I nodded.
“I thought I owned that.” His eyes went back to the screen.
“That’s not really the problem, Mr. Apodaca. Mr. Willit is concerned with the circumstances of your wife’s death-with how she died.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He called you?”
Florencio Apodaca raised a hand in limp dismissal, then pushed himself out of the chair with surprising speed. “Let’s have some wine.” He left the television blaring, then returned in a few minutes with two small juice glasses filled to the brim with red wine. He handed one to me, his hands steadier than mine.
“He’d like to know how his mother died,” I said.
“She’s not his mother,” Florencio muttered, and he sat down with a loud cracking of knee joints. “But that’s a long story. You know my oldest son?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s a cabinetmaker down in Cruces.” Florencio sipped his wine. I wet my lips, just enough to discover that the stuff tasted just as rank as it smelled. I held the glass carefully in both hands, resting my forearms on my knees. “He makes all kinds of things.”
“I see.” I didn’t, and added, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Willit?”
“The last time I saw him was…” He paused and looked up at the ceiling, examining the tin sheets with the pressed floral pattern. “I don’t know. It was some time ago.”
“When exactly did your wife pass away, Mr. Apodaca?” Chief Eduardo Martinez’s incident report might include one version of that information, but I hadn’t read the paperwork yet. The chief had interviewed the old man shortly after the grave was discovered, but I doubted that his report would tell me much more than I was learning from the old man’s wandering memory.
He concentrated on the television, now featuring a commercial for a fancy pickup truck that leapt dunes, sand cascading from the undercarriage.
When the advertisement ended, he said, “You know, my oldest son has himself a nice shop.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Was it just this past week or so that she died?”
“You could ask the police,” he said. “They were here.”
“I suppose.” I set the glass of wine on a small table. “Mr. Willit said he was coming to try to straighten all this out. We’ll have to wait and see what he wants to do.”
Florencio frowned and gazed at me appraisingly. I didn’t know what he could actually see through the crusted spectacles, but he took his time.
“There’s nothing for him here.”
“He just wants to know about his mother, that’s all. You can understand how he might want to do that.”
“She’s gone.”
“True enough,” I said.
“Where do you work?”
“For the county,” I said.
“They’re the ones who want to put a water line along the road over there?”
“That’s the village.”
“What do you mean, ‘the village’?”
“Village, county-they’re two different things. It’s the village that wants to put in the line.”
“Do I have to let them?”
“It’s my property, Mr. Apodaca. And no, I don’t have to let them.”
“How much you want for it?”
“It’s not for sale. If you want me to deed you a small plot of land that includes your wife’s grave, I’ll be happy to consider doing that.”
He nodded and took a sip of wine. “I thought I owned that.”
“I’m afraid not. But the village can put a kink in the water line, for all I care. The only thing I ask is that you clear up the circumstances of your wife’s passing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to know how she died, and when. The circumstances.”
“The circumstances.” He said every syllable as if it were a separate word.
“Yes. And I think that Stanley Willit has the right to know, too. It’s only a courtesy.”
Florencio Apodaca set his half-empty glass down beside mine. “He only wants the money,” he said with surprising venom. “If he causes any trouble, I know a good lawyer.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said.
The old man waved a hand. “That’s how these things go.” He turned back to the television. “She passed on. That’s all he needs to know. That’s all anyone needs to know. It’s none of their business.”
I sighed. I could see, highlighted by the pulsing light from the television, the muscles in his cheeks flexing. He was digging in, ready to play the mule. I stood up carefully, making sure I didn’t topple the old rocker.
“I’m going to run along,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You want some more wine, you come over. Anytime you like.” He got up and hobbled to the television and stood there, one hand on the corner of the cabinet. He extended his hand and his grasp was surprisingly strong. “You tell Stanley Willit not to waste his time bothering me.”
“I’ll do that.”
As I moved toward the door, he said, “Who did you say you worked for?”
“The county.”
He nodded as if it were all crystal-clear. “The county.”
I made my way back to the Blazer, careful not to trip over the uneven bricks of his walk.
“Success?” Camille asked as I slid behind the wheel.
I grinned. “His oldest son owns a shop in Las Cruces.”
Camille looked blank. “And…”
I shrugged. “That part was free. The rest of it, he’s going to ignore until it goes away.”
“And is it?”
“I don’t think so. By the time it’s all over, my guess is that Stanley Willit is going to wish he’d stayed in peaceful, logical California.”
Chapter 16
When we returned home, I inspected the temporary plywood replacement for my bathroom window and decided to call Andy Sanchez the next morning to have a new frame installed. That took ten minutes. I was tired but not the least bit sleepy, and I finally settled in my leather chair in the living room.
Camille settled on the sofa next to the television, the prime minister’s life near at hand.
“I was thinking of going back on Saturday,” she said.
I nodded. “That gives us four more days.” I grinned. “I’m going to miss having you around.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m guessing that Mark will have reached his limit of endurance.” I tried to picture Camille’s husband, the quiet, sober Mark Stratton, arriving home from his dental office each day to a home managed by three teenagers. “Did you have a chance to call Sam Preston this afternoon?”
“No. Well, that’s not true. I had the chance, but I didn’t do it. You never want a real estate agent to think that you’re too eager, you know.”
“Your mind’s still made up, though?”
I nodded. “This old hacienda is too big for me. And I don’t see any of you guys moving back to Posadas anytime soon to take it off my hands.” Camille kept her expression politely blank, but I added, “Or ever, for that matter. And I really like the Gonzales place. So…” I shrugged. “You want some coffee?”
“No thanks. Will you take me over there tomorrow? I don’t remember it at all. I can’t picture it.”
“Sure,” I said. I started to push myself out of the chair, then stopped. “In fact, there are a couple of photos of the house right on that table by your elbow.”
“I saw those earlier,” she said. “It’s neat.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but the two Polaroid photos were typical real estate efforts, making the house look tiny, flat, and unattractive. “You want me to get that?”
“Get what?”
“The door.” She was up and halfway down the front hallway before I had gotten to my feet.
I saw the look on Sheriff Martin Holman’s face from twenty paces away, despite the harsh shadows from the light over the door and the single high bulb in the foyer. He would have made a lousy poker player.
“Good news?” I asked, and waved him inside. He advanced a few paces into the foyer and took off his tan Stetson while he exchanged pleasantries with Camille-altogether too pleasant on his part, I thought. And for a fleeting moment, I found myself wondering what Martin Holman would look like in faded, torn blue jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt, with his hair cut in a burdock buzz. Or even just without a tie.