“A family relative,” I said. “I wasn’t aware of any other kind.”
“I thought you might appreciate that.”
“Your original question is probably valid, Frank. Is Robert heading the investigation? No, he’s not. I am, at least until Tuesday when election returns are counted. And when Robert wins the election, he’ll be in charge. And I, thank God, will be a civilian again, with nothing better to do than sit around and write crazy letters to the newspaper.”
Dayan laughed good-naturedly. “I look forward to those, Bill.”
“I bet you do. But look…I appreciate hearing about Loony Leona. It’s nice to be forewarned, just in case. And I have a question for you, too.”
“Shoot.”
“In your travels around town, have you heard anything about Cliff Larson resigning as livestock inspector for this area?”
A short pause followed, then Dayan said, “I hadn’t heard that, no. It doesn’t surprise me, though. I know he has family somewhere back east with an illness, and I know for a fact that he’s ill. So it wouldn’t surprise me if he called it quits. Why?”
I didn’t ask Dayan who his sources were, but it didn’t matter. He and Judge Lester Hobart belonged to the same service clubs, where talk was rampant. Cliff Larson looked like death warmed over-maybe because he was. And if that was the case, he wasn’t asking me to take over the livestock inspector’s job for just a week or two…just as Judge Lester Hobart had implied.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “He looks and sounds like hell. But he asked if I’d help him with the job after the election for a week or two.”
“A week or two? Maybe that was just to make it sound like a smaller favor than it is, Sheriff.”
“You’re not the only one saying that, Frank. What’s going on?”
He hesitated again, and for an instant I wondered if I was going to regret talking to the newspaper publisher. I had trusted him before with sensitive stories, and beyond that, even though he’d lived in Posadas now for nine years, I knew that he was still considered an outsider-except during community fundraisers, of course. “Maybe you and I should have lunch sometime,” he said.
“Why not just tell me right now?” I said with more impatience than I would have liked.
“Some things I’d rather say in person, Bill,” Dayan said. “This is kinda interesting. You and I need to talk.”
“I can’t today, except maybe later this evening. How about tomorrow?”
“That will work, I think.” He laughed. “Do I need to ask where?”
“No, you don’t. And how about around two in the afternoon? That’ll give the lunch crowd time to get out of the way.”
“I’ll be there. Call me if something comes up so you can’t make it.”
“Sure enough.” I hung up and took a deep breath. Tadd was cutting strips of thin dough and lacing them across the top of a sea of apple and pineapple in one of my old glass baking pans. “Is that cobbler?”
He nodded. “Cool beans, eh?”
“Cool beans,” I said. “You’re hired.”
He grinned. “What’s a livestock inspector do, anyway?”
“All kinds of things,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were tuned in.” He shot a quick glance at me to see if I was really as irritated as I sounded. I wasn’t, and added, “New Mexico has a pretty comprehensive set of laws that govern how livestock is handled, Tadd. Anytime a rancher wants to move cattle off his own property, for instance, he’s got to have a travel permit. That involves an inspection of the cattle, a count, all that kind of thing.” I waved a hand in dismissal. “It goes on and on from there.”
“You’re going to do that after you retire?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
He stood back and regarded the finished creation. “You sure find interesting things to do, Grandpa.”
“Thank you.” I bent down so I could direct my bifocals at the intricate crust. “And when do we get to eat this?”
“Thirty minutes from now,” Tadd said, and glanced at the clock. “Timing is everything.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The tornado hit at 2:32 PM The only warning was Buddy’s calm remark, “I think we have company.” At the moment, I was en route to the bathroom. Thankfully, I knew what was coming, and didn’t put off my trip to the head.
I emerged from the bathroom and felt the draft from the front door, stepped into the hallway, and heard a loud “Padrino!” screeched at the top of Francisco Guzman’s four-year-old lungs. He’d been standing outside with everyone else, shuffling leaves with his little shoes and wondering who the hell Buddy was. Then he caught sight of me. The youngster cleared the front steps in a bound and hurtled down the hall.
I dropped to one knee and braced myself, taking the attack on the protective bulk of my girth. Francisco hooked his bony little arms around my neck and locked on. His raven-black hair had that musty smell that marks most little kids too long on the road, and his forehead bashed my glasses painfully against the bridge of my nose.
“Whoa,keeed, ” I bellowed, and bear-hugged the little squirt. With considerable effort I stood up, taking Francisco with me. A smaller version of him appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. Carlos wasn’t quite sure who I was, his dim memories probably blended even further by seeing my son first-a thirty-year younger someone whom he couldn’t quite remember anyway.
“Carlos,” I shouted at him, and his eyes widened some more as he backed out of the door, both hands coming up toward his mouth.
“Hijo, muy bien,” a soft voice behind him said. “Es su padrino.” Estelle Reyes-Guzman appeared in the doorway, bent down, and scooped up Carlos as if he were weightless. With a deft hoist, she draped him over her left shoulder like a little bag of grain, holding on to his ankles as he let out a screech of delight.
“Hey, there,” I said. “You want this one too?” Francisco giggled and locked his hands tighter.
“You can have him, Padrino,” Estelle said. She frowned at her oldest son, and all that accomplished was to drive his face harder into my neck, threatening to cut off my already over worked carotid.
I grinned, silly with delight. Estelle and I managed a hug with the two squirming dervishes more or less entwined. “God, it’s good to see you guys. It seems like about ten years,” I said.
“That would make this hijo old enough to drive, and that’s a scary thought.” Estelle laughed. “Six months is long enough.”
“You bet it is.”
She heaved a great sigh and stepped back a pace, giving her room to bend over and deposit Carlos on the floor. He latched on to her left leg and regarded me, black eyes just like his mother.
“Did you bring Francis with you, or leave him behind?” I asked.
“Afuera,” Francisco announced too close to my ear, and pointed. “Who is that?” he added, and transferred the point over my left shoulder. I twisted at the waist and saw my grandson approaching.
“This is my grandson,” I said. “Tadd, I don’t know if you’ve ever met the Guzman clan,” I said.
“No, but heard lots,” Tadd said. He stepped up, clamped his hands on either side of Francisco’s rib cage, and curled his lips in mock threat. “En especial acerca de usted, chiquito.” For once, at least for a few seconds, Francisco was speechless. Tadd released his hold, grinned at the kid, and tousled his hair, then switched his attention to Estelle. “You must be Estelle,” he said, and held out a hand.
She reached past the squirming arms of the two kids and took his hand. Her heavy black eyebrows twitched in amusement as she watched Francisco’s expression run the gamut, finally settling on wide-eyed astonishment.
“El Nieto,” she said to the child. “Nieto del Padrino.” She gave Tadd’s hand a final pump and smiled at him. “It’s nice to meet you after all this time.” She turned and looked back out the door. “My husband has been captivated by your son’s Corvette. We may never get him inside.”