He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “The most reverend Father Bertrand Anselmo is closer to the latter group.”
“And you?” the writer asked with a smile. “May I ask that?”
“I’ve never been able to figure out what I think,” Gastner said cheerfully. “I go with the flow of the moment. I make sure I can make it through this day, and then tomorrow takes care of itself.” Gastner looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “What’d you tell Bert?”
“I told him to stop it,” Estelle replied. “But I’m not going to organize a raid of a wedding anniversary mass.”
Gastner chuckled. “That’d make the news, wouldn’t it. No doubt, your young woodcutter will be back next week, working for someone else.”
“He’s wanted in Buenaventura. The authorities say he borrowed a car.”
“Well, then, it’ll be two weeks,” Gastner laughed. “Until he figures out who to bribe. You can see how optimistic I am about this whole mess.”
He stretched hugely, blinking himself alert. “But believe it or not, this is the least of your problems, sweetheart. You’ve got an inconvenient corpse on your hands. Do you have any theories about this sweepstakes thing?”
“Tony Abeyta is over in Cruces,” Estelle said. “There has to be a link between Chris Marsh and somebody. Tony’s working with Grunt Nilson to see what they can dig up. Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum. I’m sure of that.”
“Not to mention the nagging little fact that someone killed him,” Gastner said. “Or at least hastened the goddamn dying process a little.”
“Exactly.” She saw Madelyn’s eyebrows pucker a little, but the writer didn’t intrude with questions, and Estelle was impressed all the more.
“Well, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call,” Gastner said, and pushed back his chair. He stood up with a sigh. “Wonderful grub, wonderful company, but I have to go back to my burrow.” He extended a hand to Madelyn Bolles. “Pleasure seeing you again. How long are you with us?”
“You never know,” she replied.
He laughed. “You have my card,” he said. “If you get stranded, give me a buzz. I’ll be delighted to tour you around some more.”
“I will most assuredly do that.”
Estelle escorted the former sheriff of Posadas County to the front door, where he paused, one hand on the knob. “I’d be interested to know about Serafina,” he said. “Joe and Lucinda I can figure, especially with the publicity about their big lottery win earlier this spring. But I worry a little about the old lady.”
“Why or how she was picked as the first winner, you mean?”
“Yep. You’ve had the same thought.”
“That’s my goal tomorrow,” Estelle said with a nod. “We’ll see what Tony turns down in Cruces, and go from there.” She stretched carefully, and unconsciously pressed her right hand to her ribs.
“You taking care of yourself?” Gastner said, his voice dropping to little more than a gruff whisper.
“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Long days are a little tougher, is all.”
“Then shorten ’em,” Gastner replied. He reached out and circled her shoulders, his hug gentle. “Thanks. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she closed the door behind him, Estelle turned to see Madelyn Bolles shrugging into her light blue jacket.
“I’d best be on my way, too,” she said. “If you’re called out, will you have time to give me a buzz? Probably not, huh.”
“There’s never any way to tell. Are you sure that you want that, though?”
“At the moment, no. But I’d feel terrible if I missed something.” She extended her hand and held Estelle’s for a moment. “I really appreciate being included this evening.”
“We all enjoyed your visit,” Estelle said. “And Francisco enjoyed showing off for you.”
“What an amazing gift,” the writer said. “I hope I can hear him play again.”
Estelle laughed. “That won’t be hard to arrange. He seemed to enjoy having you as an audience.” She waited on the front step as Madelyn Bolles made her way out to her car, then switched off the porch light as the taillights of the rental Buick disappeared up the street. Estelle stood in the foyer for a moment, then closed and locked the front door.
Chapter Twenty-nine
On Sunday morning, Deputy Tony Abeyta sounded pessimistic. It was always gratifying when information jumped right into the investigator’s headlights, and frustrating when it remained illusive.
“We talked to every neighbor we could find last night,” he said, “but a weekend isn’t always the best time.” He chuckled and added, “It’s amazing how many folks can’t even describe what their neighbors look like.”
“Or want to,” Estelle said, then added, “You’re off today, you know.” Abeyta glanced across her office toward the wall with the whiteboard and its staff schedule.
“Yeah, and so are you,” he laughed. He patted the slender folder in his lap. “Grunt’s working today, so I thought I’d go over to Cruces again for a little bit, as long as we have the chance.” He opened the folder. “A few of the neighbors in the trailer park are willing to admit that they knew Marsh well enough to talk to him on an occasional basis…small talk stuff. Everyone says that he seemed like an okay guy, and two of ’em remember the truck. They thought that he was a student, and that maybe he worked part-time. As near as anyone can recollect, he’s lived in the park for about four months. That’s what the park manager’s rental records show, too.”
“Did anyone recall markings on the truck?” Estelle asked.
“No. And the Tylers live right next door. Their kitchen window looks out on his trailer, and he parked the truck in the space between. They’d have seen door plaques.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “That doesn’t mean they remember diddly, though. They were a little bit of help, but not much.”
“What’s the manager have to say?”
“Marsh paid his rent on time. No loud music, no obnoxious pets, no wild parties. The manager doesn’t ask for references, and rentals are by the month. Mostly minimum wagers, a few students, a few snowbirds without a budget, a few down-and-outers. He said he runs about a third vacancies, so he’s eager to get anybody who’ll pay. It’s a dismal little place, Estelle. I can’t believe people live like that. It sure isn’t about location, location, location. They get all the noise from the interstate, and the trailer park isn’t convenient to much of anywhere.”
The deputy stretched out his legs and crossed his boots, slouching farther down in his chair. “One little thing, is all. The Tylers-Mrs. Tyler, that is-says that Marsh had a girlfriend.”
“I would think so. Before his truck did a tap dance on top of him, he was a pretty good-looking kid.”
“She remembered the girl clearly,” Abeyta said. “The manager didn’t, but the neighbor did. The girl and Marsh ‘smooched’ a lot, she said.” He looked up from his notes and grinned. “It’s been a while since I heard anyone use that word.”
“Does this Mrs. Tyler neighbor remember anything other than the smooching? A name would be nice.”
“We should be so lucky, Estelle. She described the girl as ‘willowy.’ That’s the term she used. Willowy like a fashion model, she said. Taller than Marsh by a little bit. Always showing lots of midriff. And one time here recently, she was driving a late model Mustang convertible.”
“Earning more than a casual glance from the neighbor, I would think,” Estelle added. “Just ‘one time’? What’s that mean?”
“The neighbor thought that the ‘kids’-that’s what she called ’em-were just trying it out. It had a dealer demo sticker instead of a plate.”
“The neighbors were keeping more than a casual watch, apparently,” Estelle said.
“Well, you gotta understand. This Tyler woman is on the slide way past fifty-five, and on the upside of two hundred and fifty pounds. She isn’t a happy camper. She must have told me five times about how her drunk husband won’t fix their ’84 Crown Vic and that’s why the tags were expired. Mr. Tyler didn’t remember anything, by the way…or doesn’t want to. Not even the midriff. The missus isn’t real happy with the world right now, and she’s got these two gorgeous lovebirds next door to watch, with the supermodel driving a fancy-schmancy convertible to rub it all in.”