Maybe that was what the young lady was thinking. Her perusal took her over toward the window, and she stopped by a small bulletin board that was papered with notices and 3 x 5 cards advertising the stuff of shooters and hunters. Some of the notices and ads had been tacked there for so long that they imitated parchment.
Leaving the deputy to pack up his show-and-tell and make peace with George Payton, I joined Estelle as she jotted notes from the bulletin board.
“What’s up?”
“I was wondering what a three-gun match was, sir.”
“That would be something where they use three guns,” I said helpfully, and saw the aging flyer that held her interest. I turned so that the old man could hear me. “George, how does a three-gun match work?”
“All sorts of ways,” he said.
“Like how? Name me one, you cantankerous old bastard.”
He chuckled with delight. “Maybe long range silhouette with the heavy guns, then the short range course with center-fire pistol cartridges and a third round with.22s. Usually like that.”
“By long range, what do you mean?”
“Starts at fifty meters, with the last stage out at two hundred.”
“That doesn’t seem so far.”
George huffed. “You try it.”
“Scopes?”
“Hell, no.”
“Can I use a rest. Off a table for support?”
“Nope. You just stand there and wobble.”
“Ah. So a competitor needs a variety of hardware,” I said more to Estelle than anyone else. She had placed a finger on the flyer, and tapped gently. I leaned closer so I could read the faded print. “Huh.” She turned her little notebook so I could see the page she’d been working on, and I nodded.
“George, does Mark Arnett still run these matches? He’s the contact person, or what? I’m talking about this three-gun they had down in Cruces last…” I moved a couple notices to one side to reveal the upper right corner of the flyer and the date. “Last summer.”
“I’m not sure whether he does or not,” George replied unconvincingly. He knew damn well what Mark Arnett did. He turned toward the door as it opened to allow in a grizzled fellow as huge as two of me, along with an over-weight golden retriever who instantly made a dogline for Estelle, tail flailing.
“Dodie, get back here,” the fellow snapped. The dog ignored him, and the man grinned at Estelle. “He sure likes the ladies. Just ignore him.”
She did, and after a quick snuffle of her pants suit trousers, Dodie gave up.
“Mark would be the best one to check with about future events, though?” I asked, and George looked sideways at me.
“I guess maybe.”
Wilbur Haines, never bashful about becoming part of the conversation, thrust out a huge paw toward me.
“Mornin’, Sheriff. Hey, Bobby.” He pumped hands all around, including Estelle’s. I introduced them, and Wilbur’s beard bounced as he first nodded and then shook his head. The dog tried to wag himself into a big yellow ball.
“Wilbur, you’d know,” George said.
“What would I know?”
“Does Mark Arnett still run the silhouette matches? I know he did for a while, there.”
“Well, sure he does,” Wilbur said, and found himself a chair. I knew Wilbur was one of the morning Geezer Group that gathered at the shop. In another few minutes, two or three more old guys would arrive at George’s shop, and the coffee and donuts and tall tales would start to fly. “Sure he does.” Wilbur looked up at me. “You lookin’ to get into competition, Sheriff?”
“Been thinking about it,” I said. “The idea appeals to me.”
Wilbur nodded eagerly. “You bet. Arnett’s the one to talk to on that, all right. He generally posts the schedules.” He twisted and peered across the small room at the bulletin board, then grinned again at Estelle. “You can arrest me anytime, little lady.” His impression of John Wayne lacked something, but another thought jarred Wilbur loose from his ogling of the little lady. “He’s been trying to pry some land loose from the county for a decent shooting range, you know.”
“I knew there was some interest along those lines.”
“Oh, sure. Other than the gravel pit, which isn’t open all the time, there’s no good, close place for us to go. I mean out on the prairie, or up on the mesa, sure, but nothing real close or real handy. We’ve been figuring the county has lots of space out north of the airport there, against the mesa. Hell, that’s only seven miles from town.”
“Seems logical,” I said. Deputy Torrez was already at the door, and I didn’t want to linger. “You gents have a good day,” I said. George muttered something, and Wilbur grabbed the dog’s collar. We made our exit before the chitchat locked us in for another hour. I promised George that I’d take him to lunch in the near future, but his “Yeah, yeah” didn’t sound as if he was holding his breath waiting.
“You want me to go talk with Arnett?” Torrez said as the door closed behind me.
“No. Let me.” I stood in the sun for a moment, letting it bathe my pulse back down where it belonged. My car’s passenger door closed, and I saw Estelle was already settled in.
“Good eyes,” I said as I slid into the seat. She’d opened a door for us that I’d missed.
“I didn’t know if Mark Arnett was related to Mo,” she said, scanning her notes.
“Oh, he’s related, all right. Indeed he is. Mark, Mo, and little sister Maureen. Mom is Mindy.” I thumped the steering wheel as the LTD cranked into life. “Cute, eh?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Talking to Mark Arnett would have involved a trip to Deming, where he was estimating a roofing job. Mom Mindy was in her office at the rectory of St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and I wasn’t in the mood to confront her. She ran the church with an iron fist, leaving Father Vince Carey free to save souls. Mindy knew everything about church operations, about every member of the congregation. But first, I was interested in what young Mo had to say without mom hovering over his shoulder.
We cruised around the block to north Fourth. No one appeared to be home at the Arnett casa, and I parked just around the corner on Blaine with a clear view of Zipoli’s place and the various neighbors, including Jim Raught’s address. A short stroll took me across the street, and I knocked on front, side, and back doors of the Arnett’s trim little place. Nothing. The garage was closed and dark.
As I recrossed the street, I was close enough to the office to use my handheld on car-to-car, where there were fewer eavesdroppers. “PCS, three ten.”
“Go ahead, three ten.”
“PCS, find out what vehicles are registered to Mark or Mindy Arnett.” I spelled the last name for him and provided the address. Deputy Robert Torrez’s oldest sister was manager of the local Department of Motor Vehicle office, and on several occasions she had made investigations a whole lot easier than us trying to stumble through the computer’s innards to find what we wanted.
“Ten four, three ten.”
Back in the car, I dug the Posadas phone book out of the center console. Rebecca Pasquale was listed at 313 South Tenth, just a few blocks south of Bustos, the main east-west drag through the village. She worked at one of the dry cleaning establishments, and her ex-husband Manny tried his best in Las Cruces. The last time I had seen Manny, he was selling newspapers at one of the major intersections near the plaza.
But it was the Pasquales’ cycle-riding son, Thomas, who interested me at the moment.
I’d like to claim that brilliant detective work located the kid. Not so. We were rolling across the old irrigation bridge, headed for the intersection of Twelfth and Bustos, when I saw the bike rider. Dressed in bumble bee Spandex, with helmet low over his eyes and hi-tech riding glasses reflecting the sun, the kid blew through the stop sign, weaved around first one car and then another, and sprinted across Bustos, taking the right hand lane westward. I was sure he didn’t see us-by that time, my county car had drifted into the shade of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant.