The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Twenty-eight

By the third selection of music, Madelyn Bolles was leaning forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees, chin resting on her clasped hands. Her chair was no more than five feet from the piano keyboard, but Estelle could see that wasn’t close enough. The writer watched the child’s every move, and remarkably, Francisco ignored her.

Estelle relaxed and watched her son. It was as if his peripheral vision ended where the keyboard did. Sometimes, when the score required the left hand to soar far up into the treble keys or the right hand to stray deep into the bass clef, Francisco watched his fingers. But Estelle had come to the conclusion that her son watched his own fingers out of amused curiosity as the music captured his hands, rather than the need to see where he was going.

“Oh, wow,” Madelyn whispered as the last note faded from a particularly melodic piece whose mood had fascinated the little boy since Sofía Tournál, his great-aunt living in Veracruz, Mexico, had played it for him and then sent him the music. When a new piece crossed Francisco’s path, he rapidly absorbed it, conquered whatever technical demands it might make, then experimented with the music, coming to understand it and make it his own. Often when he did that with a new composition, the piece would soon be discarded, never to be played again. But this composition, written by a twenty-nine-year-old Mozart at the peak of his marital and artistic contentment, had somehow spoken to the little boy. Estelle had always been curious what her son saw when he played the simple Andante movement of the Concerto no. 21 in C Major, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, explain that to her. Regardless, it was a piece that stayed with him, never discarded.

“Oh, wow,” Madelyn said again, and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. She twisted in her chair to look at Estelle, who sat comfortably in the rocker, Carlos zonked out across her lap. “Francisco,” the writer said, “what’s the name of that piece?”

He turned on the piano bench, left hand reaching out to rest on the keys. “Some number,” he said with a laugh. “They always used dumb names. It’s about a prince. He walks into a forest and gets lost.”

“Really?”

The little boy nodded. “They look for him, but then he decides that he wants to live there, and he hides so they can’t find him.”

“Do they ever find him?”

“No.”

Madelyn glanced at Estelle. “Hollywood would be fascinated by that interpretation,” she said.

“Hollywood always gets it wrong, anyway,” Bill Gastner said. “How about playing the car chase for us?”

“And then I need to put this one to bed,” Estelle said, looking down at Carlos’ peaceful repose. “My legs are going to sleep.”

Francisco faced the keyboard once again, pausing for just a moment, frozen with concentration. “Okay,” he said, and let that suffice as an explanation of what was coming. There was no predicting that, of course, for once the boy strayed into his own world of composition, what emerged was an ever-changing story. In this case, it began with a tiny trill high in the treble, reminding Estelle of a column of dust rising far in the distance, the smallest disturbance on the open sea of prairie. From there, the story grew at a controlled pace, and she could imagine standing on a rise watching a vehicle far in the distance approach across the open prairie. In a moment, the image split, the one plume becoming two, locked in pursuit.

At that point, Carlos kicked and awoke, eyes big. The music had apparently pounded into his dreams, and he sat up. Estelle hugged him, but he squirmed down, standing by her knees as he blinked himself awake. She knew exactly what was coming, since this piece had delighted the boys and padrino for weeks. After a moment, Carlos slipped away, to cross behind Madelyn’s chair and slide between the front of the piano bench and the keyboard. That put his chin level with the ivories, and Francisco leaned toward him without speaking, acknowledging his presence. After a few seconds, the opportunity presented itself. While Francisco’s right hand was busy, he reached out and touched two notes far down in the bass. “Those,” he whispered.

Carlos poised an index finger from each hand over the notes, one black, one white. He apparently knew the story well, since he needed no prompting. At the important moment, he began a steady, alternating drumming of the two keys, an unrelenting helicopter in the background.

“I love it,” Gastner said. “I have to learn that part.” The piece continued as the two cars chased each other over mesa, arroyo, cliff and mountain tops. The helicopter kept pace, pausing now and then at some secret signal from the composer, only to reenter the chase. After a moment, it became clear how the story would end. The vast collision sent up plumes of dust and debris, the discord quite amazing in its careful control.

At the end, what Estelle pictured as a single hubcap spiraled away into the ditch, reducing both boys to convulsive giggles. They looked to padrino for approval, and his wide grin was all they needed.

“You have your hands full,” Madelyn Bolles observed to Estelle. She extended a hand to Francisco as he slid off the bench. “Thank you, young man. That was a treasure.” He accepted the hand and added a courtly bow, head ever so slightly tilted with grace but no deference. “And you, too,” she said to Carlos, who mimicked his older brother’s response.

“Such noise,” Teresa said, her first comment of the concert. But her pride was obvious. “You two help me to bed now.” She held out both hands, waiting for her escort.

“And then yourselves,” Francis added.

“And I’m off,” Irma said. “This has been wonderful. Ms. Bolles, it was so nice to meet you. I hope we’ll be seeing you again.”

“Oh, most assuredly. Thank you, Irma. It was all so lovely.”

Irma bent down and circled an arm around Bill Gastner’s shoulders. “There’s one more piece of pie, if you want it. And I put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

“What a sweetheart,” Gastner said.

