Lucy Grider might have been able to provide some answers. I was surprised when Estelle sent Paul Garcia to Encinas to interview her. I had to agree that Paul was as diligent a rookie as I’d ever seen—it was hard to be irritated at him for chasing brushfire smoke when, in the process, he’d stumbled onto a murder.
Estelle coached him on what questions to ask and then we headed home shortly after eight that evening. This snowball of events was leaving us miles behind in its wake.
“I want to talk with Nolan Parris,” she said as we turned into the dirt lane that led to the Guzman adobe. “And I want to talk with him tonight.”
I should have guessed that was coming. She pulled into her driveway and asked, “Will you go with me?”
“Of course,” I said. “If you feed me first.” Francis pulled into the driveway before we reached the front step. He hadn’t slammed the Isuzu’s door before Estelle met him. The two kids embraced for a long time.
“Seems like a couple of days since I’ve seen you,” she said, and Francis laughed and removed her Stetson so the brim wouldn’t hit him in the mouth when she hugged him. Their nap that afternoon had done some good.
“You don’t like clandestine meetings out in hidden arroyos?” he asked. I went inside so they’d have a minute together without a chaperone. I tossed my hat on the two-cushion sofa and pulled the holstered revolver off my belt.
The telephone was on the wall by the doorway to the kitchen. I dialed zero and then Martin Holman’s home number in Posadas. The call went through after I gave the mechanical-sounding operator the billing. It rang twice, and then another robotic voice said, “I’m sorry, that number is temporarily out of service. If you need assistance, please stay on the line and an operator will help you.”
I hung up, perplexed. Holman didn’t earn a bundle as sheriff of Posadas County, but he sure as hell earned enough to pay his phone bill. Maybe his four-year-old had jerked the cord out of the wall. The little bastard was capable of that and worse.
Estelle and Francis came in the house just as I was dialing the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Gayle Sedillos was working the desk. She was the best dispatcher we had. Estelle had started that way. But unlike Estelle, Gayle had no aspirations beyond the desk. She answered the phone after the first ring.
“Where’s Holman?” I asked the instant she said she’d accept the call.
“He hasn’t gotten hold of you, sir?”
“No. What’s he want?” Holman always wanted something, and most of the time it could wait.
There was a pause at the other end, and I could hear voices. Then Gayle said, “Sir, Bob Torrez just came in. Let me have you talk with him.”
I glanced at Estelle and looked heavenward. She grinned. Deputy Bob Torrez picked up the phone. His voice was usually so soft I had a hard time hearing him.
“Sir?”
“What’s up, Bob?”
“Sheriff Holman was trying to get hold of you earlier today,” Torrez said.
I glanced down at the unchecked answering machine where his message no doubt awaited. “We were out,” I said. “What’s he want?”
“His house burned down last night.”
“His house burned down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, sir. But the house was a complete loss. And his two dogs.”
“How’d the fire happen?”
“We don’t know, sir. But we’ve sealed the place off. The sheriff’s out there. And the investigators from the fire department are still out there.”
“Are they going to need an assist?” Sheriff Holman had lived in the village of Posadas and the volunteer fire department was eager and generally efficient. But the two men who called themselves investigators were good-intentioned amateurs.
“They haven’t said,” Torrez answered.
“Call the state office and get somebody over from Cruces,” I suggested. “And you’re sure everyone’s all right?”
“Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman sent the family to Deming to stay with relatives. And he’s staying at the Essex Motel.”
I groaned. “Christ, nobody wants to live in a motel, Bob. Holman knows where the key to my house is. Tell him to use it.”
“I’ll pass the message along, sir. He wanted to know when you were planning to head home.”
“It’s going to be a day or two. We’ve got a little action up here, and I’m giving Estelle the benefit of my vast wisdom.”
Torrez took that seriously as he did most things. “Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman wanted to know if you were coming back tomorrow.”
