The woman’s forehead puckered for an instant. “Now isn’t she the clever one.”
“MaryAnne, this is one of those dumb fads that kids jump into without thinking,” Estelle said. “Who knows where it started, or how they hear about it. It would help them if they couldn’t just walk in here and buy the things.”
“Well, sure,” MaryAnne said. “They could walk into any discount store and buy a set of knitting needles, too…sharpen ’em up, and there you go.”
“Except knitting needles are too big, and they’re nice soft aluminum or plastic. Not steel that holds a point, like those,” Estelle added. “And I agree. They could walk into the hardware and buy a hatchet any day of the week, or a steak knife, or a pickax. Or how about a chain saw? They’d be a little harder to conceal, maybe. But those”-and she turned to nod at the display-“aren’t intended for sale as hat pins, MaryAnne. We both know that. They’re intended for sale to kids as weapons that are all the fad right now, that are easily concealable, and are as lethal as an ice pick.” She saw the woman’s face darken with anger and added, “It puzzles me that you would want to be part of that.”
“You can go away any time now,” MaryAnne said, turning half around. “This is the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“I tell you what,” Estelle said, making no move to leave. She slipped a small camera from her pocket. “Do you mind?” MaryAnne didn’t reply. Estelle took her time composing a photo of the hat pin display, stepping close and angling the shot to diminish the effect of flash glare on the glass.
MaryAnne glowered but didn’t object as the undersheriff took three photos. On autopilot, the shop owner’s hand snagged the butane lighter on the cash register and she lit the cigarette.
Estelle turned away from the case in time to see the angry tremble in the woman’s hand.
“I think it’s ludicrous that I’m having this conversation with the aunt of a young girl who was just in a fight where she or someone else could have been seriously hurt, and on top of that, who just got expelled from school for the rest of the year.” The glower continued, but MaryAnne held her tongue, and Estelle counted that as progress.
“All I’m asking…and what, they’re just a buck or so each? All I’m asking is that you sell those things only to little old ladies who want to hold their hats on,” Estelle said. “Little old ladies who need a six-inch hat pin.” Despite the smoke that MaryAnne made a point of exhaling in her direction, Estelle stepped closer to the counter. “I don’t think that’s a lot to ask, and I don’t think it’s out of line.”
“Deena is old enough to make her own choices,” MaryAnne said.
“Oh, sure,” Estelle said. “At fourteen years old? She proved that this morning, didn’t she.” She smiled. “Remember what we were like back then?”
“No, thank God. I don’t,” MaryAnne snapped, but her tone had softened. “What was she trying to do, anyway?”
Ah, now we care, Estelle thought. “We don’t know for sure. The best guess is that it was a jealous girlfriend-boyfriend thing. She thought that when she went back to school-maybe walking to or from-that she was going to be jumped. She wanted a little protection.”
MaryAnne shook her head slowly, thoughtfully turning the ash off the end of the cigarette.
“We hope it isn’t anything more than that,” Estelle added. “Did Deena talk to you about her troubles?”
“If she did, that’s between her and me,” MaryAnne said, an edge back in her voice.
Estelle nodded. “Yes, it would be.” She indicated the display. “And we’d appreciate any cooperation you can give us.”
“I assume,” MaryAnne said as Estelle turned to leave, “that I’m not the only merchant being harassed about all this?”
“Are there others I should talk to?” Estelle asked pleasantly. When MaryAnne just sniffed, she added, “You have a nice day.”
Chapter Four
The sheriff was leaning against the wall, the copier and drinking fountain between him and the double doors leading into the County Commission chambers. His eyes were fixed on the polished tile floor. Like a bobble-head doll caught in a light breeze, his nod was slight but continuous. While he nodded, Posadas Mayor Peter Lujan talked, bent at the waist and intent, one crooked and arthritic finger hooked within striking distance of Robert Torrez’s nose.
The sheriff glanced up as Estelle entered. His shoulders straightened, the nod increased, and he reached out a mammoth paw to rest on Lujan’s shoulder as if searching for the on-off switch. Before he could disengage himself, a group of four men directly in front of the chamber doors dissolved, three heading inside and one making a beeline for Estelle.
“You’ve come to join the fun?” Dr. Arnold Gray said cheerfully. He extended a hand, and his chiropractor’s grip was firm.
“Sure,” Estelle replied. Gray was unshakable in his support of the proposal that the county should provide police services to the village, but his quiet logic hadn’t made much of a dent on Barney Tinneman’s doubts. As chairman of the commission, Gray’s philosophy was to let others talk until the matter was resolved or reached a head. Estelle knew that the issue of the Village of Posadas abandoning its police force in favor of contracted services from the county had been jawed to death during various workshops and public meetings. Half a dozen stories had appeared in the Posadas Register before the village had voted in favor of the move, and waited patiently for the county to reach consensus.
Gray glanced at his watch. “Just about showtime.” He flashed a quick smile as he turned toward the chambers. “I’ll see you inside.”
Sheriff Torrez finally managed to break away from Mayor Lujan and strode toward Estelle-or perhaps toward the outside door behind her.
“What was the deal at the school?” he asked, voice low.
“A girl with a hat pin,” Estelle said.
“You’re kidding.”
“No. A nice, six-inch-long steel hat pin. She had it laced in the inseam of her jeans.”
“That’s slick.” He nodded at the county attorney who hustled into the building at that moment, favored them with a curt nod, and then vanished into the chambers. Torrez looked back at Estelle. “Zeigler found you, I assume.”
“Yes. He said that Tinneman is still a roadblock.”
Torrez muttered something and shook his head. “That old fart just likes to hear himself talk.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “I guess they’re about ready. I was thinkin’ that I probably have some work I have to do, somewhere.”
Estelle laughed. “Be brave, sir.” She took the sheriff by the elbow and steered him gently toward the meeting room. “Is Eddie here?”
“Sure.” Torrez grumbled. “He’s already been on the hot seat.” Estelle found it hard to believe that anyone could make the smooth, quick-witted police chief uncomfortable. “Well,” Torrez added with a sigh, “let’s give ’em a few more minutes.”
The commission chambers were not crowded, but a respectable showing of residents were scattered throughout the small auditorium. Chief Eddie Mitchell had settled halfway back on the right side, one seat in from the aisle. Estelle slipped into that spot, and he looked up from the magazine he’d been reading. Sheriff Torrez settled with a great creaking of leather and clanking of hardware into the seat directly behind her.
Mitchell leaned toward Estelle, his voice a loud stage whisper. “Weighty matters,” he said.
“So I hear.” Estelle scanned the room. “Are we going to have a vote today?”
“Ho, ho.”
Four of the five commissioners were spaced around the huge semicircular table, a welter of microphones, papers, folders, and files marking each spot, including the empty seat where Tina Archuleta would normally sit. To the right, County Clerk Stacey Roybal hunched over her desk, sipping from a thermal cup and studying a thick computer readout, while at her elbow newspaper editor Pam Gardiner leaned on the edge of the dais, probing something in the document with her pencil eraser. Only Roybal’s rimless granny glasses prevented her from looking twelve years old, tiny in comparison with the mountainous editor.