The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Twenty-three

“Why would we know who this guy is?” Lucinda Baca snapped as she led Estelle inside the house. She was as thorny as her husband was mellow, a surprising woman who at first glance looked as soft and compliant as a marshmallow. “And what’s that state cop want with Joe, anyway?”

“He’s just taking a short statement, Mrs. Baca.”

“About what now, may I ask?”

“We have several unanswered questions. I stopped by earlier to talk to Joe about the sweepstakes.…” She hesitated. The young Mexican worker in the back of Jackie Taber’s Bronco was a separate issue, and if there were any ties between him and the case involving Chris Marsh and the lottery winners, they weren’t obvious at the moment-other than the natural attraction that piles of money presented.

Before Estelle could continue, Lucinda interrupted, “Sweepstakes? Por Dios, is that the whole county’s business now?” She turned to face Estelle, one hand on an ample hip. She punctuated with a wagging finger. “All of a sudden I got a yard full of cops because maybe we won a few dollars?”

“That’s not quite it,” Estelle said.

“Well, you tell me what is it, Estelle Guzman. We’ve known you since you were this high,” and she swept her hand down to her knees. “And now all of a sudden…” She might as well have just said, You remember your place, young lady.

“I stopped by to see if Joe recognized this man.” She held out the eight-by-ten glossy morgue photo of Christopher Marsh.

“Oh, my poor soul,” Lucinda said, instantly softening. “Isn’t that…That’s the boy who made the sweepstakes deliveries. Barry something.”

“His real name is Christopher Marsh, Lucinda. He was the driver of that truck that went over the side up on the pass.”

“Dios mío,” Lucinda breathed. “Is this the crash all the cops were at last night?”

“That’s when we found it. It happened sometime Wednesday evening. Right after he left you folks.”

Lucinda sat down abruptly, still holding the photo. She stared at the image for a long time, and Estelle didn’t interrupt her thoughts. The expression on the woman’s face was impossible to read. She could have been saying a prayer for the young man who had lost his life, or for the $30,413 check that police might have found in the wreckage.

“Betty said that he hit a deer,” Lucinda said finally.

“That appears to be the case, Mrs. Baca. I’m sorry.”

“They picked up all his deliveries and things? He’d just left here, you know.” A light came on. “Now wait a minute. You said the accident happened Wednesday night?”

“That’s what we think. You spoke with him sometime early that evening. He was found by a highway department patrol on Friday evening.”

“Oh, no,” and Lucinda softened again. “You mean this boy just lay out there all that time?”

“It appears that way.”

“Was he killed outright? Oh, how awful.” A single tear formed in the corner of Lucinda’s left eye, and she brushed at it with an index finger.

“Probably,” Estelle said. If you consider drowning in beer outright.

Some of Lucinda’s previous armor hardened again. “And now what does the lottery have to do with the cops?” she asked. “Sit down, at least.” She waved toward one of the chairs, and sat back, arms folded over her chest. The photo of Marsh lay on her lap. “The taxes were taken right off the top. We don’t owe anyone.”

“It’s not the state lottery that’s of interest,” Estelle said. “But the Canadian sweepstakes thing sets off some alarm bells.”

Lucinda fell silent, her small eyes assessing. She ran a hand around the crease at the base of her throat where a necklace would have been hidden had she been wearing one.

“Was Marsh alone when he came to your door?” Estelle asked.

“This boy?” She touched the photo. “Yes, he was alone. Both times. Just him and that little truck. You know the ones that they drive.”

“Mrs. Baca, when did you deposit the second check-the larger one?”

She bristled and hugged her ample bosom closer. “Who said that I did deposit it?”

“Did you, ma’am?”

“And now tell me why that should be the business of the Sheriff’s Department?” She lifted her lower jaw as if pointing at the horizon with her chin. “How’s your mother, by the way?” We’re all family, remember.

“She’s fine, thank you. If the check is bogus, Lucinda, then it is our business. Ours, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s, and then we can include the Internal Revenue Service, the U.S. Postal Service, and all sorts of other interesting people. We won’t know the answer to that until you take the check to the bank.”

“Well, I did that…Friday afternoon. We just-we just had things to do on Thursday and Friday morning, and we didn’t get to it.” She took a slow, deep breath. “Maybe it was partly…Well, it was for a lot of money. It was sitting there on the television set, and each time I walked by, I’d look at it just a little.” She smiled. “Like maybe it wasn’t real, you know? Like maybe one time I’d look, and it wouldn’t be there?”

“Lucinda, we have every reason to believe that Chris Marsh worked for a bogus company…a fake delivery service.”

“This boy? I don’t believe that,” Lucinda said smugly. “He had an ID, and he didn’t want anything, after all. And listen.…I cashed the check that we won the first time, and it cleared just fine. So there’s that. And-”

“And both of Serafina’s cleared, too,” Estelle interrupted. “We know that. But the fact of the matter is that if this fourth check doesn’t clear-if it’s as fake as we think it is-then you’ll be out more than thirty thousand dollars.”

“But we won already,” the woman insisted. “I cashed a check for something like eight thousand dollars, por Dios…It cleared. I paid the taxes and fees on that one, just like I did this last time.”

“You gave Chris Marsh a cashier’s check for thirty thousand this past Wednesday evening.”

“Yes. And received a sweepstakes check for more than $178,000 in return. So I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Estelle Guzman. Now I’ve heard of all those scams that are going around. What do they call it…the Niagara thing.”

