The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Eighteen

From a small rise just beyond Serafina Roybal’s neat little home, Estelle could see Iglesia de Nuestra Señora a thousand yards away and the single vehicle parked near its entrance. Madelyn Bolles couldn’t have made the drive south from Posadas so quickly. Bill Gastner had said that the reporter was driving a red Buick-this one didn’t have enough color to judge, and it didn’t glint in the sun.

Before starting the car, Estelle drew out the letter that Serafina had given to her. Opening her cell phone, she dialed the Canadian number carefully, committing it to the phone’s memory. On a Saturday, she didn’t expect an answer, and in three rings was rewarded with an answering machine.

“Hello. You have reached the corporate offices of Canadian Publications Limited, your source for the best in leisure, educational, and technical reading. Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday, from nine a.m. to five p.m., Mountain Time. If you know your party’s three-digit extension, you may enter that now to leave voice mail. Thank you for calling Canadian Publications.”

Estelle sat for a long minute, staring at the phone. “Most strange,” she said aloud, and then dialed Dispatch.

“Gayle, I need a favor,” she said when Gayle Torrez answered. “Will you give the Calgary Police Department a buzz for me? I need to know what’s located at this address.” She read the information from the letterhead, including the notation that Canadian Publications operated out of Suite 11-e.

“That shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” Gayle said cheerfully. “I’ll jump on the Web and get right back to you.”

“I’d rather that you call the Calgary police directly,” Estelle said. “I want to hear their take on both the address and the company working out of there.”

“Copy that.” Gayle didn’t question the request, odd as it might sound. “Did you meet Ms. Bolles yet?”

“No. I’m clear here for the moment. I’m going to stop at the church to see Emilio, then I’ll be heading back in.”

Estelle left the envelope on the seat as she headed toward the church, meandering through the village where no single street took command of direction. In many places, she had to slow the Crown Victoria to a walk as she passed between stump and mailbox, or around a front porch, or through yards populated with dogs, cats, goats, and occasionally children.

She reached the main highway just a hundred yards north of the border station. A Border Patrol SUV was parked at the end of the small building beside an unmarked sedan. At the moment there was no traffic, and she pulled across the paved road to the driveway leading up to the church parking lot.

The aging Chevy sedan parked there sported a hood, roof, and trunk lid that were sun bleached to bare metal. The top of the backseat, exposed to the sun by the expanse of the rear window, was tattered, unraveled, and faded, but she knew the priest who owned the car was no slave to fashion. Estelle parked behind Father Bertrand Anselmo’s relic and got out of her car. The Chevy sat low on four tires in varying need of attention, including the left rear that was bald as a racing slick. Remnants of tape held the taillight lenses in place. More duct tape, applied in generous quantities, held the left rear window in its frame. If the windshield acquired any more cracks, it would take more than tape. Estelle paused, admiring the rolling junkyard. She could see that even the plastic steering wheel was cracked in several places, the steel skeleton showing through. There probably weren’t many wholesale vehicles that the southbound burros, the car dealers who hauled their tandems of long-of-tooth wholesale vehicles to Mexico, would refuse, but this might be one of them.

Estelle knew that Father Anselmo had been stopped by law enforcement officers from every agency that roamed the county-and probably some visiting ones from out of town. The car looked guilty, riding low and battered on its worn-out suspension as if the generous trunk might be full of half a ton of weed or half a dozen illegals. On the good father’s behalf, any cop would testify that the car would never be caught speeding, its license and registration were up-to-date, and a current insurance card rode in the remains of the glove box. Anselmo apparently believed that the good Lord would take care of everything else.

Five stone steps led up to the iglesia’s mammoth front door, five steps that added just a bit more to Emilio Contreras’ penance each day. The heavily carved door stood ajar, its rope handle inviting. The door’s two-hundred-year-old cottonwood planks were polished to a deep, warm sheen, unscarred by any attempts at illegal entry. It wasn’t necessary to try to force the lock. There wasn’t one. If the door was closed, one had merely to tug the thick rope, pulling up the beautifully balanced drop latch on the inside.