“I’ll see. It’s unlikely though. Just tell him to use my house and call the state fire marshal’s office, if he hasn’t already.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me talk with Gayle now.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the dispatcher came on the phone, I said, “Gayle, is there anything the Holmans need that you know of?”
“I don’t think so, sir. But I’ll ask. They sure lost everything, though.”
“Well, tell him to use my house instead of camping out at the damn motel.”
“I’ll do that. How’s Estelle doing?”
“Fine. You want to talk with her?” She said yes, and I held the phone out to Estelle. They talked for ten minutes. Maybe Holman would have enough on his mind that he wouldn’t rant about the phone bill.
Estelle finally hung up and for the first time since I’d set foot in San Estevan, the three of us had dinner together.
I damn near drooled a puddle as I watched the enchiladas sink in a sea of fresh green chili. Francis handed me what I hoped would be the first of several cold beers. He poured a glass of red wine for Estelle. Estelle must have read something on my face, because she said, “Vitamin W. It goes with Mexican food better than that stuff you guys drink.”
The fire of her chili was undiminished…it made even the cafe’s burrito grande seem like a bland milk shake. I wiped my forehead, blew my nose, and panted. “God, this is good. Destructive, but good.”
“Destructive, hell,” Francis said. “Did you know it’s been proven in the lab that green chili kills bacteria?”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Does the kid start kicking when you eat this stuff?”
Estelle laughed. “Not at two months, sir.”
“What are you going to name him?”
“Or her,” Francis said and handed me another beer.
“Ask me again in seven months,” Estelle replied.
“Is your mother going to come up here?”
“For the grand event, you mean?” Estelle shook her head. “We’re going to Tres Santos.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They’ve got a pretty good clinic there,” Francis said.
I frowned and said, “Huh,” for want of anything better.
“My mother is too frail to travel up here,” Estelle said. “This probably will be the only grandchild she lives to meet. There are worse things than being born in that big adobe house in Mexico.”
“Huh,” I said again. I shrugged. “What do the Guzmans think of that idea?”
“They’re going to be there, too.”
Estelle offered seconds and like a fool I accepted. “El Padrino should be present, too,” she said.
“I’m flattered. But I’ve had so many days off that Holman’s not going to let me take another one for five years.”
“Are you going back tomorrow?”
“Probably I should.” I glanced at my watch. It was night shift time again. “You’ll wrap this up this evening, after we talk with Parris.…I’m interested in what he has to say about his prints being on the truck.”
“Do you think that Cecil Lucero shot his brother?”
“Don’t you?”
She toyed with the remains of the enchilada on her plate. “I don’t know. Usually, when I’m sure of how something happened, I can picture it in my mind.”
“The two of them got out of the Scout and walked a ways up along the arroyo,” Francis said. “Kenneth went down into the arroyo. Cecil shot him from up above.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s where Paul found the seven shell casings this afternoon, Estelle,” I said.
“The M.E. will tell you for sure about the angle of the bullets,” Francis said. “After the shooting, Cecil walks back toward the Scout. He’s nervous. So like most of us would, he turns around to look back up the arroyo. He can’t see his brother’s body, so he steps closer to the edge to try another view.” He shrugged.
“What’s the problem with that?” I asked.
“I’d feel better if we’d found the last casing,” Estelle said. “I’d feel better if I had that.”
“There are any number of ways it could have happened that make sense,” I said. Estelle nodded, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. I pushed my plate away and stood up. I said what she really wanted to hear. “Let’s go see Parris.”
Father Nolan Parris greeted us at the door, and it seemed as if he had expected us—and more than that…he was somehow relieved we’d returned.
“I think you know Deputy Reyes-Guzman?” I said as Parris showed us into the front room.
“Our paths have crossed once or twice,” Parris said. He and Estelle shook hands. “Would you folks like some coffee or tea or something?”
We declined, and Parris closed the door. His limp hadn’t improved. He gestured to chairs and we sat. Estelle pulled out her notebook and pen and said, “Father Parris, I want to talk with you about Friday night.”
