Five minutes later, Estelle tossed the last sock into the pile. She snapped the cuff of her latex glove in frustration. “Nothing.” Two pairs of Zeigler’s habitual light chinos had been in the laundry, and neither showed any soil-much less tears, cuts, or stains. And other than a few wrinkles, the shirts appeared unworn-except for the aroma of cologne, concentrated by the confines of the hamper.
“That would have been too simple,” Estelle said with a sigh. She moved the hamper closer to the bed and swept the dirty clothes back in.
Jackie took the hamper back to the bathroom. “We wanted to show you one other thing,” she said.
“Okay. And Linda-the slide boxes? If you have the time, we need to check every one. I know it’s probably wasted effort, but you never know. He might have something hidden away that’ll tell us something.”
“I think we’re seeing the answer,” Jackie said. “This is a house that the owner left first thing in the morning to go to work. Everything’s put away, everything’s in order. I don’t think Kevin Zeigler’s been here since yesterday morning.” She nodded back toward the bathroom. “If he came home to change his clothes, the offending article would be in the hamper.”
“The ‘offending article,’” Linda repeated. “I like that.”
“Or in the trash, if he just flat ruined it. But we checked. There’s nothing other than coffee grounds and an empty orange juice container in the trash under the sink. There’s no article of clothing in the garbage can in the pantry. And there’s nothing in the wheel-out at the side of the house.” Jackie shrugged. “I mean, the guy’s just too neat for his own good.”
“He could have dropped things off at the cleaners,” Linda offered.
“Maybe. And a telephone call will answer that,” Jackie said. She beckoned Estelle to follow her out to the living room. “What the hell,” she said. “As long as we’re going through everything right down to the man’s underwear, you might as well see this. I don’t know if it makes any difference or not.”
She halted near the center of the bookcase and pointed at a Rolodex containing several hundred photos. The one facing the living room was a color portrait of William Page and Kevin Zeigler astraddle their racing bikes, holding a large trophy between them. Zeigler was wearing a helmet, Page was not.
“Family and friends,” Jackie said, turning the large black knob on the side to flip pictures by. She stopped at another that showed the Acostas’ backyard, smoke billowing from a large barbecue grill. Freddy grinned at the camera, a bottle of beer in one hand, large chrome fork in the other. Behind him, Juanita and Carmen were working at the picnic table. “Lots of things like this.” She spun the dial some more. “And a few like this.”
The photo that stopped was one of Mauro and Tony. Tony, the chubby one, was twisted, one foot high behind him as he stabbed at the Hacky Sack. Mauro was obviously bellowing something, either curses or encouragement.
“The interesting thing is that this is taken through the window in Kevin’s office,” Jackie said. “You can see by the background that’s where he had to be standing. This”-and she touched the right side of the photo-“is a blur from the window frame. That’s what Linda thinks.”
“Okay,” Estelle said.
Jackie flipped another picture. This one was just of Mauro, standing with one hand on the back of his head and the other on his hip, looking thoughtfully at the ground. He was wearing low-slung, ragged denim cutoffs and nothing else, the planes of his chiseled torso catching the light and shadows.
“A bit on the provocative side,” Jackie said.
Estelle sighed. “Okay, again.”
“I just thought you should know,” Jackie said.
“I do know,” Estelle said a little more testily than she would have liked. “I know that William Page and Kevin are gay, I know they’re living together as time allows. And I guess this doesn’t surprise me much either. I mean”-and she flipped the Rolodex several photos beyond Mauro to an innocuous print taken from the top of Cat Mesa-“I could argue that if Carmen looked like a starlet and liked to pose half naked in the backyard, Kevin would probably have snapped her picture, too, assuming that his interests were directed that way…which they don’t appear to be. Find me a basement full of whips and chains and black leathers, and then I’ll admit that maybe it makes a difference.”
Jackie nodded silently.
“We need two things, Jackie. We need Carmen Acosta to pop out of her coma by some miracle of modern medicine and tell us who fractured her skull and then drove a hat pin through her head. And then we need to find Kevin Zeigler, alive and well.”
“I don’t think we’re headed for either one.”
“And I wish you weren’t right,” Estelle said.
Chapter Twenty
From the Marenses’ driveway, Estelle could look down Candelaria Court and see the front door of each house. Seven families lived on the little street. It now appeared that only Carmen Acosta and Doris Marens had been home between noon and two PM on Tuesday.
According to deputies, Mrs. Marens had chosen not to accompany her husband to Las Cruces that Tuesday on a book-buying trip. Now home with whatever treasures he’d found, it was Clarence Marens who answered the door. Angular and badly bent from arthritis, Marens had to cock his head slightly to look at Estelle. A thick pair of glasses hung precariously from his pocket.
“Good morning, Dr. Marens,” Estelle said. She saw the flash of confusion on Marens’ wrinkled face, even though the man must have been accustomed to random greetings from college students who knew him, but who had never graced his classes. “I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman, sir. May I come in for a moment?”
“Well, of course you can,” Marens replied. He fumbled with the tricky storm-door lock.
“Is your wife home, sir?”
“Yes,” he said judiciously. “I think she is. Whom should I say is calling?”
“I’m with the Sheriff’s Department, sir.”
“Oh, certainly.” His gaze dropped to the seven-point gold badge on her belt, visible except when her jacket was zipped. “Just a moment while I go fetch her, young lady.” He started to turn away, then stopped abruptly, beckoning Estelle into the house. “Forgive me. Come in, come in.”
He pushed at the storm door awkwardly, and Estelle caught the latch. “Where are my manners.” He beamed metallically as Estelle entered. “Doe!” he called to his wife. “Doe, you have company.” Marens’ hands wavered as if he were unsure that Estelle would remain upright if he stepped away. “I’ll tell her you’re here. I think she’s sewing.”
The living room to Estelle’s left was small, neat, overfurnished, and unused. An old-fashioned paper roller blind was drawn down over the window that faced toward neighbors to the east, and through which Zeigler’s home would be clearly visible. Lacy drapes softened the drab effect of the blind. The larger window that directly faced the street was shaded by a modern vertical shade, the sort with narrow slats that both rotated and could be drawn to the side. The slats were currently drawn closed, but rotated so that the view down the street was not obscured.
“How about some coffee?” Estelle turned to see Clarence Marens poised in the archway leading to the kitchen.
“No thanks, sir.”
“Tuna sandwich?” He glanced at his watch.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I was just about to make us a snack, and I’d be absolutely delighted to make a third.”
“I appreciate the offer, sir. But no, thank you.”
“Homemade bread.” He persisted, and his eyes twinkled when Estelle laughed. “We have one of those bread machines. You ever tried one of those?”
“They’re wonderful, sir.”
“I doubt that she’s interested in tuna fish sandwiches or bread machines,” his wife called. In a moment she bustled into the living room, a small, neat package of energy. Her smile of greeting immediately turned into a frown. “I talked to the young man yesterday. I’m trying to recall his name…”