“I wish she’d gotten a photo of Mrs. Cole hugging her son’s jacket,” I said, remembering my conversation with Estelle long before the sun came up that morning. “That would have been good for a tear or two.”
“Dad,” Camille said with considerable exasperation. “The newspaper’s got a right to cover events in its own way.”
“I know they do.” That didn’t mean I had to like it. I folded the paper and put it down, concentrating on my breakfast. I had slept fashionably late, and I was hungry enough to eat several dozen fake eggs.
I still smarted just a little from discovering that I was plodding along many steps behind Estelle. She had known about the big RV all along, even as I was stalking about in the dead of night, jotting ridiculous little notes under the beam of a flashlight.
“Do you want to help me do a little surveying today?” I asked.
Camille held her coffee cup delicately in both hands and looked at me over the rim. “Surveying what?”
“I’d like to do a little tramping out back here, with the horses in mind, and see if the whole thing will really work. I was thinking that if there wasn’t room, I could just buy some pasturage somewhere, but then I decided that wasn’t a good idea. The whole idea is to have the horses close at hand, not half a county away.”
“I’d be happy to do that,” Camille said.
We both would have been happy to do that, except the damn telephone rang. Maybe there was a higher purpose in that. As long as I was answering a telephone call, I was alive and kicking. An old friend of mine who owned a gun and tackle shop contended that the reason he’d lived so long with only half a functioning heart was that he always had something coming mail order. How could he kick off when there was something exciting arriving in the mail?
I glanced at my watch, saw it was 9:15, and said as I picked up the receiver, “It’s got to be Marty Holman.”
“It is Marty Holman,” the voice said, and I grinned at Camille.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Stanley Willit is sitting here in my office. He’s got a bunch of paperwork that looks really interesting. I think you should come down.”
“I can’t wait,” I said.
“I thought you’d say that,” Holman said.
“Give me ten minutes,” I said, and hung up. “We’ll survey another time. The weird stepson just hit town.”
Chapter 26
I don’t know what I expected Stanley Willit to look like, but I certainly wouldn’t have picked out of a crowd the man sitting in Sheriff Martin Holman’s office. Perhaps his real parents had been from Lebanon, or Syria, or Iran.
Stanley Willit turned black eyes to regard me as I walked into the office. He got up and extended a hand.
“Ah, Undersheriff Gantner,” he said. “I’m Stanley Willit. We spoke on the telephone.” His handshake was limp and fleeting.
“Gastner. Yes, we did.”
He smiled and his black mustache split, showing perfectly even white teeth. His face was square, with a broad, prominent jaw and high forehead. By noon, he’d need another shave and a fresh turban.
“I was just telling the sheriff that I’ve been able to assemble considerable documentation,” Willit said. His voice didn’t fit his appearance, sounding more like a prissy little accountant.
“Documentation of what?” I asked, and sat down in the chair at the end of Holman’s desk.
“First of all, I have the letters written to me by Gloria Apodaca, in which she makes reference to threats from her husband, and allegations that he was beginning to make moves that might result in her inability to access her own finances.”
He started to reach for a file folder that he had placed on Holman’s desk, but I waved a hand, impressed as hell with that “inability to access her own finances.” He made the two elderly folks sound like a couple of multinational corporations.
“Wait, Mr. Willit. Let’s cut to the chase on this thing and not get mired in paperwork. I decided, after I gave the matter some thought, that it’s best for all parties if Mrs. Apodaca’s remains are moved from my property.”
“So you’ve already instituted litigation to that effect?” Willit’s eyes narrowed like a ferret’s, and I decided I didn’t like him very much.
“No, I didn’t institute litigation. That would be ridiculous. She was buried on my property without my knowledge or consent. The best place for her, I would think, is in Our Lady of Sorrows Cemetery.”
Willit shifted in his chair, the folder in his lap. He really wanted to open it and use all that ammunition. The cover flapped tentatively. “It’s my understanding that he plans some sort of litigation should you make any efforts to exhume my stepmother’s body and move it elsewhere.”
I laughed, deciding that Stanley Willit loved the sound of the word litigation. Martin Holman leaned back in his chair and said, gazing up at the ceiling, “That’s a case I’d love to hear. ‘I buried my wife on your property, and if you move her, I’ll sue.’” He looked at me and chuckled.
“Let him litigate,” I said. “I agree with the sheriff.”
“Perhaps the correct strategy is to take the first step in this and file a suit demanding that the body be moved,” Willit said, rubbing his chin.
I laughed again. “No, Mr. Willit. That’s not the correct strategy. There’s no point in any lawyers making pocket change out of this ridiculous situation. Florencio Apodaca is a senile old man who’s confused. That’s the extent of it.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said. “This is what I plan to do. This afternoon, I’m going to hire Chris Lucero and his backhoe. He will gently and skillfully open the grave on my property. I don’t know how deeply your stepmother is buried. I plan to ask Gene Salazar to have a hearse swing by to transport Mrs. Apodaca over to Our Lady of Sorrows, where Chris will dig another grave with his backhoe. Your stepmother will rest in peace over there. Someone can even arrange a memorial service with Father Gilbert, I’m sure.”
I paused to take a deep breath. “If Florencio has any objections, he can hoot and holler all he wants. If he’s got a better idea that makes sense, he can say so.”
“A better idea? Like what?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’d prefer having her planted in his own backyard. I’d have to check the ordinance to see if his lot is big enough, but if it is…” I shrugged again.
Willit’s olive cheeks showed signs of high blood pressure. “I don’t know why everyone is so casual here, but I really think an autopsy should be done.”
“Since we don’t know how she died, one probably should be,” Martin Holman said easily, enjoying one of his brief excursions into law. “Are you planning to swear out a criminal complaint against your father?”
“He’s not my father.”
“Stepfather, I mean.”
“I haven’t decided yet.
Unfortunately, a criminal complaint didn’t require any litigation, so I could understand Stanley’s hesitation.
“That would make an autopsy almost automatic,” Holman continued. “Judge Lester Hobart signs an order to that effect, and that’s it. Period. Takes five minutes, especially if we request it.”
“Will you?”
“What, request an autopsy?” I shrugged again and looked at Holman.
He shrugged back. “Technically, it’s not our case, Mr. Willit. Chief Martinez, the village chief, conducted the investigation. As I showed you in his report, the death was listed as natural causes and the case closed. But that’s not to say the judge can’t order it reopened.”
Stanley Willit deflated a bit with satisfaction. “How long will all this take?”
“I’ll make the telephone calls now, if that’s soon enough,” I said. “I can’t guarantee the autopsy schedule. If they do it here, at the hospital’s morgue, it won’t take long. If the body has to be shipped to the medical examiner’s in Las Cruces, it will take longer.”
Stanley Willit clutched the folder to his chest and stood up. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with solid broad shoulders and no taper at the waist. “Than that’s what we should do,” he said. “I would like to witness the exhumation personally.”