Parris nodded and folded his hands, waiting.
Estelle leafed through the notebook, stopping to read here and there. “Father, as you may have heard, we’re investigating the deaths of two young men. Their truck somehow went over the edge of Quebrada Mesa, probably sometime early yesterday evening.”
Parris again nodded. “A tragic thing,” he said quietly.
“Father, we have reason to believe that the truck in question was also involved somehow in the death of Cecilia Burgess on Friday night.”
Parris sat back in the chair. His right hand drifted up to touch his pectoral cross. He watched Estelle. It may have been my imagination, but I sensed an inner calm that hadn’t been there the day before.
Estelle looked up from her notes and cocked her head, giving Parris an opportunity. The priest held up his left hand, palm up, as if he were going to beckon for more information. His right hand remained on the cross. “And you feel that I have information about that night?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Parris looked at me. “Since we talked yesterday, I’ve had time for considerable counsel.” I didn’t ask if it was counsel with someone else or with his own soul. It didn’t matter as long as he had the right answers.
Nolan Parris took a deep breath, held it, and then released it the way a smoker might jet out a long, thin plume of smoke.
“On Friday evening I was out in the garden. Perhaps you’ve seen it, beyond the driveway. It’s not far from the highway. I’m not a gardener but it’s a quiet spot for reflection. There’s an old wooden bench under one of the apricot trees that’s a favorite of mine. I like to sit there and watch the stars.
“Anyway, shortly after ten…in fact, I was just about to go inside…I glanced up as several cars passed. In the light of their headlights I noticed Cecilia Burgess. She was walking along the highway.”
“Northbound?” I asked.
“Yes. But on the other side of the highway, facing traffic.” He hesitated. “I saw the moment as an opportunity, I suppose. I called to her. Now you must understand that we haven’t been on the best of terms…at least from her point of view. I thought that she was going to ignore me and so I called again. She crossed the highway. I wanted to talk with her about Daisy…about where the child might go to preschool in the fall, where the two of them were planning to stay. I was uneasy that she might not have made plans.”
“Were you able to settle anything?” Estelle asked.
Parris shook his head. “No. In fact, I made matters worse, I suppose. She asked me how much I was willing to pay, and I hesitated. She interpreted that as reluctance on my part to provide for the child. I tried to explain to her that I simply have no funds of my own—nothing significant anyway. She didn’t accept that. I tried to explain that there might be some sort of diocesan help…scholarships, housing, maybe that sort of thing. She took offense at that, perhaps thinking that I wanted the child in someone else’s custody other than her own.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“No, of course not. A child should be with its mother if at all possible. But Cecilia became angry. We’d had this same conversation before, I suppose. I tried to reason with her, and she became angrier still. She could be a most vocal young woman.” Parris looked rueful. “As her voice raised, I tried to calm her, and that made her even angrier.”
He held up both hands. “I’m afraid I made a stupid mistake. Thinking that she might react positively to a show of strength on my part, I reached out and held her by the elbow. I told her that if she really cared about the child, she wouldn’t leave Daisy out in the forest while she walks here and there late at night along a busy highway.
“I offered to drive her up to the hot springs. She retorted that I was last person she wanted to be seen with and that she’d walk wherever and whenever she pleased.” Parris shrugged. “It was one of those verbal fights that just…well, nobody wins.”
Estelle asked, “Did it end there?”
“No,” Parris said. “By this time, we had moved from the garden where I’d first suggested that we talk out to the shoulder of the highway. There were several oncoming cars, and as if to spite me, she stuck out her thumb to hitch a ride. None of the traffic stopped, of course.” He looked down. “I wanted nothing more than to jump into the underbrush along the road and hide.” He looked at me and smiled slightly. “I’m not much of a hero, am I?”
An appropriate philosophical reply didn’t materialize in my head, so I just shrugged.
