“It was predictable, Father. You must know that eventually, something was bound to happen. That this would fall back on you.”
The priest sighed. “I suppose. The risk is not mine, of course. I wish it could be.” He held up both hands in surrender, and smiled, an expression that made him look absolutely beatific. “Will we see you at the anniversary celebration on Sunday afternoon?”
“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” the undersheriff said, and she was surprised by the resignation in her voice.
“Well, if it should work out, consider yourself invited, then,” Anselmo replied. He extended a hand, and his grip was firm. “And your guest, as well.” He did not release her hand right away.
“You’re welcome to come in for some dessert,” Estelle said.
“Ah, no. Many thanks. I have several stops to make yet this evening.”
“I’m sure you do, Father. Travel safe.”
She watched him trudge off toward the sagging Chevrolet, and it started with a geriatric symphony of noises that produced a cloud of blue smoke. The backup lights flashed, and she knew that he had pulled it into gear, but the car hesitated for a moment, then produced a sharp clank before easing away from the curb.
Back inside, Irma and Madelyn were collecting empty pie plates, and Estelle saw that Francisco was in the kitchen, washing his hands.
“Is he okay?” Dr. Francis asked as Estelle slipped out of her jacket.
“For now,” she said, and saw that Teresa Reyes was watching her from across the room. Ay. Estelle sighed. What does she know? Estelle stretched up and kissed her husband on the cheek. “I want to hear music,” she said.
“The intermission is about over,” Francis said.
She crossed and knelt by Bill Gastner, her arms crossed on the padded sofa’s arm cushion. “Afterward, will you have a few minutes? I really need to talk to you.”
“Sure, sweetheart. I’ll be hungry again in a matter of minutes.”
“That’s good. Thanks.”
“Bert got himself in a box?” Gastner asked, perceptive as ever.
“Oh, yes,” Estelle replied, and pushed herself to her feet.
Chapter Twenty-eight
By the third selection of music, Madelyn Bolles was leaning forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees, chin resting on her clasped hands. Her chair was no more than five feet from the piano keyboard, but Estelle could see that wasn’t close enough. The writer watched the child’s every move, and remarkably, Francisco ignored her.
Estelle relaxed and watched her son. It was as if his peripheral vision ended where the keyboard did. Sometimes, when the score required the left hand to soar far up into the treble keys or the right hand to stray deep into the bass clef, Francisco watched his fingers. But Estelle had come to the conclusion that her son watched his own fingers out of amused curiosity as the music captured his hands, rather than the need to see where he was going.
“Oh, wow,” Madelyn whispered as the last note faded from a particularly melodic piece whose mood had fascinated the little boy since Sofía Tournál, his great-aunt living in Veracruz, Mexico, had played it for him and then sent him the music. When a new piece crossed Francisco’s path, he rapidly absorbed it, conquered whatever technical demands it might make, then experimented with the music, coming to understand it and make it his own. Often when he did that with a new composition, the piece would soon be discarded, never to be played again. But this composition, written by a twenty-nine-year-old Mozart at the peak of his marital and artistic contentment, had somehow spoken to the little boy. Estelle had always been curious what her son saw when he played the simple Andante movement of the Concerto no. 21 in C Major, but he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, explain that to her. Regardless, it was a piece that stayed with him, never discarded.
“Oh, wow,” Madelyn said again, and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. She twisted in her chair to look at Estelle, who sat comfortably in the rocker, Carlos zonked out across her lap. “Francisco,” the writer said, “what’s the name of that piece?”
He turned on the piano bench, left hand reaching out to rest on the keys. “Some number,” he said with a laugh. “They always used dumb names. It’s about a prince. He walks into a forest and gets lost.”
“Really?”
The little boy nodded. “They look for him, but then he decides that he wants to live there, and he hides so they can’t find him.”
“Do they ever find him?”
“No.”
Madelyn glanced at Estelle. “Hollywood would be fascinated by that interpretation,” she said.
“Hollywood always gets it wrong, anyway,” Bill Gastner said. “How about playing the car chase for us?”
“And then I need to put this one to bed,” Estelle said, looking down at Carlos’ peaceful repose. “My legs are going to sleep.”
Francisco faced the keyboard once again, pausing for just a moment, frozen with concentration. “Okay,” he said, and let that suffice as an explanation of what was coming. There was no predicting that, of course, for once the boy strayed into his own world of composition, what emerged was an ever-changing story. In this case, it began with a tiny trill high in the treble, reminding Estelle of a column of dust rising far in the distance, the smallest disturbance on the open sea of prairie. From there, the story grew at a controlled pace, and she could imagine standing on a rise watching a vehicle far in the distance approach across the open prairie. In a moment, the image split, the one plume becoming two, locked in pursuit.
At that point, Carlos kicked and awoke, eyes big. The music had apparently pounded into his dreams, and he sat up. Estelle hugged him, but he squirmed down, standing by her knees as he blinked himself awake. She knew exactly what was coming, since this piece had delighted the boys and padrino for weeks. After a moment, Carlos slipped away, to cross behind Madelyn’s chair and slide between the front of the piano bench and the keyboard. That put his chin level with the ivories, and Francisco leaned toward him without speaking, acknowledging his presence. After a few seconds, the opportunity presented itself. While Francisco’s right hand was busy, he reached out and touched two notes far down in the bass. “Those,” he whispered.
Carlos poised an index finger from each hand over the notes, one black, one white. He apparently knew the story well, since he needed no prompting. At the important moment, he began a steady, alternating drumming of the two keys, an unrelenting helicopter in the background.
“I love it,” Gastner said. “I have to learn that part.” The piece continued as the two cars chased each other over mesa, arroyo, cliff and mountain tops. The helicopter kept pace, pausing now and then at some secret signal from the composer, only to reenter the chase. After a moment, it became clear how the story would end. The vast collision sent up plumes of dust and debris, the discord quite amazing in its careful control.
At the end, what Estelle pictured as a single hubcap spiraled away into the ditch, reducing both boys to convulsive giggles. They looked to padrino for approval, and his wide grin was all they needed.
“You have your hands full,” Madelyn Bolles observed to Estelle. She extended a hand to Francisco as he slid off the bench. “Thank you, young man. That was a treasure.” He accepted the hand and added a courtly bow, head ever so slightly tilted with grace but no deference. “And you, too,” she said to Carlos, who mimicked his older brother’s response.
“Such noise,” Teresa said, her first comment of the concert. But her pride was obvious. “You two help me to bed now.” She held out both hands, waiting for her escort.
“And then yourselves,” Francis added.
“And I’m off,” Irma said. “This has been wonderful. Ms. Bolles, it was so nice to meet you. I hope we’ll be seeing you again.”
“Oh, most assuredly. Thank you, Irma. It was all so lovely.”