As she swung the door open, she enjoyed the wave of fragrant comfort that wafted out of the ancient building. Fresh juniper led the bouquet, followed by a hint of lemon oil, latex paint, and overtones of musty books. The door opened so soundlessly that Father Anselmo, standing near the communion railing and facing the front of the church, didn’t hear her enter. Emilio Contreras leaned a hip against the railing, both hands resting on top of his aluminum cane. He saw the undersheriff and raised one hand in greeting, and the priest turned.

“Well, now,” his voice boomed in the empty church, “what a treat this is.” He reached out a hand to touch Emilio on the forearm and then strode down the aisle toward Estelle. Still half a dozen paces away, he extended both hands, and then his huge grip enveloped hers. “It’s so good to see you,” he said, making the simple word “so” about five syllables long.

A great bear of a man whose casual dress was as unkempt and worn as his Chevrolet, Bertrand Anselmo would have had no trouble fitting into an earlier century. His full black beard accentuated the broad bone structure of a strong face. A pair of tiny frameless half-glasses perched on his generous, wide nose, and he tipped his head to regard Estelle through the lenses, looking at her critically. “How are you doing these days?”

“I’m fine, Bert.” He squeezed her hands in response to that. “Or it might be more accurate to say that I’m making good progress toward being fine.”

He laughed, showing the need for considerable dental care that he could not afford. Releasing her hands, he nodded at the envelope under her arm. “We’re glad to hear that. But you’re here on business, unfortunately.”

He accepted the photograph of Christopher Marsh, turning so that the light from the nearest window fell over his shoulder. He made a small sign of the cross over the photo. “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” he said, and then sighed. “I don’t know this unfortunate young man. Should I?”

“I can’t imagine why you would, sir. If you had seen him around town, it would be helpful to know when and where.”

“I don’t think so. Now, Emilio would know more than I…or Betty, the source of all information in the Western Hemisphere. Have you talked to her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you already know a good deal more than I do.” Anselmo accepted the second photo, and the ritual of blessing was repeated. This time, however, he examined the photo more thoroughly, adjusting it this way and that, bringing it closer to his half-glasses. “Ah,” he said, finally. He lowered the photo and looked down the nave toward Emilio Contreras, who was making his way toward them, one slow, painful shuffling step at a time. Emilio used the same kind of cane that Teresa Reyes favored-aluminum with a splayed four-footed base, a sort of mini-walker that would stand by itself.

“How did this happen?” Father Anselmo asked quietly.

“A woodcutting accident, apparently. Up near Reserve.”

“‘Apparently’ implies something else,” the priest said, and Estelle nodded.

“We’re not sure yet. Actually I should say the Catron County authorities aren’t sure.”

“They’re looking into it and asked your help, then.”

“Yes.” She pulled out the photocopy of the small note that contained the Contreras telephone number and handed it to Father Anselmo. “He had this in his pocket.”

“No ID or anything else?”

“No.”

“Well, that makes it more difficult,” the priest said, and Estelle wasn’t sure whether she heard a note of relief in his tone, or even if the remark had been meant for her to hear.

“Can you tell me anything about him?” the undersheriff asked.

“Like what?” Anselmo asked, pleasantly enough. “Am I supposed to know this chap?”

“That’s a good place to start.”

“Ah, who he is,” Anselmo murmured. “Now you’re making demands on a memory that’s of no particular use to anyone, including its owner.”

Estelle remained silent, regarding the priest. She had known Bertrand Anselmo for thirty years-had listened to more than one guest sermon at the tiny Iglesia de Tres Santos in the Mexican village where she had spent her childhood. She knew, from her mother’s frequent reports, that Anselmo was content with his work-that he lived in a tiny four-room adobe house in María with the barest of amenities, and that he offered mass at both the church in María and that in Regál, with frequent visits to Tres Santos, forty miles south in Mexico. She supposed that his bishop was content to leave Bertrand Anselmo in that tiny corner of the world indefinitely, since his isolated pastorate appeared to match Anselmo’s needs perfectly.

