s out by the fuel pumps with Tom Mears. You want me to haul him in here?”

“No. Just ask him for me when you see him next. I should remember, but I don’t. Who owns the property just north of Herb’s place on 14? It looks like a long, narrow strip that runs right along the back side of San Patricio Mesa? I didn’t see any boundary fences, so it goes all the way from the road back to this new well site where I’m parked at the moment. It’d be the piece immediately adjacent to Herb’s.”

“That’s easy enough. Bobby has his cell with him, if you want to talk with him. Thirty-nine hundred.”

“No, that’s all right. It’s not that important. If I had any gumption I’d stop at the assessor’s office and do it myself. I guess I was wondering if this was one of those parcels that the BLM picked up in that land swap with George Payton.”

“Bobby will know,” Gayle said cheerfully.

“That’s what I figured.” There had been a blizzard of land titles when the feds purchased the land that included the newly discovered limestone caves not far north of Reuben’s place. No Carlsbad Caverns, the discovery was still of some local interest, and there was the promise of a decent tourist attraction if anything was ever developed. When her great-uncle had died, Estelle Reyes-Guzman had missed out on inheriting something spectacular by about a thousand yards, give or take. The Bureau of Land Management had snapped up the parcel to protect it, and now plans for the feature were plodding through the federal labyrinth.

I took a few minutes to scribble a bunch of notes to myself, including the information on Scott Paulson. No livestock appeared to be involved, so none of it was any of my business. Still, sitting there and jotting log entries felt good and proper.