The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Fourteen

A telephone call to Betty Contreras-to the number on the slip of paper-would have been simple enough, but Estelle held off. What Betty’s connection might be with a couple of illegal alien woodcutters was just a curiosity at the moment, a problem more for the Catron County authorities than Estelle.

More important was tracking the movements of Christopher Marsh before the violent crash on Regál Pass. If anyone had seen the white Chevy pickup truck cruising the dirt lanes of Regál, it would be Betty. Maybe she had even spoken to Chris Marsh, fresh and neatly pressed in his deliveryman’s garb.

Estelle drove south from Regál Pass, struck as always by the view of the dry, bleak country of northern Mexico. Forty miles in the distance, she could see the blue hump of the mesa that loomed on the outskirts of Tres Santos, the tiny village where she had spent the first sixteen years of her life. What a difference forty miles made, she thought.

Or even one mile. Sun winked off the razor-wire-topped border fence where it cut the desert just south of the graveled parking lot of Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, the little mission that overlooked the village. Pavement on the U.S. side of the fence turned abruptly into dirt in Mexico.

Estelle could remember her first adventure across that line in the dust. She had been but six years old, the fence was no more than a strand or two of barbed wire, and the Border Patrol had business elsewhere. For those who felt threatened, the new fence was a grand thing, she reflected-and it had made a lot of money for some well-connected contractor.

On a map, the border between the two countries was a straight line, but the San Cristóbal Mountains ignored that. They formed a loose, open arc, the west and east ends dipping into Mexico while the center cradled Regál.

Contractors hadn’t extended the border fence any farther than necessary into the rugged mountains to the east and west. The fence made a good show across the port of entry and a few hundred yards of open prairie after that, then disappeared into the hills and rocks.

The system worked all right, since Regál lay on no major north-south route for travelers. Illegal aliens would find no difficulty in avoiding the section of border fence. They could skirt the ends of the fence all right, but then they’d spend days scrambling up the towering, crumbling granite face of the San Cristóbals. And then what? If the travelers didn’t die of exposure or snakebite, a view from the peak’s summit would reveal another long, dangerous trek down the back side of the mountains-to the open, equally desolate prairie.

As the county car eased down the highway into the village, Estelle saw a familiar figure leave Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, bustling across the parking lot. Betty Contreras carried a small wicker basket, and Estelle guessed that it had contained lunch for Emilio. The undersheriff slowed, lowering the driver’s side window. Oncoming traffic forced her to wait before swinging into the church parking lot. It was a Border Patrol vehicle, and as he passed, Estelle raised a hand in salute. Nothing but a hard stare greeted her in return, the young officer looking first at her and then across at Betty, who fluttered her fingers at him.

“Good afternoon, young lady.” Betty reached out and rested a free hand against the roof of the patrol car, bending down to look at Estelle.

“How are you and Emilio doing, Betty?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, we’re fine. I just fed and watered mi esposo, and now it’s time for us.” She bent down a little farther, looking hard at Estelle. “You look as if you’ve been up most of the night.”

“Actually, not most,” Estelle replied. “It’s just that we have about eighteen different things going on right now, and I’m not sure I feel like doing any of them.”

“Oh, sí. I know how that goes.” She watched as Estelle stretched a bit, pushing against the constraints of the shoulder harness. “How about a cup of tea? That’s always a good place to start.”

“I’d like that.” She reached across the car and slid her small briefcase off the seat, balancing it on what remained of the center console. “Jump in.”

The ride was a scant two hundred yards, but Betty dutifully fumbled with the seat belt harness. “Don’t want to get a ticket,” she quipped.

“Speaking of which, do you know that officer who just went by?” The undersheriff pointed after the government SUV, now taking the long ascent up the pass.

“No, I don’t. Too many now to keep track of. We just ignore ’em, which isn’t the polite thing to do, of course. But they don’t smile much. Not what I’d call exactly neighborly.”

“Well, it’s a tough time for them.”

“I suppose. But it’s all a problem of their own making. That’s my take on it, anyway. I’d like to see them just peel that grand fence down and do away with the border.”

“Ay, caramba,” Estelle said with amusement. “Wouldn’t that be interesting.” She slowed the car as they bumped off the pavement and swung onto Sanchez Lane, the only thoroughfare in Regál actually wide enough to pass by another vehicle without swinging into the ditch.

