“Is that your car, Padrino? ” Francisco asked, suddenly regaining his composure.
“Nope. It’s my son’s.”
“Let me show you,” the youngster said, but the command was directed at Tadd.
“Okay, show me,” my grandson said, and Francisco slithered down to the floor and shot out the door, little brother trying his best to keep up. As he headed outside, Tadd nodded at Estelle and me. “About ten minutes or so,” he said.
“He means until dinner is ready, and he’s dead serious,” I said.
Estelle watched him go. “He looks a lot like his grandmother,” she said.
“Yes he does, fortunately for him. His older brother is the tank of that generation. Kendal’s in school, though, and couldn’t break away.”
She squeezed my arm and we headed outside. Dr. Francis Guzman was standing with his arms folded across his chest a pace or two behind the Corvette, regarding it critically while Buddy explained its various merits. He turned at our approach, a broad smile splitting his handsome face. He had clipped his full beard short, and it seemed more liberally sprinkled with gray than half a year before.
“There he is,” the physician said. “Bill, you’re looking better than ever.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to do.” I laughed. “You guys look like Minnesota is treating you well.” He clasped my hand, putting his left over both in a two-handed grip. I couldn’t help noticing the heavy, ridged scar that ran across the back of his left hand, from between his index and second finger, diagonally back to his wrist, behind the base of his thumb.
“Most of the time,” he said lightly. “Hijo,” he snapped. Francisco was in the process of reaching toward the recessed door handle of the sports car, and his hand stopped as if it had encountered an invisible wall.
“He can’t hurt it,” Buddy said.
“You’d be amazed,” Francis replied. Tadd scooped the kid up and with the other hand deftly opened the car door. He sat in the driver’s seat, Francisco on his lap. Carlos advanced, uncertain, stopping at his father’s leg. From inside the car, I heard the nonstop jabbering of the excited older youngster, all of it in Spanish. My grandson’s response was just as rapid-fire, just as incomprehensible.
“I didn’t know until thirty seconds ago that Tadd spoke Spanish,” I said to Buddy.
“He’d better,” my son said. “I think he’s been studying it in school since about second grade. And the crowd he hangs out with is mostly bilingual, so…” He shrugged.
“Friends for life,” Estelle said, watching Francisco read each number on the tachometer to Tadd.
“Unless we’re late for lunch. And then it’s all over.”
“We ate a little on the plane, and then Francis stopped in Cruces so the kids could tank up,” she said. “Don’t go to any special trouble.”
“No trouble for me,” I said. “It turns out the grandkid is a surprise. He loves to cook. That’s all he’s been doing, all day. You’re all starving, believe me.”
Between the five adults and two rambunctious kids, we managed to unload the Guzmans’ rental van in one trip. I couldn’t tell if my big, quiet old adobe was cringing at the ruckus, or was content with the sudden injection of uproar.
When Francisco and Carlos saw their room, they stood in flat-footed amazement. And in silence too, for about ten seconds. After a couple of minutes, Tadd excused himself to return to the kitchen, and Francisco immediately detached himself, following along behind my grandson, one of the larger teddy bears in tow.
As soon as everyone knew where their digs were, I left Estelle and her husband alone, and joined my son and grandson in the kitchen.
“What do you need?” I asked Tadd.
“Are you going to take me for a ride, Padrino? ” Francisco asked before Tadd had a chance to answer.
“Not now, kid,” I said. “Maybe later you can talk Nieto here into it.”
“Not,” Buddy said quickly.
“They can sit on my lap while Dad drives, maybe,” Tadd said. He looked down at Francisco. “Right now I need you to uncover the grill outside,” he said. “You think you can do that?”
“I’ll show ’em,” Buddy said, not quite as eager as Tadd to trust the process to the whirlwind.
When the door closed behind them, I repeated my question. Tadd paused, regarding the cobbler on the cooling rack as if all the answers lay there.
“Do you think it’s warm enough for the kids to be outside?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Then I think I’ll eat outside with them. That way maybe you guys can have a little peace and quiet. Okay?”
I reached up and squeezed the back of my grandson’s neck. “You’re a good kid,” I said. Estelle stepped into the kitchen, and the instant that her shoes hit the saltillo tile, the phone rang.
I picked up the receiver. “Gastner.”
“Sir,” Bob Torrez said, “my sister’s back. She said that three would be fine. I asked her to meet us at her office.”
I groaned inwardly and looked up at the clock. “Roberto, the Guzmans just now walked in the door. My grandson’s got a dinner prepared for ’em and we’re just about to sit down. If I walk out now, he’ll shoot me.”
“No problem, sir.” He sounded more formal than need be. I wasn’t sure if he meant that shooting me was no problem.
“Here’s the plan,” I said. “Why don’t you and Gayle come over. When we’re done here, then we’ll go chat with your sister. Call her and tell her that we’ll be a little late. Maybe four, four-thirty. Something like that.” I glanced at Estelle and raised an eyebrow. She nodded.
“You’re sure?” Torrez asked.
“Of course I’m sure. My grandson has cooked enough for about eighteen people. We’d all like to see you guys.”
“Right now?”
“This very moment.” Torrez lived four minutes away, up on MacArthur. “See you in a bit.” I hung up before he had second thoughts. “He and Gayle are on their way,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind. He needs to relax for a little while, if he can. Have you heard from Gayle much?”
“We keep in touch,” Estelle said. “More from Bobby, though. I just got an E-mail from him this morning, before we left for the airport. He must have been up half the night.”
“Is that right?” What I really wanted to ask was what the E-mail had been about, but I knew it was none of my business.
As usual, my thought process was as transparent as glass to Estelle. “He’s worried that his sister might be involved in something?”
“There’s that possibility,” I said.
“Apparently you were going to talk to her this afternoon. Bob asked if I’d consider going along-assuming that we made it here on time.”
“We can’t ask you to do that,” I said, not meaning a word of it and trying to keep the surprise off my face. I found myself more amused than irritated that my undersheriff had extended the invitation to Estelle long before I’d suggested it-and then not told me that he’d done so. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“Doing a little business makes it all tax deductible,” Estelle said. “It sounds kind of interesting. And I know Bobby’s worried. He tries not to sound like it, but I know he is.”
I let out a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you,” I said. “But he beat me to it. It seems like kind of a dirty trick to hornswoggle you into working the minute you set foot in the county.”
“It’s not really work,” she said, and favored me with one of her rare smiles. “And we’re going to eat first, anyway.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
I knew that Robert Torrez wanted to talk to his sister about the bogus license, but when I’d first broached the idea earlier, I thought that I’d made myself clear-that just I, or maybe Estelle and I if she was so inclined, would go chat with Melinda. We’d keep it informal, unthreatening-but we would keep big brother out of it.