Parris looked pained. “The next vehicle came around the corner almost immediately, and it did stop. It was the Ford pickup truck. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such panic because I could see, perfectly clearly, what would happen.” He stopped and both hands clutched the crucifix.
“A blue and white truck?” Estelle asked.
“Yes. I’ve seen it in the neighborhood on a number of occasions.”
“How many occupants?”
“There were at least four. Maybe five.” He hesitated. “Let me think.” After a moment he said, “Five. Two in the bed and three up in the cab. I knew from their behavior that they had been drinking.”
“What did they do?”
“They were loud and when the two in the back stood up to see why the truck had stopped, they could hardly keep their balance. The passenger on the window side held out a can toward Cecilia.”
“And she accepted a ride from them,” Estelle said, and I could see that she had finished the story for herself.
“I tried to prevent it; I really did. Cecilia stepped up on the back bumper, then over the tailgate, before I could reach her. She almost lost her balance, but one of the drunks helped her to the front of the truck bed. I reached the side of the truck and grabbed ahold, pleading with her to show some sense. The driver stepped on the gas hard just as one of them pushed me away. I thought for a moment I was going to be hit by the rear tire.”
“That’s when you sprained your ankle?” I asked, but Parris shook his head.
“No. They drove off, and I could see the truck weave this way and that. I was furious with myself and petrified for Cecilia. I pictured every tragedy that might happen except the one that did.
“I pictured the truck weaving off the highway and into the river. Or crashing head-on into someone else. The more I thought about it the worse I felt.
“Finally the obvious solution was the easiest one. I took the retreat’s station wagon and drove up the highway. I reached the campground and stopped. If they had let Cecilia off there, she would be walking up the trail to Finn’s campsite. So I parked and tried to find the trail. My flashlight wasn’t very good, but eventually I found the path and the Forest Service signs.”
I reflected that while Parris was stumbling around among the ponderosas, I had been snoring away in the Blazer, right there in the parking lot. He would have had to walk within a dozen paces of me. That was another reason to give up on the damn exercise routine. If I hadn’t taken the hike earlier, I would probably have been lying in the Blazer, eyes open like a lemur, insomnia in control. I’d missed a chance.
“I found the camp,” Parris said. “And Cecilia wasn’t there. Both Finn and the boy who stays with him were. Finn told me that Daisy was asleep in the tent. I told him what had happened.”
“What was his reaction?” Estelle asked.
“I’m not sure. It was dark and other than the camp fire and my flashlight, there wasn’t much light to see by. He told me that she probably was up the canyon, maybe at one of the other campgrounds, partying…that she’d be all right…that she could take care of herself.”
“Did you give Finn a description of the truck?”
Parris frowned. “Not a description. Not like you would. But I told him who I thought it was.”
“Who do you think owns the truck?” I asked.
“I don’t know who owns it. But I’ve seen one of the Waquie boys driving it on occasion. And his father. The family are parish members.”
“And you mentioned the name to Finn?” Estelle asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Finn offered me a cup of coffee. He had a pot on the fire.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t discuss Daisy with him?” I asked.
“No. I have to admit, Sheriff, that Finn makes me uneasy. Cecilia had mentioned at one time that Finn was a minister of some sort. I’ve only met him twice—that night was the second time. Both times, he looked at me…and my Roman collar…as if I were something of a joke.” Parris managed a wan smile. “I know I’ve got an active imagination. But that’s the impression I got.”
He looked up at the ceiling, using a dramatic pause like a good storyteller does when he’s organizing his thoughts.
“But I found myself thinking that if I accepted a cup of coffee, that might somehow bring the two of us—Finn and me—a little closer, and I’d be able to talk with him.”
“But that wasn’t the case,” I said.
“No. In fact, he handed me the cup and then went into the tent. So did the boy. Without a word. I stayed by the fire a few minutes, and when it was obvious that our conversation was over I left. Just a moment or two after the boy did.”
