She knew that Sheriff Robert Torrez, Captain Eddie Mitchell, the two Toms, and photographer Linda Real had spent most of the day out at the airstrip, combing the area where the three bodies had been found.
Working with them were Lieutenant Mark Adams of the New Mexico State Police and two of his officers, along with Agent Barker Rutledge of the Border Patrol. An area roughly the size of a football field had been meticulously gridded and would be searched and combed foot by foot. Estelle was skeptical that the search would uncover anything-she was convinced that the three victims had arrived by plane, taken a few dozen steps, and been murdered. The killer had then left as unobtrusively as he had arrived-long gone from the country, certainly from the county.
At the same time, the bike race organizers were putting the finishing touches on their first-year project, and no doubt County Manager Leona Spears was in the thick of it. EMTs would follow the cyclists in chase vehicles, and in those sections where a truck or car couldn’t go, organizers had arranged for motorcycle or four-wheeler coverage. There was no way to make a bicycle race entirely safe-that was both the nature of the beast and its attraction for riders. There was a price for carelessness or inattention. But the organizers had a myriad of volunteers to watch the route during the race. If there was a section not covered foot by foot, it would be out on the flat sections of Country Road 14, out on the prairie where the biggest safety threat was an occasional wandering prairie dog or slithering rattlesnake.
And so, with phone near at hand and nana Irma Sedillos, the younger sister of Gayle Sedillos Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, on hand in case Estelle had to be called away, the undersheriff spent a rare Saturday at home.
Well aware that he would be performing in front of a small crowd of family and friends, Francisco worked his practice sessions as diligently as his effervescent personality would allow.
The afternoon was broken by a single phone call. Dr. Alan Perrone announced that preliminary toxicology tests showed that the older male victim had a residual blood alcohol level high enough to measure-in Perrone’s words, the victim would have been “comfortably sauced” when he stepped off the plane.
“Odd to travel that way,” Estelle remarked.
“Maybe he hated flying,” Perrone said. “Or a case of the nerves. Or maybe he’s an alcoholic. Or, or, or…We’ll know more after the full autopsy.”
Knowing that one victim was a drinker got them nowhere, and Estelle shoved the whole affair toward the back of her mind, letting it stew. She had left word with dispatch that she would be unavailable for any calls that evening, unless the world itself came crashing down. The phone stayed mercifully silent, and at 6:30 p.m., they drove to the school as a family, a rare treat.
The acoustics of the Little Theater were as elegant as the gymnasium that the “theater” had once been. A decade before, when the original Posadas High School gym had been declared insufficiently grand for athletic events, the district had built a new facility, leaving the old, open-girdered hulk to be divvied up between the special education and the home economics departments. Somewhere in the planning, the modest theater had been included in the old gymnasium’s renovation.
The metal folding chairs were arranged in a dozen crescent rows, each row including fifteen seats, far more than the modest recital required. A section had been reserved for the sixteen student musicians at front and center.
Estelle snuggled up as close to her husband as she could, her shoulder nestled into his. Sitting on Dr. Guzman’s right, Bill Gastner, former Posadas County sheriff and padrino to the two Guzman boys, was engrossed in quiet conversation with Leona Spears. The large woman had worn one of her most flamboyant muumuus for the occasion.
Estelle tried to relax, but a collection of butterflies danced in her stomach. From where she sat, a few seats to the left of center and five rows back, Estelle could see Francisco’s dark little head bowed in deep conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl whose piano lessons at Mrs. Gracie’s were scheduled immediately after his. Both children ignored the small audience around them. Estelle also recognized Melody Mears, Sergeant Tom Mears’ daughter. Melody was half-kneeling on her chair toward the end of the row, surveying the audience. She caught Estelle’s eye and waved, her smile brilliant. Melody’s parents, Tom and Pat Mears, sat to Estelle’s right and two rows closer to the front.
She could imagine Sheriff Bob Torrez’s growl of impatience at having two of his officers wasting time watching children play music while a multiple homicide remained unsolved.
Although she understood the purpose of having the children sit separated from their families-encouraging dependence on their own hard work, their own music to comfort their preperformance fidgets-Estelle found herself wishing that her son was sitting beside her now. On the short drive to school, Francisco had been his usual loud, excited self. But nervous? It was hard to tell. He had talked about his music, and about Melody’s-and she found it odd now that her son had chosen to sit several seats away from Miss Mears.
Normally, she would have taken an interest in the audience-scanning the faces, watching the whispered conversations as part of an occupational habit. Now, she watched her son-what she could see of the top of his head, that is-and wondered just how much the seven-year-old understood about what the various adults seated behind him expected of him. Did he know how excited they were?
Onstage, Francisco’s piano teacher, Edith Gracie, conferred with the other instructor with whom she had coordinated the evening’s recital-the high school band director. He shrugged helplessly at something the elderly woman said, and Mrs. Gracie took him by the elbow. The conversation continued at the bass end of the grand piano’s keyboard.
“Maybe they’re missing a chord,” Francis said in a conspiratorial whisper. His arms were locked around their younger son, Carlos, and the little boy’s eyes were huge and watchful.
Estelle grimaced. “When I was a senior here,” she said, “a couple of my classmates sprayed foam insulation in the piano before an assembly. That stuff you can buy in aerosol cans? That same piano, I’m sure. That’s how long it’s been around.”
Francis laughed and with Carlos’ hands in his mimed playing a piano. “Thunk, thunk, thunk. Maybe that’s what we need for this gig. Some insulation.” He nodded at the program. “At least no one is torturing a violin tonight.”
The confab onstage ended with Mrs. Gracie giving a quick, appreciative nod at something her colleague said, and then she walked to the edge of the stage, facing the audience of forty-five people. Estelle glanced at the single-sheet program as the audience hushed. Her son was listed toward the end, followed by Melody Mears and two other more advanced students.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Gracie said solemnly. Her voice was deep and rich, and she smiled affectionately at the row of student musicians for a moment before looking up at the audience. “We have a treat for you tonight, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Mr. Parsons and I are so proud of these young people. Now, some of our musicians are seasoned veterans. Jaycee Sandoval and I were discussing this very thing earlier today, and tonight marks her twentieth recital since she started playing piano when she was five years old. Can you imagine that?” She beamed at the older student sitting toward the end of the row whose name appeared last on the program.
“It would also be appropriate to announce at this time that Jaycee has earned the prestigious Marks Scholarship for musical studies at the University of New Mexico.” Mrs. Gracie waited until the applause had stopped.