Sheriff Torrez waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler answered Estelle’s call.
“Ernie, I need a name and number for two ten North Twelfth Street.”
“It’s Luis and Maria Rubay,” Torrez muttered just loud enough for Estelle to hear.
“The sheriff says to check a listing for Rubay,” Estelle added. “R-U-B-A-Y.” She waited for a moment and then jotted down the number. “Thanks. The sheriff and I will be at that address for a few minutes.”
As she was pocketing the phone once more, Torrez nodded across the street at the small brown adobe on the northwest corner, directly across Highland Court from the Rubay’s at 210. “If Maria didn’t see or hear anything, then we can talk to Mrs. Corning. She’s been watching us all the time we’ve been here.”
Estelle grinned. “You know everybody in every house? You sound like Bill Gastner, the walking gazetteer of Posadas County.”
“Not quite,” Torrez said. “I don’t know who lives over there, for instance.” He jerked his chin at the two-story cinder-block monstrosity on the northeast corner of the intersection.
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Estelle said. “Somebody knows exactly what happened.”
“Yep,” Torrez agreed. “Perry Kenderman, for one.”
Chapter Five
Estelle Guzman pushed the doorbell button in the center of an enameled tin design that looked like a flattened, road-killed lizard. Inside, they heard the first notes of “Ave Maria” on the chimes. There was no response, no movement or shuffling from within. No dog yapped greeting or warning.
Estelle turned and lifted an eyebrow at Torrez. “Tell me I wasn’t dreaming when I saw the porch light turned off,” she said.
“Maybe on a timer. Or not. Maria marches to her own drummer.”
“She an aunt of yours?”
“One of the cousins.”
“She lives by herself?”
“Yep. Her husband Luis died a month or so ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pushed the button again, wondering how much information she could pry out of the sheriff, one isolated sentence at a time. She listened to the six soaring notes of the doorbell once more. With no response, she stepped back and drew out her telephone, dialing the number Dispatch had provided.
In three rings, a woman’s voice answered with a warbling “Yeesss?” that sounded as if she was holding the phone in one hand and a dripping egg beater in the other, interrupted mid-recipe.
“Mrs. Rubay?”
“Yes.” The reply was guarded, then brightened. “And whatever you’re selling, I’m really glad you called. I just declared bankruptcy and can’t find anyone who’ll take my checks.”
Estelle glanced at Torrez and grinned. “Mrs. Rubay, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Would it be possible to talk with you for a few minutes?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“We’re just outside your address. Is this a good time?”
“Sure. Hang on just a minute. I’m just cutting up my husband, and I don’t want the pieces to blow all over the dining room floor.”
The phone clicked off. “She’s butchering her husband,” Estelle said, and Torrez nodded.
“I’m not surprised.”
In a moment the dead bolt clacked. When the woman opened the door, Estelle realized that she knew Maria Rubay as one of the part-timers who worked at the post office. No doubt Cousin Robert would have dredged up that basic information eventually if pressed hard enough.
“Evening, Maria,” Torrez said. He ducked his head in greeting, both hands firmly in his back pockets.
“I was about to call the police because of all the vagrants standing around out in the middle of the street a little bit ago,” Maria said, and favored them with a warm smile, an expression that illuminated her classic oval face. She looked at Estelle. “You have an awfully nice telephone voice,” she said. “You could be one of those phone solicitors who keeps me such good company in the evening. Come on in.”
“Thank you.”
She held the door for them, looking up as Torrez slipped past her. “You’ve grown another inch or so,” she said, and her cousin actually laughed. “How did a family of runts produce you and your sister,” she added. She shook her head and then waved at the sofa in the living room. “Let’s sit.”
“We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rubay,” Estelle started, but the woman interrupted.
“Maria works just fine. And it’s no bother. I’m glad for the company. You know, I just don’t answer the door after dark. Especially with Luis gone now. I just ignore it.”
“I understand.”
“You want to see what I’m putting together, Bobby?” Before the sheriff could answer, Maria Rubay rose quickly to her feet. “Of course you do. Come into the dining room.”
On the table, a vast sea of family photos lay in no obvious order, with the scissors and glue holding down a pile of scrap. “I’m cutting Luis out of every old photograph I can find.” She leaned over the table and smoothed the large piece of tag board, the surface already a third covered. Luis Rubay’s pleasant face, dominated in more recent photos by his heavy Fu Manchu mustache and stubbly brush cut, gazed up at them in dozens of versions.
“When I’m all done, I’m going to have copies made for the family,” she said. “Nice idea, yes?”
“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. She glanced at the pile of photographic rubble to the left. “He was quite a fisherman, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, and I’m hacking out all the damn fish,” Maria said. “A trout is a trout. Maybe I’ll save one or two, just to make him happy.”
“It looks like he was a happy man, Maria.” And true enough, Luis Rubay’s engaging smile was missing only in one or two candid snaps.
“He was.” She straightened up and took a deep breath. “But you didn’t come to talk about this, I’m sure.” She cast a withering glance at the sheriff. “Although a little visit by Miss Gayle and his nibs here might be a nice thing, once in a while.”
“Actually, Maria, we’re interested in what you may have seen or heard earlier this evening. Right around eight o’clock.”
“Ah,” Maria said. “When the president was talking.”
“I missed that,” Estelle said.
“No, you didn’t,” Maria said. “Yakketty-yak-yak, my fellow Americans.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Didn’t miss a thing.” She smoothed the tag board collage again gently. “This is about all the racing going on outside?”
“We’d be interested in whatever you heard, Maria.” She withdrew the small microcassette recorder from her pocket, and Maria nodded.
“Long, dull evening,” she replied. “I went out to empty the garbage just before the prez came on, and saw the village cops careening around after a kid on a motorcycle. That’s the sum and substance of my evening. I assume there’s been an accident, and that somebody’s been hurt? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“We’d like to know what you saw, Maria,” Estelle said, and Maria smiled at her.
“A fountain of information you are,” she said with a chuckle. “Okay. I went outside, just before eight…that’s when the prez was supposed to start his spiel. I put the trash in the can. There’s a board fence right there, between me and Highland Court, as I’m sure you already know. And it continues around the front corner, too. I heard them first, you know. Before I saw them. Sound like that travels.”
“What did you hear?”
“The two of them. I guess I didn’t notice until I actually saw the headlights and all, coming right down Highland Court toward me. They were both just ripping along.” She beckoned at the two officers. “Step outside. I’ll show you exactly where I was.” Estelle’s heart felt like a large chunk of inert lead sinking down through her innards. She realized that she had been hanging on to a slender hope that she was somehow mistaken, that Maria Rubay would tell them that Perry Kenderman had been stopped on the street, after all, had seen the speeding bike, and taken off in hot pursuit.