“So, you knew about that,” Estelle said. She let her voice sink to just above a whisper, as if she and Ynostroza were the only ones in the room. “Were you going to try and rob Señor Baca? Is that what you were thinking about?”
“Agente, I would never do this.”
“Really. An old man, el viejo, who you knew to be a wealthy and generous man? The thought never crossed your mind?”
“Never, agente.”
“Lying sack of shit,” Sheriff Torrez said matter-of-factly, and Ynostroza’s eyes darted first to Torrez and then back to Estelle.
“When you walked from the highway to Señor Baca’s, what were you thinking, then?” she asked. “You did not walk directly to his house. You did not approach as an honorable man, straight to the door to make your request. You went inside the old abandoned house first, then sat and smoked a cigarette in the shade of the orchard.…What were you planning to do?”
“I wasn’t sure what he would say,” Ynostroza said lamely.
“You were trying to make up your mind,” Torrez said. “Trying to decide how you were going to do it.”
“No. I was worried.”
“Of course you were,” Estelle said. “And then you saw the State Police car coming down from the pass.”
Torrez added, “An illegal on the wrong side of the fence, a thousand yards from the border crossing, thinkin’ about tryin’ to rob the same people who’d helped you. That’s a lot to be worried about.”
“Why didn’t you go to the church?” Estelle asked. “You knew that the father would help you.”
“I could see that he wasn’t there,” Ynostroza said. “His car, you know. As you say, it would be by the church if he was there.”
“Ay,” Estelle whispered. She looked at Torrez, and then heavenward. The sheriff seemed amused at this turn of events. She knew Father Bertrand Anselmo’s sympathies, and wasn’t the least bit surprised that he shuffled a few workers across the border now and then. The process was simple enough, until something went wrong…like a chain saw kicking back into a leg.
“Do you want to talk to Anselmo, or do you want me to?” Torrez asked.
“I’ll talk to him,” Estelle said.
“Are you going to give Immigration a heads-up?”
“Eventually, we have to,” the undersheriff said quickly. “But just at the moment, muscle isn’t going to solve this.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Torrez said. “And we don’t need to be readin’ about this at the checkout stand,” he added, nodding at the closed door. It was clear that he wasn’t referring to Posadas Register publisher Frank Dayan.
Chapter Twenty-six
The force of Irma Sedillos’ organization brought the eight of them to the well-laden table in the Guzmans’ home on South 12th Street shortly after six that evening. There had been so much food that even Bill Gastner may have felt overwhelmed, although he had significantly more practice at defeating heaping plates than anyone else at the table.
Estelle, thankful for the respite from the peripatetic day, found herself impressed once again with Madelyn Bolles. She was pleased that the writer had accepted the invitation to dinner without hesitation and without protestations about intruding. By the time Madelyn arrived, neat and fresh in simple black summer-weight slacks and a print cotton blouse, she appeared refreshed and ready for the swing shift.
There was only enough time for introductions before Irma and Estelle began to load the dining table. The eight of them-Irma and Madelyn, Francis and Estelle, little Carlos and Francisco, Teresa Reyes and Bill Gastner-were an easy fit around the large oak table.
Estelle noticed a tiny digital camera in a holster on the writer’s belt, but that’s where the camera stayed. Madelyn was content to simply soak in the experience, appearing to notice everything…including the seating arrangement. Despite the special occasion of company, Francisco and Carlos cajoled their parents into letting them flank Bill Gastner, the former sheriff of Posadas County. Estelle knew that nothing was more important to them than that. As a safety valve, Estelle sat on Carlos’ left, and Dr. Francis took a seat on Francisco’s right, trapping the little boys within easy reach should padrino, sitting between the two boys, prove to be more than Carlos and Francisco could handle.
The contrast couldn’t have been more photogenic: the padrino, big, gruff, in the habit of eating with his beefy forearms on the table on either side of his plate as if protecting his food from intruders, and the two little boys, spending as much energy trying to behave as eating. Gastner kept his godchildren quietly entertained during the meal with just enough attention that the talk around the rest of the table wasn’t monopolized by children-something that would have brought a cryptic rebuke from Teresa Reyes, Estelle’s mother.
“You going to eat that?” Gastner asked at one point, leaning left toward Carlos, the younger of the two boys. Gastner pointed with his fork at a bit of green chile enchilada. The various serving plates and bowls had been reduced to empty wreckage, and the adults were starting to take the long, slow breaths of the well beyond sated.
“You can have it,” the child chirped, and watched as Gastner made the transfer.
“So, what have you seen in our fair county that’s of interest to the rest of the civilized world?” Gastner said without missing a beat, and looked at Madelyn, who sat directly across the table, flanked by Dr. Francis Guzman on her left and Irma on her right.
“Well,” the writer said, and pushed herself back from the table a bit, puffing her cheeks. “First of all, I have never, and I mean never, tasted anything quite like this. I’m fantasizing about having the Inquirer or Times food editors sitting here, trying to figure out what hit them.” She patted Irma lightly on the forearm with an obvious affection that said they’d known each other for years.
“Last year was a good year for the chiles,” Teresa Reyes croaked, as if that explained everything. “This girl roasts them herself.” Teresa reached over to rest a tiny, arthritic hand on Irma’s. Irma blushed at the double-barreled attention.
“What do folks do when there’s a bad year?” Madelyn asked. “It must be catastrophic. Right up there with qualifying for federal disaster aid.”
“The crime rate skyrockets,” Gastner quipped.
“The crime rate never needs outside help,” Dr. Francis said. “It does just fine on its own.”
“So tell me,” Gastner said, his heavy brows knitting in a frown. He pushed his empty plate forward a bit, and crossed his forearms on the edge of the table in front of himself. Carlos and Francisco did the same thing, a comical bit of mimicry that was so spontaneous that Estelle had to stifle a laugh. Padrino ignored the behavior. “I didn’t think to ask you this earlier today when we talked. How did we happen to attract your attention? I can’t imagine that the affairs of Posadas County are what fill hours of idle conversation in Philadelphia.”
Madelyn laughed. “It’s all in who you know,” she replied.
“And who do you know that brings you out this way?”
“I have a just wonderful aunt who lives in Las Cruces, who by way of it being a small world also happens to be a talented musician.” She leaned toward Francisco and raised an eyebrow. “She’s retired now, of course. Boston is no place for arthritis, and she had discovered Las Cruces years ago because her son is a major in the army, stationed at Fort Bliss.”
“You were visiting her, then,” Gastner said.
“Exactly. I’ve done so several times. It’s getting to be something of a tradition. Last time I was out, for Thanksgiving this time, I saw the picture of this young man in the newspaper,” and she nodded at Francisco again, “taken when he played at the college recital there. Things snowballed from there. No mystery.”