“No, he wasn’t.”
Estelle could picture the chubby, moonfaced Tony Acosta, sweat pouring off in rivers, pushing his bike up the steep switchbacks of County Road 43 while Zeigler and Page rode patient circles around him.
Page restless on the uncomfortable chair, rose and squared his shoulders. “I would think you’d be investigating the obvious, Sheriff.”
“And what would that be?”
“The Acostas impress me as a noisy, rambunctious family. Their kids are scrappy. I mean, more than a few times Kevin and I heard rows over there, one kid taking out his aggressions on another, or Fred beating on Juanita, or some other round-robin. And the kids all have some pretty squirrelly friends, too. If Kevin came home for a minute during lunch and walked into the middle of something…”
“Was Kevin concerned about the general behavior next door?” Estelle asked.
Page hesitated. “I think that sometimes he was. He saw Mrs. Acosta-Juanita-wallop one of the little girls with the handle of a garden rake once. I mean, that’s not some little willow switch. And a couple of times, the two boys got into a real bloody fistfight, and their parents didn’t do anything to break it up. Kevin thought we should do something, but I sure wasn’t going to step into the middle of that hornet’s nest. If mom and dad don’t mind the kids beating each other to a pulp, then I guess it’s none of my business. It bothered Kevin, though. He told me once that the cops were going to respond to the Acostas’ address sometime, and someone was going out of there in a body bag.”
“They’ve come close,” Estelle said.
Chapter Twelve
By the time Estelle walked through the front door of the Guzman home on South Twelfth Street, the village had settled into late-night silence. Eddie Mitchell was still a passenger in a patrol car somewhere to the north, speeding down the Rio Grande valley. In the basement darkroom of the Public Safety Building, Linda Real had begun processing reel after reel of film. The “two Toms,” Mears and Pasquale, were organizing and processing what little physical evidence had been combed from the Acosta property.
Both Sheriff Torrez and Deputy Jackie Taber prowled the county, and Estelle listened to the muted, cryptic radio traffic as she drove home. And even as she juggled her house keys, Estelle turned and glanced up and down the street, as if hoping that she might catch a glimpse of Kevin Zeigler’s trim, dapper figure hustling from one island of light to another under the streetlights.
Before she could slide the key into the lock, she heard the door rattle. Her husband pulled the door open, bowing slightly as he held it for her, then pushed it closed behind her. She set her briefcase down and snuggled into his bear hug. They stood silently for a long time. Francis rested his chin on top of Estelle’s head and she swayed gently to the rhythm of his pulse.
“Nasty day,” he whispered after a moment.
“And we don’t know where it’s going, except nastier,” Estelle murmured.
“You’re going to squeeze in a little sleep, I hope.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She snuggled her face tighter against his chest.
“Are you ready for some good news?” he asked.
“Con los brazos abiertos,” Estelle whispered fervently. She didn’t move.
“You missed Tia Sofia’s call a few minutes ago.”
“Ah,” Estelle groaned. “Missing her call isn’t good news, oso.” She thumped her forehead against his chest. “She’s coming, I hope?”
“If it’s convenient,” Francis said.
“It’s always convenient,” Estelle said. She took a half-step back and looped her arms around her husband’s neck. “And I need to talk to her.” Francis looked quizzical, an expression that deepened when she added, “I found out about one of my husband’s family genes today.”
“Mine?”
“Oh, si. At least, that’s the easy explanation, since I don’t know where mine have been. I had a parent conference with Myra Delgado, this morning.” She unlatched from around his neck. “Los hijos are asleep?”
“Sure.” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the dining room. “Everyone with any sense is asleep. I sent Irma home around nine o’clock, when I got here. So…what did Myra have to say?”
“Un momentito.” Estelle bent down to retrieve her briefcase. She tossed it into the nearest chair, at the same time toeing off her sturdy, black shoes. The hallway leading to the boys’ bedroom sank into darkness. A year or so before, both Francisco and little Carlos had decided that a night-light gave monsters too much advantage.
The door to their bedroom was ajar, and Estelle eased it open. Enough light from the kitchen and living room filtered in that she could see the two small forms, Carlos on the left and Francisco on the right. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to night sounds. Francisco shifted, a little rustle of pillow and blanket. Estelle slipped over to his bedside and sat down on the edge. She was sure her eldest son was awake…he slept like a wolf pup, deep in his dreams for a few minutes, then awake to shift and rearrange position before drifting off again.
Estelle knew she didn’t have to worry about waking Carlos. The four-year-old slept the night through, polishing his imitation of a sandbag.
“Hey, hijo, ” she whispered. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out Francisco’s right hand, and she tickled his palm with her index finger. His hand instantly became a spider, darting a few inches away and pausing, two fingers stretched out and testing the air. Estelle smiled and reached up to stroke black hair out of his eyes. “Did you have a good day?”
He nodded. “Melody said you were at school,” he said with just a hint of accusatory whine.
She left her hand on his forehead, her thumb lightly tracing the arch of his thick eyebrows. “Yes, I was.”
“She’s funny.”
“Melody? That’s for sure, hijo.” Featherlight, the tips of her fingers felt the outline of his skull and, with a twinge, she realized clearly what had nagged at her for most of the day-even while the larger share of her consciousness was concentrating on Carmen Acosta and Kevin Zeigler. As clearly as she understood her son in the larger sense, she knew that she had no idea what was going on inside that small, six-year-old head.
“Tia Sofia is coming,” the little boy whispered, as excited as if he were announcing an imminent Christmas.
“I hope so, hijo.” One of Estelle’s favorite photographs was framed on the fireplace mantel in the living room. It showed three figures, sharply side lit by morning sun and dwarfed by the yawning vista before them. Sofia Tournal, her husband’s aunt, sat on the very edge of a rock ledge jutting out from the rim of Cat Mesa, north of Posadas. On either side of her square, strong form stood the two boys, Francisco leaning an elbow on Sofia’s left shoulder, Carlos encircled by her right arm.
That day had been quiet, the wind nothing but a whisper, just enough to sweep away the heat as the sun warmed the jumbled limestone. Estelle had snapped the picture, then returned to the van to reload the camera. She’d lingered there, loath to interrupt the quiet moments between Sofia and the boys.
“I thought that maybe Sofia might help us find just the right piano,” Estelle said. Francisco didn’t reply, but she watched his hands curl together under his chin and felt the slight hunch of his shoulders. She knew that body language well, that curling inward with delight lest a hand too quickly stretched out might destroy the moment of anticipation. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes.”
She smiled at the one-word response. “I think it would be nice to have a piano,” she said. She covered both of his hands in hers. After a moment she bent down and brushed his cheek with her lips, lingering for a moment by his left ear. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” she whispered.