Nick owned the Chevy-Olds dealership across the street, and if nothing else, Buddy Chavez could count on his Uncle Nick to send the salesmen and service crew across at lunchtime. But Buddy Chavez was also smart. He turned up the music, piled on the fries, used humongous cups, and brought back free refills. He didn’t care if kids were rowdy, and he kept the place open at night until the Posadas police cruiser drove by to remind him about the curfew.
I stepped into Burger Heaven and sucked in my gut, remembering with a pang of longing just how good all that stuff with quadruple-digit cholesterol tasted. The smell of deep-frier grease three days past its prime hung heavy in the air.
For a summer weekday dinner hour, the place was busy. Two brave tourists-white-maned, with white pasty northern skin, she in an orange jumpsuit and he in white seersucker trousers and a golf shirt-were the only folks I didn’t know.
Buddy Chavez saw me, gave the table he was wiping a final negligent swipe with the cloth, and headed my way, pausing just long enough to twirl the soggy cloth into a snap for one of the three kids sitting near the jukebox.
“Hey, Sheriff,” he said, and the elderly tourists heard him and gave me the once-over. I sort of wished that I had been wearing spurs or something equally authentic.
“Buddy, let’s talk,” I said, and took him by the elbow, gently steering him toward the small office off the kitchen. He shouted something to one of the counter kids about the air bottle in the diet Coke dispenser and then shrugged at me.
“You got to keep after ’em every minute,” he said. The office door had sagged enough that it wouldn’t latch, but Buddy banged it into the jamb so it stayed closed. He motioned me toward a chair.
“No, I won’t be a minute. I need to know something about Jennifer Sisson, Buddy.”
“Jeez, wasn’t that an awful thing, though,” Buddy said. He was carrying fifty pounds too many, and he dabbed at the sweat on his neck. The closed door shut off the icy cold air from the restaurant, and the west side wall of his office was radiating heat into the room like a sauna.
“Jennifer came in here earlier. In fact, just a few minutes ago.”
Buddy frowned. “She did?”
I smiled at him. “You’ve been here all afternoon?”
“Sure. Since ten this morning.”
“Then you know she was here.”
“Well, okay. I saw her. Sure.”
“Who did she leave with?”
“Hey now, I don’t keep track-”
I cut him off. “Buddy, look. It’s no big deal. You told deputies a couple of days ago that you didn’t hear or see anything across at the Sissons’, and I believe that. Hell, it was dark, and whatever happened over there took place in the backyard, out of sight. But Jennifer Sisson came in here today, sometime around five-thirty.”
He nodded vigorously, and the fat under his chin shook. “She was here, Sheriff. Honest to God.” He held up his hands plaintively, as if he wished the one answer might end the conversation and let him off the hook.
“I know that,” I said patiently. “I asked who she left with.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Because you do, Buddy. You’re being evasive, and you’re sweating like you’re standing out in the sun.” I smiled pleasantly at him again. “And in a minute, I’m going to start wondering why.”
Buddy Chavez leaned against the door. “Look, Sheriff. I don’t want to start anything. I really don’t. Just ask the girl who she was with. That makes more sense. Or Jennifer.”
“It might make sense,” I said, “if I can find her. If some helpful soul hasn’t dumped her in a ditch somewhere.”
Buddy’s eyes opened wide and he paled a shade or two. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m too tired to kid anyone,” I said. “Who was she with?”
He gulped a time or two and then managed to say, “I think it was Sam Carter.” He could see the surprise on my face, I’m sure.
“You think? You think that it was Sam Carter?”
“Well, he didn’t actually come in. I was cleaning off a table, and I saw him pull into the parking lot, over there by the light pole. At first I didn’t recognize him…Well, I mean I didn’t recognize the vehicle. Well, I mean I did, but I thought it was somebody else’s. His kid’s maybe. That red Jeep Wrangler that Kenny Carter drives all the time. I thought it was probably Kenny. But then he opened the door just a bit, and he kinda waved, like this.” He held out his hand, palm up, and flexed the fingers rapidly.
“And at that point you recognized the person as Sam Carter?”
Buddy nodded. “Sure. Jennifer had picked up her order and was sitting with a group of kids over on that six top,” and he motioned toward a table at the east end of the restaurant “over by the door. She got up and left, and I saw her get in the car.”
“Why were you watching her, in particular?”
Buddy Chavez looked embarrassed. “Hell of a body, you know?”
“And fifteen years old, Buddy.”
He shrugged.
“You’re sure about the car.”
He nodded.
“And you’re sure it was Sam Carter. Not Kenny.”
He nodded, pursing his lips as if he knew something else juicy. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“You didn’t hear her say, ‘Here’s my ride,’ or something like that?”
“No. She just got up and I heard her say, ‘I gotta go. My mom’s waiting.’ And then she skipped out.”
“But her mom wasn’t in the car.”
“No.”
“You didn’t see anyone else in that Jeep with Sam? Maybe someone else sitting on the passenger side?”
“He was by himself. The back window on that rig was unzipped. You know the way they drive around with it out. I could see plain enough.”
“And when Grace Sisson called over here, were you the one who answered the phone?”
Buddy took a little bit too long answering but finally nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess I was.”
“And you told her that Jennifer had left.”
“Yep.”
“But you didn’t tell her with whom?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t figure it was any of my business.”
“And Grace didn’t ask?”
“Well…no, she didn’t.”
“So you didn’t tell her that you’d seen her daughter drive off with Sam Carter? Didn’t let his name slip, even casual-like?”
“Nope, I didn’t tell her.”
I had moved to the door, and Buddy stepped aside. I rested my hand on the worn brass knob. “That sort of puzzles me, Buddy.”
He peered out through the dirty window of the door, still leaning hard against it. “It ain’t any of my responsibility,” he said, and glanced at me quickly to see if I’d agree. But then he added, “Besides, I figured she knew.”
I regarded Buddy with interest. “Now why would you figure that, as disinterested as you are in the whole mess?”
“Well, she sees Sam Carter often enough. She can take care of her own business. It’s not any of my concern.”
My hand froze on the knob. “She sees Sam Carter ‘often enough.’ What does that mean? And who do you mean? Grace or Jennifer?” I had the nagging feeling that I knew exactly where the conversation was headed.
Buddy grimaced. “Come on, Sheriff. Please.” I ignored his entreaty and just glared at him. “Shit, they meet here all the time.”
“They who, Buddy?”
“Sam and Grace. I mean, she walks over to pick up some lunch, and Sam, he’s usually waiting out in the car, out in the lot. He never comes in or nothing. Just kind of casual, you know. She gets her lunch, then moseys on out. And ends up in his car. And then they drive off. Or once in a while just sit and talk, I guess. I don’t know.”
I grinned. “It would appear you see quite a bit. How often does this happen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t keep count. Once, twice a week, maybe. Well,” he said, and inadvertently started to look a little pleased with himself. “You know how it is. Like a couple of school kids. They’re tryin’ to be so clever and end up being more obvious than not.”
“And how long’s this been going on?”
“Couple of months.”
I reached out and took Buddy by the shoulder, digging my thumb in by his collarbone just enough that it got his attention. “Thanks, Buddy. And this is between you and me, all right? You don’t tell anybody else.”