Estelle slipped the photo in the manila envelope, along with the photos of two other people who might have benefited from a few kind thoughts.
Chapter Sixteen
Joe and Lucinda Baca’s home was another quarter mile east, and to reach it required a circuitous route through the village, finally reaching a fork in the two-track a quarter mile beyond the abandoned adobe that had once belonged to Joe’s late brother. The lane then wound through an old apple orchard much in need of pruning, and forked again.
Estelle slowed the county car, steering onto the left shoulder to avoid the apple limbs that hung over the narrow lane. A large stump marked another turn, the wood scarred barkless from the dozens of times that a bumper had nicked it during the driver’s careless or inebriated moments.
The right-hand trail led to Joe and Lucinda’s. A portion of their home dated back to the early 1930s, when Joe’s father had built a two-room adobe and stone dwelling, its back nestled into a gathering of car-sized boulders that he hoped had finished their tumble down the mountain. Estelle remembered tales about her great-uncle Reuben and Joe as they laid up stones for the fireplace-one batch of mortar, then a wine break. Another batch and beer. That the fireplace finished up more or less vertical and plumb was a testimony to dumb luck.
As the family grew, so did the home. Now, with Joe Baca having already celebrated his seventieth birthday, the place was a rambling ten-room adobe with attached garage and a scattering of outbuildings.
Estelle pulled in behind Joe’s pickup and once more keyed the radio.
“PCS, three-ten is ten-six at Joe Baca’s in Regál.”
“Ten-four, three-ten. Be advised that you have a visitor here in the office,” Gayle Torrez said.
Estelle pulled out her phone and touched the auto-dial for Dispatch.
“Who have we got?” she asked when Gayle picked up the phone.
“The lady from the magazine is here,” Gayle said. “Madelyn Bolles?”
“It’s going to be a while,” Estelle said. “I have some loose ends to tie up down here in Regál, and then I’ll be back up.”
“Just a sec.” Gayle didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece of her headset, and Estelle could hear her explaining the situation to Ms. Bolles. The discussion continued for a moment, and then Gayle said, “Sorry about that, Estelle. She wants to know if she can meet you in Regál somewhere. She suggests at the mission.”
“That’s fine. I don’t know how long I’ll be. Is she still driving the red Buick rental?”
Gayle relayed the question, and the response in the background sounded amused. “She says yes.”
“Then I’ll keep a lookout for her. It’s a pretty small world down here. She shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Estelle realized that Joe Baca was standing on the front porch of his home, watching her with interest. She waved a greeting. “Oh,” Gayle said. “Bobby is back in from the accident site. He said that he wanted to talk with you later today about Deputy Collins.”
“We need to do that,” Estelle replied.
“I think he’s settled down a little,” Gayle said. “Bobby, that is.”
“I hope so. I’ll be back in a little bit,” Estelle said. She put the phone away and unbuckled from her office.
“Good afternoon, Joe,” she called as she got out of the car.
“Buenas tardes, hija,” Baca replied, and stiffly held up a hand as if his shoulder joint was frozen. “How come you don’t come around anymore?”
“Here I am,” Estelle said, and stretched out a hand to the old man. His grip was warm and light, and she could feel the individual bones in his hand. “We’ve been so busy that sometimes I don’t know which way is up.”
He looked at her askance, assessing her from head to toe. “You came out of it okay, then.” Joe made it sound as if it had been only the week before, not ten months.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
He grunted something unintelligible and shook his head. “Nobody,” and he accented each syllable carefully, “is fine after something like that, hija.”
“I was lucky.”
“Yes, you were. Very lucky. I saw you stop at Emilio’s place just now.” He turned, moving toward an old wicker chair. He didn’t sit down but rested a hand on it. “I wondered if you were going to stop by.”
“Sure,” Estelle said.
“You want to sit down? Let’s go inside. It’s chilly out here.” He turned toward the door. “I thought maybe it would freeze last night. Maybe this year I’ll have some peaches.”
“They look fine. It’s way early yet.”
“We’ll see.” He shuffled inside, more like a man of ninety than someone two decades younger. “Lucinda isn’t here just now, hija. She had to go to town. Maybe she’ll be back before you have to go.”
“I’d like to see her,” Estelle said.
“There was an accident on the highway last night, I hear. Up on the pass.”
“A bad one, Joe.”
“Somebody got killed?”
“A young man from Las Cruces. His truck hit a deer and somersaulted over the guardrail just north of the pass.”
Joe waved at the living room, as dark and gloomy as Betty Contreras’ was light and cheerful. The walls had been plastered a generation or two ago, and then painted a bright green that had faded to hideous. Various magazine pictures of Christ, the Virgin, and the various apostles had been framed and hung here and there. A huge photographic print of the Grand Tetons hung over the TV set.
“You want some cider?”
“No thanks, Joe. Betty wouldn’t let me go without tea and cookies.”
“She’s a good cook,” he said, somehow managing to imply that Lucinda wasn’t.
Estelle drew one of the photos of Chris Marsh out of the envelope. “Con permiso, I want to show you this, Joe,” she said. “This is the young man who was killed up on the pass.” He took the photo and moved toward one of the windows.
“Ah, por Dios,” he whispered.
“You know him, then?”
“He drives for that company,” Joe said. “You know.”
“The package delivery company, you mean?”
“Yes. He’s stopped here before. We saw him this past week.” He looked up at Estelle. “He brought the checks.”
“The checks?”
“Lucinda won one of those sweepstakes things,” Joe said. “In fact, she won twice. Quite the thing, you know.”
“Do you recall his name, Joe?”
“No. He had a name tag, but without my glasses…”
“What was he driving, do you remember?”
“Sure I remember. A little white truck. A Chevy, I think. It had one of those camper shells on the back. White, too. A nice little rig.”
“Any lettering on it?”
“What do you mean, ‘lettering’?” He handed the photo back to Estelle.
“Like the company name. The logo. Something like that.”
“The name of the company was on the door,” Joe replied. “I’m pretty sure about that.”
“Do you remember what the name was?”
“Something ‘Global.’ That’s all. I didn’t pay attention. I know it wasn’t UPS or anything like that. Not a big van. Just a little truck. That boy had on a uniform with a name tag on the pocket. I remember that. And he had one of those fancy gadgets that you sign. That new stuff. No paper.”
“And you say that he gave you a check?”
“He did,” Joe said emphatically. “Both times.”
“But you gave him a check as well? Do I understand that correctly?”
He nodded. “That’s the way it works. The cashier’s check that we gave him…he said it was for the taxes and the what do you call it now…the exchange rate.” He moved painfully to one of the chairs and sat down with a popping of joints. “When did the accident happen? Last night?”
“We don’t think so, Joe. We’re thinking maybe Wednesday or Thursday. We just found him last night.”