Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Six

Posadas County was split east-west by three state highways. County Road 14 ran north and south over on the west side of the county, like a wriggly noodle laced through the tines of a fork. I continued north on the county road until it intersected with NM17, the old route made obsolete by the interstate that paralleled it. Entering the village of Posadas from the west, NM17 became Bustos Avenue, and as I cruised into town, a stomach grumble reminded me that it had been altogether too long since breakfast.

Any small amount of discipline at that moment-and it was fast approaching five o’clock-would have prompted me to pull in my belt a notch and wait for dinner at the Guzmans’. But even an hour is a long time to wait. I pulled into the parking lot of the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant, determined to have just a small jolt of coffee and wee bit of the aromatic magic for which the place was justly famous. Just an appetizer, so to speak.

There had once been a time when Fernando Aragon’s restaurant would have closed between two to five each day, giving them time to prep for the dinner rush. But those days were as long gone as the copper mines and the rush of travelers, and the restaurant remained open from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., seven days a week, working to catch any stray customer.

When I walked in that day, the place was quiet as a tomb. No maitre d’ greeted me, and I could have slipped away with the cash register, although no doubt it didn’t hold much. I headed for my favorite haunt, a booth far in the back with a view to the southwest and the San Cristóbal mountains that separated us from old Mexico.

The kitchen door opened and Aileen Aragon, Fernando’s daughter, waved at me. I thought her expression was a little less cheerful than usual. A rotund woman who wore T-shirts that didn’t flatter her figure, Aileen was on the down slope past forty. During the decades I’d lived in Posadas, I could count on one hand the times I’d seen Aileen anywhere but at the Don Juan. Her parents had built the place, and she would work herself to death to keep it.

“JanaLynn will be with you in a sec. Sheriff,” she called, and I slid into the booth. Aileen was one of many Posadas County residents who had become so used to my tenure that they just found it easier to continue using the title rather than my name. In a moment JanaLynn Torrez pushed through the kitchen door carrying a two-foot stack of brass baskets for the tortillas and dinner rolls. The sheriff’s youngest sister had worked at the Don Juan for a dozen years, and I think that I favored the place as much for her cheerful, attractive demeanor as for the food.

She stashed the baskets, filled a tall, green-tinted glass with iced tea, and as she approached, her dark, dramatic features were sympathetic. “We heard about Mr. Payton,” she said, setting down the glass. She reached out both hands to take mine. “We’re so sorry.”

“Yes,” I said. “Not the best day.”

“His heart?”

“I would guess so,” I sighed.

She looked down at me for a long, empathetic moment, gave my hands a final squeeze, and knowing that comfort lay with good food, asked, “What can I get for you?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to ruin my dinner, so I was thinking of just a piece of pie, maybe.”

“Would you like to try one of the tostadas? Aileen’s been prepping those, and they’re going to be really good.”

“Oh, gosh.” I twisted my left arm behind my back and feigned a pained grimace. “Okay, you win.”

“The plate is going to include two, but if you’re having dinner soon, you might want half a serving.”

“What’s the world coming to,” I muttered, but nodded agreement.

“And green, of course.”

“Sure enough.” I loved red chile, but it didn’t love me-a tragedy I had shared with George Payton. If I hadn’t planned to spend the evening in polite company, I might have risked it.

She bent down to give my shoulders a hug. “Back in a minute.”

“No rush.” The booth offered the same familiar, comfortable lumps and bumps, even the same old strap of duct tape that sutured a rip in the plastic. I settled back, arm across the back, fingers tapping on the windowsill. The iced tea was good, although almost too fresh to have any real character. JanaLynn hadn’t suggested pulling the blinds, and the sun that blasted in was soothing. The restaurant’s air conditioning hammered, but they could have saved the electricity as far as I was concerned. For the past week, temperatures hadn’t broken eighty-five degrees during the heat of the day-a perfect September in southern New Mexico.