Madelyn Bolles relaxed in the rocker, watching the various ceremonies of departure. At one point, as Estelle passed close by to retrieve her mother’s shawl, the writer leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I should be heading back,” she said. “Are you on call tonight?”

Estelle laughed. “I’m always on call.”

“And what happens if your husband is called out at the same time?”

“Without Irma, the whole thing would collapse,” Estelle replied. “She’s on call, too.”

“You’re most fortunate,” Madelyn observed. “She seems like a wonderful girl.”

“Indeed she is, and we’re most fortunate. If she ever leaves, I quit.”

“Is she married? A family of her own?”

“Not yet. She has a lonnnnnnng-suffering boyfriend who has the market cornered on patience. But the time will come. We’ll be happy for her and feel desolate at the same time.”

“You’d give up your job?”

“Sure.” Estelle surprised herself with how quickly the single word came out. Certainly, the thought had crossed her mind, but it had always been pushed back into some quiet corner, not to be discussed. The ache that still crept in and entwined itself around her right rib cage served as a reminder of how quickly a comfortable life could be disrupted-even destroyed.

Madelyn eased herself out of her chair and stepped to the piano. She opened the keyboard cover and stood for a moment as if counting the keys to make sure they were still all there.

“Do you play?” Estelle asked.

“Not so you’d notice,” Madelyn replied. “I know the names of all the notes. On a good day, I can play ‘Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater’ without making a mistake. How many hours a day does he practice?”

“I don’t know how to count what’s practice and what’s play,” Estelle said. “He’s at the keyboard one way or another for five or six hours a day. Sometimes more.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Madelyn bent down and inspected the keyboard. “How does a little kid work here for six hours a day and yet the keys stay so clean?”

“Ah, well,” Estelle said, folding the shawl over her arm. “That’s one of his little quirks. He never has to be reminded to wash his hands for the piano. For eating, yes. For the piano, no. It’s all the more remarkable since his other passion is grubbing outside in the dirt with his brother. They have an enormous excavation going on out back. I think they’re trying to make a scale model of an open-pit copper mine.”

“Huh,” Madelyn said thoughtfully. She lowered the keyboard cover. “He likes school?”

“He’s passionate about it,” Estelle said. “For everything except music, if you can imagine. He’s not fond of the teacher, but they only meet twice a week, so he endures.”

“That must be a trial, perhaps for both,” Madelyn mused.

“I’m sure it is, and probably more so for her. Right now, she’s trying to teach them to play those little plastic recorders.”

“We used to call them tonettes?”

“That’s it. Francisco can’t abide them.” She held up her mother’s shawl. “I’ll be back out in a minute. Bill and I need to talk, and you’re welcome to join us. You might find it interesting.”

“If I’m not intruding, although I have to admit I’m pooped.”

“You’re not intruding. Remember our agreement.” Estelle smiled. “I’ll tell you when you are.”

“Done deal,” Madelyn said.

In a few moments, with Irma gone home, the two youngsters and their grandmother in bed, and Francis working in his office in the back bedroom, Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Madelyn Bolles settled once more in the dining room. Only, the former sheriff indulged in more coffee and the remaining piece of dessert, and he focused on it as Estelle reviewed the events of the afternoon.

“You know,” he said, placing the empty dish on the table, “in my own cowardly way, I always hoped that Father Anselmo wouldn’t muck things up until after I retired. He did a pretty good job. It’s amazing that he’s been able to run in folks for so long without something going wrong.”

Estelle looked at the former sheriff with astonishment.

“Well, yes, I knew,” Gastner said without waiting to be asked. “Well,” he backtracked, “I sorta knew, you could say. And I think you did, too. After all, the church is never locked. I know for a fact that the Border Patrol checks once in a while, but they’re careful.…They have enough bad press as it is without getting the reputation for raiding churches. Anyway, Regál isn’t one of their points of concern. Never has been. The mountain makes a pretty good fence, unless you know how to use it. A little advice from a person who knows the country can be a big help.” He shrugged.

“The border fence runs about a mile to the west from the crossing, then that big bluff of rocks crosses the border, kind of on a northeast-southwest line. The fence looks like it goes up and over, but it doesn’t. So you can skirt around the end, and follow the trail through the rocks. You come down right behind Joe Baca’s place-if you don’t get lost.”

“They do this at night?” Madelyn asked.

“Most of the time. Late evening, I’m guessing. A little light makes it easy for them, hard for the Border Patrol. You can hear a chopper coming from miles away. It doesn’t take much to hide in the rocks. But you know,” and he hunched forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, “that’s not the issue. Crossing the border isn’t difficult in a bazillion places.” He looked up and grinned. “It’s like a dog chasing a goddamn truck.…Chasing a truck isn’t hard. But what does he do when he finally catches it? You get across the fence, and then what?” He sipped his coffee. “If they had a place to rest for a bit, and then someplace all arranged to work, and a way to get to work, then it’s easy.”

