The judge scoffed. “That’s a given, Bill. If Leona Spears wins the sheriff’s race in Posadas County, it’ll be because she’s the only one who voted.”
“I hope that’s true. For his sake, I’d like to see a landslide.”
He laughed. “He’ll get it. Now who’s on the short list?”
“He hasn’t shown it to me,” I said. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.” And it was almost the whole truth.
“I’ve heard some interesting rumors,” the judge said.
I took a deep breath. “Well, I tell you, Judge. Consider the source for each one. Unless you hear it from Robert himself, it ain’t worth much.”
“Well…” he said, turning coy. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”
Judge Lester Hobart was a staunch Republican, and the only candidate in his party had pulled out of the race in late summer. That left Torrez as an Independent running against the loony Leona, the embarrassment of the Democrats. I could understand the judge’s desire to bring at least part of the department under the party wing. I didn’t envy the taciturn Torrez the politics he might have to play to work smoothly and productively with the Republican-controlled county commission.
“Is what Cliff Larson tells me true?” Hobart quickly added.
“About?”
“You and the livestock inspector’s job.”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“You’ve decided to take it?”
“Until Cliff comes back. a couple of weeks. Sure. Why not?”
“Did he tell you the rest of it?”
I frowned. “The rest of what? About his parents, you mean?”
“No. None of that. About why he wants to step down from the job.”
“He didn’t say specifically that he did. He told me that he wants a break to take care of family matters.”
Hobart chuckled that “I know more than you know” laugh. “Sure enough.” He cleared his throat, changing leads. “Well, see you Tuesday, if not before.”
“I’ll be at the Torrance hearing tomorrow morning,” I said. “What’s on Tuesday?”
Hobart hesitated, then muttered something I didn’t catch, and said, “Well, I figured I’d catch up with you one way or another around the ballot boxes. It’s going to be a long day.”
When I hung up, I sat for a few minutes, doodling mindless circles with a pencil on my clean desk pad. Politics was one of my personal irritations, partial explanation of why, in thirty-plus years, I’d never run for the sheriff’s post. I had the distinct feeling that Judge Lester Hobart was playing a political game with me. I didn’t like the feeling.
“What the hell,” I said to no one in particular. I wrote FRANK DAYAN in heavy block letters, and scribbled a circle around the newspaper publisher’s name. If anyone knew which way the political winds were blowing, it would be him.
Chapter Thirty-two
I drove home just as the sun was cracking the horizon. We’d be first in line to sample Sunday breakfast at the Don Juan if I could pry my son and grandson out of the sack. I opened the front door and stopped short as an assault of aromas flooded out of the old house.
The place was accustomed to the fragrance of fresh coffee at any hour of the day or night-that was the staple fuel that kept my system going. But I didn’t cook, despite the pleas from my housekeeper. Every once in a while she’d leave something, usually a casserole of some sort, neatly packaged on my kitchen counter in the vain hope that I’d hack out a piece and nuke it for a snack.
What she didn’t realize, in her own sweet, innocent way, was that sitting alone at my kitchen counter to eat a meal was the most dismal way I could imagine to spend my time. I saw enough of myself during the day without wallowing in me at mealtimes. I liked to eat on someone else’s dishes, with the food served bubbling hot by someone else-and that someone else preferably wearing a nice smile with no personal complications that I was expected to solve.
And so the aroma of breakfast in my own home jolted me to a halt. Coffee, bacon, a host of other things. I advanced cautiously, because I could see Buddy sitting in my large leather recliner in the living room, reading a section of the Albuquerque Sunday paper. That meant someone else was tending the burners, and the only other someone else in the house was my grandson.
Buddy looked up, saw me, and grinned. “Hey there.”
“Good morning,” I said. “I was going to take you out to breakfast, but it smells like someone beat me to it.” Tadd stuck his head around the corner.
“Neat,” he said. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Do you have time to eat?”
“I certainly do.” I walked into the kitchen, thrust my hands in my pockets, and surveyed the battleground. “And by the way, I don’t think that works.” I nodded at the old electric waffle iron sitting on the counter. The single idiot light that indicated preheat was dark, and I stepped over to it. From several steps away, I could feel the hot cast iron.
“I think it’s ready,” Tadd said, and opened the top. “One of the wires came off the contact in back,” he said. “I stuck it back on. It works fine.”
“It looks like my timing is impeccable,” I said, leaning over so that I could see the wires where they vanished into the chrome housing at the back of the waffle iron. “Where did you come by this interest?” I straightened up and moved to one side, watching as Tadd ladled the waffle batter onto the iron’s steaming surface.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with typical teenage vagueness.
“Tell him about Mrs. Hooper,” Buddy said from the living room.
“Well, yeah, her,” Tadd said, and closed the cover of the waffle iron. “She teaches home ec and foods and stuff. I took Foods I and II, and this year, I’m working in the Hospitality Suite.”
“And what’s that?”
He shrugged. “The school restaurant. We serve lunch three days a week. It’s kind of a big deal. Cloth napkins, fancy silverware, waiters and waitresses and stuff. The whole bit. It’s a fund-raiser, too. Most of the faculty eat there. A lot of people from town, too.”
I watched the kid move around my kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life. I calculated backward and decided this was the third time Tadd had set foot in my house. The first time, he’d been on all fours as his principle mode of locomotion, and during his second visit, he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.
“You can eat eggs, can’t you?” he asked, pausing in midstride from counter to refrigerator.
“I don’t have any,” I said, but he opened the door and took out a carton anyway.
“We did a little shopping,” Buddy said.
“I guess you did. And yes, I can and do eat eggs. And waffles. And anything else you know how to make.”
The breakfast progressed from there, served with perfect timing and a flair for presentation-green chile, cheese, and onion omelets, waffles and all the trimmings, along with what looked like a full pound of perfectly done bacon. He even knew how to con the drip machine into making hot, rich black coffee.
I did more than sample, too. I practically ate myself into a stupor, which amused and pleased my grandson no end. Finally, I put my fork down and leaned back, savoring a comforting sip of coffee.
“Amazing,” I said to Tadd. “And thank you.”
Buddy grinned. “We thought we’d keep him,” he said.
“Are you planning on doing this for a living?” I asked.
“Errrrr,” the kid imitated a game-show penalty buzzer. “Not.”
“I’m surprised,” I said. “I would have guessed this is where your interests lie.”
Tadd managed an expression that said interests were pretty much classified as a bother, but then reconsidered. “It’s a good way to impress the chicks, though,” he said.
“I suppose it is,” I said.
“I saw this movie once,” he said. “This guy, I forget who it was, made this really elaborate gourmet dinner for this girl he wanted to impress and stuff? I remember thinking at the time, ‘Hey, it’d be neat to know how to do all that.’” He shrugged. “And Mrs. Hooper makes it fun, so…” He pushed his chair back, arose, and returned with the coffeepot.