“Like Posadas on a busy Friday night,” I said.
Estelle laughed. “Oh, sure.”
“What did your mother say?” I pictured the tiny, ancient woman, dark eyes darting this way and that, not missing a thing.
“It was more just a passing remark when one of us said something about the opportunities for Francis here. I think the way she put it was, ‘Es posible quemarse en su propia salsa dondequiera.’”
“That’s helpful,” I said.
“It translates roughly as something like, ‘You can stew in your own juice just about anywhere.’”
“And that means what? Did she elaborate?”
“Of course not,” Estelle laughed. “We just got the look, as the kids call it. You know, one eyebrow up a little bit, just a hint of disapproval. Anyway, we got to talking, and decided not to limit our options. To make a long story short, we took the Twelfth Street house off the market. And it felt like the right thing to do.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
“Well, I talked with Mama a lot after that. She’s pretty sharp. She’s enjoying the experience up here, but she’s afraid Francis is going to take his talents where the rich folks live.” Estelle did a fair imitation of her mother’s dry, cracked voice. “‘And then you’ll be just like them, hija.’” She laughed. “That’s her greatest fear, I guess.”
“She’s accepted the fact that she can’t take care of herself anymore? That she’s not going back to Tres Marias?”
“Oh sure. She’s a remarkable woman, sir. She’s very at ease with herself.”
“About the house here,” I said. “I can think of a couple renters, but I’m not sure I’d want to inflict them on your property, as nice as it is.”
“Who’s that?”
“Tom Pasquale and Linda Real. They’re having landlord trouble.”
“They? They’re living together now?”
“Ah…I’m glad to hear that someone else is out of the loop besides me,” I said. “I didn’t know until yesterday.”
I told her about Carla Champlin’s tiff, and Estelle said, “Let’s hold off on anything like that for a bit. Give us some time to decide what we want to do. In another couple of months we’ll know if Francis is going to recover some of the fine motor skills in his hand. If not, then he’s going to have to rethink a little.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I hope everything works out for him.”
“We’ll just have to see.”
“And you? What are you doing?”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know just yet. I have to admit, I’ve enjoyed just being a mom the past couple of months. There’s a lot to do around here. The kids love it.”
“I bet they do.”
“I think I’ll just putter along until Francis makes up his mind. And speaking of people making up their minds, how’s the campaigning coming along? That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
“Bob is his usual taciturn self,” I said. “He’s making the Republicans and Democrats nervous.” I told Estelle about the Pasquale letters that I’d been handed and added, “Leona Spears is due here any minute. She’s the latest on the hit list.”
“Leona again, eh?” Estelle said. “That just about guarantees that the letters are a political stunt, then, sir. Somebody figures she’ll take the idea and run with it.”
“That’s what I thought. Tom’s not taking it all too well, though.”
“I would think not. The Sisson thing is interesting, by the way. Ernie brought me up to speed on that.”
“You have any suggestions or intuitions?” I asked.
“From fifteen hundred miles away? I don’t think so, sir. If it’s not money, it’s passion-that’s what the statistics say. Who’s Grace or Jim having an affair with these days?”
“I didn’t know that either of them was.”
“Well, sir, you know that the daughter was busy. That’s a start. Now it’s just a matter of figuring out what would make someone angry enough at Jim Sisson that they’d want to kill him.”
“You see? The folks around here need Francis Guzman’s medical expertise, and we need you. I’d love to see Sam Carter’s face when I told him that Estelle Reyes-Guzman was coming back as Bob Torrez’s undersheriff. He’d have a stroke.”
Estelle laughed. “Hang in there, sir. And when you see Leona Spears, give her my regards. That should be safe enough, from half a continent away.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Although she’ll probably find something in our conversation that will serve as fuel for a scathing letter to the editor. About the community driving away its best and brightest. Something like that.”
We talked for a few more minutes about inconsequential things, and when I realized I was just jabbering away to keep from hanging up the phone, I said, “Give the keeeds a kick for me, will you?”
“They talk about you a lot, sir. Maybe you’d think about a Christmas visit.”
“Me visiting there or you visiting here?” I chuckled.
“We’ll talk about it,” Estelle said.
“Do that. And take care of yourself.”
I put the receiver back in the cradle. Christmas was almost six months away. That seemed like a couple of lifetimes.
Chapter Twenty
Like most of us, I suppose, Leona Spears had a variety of guises-but I wasn’t prepared for the one that walked into the Public Safety Building at 10:33 that Wednesday night.
I had just gotten a cup of fresh coffee and was headed back to my office when she appeared through the front door, sweeping down the short hallway toward Dispatch. Had the puddles still been standing on the tile, the hem of her garden dress would have soaked them up.
Pausing with cup in hand, I smiled at her as if she really were welcome. “Coffee?” I said.
“No thank you. Not at this hour,” she replied as she rolled her eyes and frowned, making it clear that she thought I shouldn’t be drinking the brew late at night, either. She was probably right, but what the hell.
“Nice outfit,” I said. The dress was bright yellow with large orange sunflowers, low at the neck, and long enough to hide whatever it was that she had on her feet. She darted a squint my way, as if unsure of my remark’s intent.
“You don’t like it?”
“I like it just fine,” I said, gesturing toward the door of my office. “Around here, we get so used to the dull utilitarian look that a burst of color is a nice change. Come on in.”
Leona was a heavy woman about my height. She was no stranger to dull utilitarian, either. I’d seen her often enough on various highway department job sites, clipboard in hand, hard hat firmly in place. I guess I had expected the same khaki or blue jeans that she had worn on the job.
Her long blond hair, streaked by too much time out in the sun, was braided Heidi-fashion into a generous single braid on each side of her head. The two braids were drawn back and then arranged in a bun at the back. As she flowed past me into my office with a cloud of fragrance from her bubble bath following, I wondered how long the hairdo took her to construct.
“So,” I said, walking around behind my desk. “How’s politics?” I indicated one of the chairs. “Make yourself comfortable.” She was carrying a slim leather attache case, and she swung it into her lap as she settled.
“Politics is as usual, Sheriff,” she said. “As usual.” She lifted the leather case and set it on edge, as if she were about to open it. She paused. “So bring me up to speed on this Sisson mess,” she said.
I took my time sitting down, moving as if something might break if I landed too hard. “Bring you up to speed?”
“Yes. What’s with the investigation?”
I grinned, probably the wrong thing to do with Leona, since she would think I was grinning at her-which was correct in this case. “Leona, we generally don’t make the details of an ongoing homicide investigation public.”
“I’m not the public. I’m a candidate for sheriff. As such, I should be brought up to speed on current issues or concerns affecting the department.” She fired that out without a pause. Maybe she’d memorized it for just this occasion. I had a mental image of her lying in the tub, a great mound under the soap foam, practicing that very line until she had it just right. I was pleased I’d given her the opportunity.