“Yes, she was.”
“Well, I told her it was for her own good. We’ve been friends for years, and there’s nothing I’d say about her behind her back that I wouldn’t say to her face. She’s had her share of troubles and heartache, and I think she’s going to need some time before she’s thinking straight. There’s just no telling right now what she’ll do from one minute to the next.”
We were close enough that by lifting my head I could focus Taffy Hines’s face in my bifocals, and I regarded her with interest.
“What are you telling me, Taffy?”
She didn’t flinch or backpedal. “I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know, Sheriff.”
“You’ve known Grace Sisson all this time,” I said. “Was there some family trouble that might be behind Jim’s death? Something with the kids, or some affair Grace was having behind Jim’s back that he found out about? Or vice versa? Something like that?”
A ghost of a smile creased Taffy Hines’s face. “Let’s not ruin such a beautiful morning by going down that road, Sheriff. Like I said, Grace might have her faults, but she’s a dear friend.”
I nodded, wondering how one went about becoming a “dear friend” with someone who flailed with a barbed-wire tongue.
“Can I ask one more favor of you?” I asked.
“Maybe.” She grinned.
“This letter business has been bothering me, and if I get the time, I’m going to do my best to track it down. I have Sam’s copy of the letter, the one that he handed you. Since he did that, I assume your fingerprints are on it.”
“I would think so.”
“Would you stop by the office sometime today if you get a chance and have Gayle fill out a print card on you, so we can eliminate your prints from any others?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Will I have black fingers for the rest of the day?”
“Probably. But I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem,” she said.
At ten minutes after five that Thursday morning, feeling just a tad bloated from one too many cinnamon rolls, I settled back into the patrol car and rummaged for the cell phone.
Deputy Thomas Pasquale picked up on the second ring. He’d been off-duty for five hours but managed to sound alert.
“Thomas, this is Gastner,” I said. “Sorry to bother you at home. Have you got a few minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
I glanced at my watch again. “Can you meet me at Sam Carter’s place at five-thirty? You know where he lives?”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.”
“In uniform, Tom. A chance for a little overtime.”
“Yes, sir.”
I redialed and listened to half a ring before the phone was snatched up by an eager Brent Sutherland. He’d hit the flattest part of the shift, and I could imagine his youthful desperation.
Less than three minutes after my call, Deputy Jacqueline Taber’s patrol unit slid into place behind mine. I raised a hand out the window in salute, tapped the mike transmit key twice, then pulled 310 away from the curb, leaving the deputy to draw more neat pictures as the neighborhood came to life.
A single car passed eastbound on Bustos, and I recognized Cal Wheeler on the first leg of his commute to his job at the truck stop west of Las Cruces on the interstate.
If my timing was right, Sam Carter would be just about half-shaved, ready to sit down to the morning paper from Albuquerque and his first cup of coffee. Thus prepped, he’d walk into the supermarket shortly after six, and by then Taffy Hines would have the place up and running. The teenagers who worked as stockers would have the first round of cartons filling the aisles as bottles and cans clanked onto the shelves.
I didn’t much like interrupting someone’s comfortable routine, but Sam Carter had lied to me. That made him fair game.
Chapter Twenty-five
Sometimes appearances send a powerful message, and that’s what I was hoping would happen when we showed up on Sam Carter’s doorstep. I’d known Sam for years…I’d never liked him, and he probably had reciprocated.
He’d been a county commissioner for more than fifteen years, and during the countless meetings where I’d watched him in action I’d developed some assumptions about his character-or lack thereof. I knew, for instance, that when he thought he had the power on his side, he could be a bully, sometimes rude to citizens during public meetings who tried to speak counter to his views. He knew how to pinch pennies, stretching the budget further than it needed to be stretched just on general principles.
He could glad-hand with the best and knew how to pin someone in a corner for a nice, personal chat. I’d been in one of those corners on various occasions, and I’d learned just to let Sam Carter rattle on. He was one of those curious souls who figured that if you didn’t say anything, then you agreed with him.
I also had developed the impression that, when forced to stand alone, Sam Carter was probably pretty much a coward.
What Sam Carter had told me about his receiving the letter was so counter to Taffy Hines’s version that alarm bells were ringing in my head far louder than the normal tinnitus.
The early morning hours are a good time to pay house calls. People tend to be vulnerable then. They haven’t had hours to plan their day or time to brace themselves against the outrages, large or small, that will drift their way.
Shortly after 5:30, I rolled 310 to a stop in front of Sam Carter’s home on Ridgeway Avenue, one block off North 10th Street. I parked facing eastbound on the wrong side of the street, so that my driver’s side window opened to Sam’s manicured front lawn.
Deputy Pasquale arrived a minute later from the east and parked his unit nose-to-nose with mine.
I got out with a folder in hand that contained photocopies of all the letters, Carter’s included.
“Sorry to haul you out again,” I said to Pasquale as he approached. “I’ve got me a little experiment going here, and I need your backup.”
“Yes, sir,” Pasquale said, glancing at Carter’s house and then at the ones on either side. “What’s up?”
“There are a couple questions I want to ask Sam Carter about these letters.” I tapped the folder and lowered my voice. “I thought it might unsettle him just a bit if you’re standing right in his face.” I grinned, and Pasquale looked puzzled. “I’ll explain later, Thomas. Right now I’m going to ask that you let me do the talking. If Carter asks you a specific question, just answer truthfully, yes or no. No elaboration. Just yes or no. All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
I nodded. “Good man.”
Together we walked up the narrow sidewalk between the displays of various cacti. Carter’s house didn’t try to look Southwestern, didn’t try to complement the cacti. The place would have looked at home on a side street in Columbus, Ohio. The white clapboard siding was evidently vinyl, and the finish was trying hard not to turn to powder under the blast furnace of the New Mexico sun.
I touched the doorbell but didn’t hear anything and after a couple of seconds rapped on the door frame. In a moment the door opened and Mary-Beth Carter peered out. She recognized me and smiled. “Well,” she said. “Good morning. You gents are up bright and early.” She turned on the porch light to give a boost to the slow dawn.
“Early, anyway,” I said.
Sam Carter’s wife was short and plump, the perfect picture of someone’s favorite aunt or even grandmother. She wore a fluffy robe cinched tightly around her middle, with a pair of equally fluffy slippers. But my attention was drawn to her eyeglasses, a spectacularly awful design with molded curlicues and flowers in the outer corners where the bows joined the frames. They would have looked wonderful at a pet show back in 1956.
“We need to chat with Sam, Mary-Beth,” I said. “We’ll just be a minute, if he’s home.”
“I think he just stepped into the shower,” she said.
“We’ll wait out here,” I replied.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Come on in.”