Regardless of background, training, or even personal inclination, every person had, on some occasion, his own struggle with telling the truth, and Estelle could see that this was such a moment for the priest.

“I don’t want to enter into a sparring match with you,” he said finally, handing the photograph back to the undersheriff. He removed his half-glasses and rubbed his face, turning to watch Emilio’s progress toward them. Halfway down the nave, the old man had stopped in front of the wood-burning potbellied stove, with its towering stovepipe. He opened the door, regarded what was left of the morning fire, and closed it with a clang.

“A sparring match? What does that mean?” Estelle asked.

“Well,” Anselmo said with resignation, “I can tell you that his name was Felix Otero.”

“From?”

“Down south. But of course, you knew that.”

“He’s an illegal, then?”

“I suppose some would say so.” Anselmo’s beard twitched a little as he smiled at Estelle. “But that depends on whose laws you’re talking about. Would the absence of that little slip of paper make you more or less than you are?”

“As a matter of fact, it would,” Estelle replied, and then ignored the bait. She had no desire to settle into an extended dialogue with the priest about the justice or lack thereof along the U.S.-Mexican border. “But you knew Felix Otero somehow?”

“Yes. I knew him. He…” And Anselmo paused, choosing his words carefully. “He passed through here, yes.”

“And this?”

“This is a jotted telephone number. If my memory serves me correctly, it’s Emilio and Betty’s number. Am I right?”

“You’re right. Do you know who did the jotting?”

Anselmo chuckled. “I may be many things, Estelle, but psychic I’m not.” He reached out a hand toward Emilio Contreras’ shoulder. The old man had progressed to the last pew, and he examined the pew’s polished armrest critically. A tiny man, he had been graceful, even nimble, until a fall while pruning a crab apple tree had wrecked his hip.

“Emilio, it’s good to see you,” Estelle said, and took his hand in hers. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“We’re expecting a crowd tomorrow,” he said, nodding. He turned slowly to survey his church.

“A seventy-fifth wedding anniversary,” Father Anselmo added. “You know Fernando and Maria Rivera, of course.”

“Of course,” Estelle said.

“That’s what Emilio and I were planning,” the priest said. “The logistics of one hundred people in this tiny place. The reception is afterward, up at the VFW in Posadas. Thank heavens. Betty would like to have it here, and we will have a small gathering…but not the full-blown affair.”

“Emilio,” Estelle said, “I’m wondering if you know either of these two men.” She removed the photos while the old man sat carefully in the pew.

“Why do you have these?” he asked after a moment.

“This young man is the driver of the truck that crashed up on the pass a day or two ago,” she said.

“Betty told me about that. I didn’t know him.”

“Did he ever stop here?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Needing directions, perhaps. Regál isn’t the easiest place to find an address if you’re a stranger.”

“No, he never talked to me.” Emilio shuffled the photos, gazing for a long time at the woodcutter.

“That’s Felix Otero, isn’t it, Emilio?”

“I don’t know the names,” the old man said. “It could be. But I don’t keep track.”

That brought a burst of laughter from the priest. He wagged a finger at Estelle like a grade school teacher locking the attention of a recalcitrant student. “You’ll find that out when age catches up with you, Estelle Guzman.” He pulled his shirtsleeve back and looked at his watch. “I have errands that I’ve almost forgotten.”

“So tell me,” Estelle said. “Who is this Felix Otero? You both know his name. You both have seen him before, evidently. Was he just a man looking for work? Does he have relatives here in Regál? Does he have parents down in Mexico, wondering if they’re going to see their son again? Does he have a wife? Children? And Emilio, can you tell me why he would be carrying your telephone number in his pocket? No ID, but your number?”

She paused, but neither the priest nor Emilio Contreras spoke, and she tried another tack. “We need to inform his family as soon as possible.”

Anselmo’s broad face settled into an expression of sad resignation. “I’ll see what I can do, Estelle,” he said, but didn’t explain just what that might be. The sound of a vehicle, its tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot, interrupted them. As if grateful for the diversion, the priest stepped to the door and pushed it open. Through the opening, Estelle caught the glint of sun on bright red paint.