“Nigerian, I think.”

“Whatever. Now how ridiculous is that one? Who’s going to send money or bank account information to some foreigner. If they’re anything like some of the telephone solicitors we get, por Dios, you can’t even understand a word they’re saying.”

Lucinda handed the photo of Chris Marsh back to Estelle. “You know, when Joe and I won that state lottery, it was almost as much nuisance as it was a blessing. And then the sweepstakes on top of it all? It takes the breath away.”

“What did the courier tell you about the sweepstakes?”

“What did he tell us? What did he have to tell us? It was all spelled out in the letters that they sent. We didn’t have much time, I know that.” She grimaced. “And you know, I think I might have just thrown everything away if it hadn’t been for Serafina. She won a little bit.…In fact it’s just like you said. She won twice. So I thought, Well, maybe. What will it hurt? It’s a nuisance driving to the bank for the cashier’s check, but it all worked out.”

“And it had to be a cashier’s check,” Estelle prodded.

“That’s right. He said that the delivery company only accepts cashier’s checks. The letter said the same thing. Not personal checks and not cash. Now, that’s the first thing, Estelle. If someone won’t take cash, doesn’t that tell you something?”

“I suppose that it does. Did he mention anything about multiple winners?”

“Yes, he did. He said that it happens often enough that he thinks there’s some kind of computer mix-up.” She shrugged, evidently sharing her husband’s view that if a mistake opened the doors of opportunity, why not walk on through?

“What time of day did he come by?”

“It was afternoon, I suppose. Yes. Midafternoon the first time, but quite late the second visit. I remember the last time-this past week-he said that he was running late. He came just as we were finishing up with supper.”

“You signed for the delivery?”

“Of course I signed.” She rose, walked to the living room window, and pushed the curtain to one side. “Just what does the State Police want with my husband? And who is that in your car? For heaven’s sakes, half the neighborhood is being locked up.”

“That’s a visitor to the department riding with me,” Estelle said. “And the man that we arrested just now, the man sitting in the truck with Deputy Taber-he knew this man.” She held out the grisly photo of the woodcutter as Lucinda walked back to her chair. This time the woman took the picture with a sigh of exasperation.

“Now who is this? He looks hurt.”

“Dead, in fact,” Estelle said. “It was a woodcutting accident up by Reserve.”

“Por Dios, that’s the other side of the world.”

“It is a ways. We have reason to believe that the man we just took into custody was with him at the time.”

Lucinda reached across and turned on the light beside her chair, and reexamined the photo. “What in heaven’s name happened?”

“The saw kicked back,” Estelle said. “He bled to death. Do you know him?”

“How should I know him?” Lucinda said. “I had a cousin who lived up in Quemado. But he’s long dead now.”

“We apprehended the young man hiding behind your woodpile. An odd place to hide, don’t you think?”

“Behind our woodpile? Is he an illegal, or what? What’s he doing here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Baca. We do know that the two men were working together up in Reserve.” She handed the photocopy of Betty Contreras’ telephone number to the woman without comment.

“What’s this?”

“Do you recognize the number?”

“Of course I do. It’s Bet’s.”

“Betty Contreras?”

Lucinda nodded with impatience. “Sure. And now what’s this for?”

“Catron County officers found this in the dead man’s pocket.”

“The woodcutter? What’s he have to do with all of this?”

“Mrs. Baca, we don’t know who he is. We have a name. Felix Otero. But then your husband recognized him, and so did Betty. The phone number means that there’s some sort of connection between the dead man and Betty, maybe your husband as well. Maybe others. We don’t know any more about him than that.” She stabbed a finger toward the window.

“That man, the one we found hiding behind your woodpile, is a young man from Mexico named Ricardo Ynostroza. He was with Otero up north. He ran when the accident happened, leaving his friend to bleed to death. Apparently, he ran back down here. We’ll find out the details when we talk to him at length. We’ll find out why Felix had a local Regál phone number in his pocket. We’ll find out who wrote the number, and why. That should all be interesting, no? And most important, Mrs. Baca, we need to inform Felix Otero’s family in Mexico. It’s going to be a sad day for them.”

“Por Dios, what a mess. First the car crash up on the pass, and now this.”

“We’re notifying Chris Marsh’s family as well,” Estelle said. “If he said anything else to you, anything that might help us in that line, we would appreciate knowing.”

Estelle carefully slid the photos back into the envelope. “Mrs. Baca, why do you think that Ricardo Ynostroza came to your house? Why wouldn’t he go to Betty’s? The men had her telephone number, after all.”

“I have absolutely no idea. How did you all find out that he was here?”

“A telephone call.”

“Well, then the first thing to do is ask that person…the one who called you to report him.”

“Of course. You have no idea yourself?”

“No. I told you. I have no idea about any of this. Except half the world knows now that we won some money. What, do they all think we keep it in bags around the house?”

Estelle laughed gently. “I hope you don’t. I would wonder, though…how would a man like Señor Ynostroza know about your winnings?”

“Your guess is every bit as good as mine,” Lucinda said. “When are the cops going to be through with my husband?”

“And you don’t know anything about who might have written this note, or why?” Estelle asked, ignoring the question.

“No. How could I know that?”

Estelle stood up. “I have a feeling,” she said, “that the news won’t be good about your second check, Lucinda. We’ll be able to track that down with the bank on Monday morning.”

“What are you going to do if it is good? I really think it is, you know.”

“Then you’ll have my best wishes to spend it in good health,” the undersheriff said.