The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Thirteen

Another two hours on the hillside produced nothing beyond various bits of debris that had once been a Chevrolet pickup truck and its lone occupant. The truck itself was notable for what it did not contain-any clue as to what cargo it had carried, or what business had prompted Christopher Marsh to dress and drive like a package delivery agent.

Shortly before ten that Saturday morning, Estelle’s phone demanded attention. She sat down on a large rock just above the truck wreckage and saw that the call was from Deputy Tony Abeyta.

“What did you find out, Tony?”

“Number one, Chris Marsh was a student at the state university in Las Cruces for three years. He dropped out last year with enough credits to be a sophomore. Anyway, I found out that his parents live in Brookhaven, New York. They’re not real interested in coming out, either.”

“Really. How touching.”

“That’s for sure. They said to cremate the body and if we wanted to, we could send the ashes back to them.”

“If we wanted to?” Estelle asked. “What do they want?”

“It didn’t sound like they gave a shit one way or another. They claim that they haven’t heard from their son since May of last year, after he got himself arrested by the campus police for disorderly conduct. I would guess that they weren’t on the best of terms before that, either. I haven’t found out yet what that incident was, but he left school shortly after that.”

“And that’s when the folks wrote him off?”

“Apparently that was the last straw, yes. His dad said that the kid could talk himself out of anything. That’s when he said, ‘He’s made his bed, now he can lie in it.’ I told him that it wasn’t a question of that-that his son had been killed. I almost said the bed he was lyin’ in was a pile of rocks, but I didn’t.”

“All kinds,” Estelle said. A meeting between the Marshes and Elliot Parker would be interesting, she thought.

“I told them that you might be calling later today. But I didn’t hear any weeping in the background, so I don’t hold out much hope that they’re going to be of any help. I got the impression that they’d had about all the expense and heartache with this kid that they could stomach.”

“That happens, Tony. What else?”

“Not much. I talked to one of the folks in the Dean’s Office at the college. She happened to be in catching up on some things on a Saturday morning. I didn’t get too far. Marsh didn’t make much of an impression on anyone. She gave me the dean’s home phone, but no answer. Then I got ahold of Grunt, and he’s going to check out Marsh’s trailer for us.” Las Cruces detective Guenther “Grunt” Nilson wouldn’t miss much, Estelle knew.

“The address came back as a trailer over on the southeast side. Grunt says it’s a little mobile home park with maybe twenty trailer spaces. They’re going to find out who Marsh was living with.”

“Did you mention to Nilson that we have other things going on beyond just an MVA?” Estelle asked.

“I told him everything I knew. I didn’t want the cops down there walking into something unawares. They’re being careful.”

“Good man. If you think it would pay off, you might go ahead and drive over there. I’d like to know what you think. I’m certain that there was someone else here with Marsh. Someone wanted to make sure that he never made it out alive after the crash, and then cleaned up afterward. Somebody, sometime, had to have seen Chris Marsh hanging out with a buddy, girlfriend, live-in, or whatever.”

“I already told Grunt that I’d probably be down.”

“You might give Perrone a call and take along any updates he has.”

“Ten-four.”

“Keep us posted.” She folded the phone and sat quietly for a moment, gazing down past the truck. The sun bounced off the rocks, warm and peaceful, the gray, soggy mist of the night before just faint wisps now through the trees across the canyon. Bob Torrez and Tom Pasquale were working around the truck, and the sheriff stopped, looking up the slope toward her. He raised his voice just enough that it carried upward across the hundred feet of rocks that separated them.

“You seen all you need to see on this thing?” the sheriff asked.

“I think so,” Estelle said, funneling her mouth with both hands so she wouldn’t have to shout.

“We want to see what’s underneath,” Torrez said, and made a balling motion with both hands. “Stubby’s on his way out.” The cable from Stub Moore’s huge wrecker would ball up the battered truck worse than it already was during the drag up the hill. But between herself and Linda Real, the scene had been photographed and rephotographed from every conceivable angle.

“I’m going to take a few minutes and head down to Regál,” Estelle said.

“You looked at that envelope of stuff from Catron?”

“Yes, I did. The phone number is Betty’s.”

“Thought so. You might stop and talk with her. Busybody like that sees everything. And what the hell…she might have seen Marsh around town. Or his truck. That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

Maybe. Maybe not, Estelle thought as she made her way back up the slope. Sometimes the small town legend about everyone knowing everyone else’s business was just that: legend. If it was more convenient not to know, then the ignorance could be legendary in itself.

Her cell phone rang just as she was reaching out to grab the guardrail, and she ignored the phone until she had stepped back onto level ground, the stretch over the railing making the muscles in her right side twang.

“Guzman.”

“Are we having fun yet?” Bill Gastner asked.

“You bet,” she replied. “What’s up, padrino?”

“Well, I just dropped Madelyn Bolles off at Rachel’s,” he said, referring to Rachel Melvin’s B and B on 10th Street in Posadas. “Interesting morning.”

For a moment Estelle frowned, trying to remember who Madelyn Bolles might be. Catching the hesitation of Estelle’s puzzlement, Gastner added, “She of the magazine article, sweetheart. The lady who wants to interview everyone in Posadas County, but in particular, you.”

“Ah.” Estelle started the walk back toward her car, glancing at her watch as she did so. “She’s early. She cornered you, did she?” The undersheriff scrutinized the day-date window of her watch. “I was about to say that we didn’t expect her until Saturday, but this is Saturday, isn’t it.”

“Indeed it is,” Gastner said. “Anyway, it was interesting. We took a little tour of the county while we talked. She had planned to talk with Leona this morning, but then she heard about what’s going on down there, and decided that this would be a stellar time to see you in action. She stopped in and talked with Dispatch.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, well. She wanted to freshen up a little and rummage through all the notes I gave her. She said she’d make contact with you some time today. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up. Be on the lookout sort of thing. She’s driving a bright red rental car. A Buick LaCrosse, I think.”

“Did she seem like an okay kind of person?”

Gastner laughed. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but ’tweren’t her,” he said. “She’s right behind me on that slippery slope of impending geezerhood. That kinda surprised me. But listen, I don’t want to say too much. You’ll make up your own mind. I just wanted to pass along a heads-up.”

“I appreciate that. I’m headed to Regál at the moment. I need to talk with Betty.”

Gastner didn’t ask, About what? “Give her my regards, please. Anything you want or need me to do?”

“You could come over for dinner tonight. Irma was planning to make enchiladas the last I heard.”

“Oh, gosh, no thanks,” Gastner said. “I had my heart set on a baloney sandwich and some stale potato chips. What time?”

“You know how that always goes, sir. Irma said that she was going to serve whoever shows up at six exactamente, ni un momento más o menos.”

“I’ll hold her to it,” the old man chuckled. “There would be some benefits to being the only one to show up, you know.”

“You’re the rock around which we all orbit,” Estelle said soberly, and that prompted a loud guffaw.

“I love it,” he said. “Be careful.”

She folded up the phone and slipped it in her pocket as she reached her sedan. For a few minutes she sat in the car, thumbing through her notes. She looked at the slip of paper that included the Contrerases’ home phone number. How odd, all these little connections, she thought.