Five minutes of musing about nothing in particular was all I was allowed. Then Jana reappeared with an attractive little platter that featured a six-inch corn tostada so fragrant I could smell it despite the symphony of other goodies that blanketed it. That small tawny continent was covered with thin-sliced roast pork joined by perfect pinto beans in green chile, and a garnish of greens and diced tomatoes. Knowing my penchant for something to cool the effects of chile on a cranky gut, Aileen had remembered a touch of sour cream peaked off to one side. George Payton would have scoffed at that and called me a sissy.

JanaLynn came by to keep the iced tea filled, but otherwise left me alone with my thoughts. I wish that I could claim that those thoughts were deep and relevant, but they weren’t. My mind roamed from here to there as I did justice to Aileen’s artistry, and the sun and the chile consorted. A nap started to sound like a really good idea, and I figured that I’d timed this whole thing just right. I’d finish here, then dive into my badger hole for an hour before dinner.

Halfway through the meal, I was hauled up short, as if I’d chomped down on a wad of aluminum foil. I chewed thoughtfully, using my fork to take apart the remains of the tostada, separating the bits of perfect pork from the slender cuts of Hatch chile. I skated the beans off to one side.

I had eaten my first meal at the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant more than thirty years before. I’d commiserated with Fernando and Bea Aragon when fire had leveled the first iteration of the Don Juan in 1988, and had been one of the first customers to celebrate the phoenix from the ashes. I’d settled on the wonderful, megacalorie burrito grande as my signature dish after very little menu experimentation, and I could practically guess Fernando’s mood by any minor changes that might add or detract from the core triumph.

Today, this tostada was right up there with all the rest of the Aragons’ food-a menu that would have made them world-famous had the rest of the world known where the hell Posadas, New Mexico, might be. And that was what brought me up short. So short, in fact, that it prompted a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I told myself that this was all my imagination working overtime, and forced myself to clean my plate.

After a final exchange of pleasantries with JanaLynn, I left a twenty-dollar bill at my plate and glanced at my watch. Gayle Torrez would still be on duty, and Estelle would likely be in the office. The undersheriff would listen to me patiently, and then tell me if I was crazy or not.

I had left the window of the SUV open so my butt wouldn’t weld to the roasting vinyl when I slid inside. Approaching the truck, I could hear the cell phone’s ring. With the giggling of rough roads, the phone had slid under the junk on the passenger seat. Normal folks who eschewed belt rigs often use phone clips or brackets in the vehicle, or even those nifty little wells in the center console. I knew that and still lost the damn thing more often than not. By the time I’d found it this time, the caller had established his patience.

“Gastner.”

“Ah, good,” Gayle Torrez said. “I just missed you at the Don Juan.”

“What’s up?” I asked. “I was just headed your way.” Gayle wouldn’t be so persistent just to chit-chat.

“Sir, Dennis is up on 43, and he says that there’s a herd of cattle on the highway, headed down hill. They’re about a mile up from the quarry.”

I laughed. “Tell him to ask the lead cow if she has her papers with her.” When a rancher decided to move his cattle, it was my business. When old Bossie elected to go awandering, that wasn’t my affair, and I wasn’t about to run around in the sunshine, with a fresh tostada settling in my stomach, shouting at livestock. “They’re not called dumb animals for nothing,” I added.

“Dennis says that there’s a dog herding them.”

“Well, crap,” I said, starting the truck and turning on the air conditioning. “Well, have him ask the dog for the papers then. Whose cattle are they?” The county was small enough that coincidence was rare. I knew whose cattle they were.

“I don’t think he knows, sir.”

“Tell young Dennis to look on the left rear hip somewhere. There’ll be a brand.” Apprehension reared its ugly head, and it wasn’t from the tostada.

“Hang on, sir.”

Traffic was light when I pulled out of the Don Juan’s parking lot, and even though I had far, far better things to do than worry about loose cattle, I headed east on Bustos. By the time I’d covered the twelve blocks to the intersection of Bustos and Grande-the heart of Posadas-Gayle was back.

