Vice President, Sweepstakes Coordination Operations
“¡Caramba!” Estelle whispered to herself. “This is a good one.” She read the letter several more times. From out of the blue, money. No strings attached. And what was the catch?
She looked up as Serafina shuffled back into the room. “I cannot find the second one, Estellita. But it was much the same. A little different amount, but otherwise, the same.”
“Serafina, when the driver delivered the check, did you have to sign something?”
“Oh, yes. One of those new gadgets with the little window. I don’t know how they work, but I know they’ve been using them for some time.”
“And you had the cashier’s check?”
“The first time, yes. Betty and I did errands, and I stopped in at the bank in Posadas. Not the second time.”
Estelle made a passing motion with both hands. “He gave you a check, and in exchange, you handed a cashier’s check to him.”
“Yes. You sound as if something is wrong, Estellita.”
“I hope not, Serafina. But as you said, it all seems too good to be true. The bank accepted the prize check with no problem?”
“Lucinda took it in for me. I didn’t hear anything, so I assume it was just fine.”
“May I take this with me to make a copy?” Estelle asked, indicating the letter.
“Of course you may, Estellita. And I’ll call to let you know when I find the second one. I know I have it.” She laughed gently. “Like so many things.”
“I have one more thing of interest,” Estelle said. “Con permiso, another photo. And a sad, sad situation.” She slid the photo of the woodcutter from the envelope and handed it to Serafina. The old woman turned and held the photo close to her good eye, adjusting it so that the light bounced off just right.
“Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him around the village?”
“No. This one is a stranger, Estellita. Whatever happened?”
“It was a woodcutting accident. Up in the country around Reserve and Quemado.” Serafina looked at her quizzically and Estelle added, “This was found in his pocket.” She handed Serafina the copy of Betty Contreras’ telephone number.
“This is Emilio and Betty,” Serafina said immediately.
“Yes, it is.”
“And this was in the poor man’s pocket? Whatever for?”
“Yes, and that’s the question. Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“A few numbers…not enough even for this old schoolteacher to recognize. I wish I could help you, Estellita. So tell me…this prize thing. I won twice, and Joe and Lucinda won twice, and considerably more than I did. Is something wrong, then? Is that what you think?”
Estelle put the photos and telephone number carefully back in the envelope with the sweepstakes letter that Serafina had given her. “Something is wrong, Serafina. Yes. I don’t know what it is, yet. Let me suggest this. You say that both checks were deposited in your account in Posadas?”
“Yes. Both.”
“Then don’t spend any of the amount. Just let it ride. If somehow this thing is legitimate, fine. If not, you’ll be protected-except for the amount you’ve already given them.”
“And that,” Serafina said with finality, “is a total of nearly a thousand dollars. I can’t afford to see that just fly out the window.”
“I know you can’t. And I hope I’m wrong. We’ll see what happens.”
“I could understand a scam that seeks to collect thousands and thousands of dollars from some poor unsuspecting soul. But this seems too petty.”
“Let’s hope so,” Estelle said. She didn’t remind the retired teacher that one of her own classmates during her junior year had been killed after an argument that had started over the disputed ownership of thirty-seven cents. Chris Marsh had managed to get himself crosswise with someone over far more than that.
Chapter Eighteen
From a small rise just beyond Serafina Roybal’s neat little home, Estelle could see Iglesia de Nuestra Señora a thousand yards away and the single vehicle parked near its entrance. Madelyn Bolles couldn’t have made the drive south from Posadas so quickly. Bill Gastner had said that the reporter was driving a red Buick-this one didn’t have enough color to judge, and it didn’t glint in the sun.
Before starting the car, Estelle drew out the letter that Serafina had given to her. Opening her cell phone, she dialed the Canadian number carefully, committing it to the phone’s memory. On a Saturday, she didn’t expect an answer, and in three rings was rewarded with an answering machine.
“Hello. You have reached the corporate offices of Canadian Publications Limited, your source for the best in leisure, educational, and technical reading. Our regular business hours are Monday through Friday, from nine a.m. to five p.m., Mountain Time. If you know your party’s three-digit extension, you may enter that now to leave voice mail. Thank you for calling Canadian Publications.”
Estelle sat for a long minute, staring at the phone. “Most strange,” she said aloud, and then dialed Dispatch.
“Gayle, I need a favor,” she said when Gayle Torrez answered. “Will you give the Calgary Police Department a buzz for me? I need to know what’s located at this address.” She read the information from the letterhead, including the notation that Canadian Publications operated out of Suite 11-e.
“That shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” Gayle said cheerfully. “I’ll jump on the Web and get right back to you.”
“I’d rather that you call the Calgary police directly,” Estelle said. “I want to hear their take on both the address and the company working out of there.”
“Copy that.” Gayle didn’t question the request, odd as it might sound. “Did you meet Ms. Bolles yet?”
“No. I’m clear here for the moment. I’m going to stop at the church to see Emilio, then I’ll be heading back in.”
Estelle left the envelope on the seat as she headed toward the church, meandering through the village where no single street took command of direction. In many places, she had to slow the Crown Victoria to a walk as she passed between stump and mailbox, or around a front porch, or through yards populated with dogs, cats, goats, and occasionally children.
She reached the main highway just a hundred yards north of the border station. A Border Patrol SUV was parked at the end of the small building beside an unmarked sedan. At the moment there was no traffic, and she pulled across the paved road to the driveway leading up to the church parking lot.
The aging Chevy sedan parked there sported a hood, roof, and trunk lid that were sun bleached to bare metal. The top of the backseat, exposed to the sun by the expanse of the rear window, was tattered, unraveled, and faded, but she knew the priest who owned the car was no slave to fashion. Estelle parked behind Father Bertrand Anselmo’s relic and got out of her car. The Chevy sat low on four tires in varying need of attention, including the left rear that was bald as a racing slick. Remnants of tape held the taillight lenses in place. More duct tape, applied in generous quantities, held the left rear window in its frame. If the windshield acquired any more cracks, it would take more than tape. Estelle paused, admiring the rolling junkyard. She could see that even the plastic steering wheel was cracked in several places, the steel skeleton showing through. There probably weren’t many wholesale vehicles that the southbound burros, the car dealers who hauled their tandems of long-of-tooth wholesale vehicles to Mexico, would refuse, but this might be one of them.
Estelle knew that Father Anselmo had been stopped by law enforcement officers from every agency that roamed the county-and probably some visiting ones from out of town. The car looked guilty, riding low and battered on its worn-out suspension as if the generous trunk might be full of half a ton of weed or half a dozen illegals. On the good father’s behalf, any cop would testify that the car would never be caught speeding, its license and registration were up-to-date, and a current insurance card rode in the remains of the glove box. Anselmo apparently believed that the good Lord would take care of everything else.