“Arajanian left?”
“Is that his name? Yes. He and Finn talked a little when they came out of the tent, and then the boy left. He went down the hill. Finn went back in the tent.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
Parris shook his head. “No. And I could never have kept up with him anyway. He ran.” Parris shook his head. “Like a ghost. He didn’t even use a light.”
I could feel Estelle looking at me and when I glanced at her, I could see that her face was set like stone.
When she spoke, her voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “When you left, Finn was still in camp?”
Parris nodded.
“And then you walked back to your station wagon in the campground.”
“Yes. It took me nearly an hour. I fell hard, just above the fork in the trail. I thought I had broken my ankle.” He rubbed his sock. “But it’s just a bad sprain.”
“And then you drove back here,” Estelle asked. “What did you do between that time and when you heard about Cecilia?”
“Prayed, I suppose,” Parris said. He looked at me thoughtfully. “I lied to you earlier, Sheriff. I told you I found out about Cecilia the next morning at Garcia’s Trading Post. That’s not the case.”
He turned to Estelle as if he wanted to make sure she got it right in her notes. “I heard all the sirens. I’m sure everyone in the valley did. I knew right away that whatever it was, the emergency somehow involved Cecilia. I knew it in my heart. I got up, got dressed, and took the station wagon.”
“With that bad ankle?”
“Yes. And I drove north until I came to the accident site. I saw all the red lights, the ambulance…I saw that they were just loading the gurney. I’m ashamed to say that I rationalized myself out of it at that point.”
“Meaning what?” I asked.
“Meaning that I should have stopped. I saw her face, knew it was her. I should have talked with you on the spot. But I decided that I couldn’t help Cecilia any more just then. She was in good hands. There was nothing I could do. So I drove back to the retreat, and when I learned she’d been transferred to the city, I drove to Albuquerque.”
“And you were at the hospital when she died?”
“Yes. The rest of my story, as I told you yesterday, is the truth.”
“Did you ever have your ankle looked at by a physician?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It’s just a bad sprain. There’s nothing a doctor could do for it that I can’t.”
“Did anyone else here at the retreat look at it?”
Parris frowned at my question. “Well, yes. Father Sandoval examined it shortly after I returned home. I had planned to ask him to look at it in the morning, but apparently he’d been awakened by the station wagon pulling into the driveway. He said he looked out the window and saw me limp to the front steps.” Parris turned and gestured at the door. “He met me in the entranceway and insisted that he look at the ankle then and there.”
“Is this Father Sandoval here now?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“We’ll need to talk to him.”
Parris looked at his watch. “It’s quite late. Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t,” Estelle said, her tone flat.
Parris turned from her to me, his eyes searching my face. “There’s something you don’t believe?”
I didn’t see any point in sugarcoating it. “You lied to me once, Father. We have no way of knowing if you’re lying now. If we talk with Father Sandoval and he confirms when he treated your ankle, that gives us something to go on.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Perhaps. Is Sandoval here?”
Parris fell silent for a minute, then said as he stood up, “This is going to be a very public case after a while, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean it will all come out in the end…about Cecilia and me, about Daisy…all of it.”
“I suppose it will,” I said. I wasn’t feeling kindly at the moment. It didn’t bother me much that Parris might have to wallow for a while in his own mess. “I’ll go with you to fetch Father Sandoval.” Parris didn’t argue.
We left Estelle in the front room and went upstairs. It was obvious that Parris’s ankle really did hurt. Father Sandoval must have been waiting at his door because he answered Parris’s light knock immediately.
Sandoval was the same priest who had greeted me on my first visit. He joined us downstairs and we made it brief. The older priest verified Parris’s story, and my instincts told me that Father Mateo Sandoval was telling the absolute truth.
After Sandoval left the room, Parris looked relieved. Estelle snapped her notebook closed and stood up. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “Finn has no legitimate custody claim on Daisy.”