“Sir, he says that the brand has an H, and then a dash maybe, and then he thinks a T. He wonders if that’s Herb Torrance. There are twenty-five or so.”

“Chances are,” I said. What had Patrick Gabaldon done now, I wondered. After I left the ranch, Pat would have had plenty of time to drive up on Cat Mesa, release the critters from the stock trailer, and head home, closing the gates behind him. It was no big deal. The pasturage was less than a mile beyond the intersection of County Road 43 and Forest Road 26, where the pavement turned to dirt.

It was conceivable, although as unlikely as rain, that Pat might have left open a gate, or thought it was secure when it really wasn’t. Dumb as they were, cattle had a sort of persistent, dim curiosity about their world. If they could wander without interference, they would. If a gate yawned open, they’d drift through it.

But the last thing Pat would do is leave his beloved blue heeler companion alone with the cattle. The dog should have been sitting beside Pat in the pickup, tongue lolling and slobbering all over the seat and dashboard, eager for home and a plunge in an inviting stock tank. Left with the livestock, and left to his own instincts, he would herd the cattle until either they or he dropped.

“Sir, he says he can’t get the dog to come to him.” I nodded with appreciation. Deputy Dennis Collins might have been a city kid, but he was shrewd and had already figured out who was the trail boss of this wandering outfit.

“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “Tell him I’m on my way up. In the meantime, tell him that the dog’s name is Socks. What Dennis needs to do is get near enough, and shout the dog’s name to get his attention, then command lie down. He has to sound like he means it and knows what he’s doing.”

“Socks, lie down,” Gayle said. “Yes, sir.” I could hear the amusement in her tone.

“It probably won’t work, but there you go. That’s all the dog lingo I know. I’ll head up that way. The cattle are on the highway right of way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if he can get the dog to take a vacation, they’ll stop. Pat Gabaldon trailered them up there a little bit ago, and he’ll be on his way back to Herb’s. He may even be running some errands here in town. I’ll find him and let him know.”

“Thanks, sir. Should I tell Dennis you’re headed up the hill?”

“Yep.” I pulled over and parked across from the Chevy dealership, leafing through my paperwork. Herb Torrance’s cell phone rang half a dozen times, and I could imagine him sitting there in the Las Cruces hospital waiting room, trying to shut the thing up while the rest of the folks glared at him.

“Yeah, this is Herb,” he said.

“Herb, Bill Gastner. How’s Dale?”

“Well, I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “They said it went all right. He’s still in recovery. Annie’s with him.”

“Good deal. Look, do you have Patrick’s cell number handy?”

“Well, sure. I got that.” He rattled off the number. “He moved the cattle all right?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “He got ’em up there just fine. Apparently somebody left a gate open, though, and one of the deputies found the herd walking along the highway. I’m in Posadas right now, and wanted to find Pat so he could shag ’em back to pasture.”

“Well, yeah,” Herb said. “Now that’s a nuisance. Sorry ’bout that.”

“It happens. Look, Herb, while I have you on the line…George Peyton died this morning. I thought you might like to know.”

A long pause greeted that news. “Well, hell,” Herb said finally. “At home, did he?”

“Yes. It looks like he just sat down to lunch, and keeled over. His son-in-law found him.”

“Well, damn. You know, I’m sorry to hear that. I liked old George.”

“A lot of us did.” As I drove through Posadas, I kept an eye out for the H-Bar-T pickup and stock trailer-it would be hard to hide that rig. “I’ll let you go, Herb. I’m headed up the hill right now, and if there’s any kind of problem, I’ll get back to you.”

“Well, okay,” Herb said doubtfully. “You could have Patrick call me, if you wanted. Or I’ll try after a bit.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Damn all to hell, I’m sorry to hear about George,” he said, and I could imagine the rancher’s slow shake of the head. “Hell gettin’ old, ain’t it.”