“You can park right behind mine,” Betty said. Estelle pulled in behind the blue Toyota, snugging up close so that the rear end of the patrol car didn’t project out into the narrow lane. Betty watched as the undersheriff pulled the mike off the clip.

“PCS, three-ten is ten-six, Contreras residence in Regál.”

“Three-ten, ten-four.” Dispatcher Gayle Torrez sounded preoccupied.

“This is an interesting office you have here,” Betty said, taking in the computer terminal, the stack of radios, the shotgun, the briefcase…even a Stetson with rain cover and a black baseball cap hooked on the security grill behind the seats.

“So homey, isn’t it,” Estelle laughed. “How’s Emilio getting along these days? I haven’t seen him since before Christmas.”

“Each day is a source of joy for him,” Betty said. She struggled out of the low-slung car. “It’s really that simple. Aches and pains don’t mean a thing. Not to him. Remind me to show you a photograph when we get inside.”

Estelle snapped open her briefcase and pulled the manila envelope out, then followed Betty inside the small house, past a porch littered with children’s toys, bikes, and a row of folding chairs stacked neatly against one wall.

“Grandchildren,” Betty said as she pushed open the door.

The thick adobe walls muffled the sound, and Estelle felt the atmosphere close in around her. The paint scheme was white with turquoise trim, the white so bright it appeared self-illuminated. A flotilla of inexpensive Mexican rugs protected the floor’s polish. Tiny windows, still reflecting the heritage when windows were gun ports first and sources of light and air only secondarily, were all lace curtained and closed.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Betty said. “Let’s see what goodies I can scare up.”

Just before the doorway, they passed a deep nicho where a crowded collection of framed photos was displayed. Estelle paused.

“Nineteen is the answer,” Betty called. “That’s the grand total of grandchildren…so far. And six great-grandchildren. Sometimes when everyone is here visiting, I’m sure I’ll go nutzo. That’s why I take so many walks.” A clank and clatter were followed by the sound of running water. “Plain tea is your favorite, as I remember?”

“It is. Thank you.” Estelle stepped into the kitchen, and Betty saw the envelope for the first time.

“Whatcha got?”

“I wanted to show you a photo, if you’d be willing.”

“Is this one of those ghastly things?”

“Well, sort of. Yes.” Estelle pulled out the eight-by-ten of Christopher Marsh, not such a bad portrait after all, considering how a tumbling truck had rearranged his body parts.

“Oh, yuck,” Betty said, sounding exactly like the elementary school teacher that she had been for thirty years. “Is this the driver of that little truck that crashed up on the pass? I heard about that.”

“Yes. His name is Christopher Marsh.”

“Oh my. So young, too.”

“Twenty-one.”

“He wasn’t from around Posadas, was he?”

“We think Las Cruces.”

Betty took one last look, grimaced, and handed the photo back to Estelle. “Do we know what happened yet?”

“It appears that he swerved to avoid a deer, Betty.”

“They need a fence, or something, along that stretch of highway. I mean, it’s just lethal. I’ve come close to collecting Bambi any number of times…and not always when I’m in a car.”

Estelle drew out another photo, this one of the truck. She slid it across the table. “Had you seen this vehicle around the village in the past few days?”

Betty took the photo and scrutinized it carefully. “Is this…Well, no, it’s hard to tell.…This looks like it might belong to one of those parcel delivery outfits.”

Their eyes met and Estelle let Betty mull over what she had said. It took a moment to ascertain that the crushed vehicle in the photo was a truck, rather than a car or SUV, yet something had jarred Betty’s memory.

“It’s a Chevy S-ten pickup,” Estelle said. “This torn metal here was a matching white camper shell. Do you recall seeing a truck like that around the village in the past day or two?”

“I think so.” Betty bent forward, leaning on her clasped hands, looking hard at the photograph that rested on the table in front of her. “They’re around all the time, you know. More often UPS, though. Who drives these little white ones? Is that FedEx?”

“Not in this case,” Estelle said.

“What’s the other one? I’m trying to recall. And yes, I think I saw him.” She tapped the picture. “I’m quite sure…I can’t be positive, of course…that this might be the truck that came with Joe and Lucinda’s sweepstakes prize.”