“Emilio,” Estelle said, “I’m wondering if you know either of these two men.” She removed the photos while the old man sat carefully in the pew.
“Why do you have these?” he asked after a moment.
“This young man is the driver of the truck that crashed up on the pass a day or two ago,” she said.
“Betty told me about that. I didn’t know him.”
“Did he ever stop here?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Needing directions, perhaps. Regál isn’t the easiest place to find an address if you’re a stranger.”
“No, he never talked to me.” Emilio shuffled the photos, gazing for a long time at the woodcutter.
“That’s Felix Otero, isn’t it, Emilio?”
“I don’t know the names,” the old man said. “It could be. But I don’t keep track.”
That brought a burst of laughter from the priest. He wagged a finger at Estelle like a grade school teacher locking the attention of a recalcitrant student. “You’ll find that out when age catches up with you, Estelle Guzman.” He pulled his shirtsleeve back and looked at his watch. “I have errands that I’ve almost forgotten.”
“So tell me,” Estelle said. “Who is this Felix Otero? You both know his name. You both have seen him before, evidently. Was he just a man looking for work? Does he have relatives here in Regál? Does he have parents down in Mexico, wondering if they’re going to see their son again? Does he have a wife? Children? And Emilio, can you tell me why he would be carrying your telephone number in his pocket? No ID, but your number?”
She paused, but neither the priest nor Emilio Contreras spoke, and she tried another tack. “We need to inform his family as soon as possible.”
Anselmo’s broad face settled into an expression of sad resignation. “I’ll see what I can do, Estelle,” he said, but didn’t explain just what that might be. The sound of a vehicle, its tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot, interrupted them. As if grateful for the diversion, the priest stepped to the door and pushed it open. Through the opening, Estelle caught the glint of sun on bright red paint.
Chapter Nineteen
“Isn’t this lovely,” Madelyn Bolles said. She had nodded her thanks to Father Anselmo for opening the door, and stepped into Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, halting just inside. She took off her sun-glasses and with a quick, experienced glance surveyed the interior of the church. Then she dismissed the architecture with a curt nod and turned her attention to Estelle.
“And you would be Posadas County undersheriff Estelle Guzman,” Madelyn said with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bolles.”
“Madelyn, please.” She stepped away from the door as Anselmo’s bulk loomed behind her.
“This is Father Bertrand Anselmo,” Estelle said. “He offers mass both here and in María.” Estelle watched Bolles as the woman turned to offer her hand. At the same time, the reporter’s eyes did another quick inventory, this time of the disheveled priest.
“Madelyn Bolles,” she said. “I write for A Woman’s World magazine.”
“Well, my pleasure,” Anselmo said. “What brings you to this little corner of paradise?”
“Paradise exactly,” Bolles said, and turned to survey the iglesia again. “This really is fetching, if that’s the correct word to describe a mission.”
“I’d like you to meet Emilio Contreras,” Estelle said. “What you see around you is his work.”
“We all do what we can. And where are you from, señora?” Emilio asked, his slow, cadenced voice giving full measure to each word as he shook hands with Bolles.
“At the moment, Las Cruces,” the reporter said. Easily past fifty, Madelyn Bolles wore her stylish dark blue suit easily, managing to look casual despite the businesslike cut.
“Listen, you folks enjoy a blessed day,” Father Anselmo said. “I really do have errands I need to run. Ms. Bolles, it’s my pleasure to meet you, and welcome to the parish. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know. Estelle knows how to reach me. And Emilio, of course.”
“Nice to meet you, Father,” Madelyn said, extending her hand once more. “Perhaps if you’d leave your cell number with me?”
“Ah, cell phone. I don’t have one,” the priest said. “But I do have a phone at home in María.” He patted his pockets and Madelyn came to his rescue with a business card and a pen. “Thank you.” He turned and rested the card on the daybook of guest signatures, writing the telephone number slowly, as if he had difficulty remembering the seven digits. Then he added a second number below the first. “The top number is mine,” he said, “and I took the liberty of giving you Emilio and Betty Contreras’ number here in Regál. They always know where I am, if there’s need to reach me.” He handed the card back to the reporter. “Have a wonderful visit.”
“I shall,” she said. “I shall. Thank you.”
The priest pushed the door open, and said to Emilio, “I’m going to leave this open for a while. Let some fresh air in.”
“The dust blows in from the parking lot,” Emilio said, and the priest looked surprised.
“Oh. Well, then,” the priest said. “Let’s keep it closed. Estelle, it was nice to see you again. Don’t be such a stranger.”
“Have a good day, Father,” Estelle said.
“He doesn’t pay attention,” Emilio said with resignation as the door closed, leaving them in the comfortable dim light. He nodded at Madelyn. “It’s nice to meet you. You want to talk with Betty, not me. She’ll tell you anything you need to know.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed himself out of the pew, adjusted the cane before putting weight forward, and then began his slow shuffle back up the aisle toward where he had been working before his day was interrupted.
Estelle watched his progress for a moment, at the same time listening as outside Father Bertrand Anselmo’s aging Chevrolet grumbled into life. She realized that Madelyn Bolles was studying her.
“You’re a little older than I would have guessed after seeing the various photographs,” the reporter said.
“Every day,” Estelle laughed. “I haven’t figured out a way to avoid it.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I’ve caught you right in the middle of something, your dispatcher tells me.”
“About three things.” Estelle tapped the manila envelope on the back of the pew. “That’s the way it generally goes. Weeks and weeks of peace and quiet, and then the sky falls on us.”
Madelyn cocked her head. “That would be a challenge in itself, putting up with that roller coaster.”
“What’s your schedule, then?” Estelle asked.
The reporter held up both hands, palms up. “Whatever it takes,” she said. “I have an absolutely wonderful room at the Casa de Posadas on Tenth Street, complete with high-speed Internet, yet. Who would have thunk.”
“We’re wildly progressive around here,” Estelle laughed.
“I can see that,” Madelyn said, turning in place with her hands thrust in the pockets of her suit coat. “This really is a wonderful place, isn’t it. I saw the historical plaque set in the adobe on the outside wall.” She took a deep breath, leaning backward to gaze up at the ceiling where the stovepipe vented through the roof. “No lights, a woodstove…one of those places where the baptismal font freezes if you forget to empty it. And I don’t see any sign of electricity, either.”
“None whatsoever,” Estelle agreed.
“Wow.” After another moment spent examining the church’s simple, almost fortresslike architecture, Madelyn added, “What I really want to do is find a few minutes sometime for a preliminary meeting with you, some time when we can just sit and chat in private-no notes, no recorder, no camera.” She turned and regarded Estelle thoughtfully. “I like to do that, you know…kind of sort out the rules we’re going to play by.”
Estelle found herself liking this woman-Madelyn Bolles was no rookie reporter, that seemed evident. Shorter than Estelle by several inches, Madelyn was ramrod straight, looking as if she’d be equally at home in a New York Wall Street boardroom or the principal’s office of an elementary school.