“But it’s starting to look as if he has the whole village involved in this,” Estelle said. “They must know what’s going on, at the very least. It isn’t just providing sanctuary at the iglesia once in a while for an illegal or two. They’re sponsoring illegals, padrino. A handful comes in, as far as I can tell, and they mix in during a church ceremony of some kind. This next week-in fact tomorrow-it’s Fernando and Maria Rivera’s seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. And then I wouldn’t be surprised if a few folks agree to drive the illegals to either a place of employment, or at least on up the road where hitchhikers don’t raise eyebrows. That’s what’s happening. They have their own little railroad organized.”

“I’m not surprised. You have a whole village working together, you can get a lot done.” He grinned and hitched himself sideways in his chair. “That idea isn’t original with me, by the way.”

He leaned forward, reached out and tilted his cup, then pushed himself away from the table and padded over to the coffeepot. “You know how easy it is to cross to Regál,” he said as he returned to the table with a refill. “Anywhere else is a hell of a hike. But climbing up into the hills to skirt the fence, hell, that’s not hard. Or hitching a ride through the gate with a willing resident? That’s not hard, either, especially if the right person is working the crossing on our side. Their side isn’t the issue.”

“Is it fair to say,” Madelyn Bolles said, “that not everyone around here is concerned about illegals coming into the country?”

“Very fair,” Gastner replied, spreading his hands wide. “And on the other hand, to some folks it’s the biggest goddamn threat this side of ten-dollar gasoline. ‘You can’t let all them damn greasers into this country, or first thing you know, one of ’em will want to marry my sister.’” He shrugged. “Then there’s the other extreme, those folks who say anybody should be able to work and live anywhere, without any goddamn fences or border checkpoints, or brown shirts standing around with machine guns asking you, ‘Where are your papers?’”

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “The most reverend Father Bertrand Anselmo is closer to the latter group.”

“And you?” the writer asked with a smile. “May I ask that?”

“I’ve never been able to figure out what I think,” Gastner said cheerfully. “I go with the flow of the moment. I make sure I can make it through this day, and then tomorrow takes care of itself.” Gastner looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “What’d you tell Bert?”

“I told him to stop it,” Estelle replied. “But I’m not going to organize a raid of a wedding anniversary mass.”

Gastner chuckled. “That’d make the news, wouldn’t it. No doubt, your young woodcutter will be back next week, working for someone else.”

“He’s wanted in Buenaventura. The authorities say he borrowed a car.”

“Well, then, it’ll be two weeks,” Gastner laughed. “Until he figures out who to bribe. You can see how optimistic I am about this whole mess.”

He stretched hugely, blinking himself alert. “But believe it or not, this is the least of your problems, sweetheart. You’ve got an inconvenient corpse on your hands. Do you have any theories about this sweepstakes thing?”

“Tony Abeyta is over in Cruces,” Estelle said. “There has to be a link between Chris Marsh and somebody. Tony’s working with Grunt Nilson to see what they can dig up. Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum. I’m sure of that.”

“Not to mention the nagging little fact that someone killed him,” Gastner said. “Or at least hastened the goddamn dying process a little.”

“Exactly.” She saw Madelyn’s eyebrows pucker a little, but the writer didn’t intrude with questions, and Estelle was impressed all the more.

“Well, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call,” Gastner said, and pushed back his chair. He stood up with a sigh. “Wonderful grub, wonderful company, but I have to go back to my burrow.” He extended a hand to Madelyn Bolles. “Pleasure seeing you again. How long are you with us?”

“You never know,” she replied.

He laughed. “You have my card,” he said. “If you get stranded, give me a buzz. I’ll be delighted to tour you around some more.”

“I will most assuredly do that.”

Estelle escorted the former sheriff of Posadas County to the front door, where he paused, one hand on the knob. “I’d be interested to know about Serafina,” he said. “Joe and Lucinda I can figure, especially with the publicity about their big lottery win earlier this spring. But I worry a little about the old lady.”

“Why or how she was picked as the first winner, you mean?”

“Yep. You’ve had the same thought.”

“That’s my goal tomorrow,” Estelle said with a nod. “We’ll see what Tony turns down in Cruces, and go from there.” She stretched carefully, and unconsciously pressed her right hand to her ribs.

“You taking care of yourself?” Gastner said, his voice dropping to little more than a gruff whisper.

“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Long days are a little tougher, is all.”

“Then shorten ’em,” Gastner replied. He reached out and circled her shoulders, his hug gentle. “Thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

As she closed the door behind him, Estelle turned to see Madelyn Bolles shrugging into her light blue jacket.

“I’d best be on my way, too,” she said. “If you’re called out, will you have time to give me a buzz? Probably not, huh.”

“There’s never any way to tell. Are you sure that you want that, though?”

“At the moment, no. But I’d feel terrible if I missed something.” She extended her hand and held Estelle’s for a moment. “I really appreciate being included this evening.”

“We all enjoyed your visit,” Estelle said. “And Francisco enjoyed showing off for you.”

“What an amazing gift,” the writer said. “I hope I can hear him play again.”

Estelle laughed. “That won’t be hard to arrange. He seemed to enjoy having you as an audience.” She waited on the front step as Madelyn Bolles made her way out to her car, then switched off the porch light as the taillights of the rental Buick disappeared up the street. Estelle stood in the foyer for a moment, then closed and locked the front door.