Estelle cocked her head, regarding Prescott with interest. “Mr. Waddell said that you had done some of the grading on that road cut up the mesa.”
Prescott took his time lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, I done that.”
“Is that your machine over beyond the corral?”
He pivoted and looked across the paddock. The yellow road grader, still bearing the round scar on the door where the county emblem had been stripped before the machine was auctioned as surplus, was parked beside a forlorn box trailer. “Got a bad cylinder. I think it ate a valve or something like that. And I can tell you right now, that’s going to cost a fortune to fix.” He turned back to Estelle. “I’ll get to it. Ain’t needed it, so I ain’t fixed it yet. Get some of this junk sold off, and maybe.”
For a moment they watched the front loader pummel another hulk, this one not much more than a chassis with fire-wall still attached.
“He’s going to finish up here in a few minutes,” Prescott said.
“And then Cam Florek will have work to do,” Gastner said with satisfaction.
“You bet. Look,” and Prescott spread his hands in apology. “I’m sorry I ain’t been much help, but that’s the way it is. I ain’t seen Eddie Johns for years, and I don’t know what the Romero kid was up to…except what I read in the papers, and what my neighbors tell me, and what little I can dig out of Casey. And there ain’t no guarantee they got it right. So things will just sort of sift out.”
“They will indeed,” Gastner agreed emphatically.
“Interesting about that damn cat, though. I woulda liked to have seen that. Gonna have to stop by the school sometime. That’s where it ended up?”
“Yes, sir,” Estelle said. “At least that’s where it probably will end up.” She didn’t add that the skull had been transferred to the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department evidence locker. “The last time you saw Mr. Johns, did you have any occasion to argue with him about anything? Did he seem upset or preoccupied? Like something might be on his mind?”
Prescott laughed softly. “If you’d wanted to know that, you shoulda been around years ago, when I mighta remembered.”
“But you had no cause to argue with him?”
“Don’t guess I did. He liked dealin’ with the Mexicans, and I guess that’s his privilege.”
Estelle nodded, thumbing through her notes, and then looked at Bill Gastner. “Sir, did you have any questions?” Gastner shook his head, still obviously intrigued with the junk loading process. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Hey, you,” a melodious voice said, and they turned to see Christine Prescott walking toward them from the house. Dressed in a simple white western style shirt and tight blue jeans and trainers, she beamed at Bill Gastner, heading directly to him first. As she passed her father, one hand reached out and touched his elbow, a small intimate gesture of affection before she held out both arms and engulfed the former sheriff in a hug.
“How’s my favorite lawman?” Christine asked. It occurred to Estelle that, until this moment, she had only seen Christine Prescott behind the bar in the Broken Spur. The girl’s strawberry-blonde hair, now free of her bartender’s ponytail, was striking in the sunshine. The resemblance to her younger sister was strong.
“Well,” Gastner said, “for an old fat man, I’m doing okay. How’s college?”
“Bizarre,” Christine laughed. “Ma’am, it’s good to see you again.” She held out a hand and shook Estelle’s, her grip strong and lingering. Her expression became serious. “This is all so sad, this whole thing,” she said. “Casey’s a wreck over Freddy.” Her father grunted something, but Christine ignored him. “Do you need to talk to her again?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Estelle responded. “Maybe later.”
“She told me about Butchie,” Christine said. Her amber-green eyes flooded with sympathy. “How horrible. Your son was with him?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s okay?”
“Francisco is fine. Shaken, but fine.”
Christine blinked hard. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for George and Tata right now.”
“A hard time,” Estelle said.
“You let ’em run wild, that’s what you get,” Prescott said ungraciously, and Christine shot him a withering glance.
“I came out to tell you that Cam Florek wants you to call him,” Christine said to her father.
“Now I’m crushed,” Gastner quipped. “I thought you came out to deliver a much needed hug.”
“Oh, I did, I did,” Christine laughed, and she slid her arm through Gastner’s, ready to promenade.
“I got to make that call,” Prescott said, obviously thankful for a handy excuse. “You need anything else from me?”
“Thank you for taking the time, sir.” Estelle watched the rancher stalk off and then turned to Gastner and Christine. “Christine, do you recall a fellow named Eddie Johns?”
“Dad and mom were talking about that earlier,” Christine replied incredulously. “They were saying that somebody’s skeleton was found over on the neighbor’s, and that it might be Eddie Johns?”
“That’s correct.”
“My God. Is that…Freddy’s accident, I mean…are they…”
“We’re not sure,” Estelle said.
“My God.”
“You remember Johns, then?”
“Who doesn’t,” Christine said. “I didn’t like him, and I know daddy didn’t.”
“You remember why not?”
“Well, sure. I mean, I know why I didn’t like him much. Johns was a bully. You know the type. Pushy, loud, my way or the highway.” She glanced at the house as if she didn’t want her father to overhear. “You know what I think? I used to watch Johns, you know. In the saloon. You do that with someone who’s going to cause trouble. And that’s the deal with Eddie Johns. Every time he came into the saloon, I was always half expecting him to get in a tangle with somebody, just because he couldn’t keep his fat mouth shut. He couldn’t just take a beer and drink it and leave. He liked to scare people. He got a kick out of that.”
“He carried a gun from time to time,” Gastner offered.
“Oh, yeah, he carried a gun. I once told Victor that I was going to call the cops, but he always waved it off. It would have been one thing if Johns kept it concealed, but it always seemed important to him that other people know he was armed. Packing, he called it. What a jerk. I mean, I suppose I shouldn’t talk ill of the dead, but that’s what he was…a jerk.”
“Did he ever argue with your father, Christine?” Estelle asked.
“He argued with everybody, sheriff. My dad didn’t like him, and tried his best to ignore him. Johns liked to pick at him, you know. See if he could get a rise out of him.”
“With any success?” Gastner asked.
“My dad’s patient most of the time,” Christine replied grimly. “He drinks too much, but he has a lot on his mind. He just did his best to ignore Mr. Johns. I did too, but sometimes a bartender has to be more of an actress than anything else.”
“To put up with the jerks?”
“That’s exactly it, Bill. Victor doesn’t like to see the paying customers driven away. So we have to pretend sometimes.”
“And you had to do that with Eddie Johns?” Estelle asked.
“Too much,” Christine replied. “Mr. Johns assumed that women were naturally attracted to him. Dream on. He needed to look in the mirror more often and spend some time considering his ‘yuck’ factor. I know that when he was flirting with me, my dad was on a low boil. But he didn’t say anything. He knows I can take care of myself.”
“He just worried a lot,” Gastner added.
“That’s what dads do, right? Now he’s worried about Casey. He didn’t like Freddy Romero very much, but I know he’s sorry Casey has to go through all this.” She smiled faintly. “That’s why I showed up on the doorstep, I guess. I’m sort of the de facto family mediator, and it’s hard to meddle from Las Cruces.”