“How’s the esteemed undersheriff this fine morning?” He grinned at that, a nice smile that lit up his pleasant features. Probably going on sixty-five, maybe a little older, he was a fine-looking senior citizen-fit, lightly tanned skin that somehow had avoided those nasty age spots that give us away, pleasant strong features, and a melodic voice just on the upside of baritone.
“I hope we didn’t catch you in the middle of something,” I said.
He made a face. “Just a cold shower, undersheriff. The nice thing about showers is that they’re easily interrupted.” He mimed turning off a water valve, then squiggled the other ear with the towel, peering at Estelle. “And who might you be?”
“Estelle Reyes,” my companion said, and let it go at that.
“Well, Estelle Reyes, I’m Jim Raught. My pleasure.” The screen door remained between us and a handshake. He looked back at me. “This is about yesterday, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course I do. How about if you come inside out of the hot sun.” He snapped the lock button on the heavy screen and swung it open. “I happen to have some world class ice tea. May I tempt you?” Holding the storm door with one hand, he shook my hand with the other, a damp, cool grip.
“You may indeed,” I replied promptly. He raised an eyebrow at Estelle, who evidently had more self-discipline than I did. She accepted the handshake, but not the offer of tea.
“No, thank you, sir.”
“You’re sure? You don’t know what you’re missing. Traces of mint, just a hint of rock sugar, sun brewed. Thin shaved ice that brings the glass to a proper sweat.” He laughed, a deep, pleasant burble. “Listen to me.”
He waved a hand toward the living room, off to the left. “Take a seat wherever. I’ll just be a moment.”
I didn’t take a seat, as attractive as the heavy wood and leather furniture was. Instead, I ambled after Raught, which took only a couple of steps before I was standing in the kitchen archway, the living room behind my back. I watched as he selected two tall amber-colored glasses from the upper cabinet to the right of the fridge. Nice cabinets, too, the clear-pine doors and framework a soft honey-custom, not off the shelf from a box store. Mexican floral designs curled on the doors and around the window frames, hand done by someone with obvious talent.
“Really a terrible thing,” Raught said when the ice maker was finished with its automated crushing. He glanced back at me. “Next door, I mean. Hell of a thing.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Are you making progress?” He set the glass he was holding down on the tiled counter and held up a hand. “I know…I know. I don’t get to ask about an ongoing investigation.” He shot me that warm grin again. “Well, I can ask. That’s about as far as it goes.”
“As it happens, we are making some progress,” I said. “Some.”
“Well, that’s good.” The ice snapped and popped as the brilliantly clear tea flowed over it, and with his left hand, Raught reached out and selected a small spray of mint from a colander by the sink. “Ah…perfect.”
I accepted the glass and congratulated myself on accepting bribes so easily. After all, the perfect glass of iced tea is to be cherished. He watched as I took a tentative sip.
“Need sugar?”
“No, sir. This is perfect.” I watched as he fixed his own, and then he gestured toward the living room, where Estelle waited. She was standing in front of the fireplace, looking at a spectacular triple retablo displayed over the heavily carved mantle. One saint stood in each panel, but the background behind them flowed from one panel to the next, a floral garden of tendrils and blossoms and unlikely birds, all executed in powerful, vibrant colors.
“El Jardin do los Tres Santos,” Estelle said.
“Easy for you to say.” I stepped onto the tiled hearth for a closer look. I was no fan or patron of religious art, but even I could see that this piece was exquisite. Each retablo-each saint in his garden background-was eighteen inches tall and a foot wide, the entire triptych framed as a single work of art, touched here and there with what appeared to be gold inlay.
“San Mateo.” She indicated the figure on the left, whose expression suggested that he was stepping on something sharp. “San Juan in the middle, and,” she leaned forward a bit, cocking her head. “San Ignacio.” The other two saints didn’t look especially content, either.
“Now, I’m impressed,” Raught said.
I stepped off the hearth onto the saltillo tile of the living room floor, watching where I put my feet and keeping a tight grasp on the sweating tea glass. The floor tile was polished to resemble old leather, a deep rich brown touched with a scatter of finely woven rugs. Stepping through Jim Raught’s front door was like stepping into the heart of downtown Mexico, from the tile floors to the nichos in the walls and spread of spectacular artwork both secular and religious, right up to the hand-adzed ceiling beams.
“Quite a collection,” I said.
“Perhaps beyond a passion,” Raught laughed. “Closer to obsession.”
“You’ve lived in Mexico?”
“Two years,” he said. “I worked for Honda in Ohio for a lot of years, and then did a gig down in Mexico for them, setting up one of the new parts plants. That job didn’t last long enough by any means, but I make frequent trips. Just whenever I can.” He grinned. “Which, now that I’m retired, is whenever I please.”
I turned a slow, full circle, taking in the Mexican sanctuary. “I gotta ask. How did Posadas reach out and grab you?”
Raught laughed. “Ever lived through an Ohio winter?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“I thought about retiring to Mexico, but you know, when you get used to the infrastructure this country enjoys, and then you look at theirs…some things are hard to give up.” He turned to Estelle. “You probably know what I mean. You could be courting a job with the federales, but you chose the esteemed Posadas County Sheriff’s Department instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
He regarded her for a moment over the top of his glass. “Not long in this country, am I right?”
Estelle took her time. “Long enough to feel at home, sir.”
“Green card or naturalized?” The question was blunt, but offered with such off-hand, non-judgmental curiosity that I let it go, wondering how Estelle Reyes would react.
“I don’t think that my citizenship status is germane at the moment.” She said it without bark or umbrage, just a gentle statement of fact. Raught’s left hand fluttered up to his chest, as if his heart might be considering a little fibrillation.
“No, no,” he said, holding out a reassuring hand. “I don’t mean to pry, young lady. I just get so curious about this world and what wags it. That’s all. I mean no offense. Here thirty miles south of us, we have that line in the sand to make our lives interesting. I meant no offense.”
“None taken, sir.”
“But look,” Raught said, “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my life at Marysville, or to be grilled by me about what’s new at the Sheriff’s Department.” He kept talking even as he walked into the kitchen, returning immediately with the glass tea jar. I held out my glass for a refill, he followed with his own, and returned the jug to the kitchen. “What do you need to know?”
I took another long sip of the tea. “As you know, Larry Zipoli was killed yesterday while he was out working on one of the county roads,” I said. “At this stage, we’re developing a profile of the incident, learning what we can about Mr. Zipoli and his activities leading up to the incident.”
“I see.” His tone said, “More, more.”
“It’s standard procedure to talk with neighbors, to talk with whomever we can.”
“I understand that. What can I tell you?”
“Actually, as the crow flies, you’re only a quarter mile or so from the scene,” I said. “Maybe a touch more than that. I’d be interested to know if you heard any gunshots yesterday.”