And how would a delivery driver know that, Estelle thought. “So they paid him some amount of money, and collected their winnings?”
“It’s-” Betty stopped, staring down into her tea, trying to stir the memory. “Oh, you’d have to ask them. It seems to me that Lucinda told me that they had to pay the percentage, but I can’t remember the amount.”
“They wrote a check for that amount, then? Some percentage of the prize?”
“Yes. That’s the way I understand it, but this is all secondhand, and I may just have everything all tied in a knot. I think that they paid the delivery service, just like a COD, and then they received their check. Right then and there. And sure enough. Twice. I wanted to ask Lucinda how much she and Joe won the second time, but I decided not to be a busybody.” She saw the ghost of a smile twitch the corners of Estelle’s mouth. “I know, I know,” she laughed. “But it was a lot more the second time.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Well, just a few days. I mean, the check was supposed to arrive like last Monday or some such? There was some holdup, and then I think it actually ended up coming this week sometime. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. This past Wednesday?”
“Such fortune,” Estelle said. She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the low-ceilinged kitchen. “I wonder how they found out that they’d won?”
“Some notification came in the mail, I think.” Betty shrugged. “You know how those things are always popping up. Most of the time it’s junk. But not this time. It’s got the rest of us checking our mail a whole lot more carefully, let me tell you.”
“And not the Nigerian scam thing,” Estelle observed.
“Oh, no,” Betty said quickly. “The winnings are very, very real. You just ask Serafina or Lucinda, Estelle. There’s no complaint from them. It isn’t one of those scams where they talk you into sending your money away in the hopes of winning some big super-pot. No, no.” She made a seesaw motion with both hands. “You pay a little bit to cover taxes and the Canadian exchange rate, and then the Post Office hands you your check. That’s how I understand it.”
“Not the Post Office, though.”
“Well, no. It’s one of the parcel services. But the same idea. How about some more tea?”
“That would be wonderful.” She didn’t say that the aroma of fresh tea might mask the thick stench of rotting fish. A small window of possibility opened in her mind. There might be good reason why someone would rifle through the wreckage of the crashed truck-even Christopher Marsh’s pockets. Someone knew exactly what to look for.
From there it was a simple step to understanding why that same person might want to make sure that young Mr. Marsh would be in no condition to talk to rescuers. In all likelihood, the wreck, an unlucky turn of events, had prompted this particular falling-out among thieves.
When Betty Contreras was once more seated, Estelle reached out and rested her hand on the manila envelope once more. “I need to ask a favor,” she said.
“Anything. You know that.”
Estelle opened the envelope and drew out the photo of the young woodcutter. He appeared to be sleeping, leaning against the juniper, eyes not quite closed. His face drew the first glance, and it was only a second look that took in the ocean of blood that had pumped from his torn leg and soaked his trousers, his clutching hands, and the ground where he sat.
“I need to know about this young man,” Estelle said quietly, and handed the photo to Betty.
A series of emotions slipped across Betty Contreras’ face, preceded by a little backward jerk of her head that spoke as clearly as words.
While Betty examined the picture, and recoiled with revulsion when she finally saw the blood and realized that in all likelihood the young man wasn’t asleep, Estelle drew out a photocopy of the little note that had been found in his pocket. She slid the paper across to Betty.
“This was a woodcutting accident up north, outside of Reserve,” Estelle said. “The investigating deputies found this little folded scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket.”
Betty looked at the paper and then at Estelle. “That’s our phone number,” she said.
“Yes. It is.”
“Why would he have our phone number?” Her question didn’t sound altogether convincing.
“That’s what we’re wondering,” Estelle said. She watched Betty’s face as the older woman examined the photo.
“Was he working alone?” She laid the picture down thoughtfully. “But of course he wouldn’t be. I mean, I assume someone had to have gone for help when this happened. Up by Reserve, you say?”
“Between Reserve and Quemado. They were working on a firewood contract for a rancher up that way.”
“The poor boy,” Betty murmured. “No, I don’t know him. And I can’t explain the number.”
“Well,” Estelle said, “I told the investigators up north that I’d ask. If you recall something, give me a buzz, will you?”
“Most assuredly.”
“And maybe Emilio would know,” Estelle added.
“I doubt that,” Betty said. “But you’re welcome to ask him. You know right where he is.”
“That’s not his writing, though,” Estelle said, picking up the photocopy of the note.
“No. If Emilio had written it, it would look like something from one of those illuminated medieval manuscripts. He has the most beautiful penmanship.”
“I remember that he does,” Estelle said. “By the way, do you happen to have Joe and Lucinda’s number? I’d like to chat with them, but I don’t want to just barge in.”
“Surely I do.” Betty rose, jotted down a number, peeled off the Post-it note, and handed it to Estelle. Her flowing schoolteacher’s script favored elegantly swooping curves on the 8s and bold, horizontal strikes for the tops of the 5s, nothing like the choppy block letters on the woodcutter’s note. A perfect match would have been convenient, Estelle thought. “It’s not mine, is it,” Betty asked, and Estelle glanced up quickly at her, intrigued at the odd tone in her voice. “The handwriting, I mean.”
“No, it’s not. I’m just wondering who would have given your telephone number to a woodcutter working one hundred and fifty miles away.”
“Maybe someone wrote down a number incorrectly. Our prefix here is so much like so many others. And the last four digits-the eight-four-eight-five-that could be misprinted a dozen ways, too.”
“You’re right about that.” Estelle looked at the wall clock and sighed. “I need to run.”
“Take some goodies along for those two boys of yours,” Betty said, and she didn’t wait for a response. Collecting a small tin from one of the bottom cupboards, she filled it quickly with a generous collection. “Oh…and I have a picture for you,” she said as she handed the tin to Estelle. “I meant to give it to you months ago, and it kept slipping my mind.” She held up a hand like a tour guide demanding attention, and sailed off into the living room.
A moment’s rummaging through a small album by the fireplace and she found the five-by-seven print. She held it fondly, then extended it to Estelle. “I took this of the altar after Emilio finished that night.” She didn’t bother to explain what “that night” was, and didn’t need to. Estelle felt a stab of gratitude mixed with an odd, deep sadness. Centered among a sea of short, white candles on the altar was a family photo-her family. The portrait included her and Francis, with the two boys perched on their laps.
“Teresa loaned me that photo,” Betty whispered. “Our prayers were all with you that day.”
Betty didn’t need to explain when that day was. “I appreciate that, Betty,” Estelle said, and started to hand the photograph back.
“No, you keep it,” Betty said. “You keep that.” She patted Estelle’s arm affectionately. “You and your husband have done a lot for this community. It’s only natural that they should hold you in their prayers when something like this happens.”