“Yep. Did Estelle get the message about her mother?”
“Oh yes,” Erma said, the “yes” lilting with her heavy Mexican accent. “She came in the door about five minutes ago, and she left right away. I think they sent an ambulance to Tres Santos to bring her mother up here.”
“That would make sense. Look, if they need anything, will you let me know?”
“I sure will. But I think everything will be all right.”
As all right as being eighty-eight with a busted hip in a foreign country can be, I thought.
“Don’t let the kids wear you down,” I said, and Erma giggled.
After I hung up, I looked outside at the glowering sky. Slate gray and jagged-edged, the clouds scudded in from the northwest. It wasn’t going to be a pretty night for a three-year-old to be stuck out on a New Mexican mountainside.
I cleaned myself up, and by the time I walked back out into the kitchen, I felt almost human again. Camille was busy at the kitchen counter, fussing with a long plastic box. She glanced up at me and smiled.
“Would you like me to fix a nice salad here instead of us going outside again?” she asked.
“I need green chili,” I said. “And there’s nothing in the house anyway.” I pointed at the box. “What’s that thing for?”
She straightened up and tilted the gadget toward me and I squinted through my bifocals. I grunted with indifference when I saw that it was one of those compartmented pillboxes where the drugs can be arranged by the day, plenty of little cubicles to serve the needs of even the most spaced-out, helpless patient.
“Put the meds in here and it’s easier to remember what’s what,” she said. “Just do it by the week.”
“Oh, gee,” I said. “Are you ready to go?”
She filled the last two compartments with a rainbow, then handed me a bottle of long blue-and-white concoctions. “You’re supposed to take these with dinner,” she said.
“Absolutely,” I said, and tucked the bottle into my jacket pocket. We made it out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and across the foyer. I ushered Camille outside, and I was just closing the front door behind us when the telephone rang again.
“Do you want me to get that?” Camille asked.
“No,” I said. “Estelle and Francis went down to Mexico, and Erma has everything under control. Five gets you ten it’s just the sheriff. He has this mistaken impression that I want to be useful again.” I turned the lock. “Let’s eat.”
The Don Juan de Onate restaurant was across town, on Twelfth Street. It had been a favored haunt of mine for the better part of twenty-five years, still owned by Rosie and Fernando Aragon, their son Miguel, and his pudgy wife, Arleen.
Exactly what connection Don Juan had had in the early seventeenth century to the dust and sagebrush that would eventually become modern Posadas County was a puzzle to even the most ardent historians. Perhaps the explorer had walked through the place on his way north. Perhaps it was just because Rosie and Fernando liked the sound of his name. I didn’t care.
We settled into a fake leather-upholstered booth, and with a perverse comfort I noticed that they hadn’t fixed the broken springs in the seat. I rested my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands.
“Tired?” Camille asked.
“Just really glad to be home.”
“I bet.”
A waitress arrived whom I didn’t know, and I tilted my head back so I could focus on her name tag. “JanaLynn,” I said. “When did you join the Aragon forces?”
“Sir?”
She looked puzzled and I smiled, taking the menu she offered but leaving it closed. “How long have you worked here?”
“Oh,” she said, and ducked her head. “I started last week.”
“Well, welcome aboard.” I folded my hands on top of the red menu with Don Juan and his skinny horse on the padded cover. “I’d like the burrito grande plate, smothered in green. And coffee.”
“Salad with that, sir?”
“No thanks.”
“A salad would be good for you, Dad,” Camille said, then grinned at the withering glance I shot at her. She continued the grin up to the waitress. “He forgot to tell you to hold the cheese,” she said.
A burrito without cheese is sort of like a chocolate ice cream soda without ice cream, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. Camille mused through the menu, finally ordering a respectable dinner herself.
When the chips and salsa and water arrived, we both sat back, me contented, Camille no doubt plotting. Outside, the parking lot was a black polished sheen of chilly moisture. Not a single star poked through the overcast. I shook my head and sighed. “A bad night,” I said.
“There’s not much anyone can do, is there? For the child, I mean.”
“Not at night, no. He’s too young to build a fire to attract attention. I don’t know. Maybe the National Guard helicopters could look for him after dark with spotlights if the weather was decent, but not in this soup. They’d be tangled in the trees in nothing flat. Search and Rescue might work the dogs all night. There’s that possibility.”
“I don’t see how such a little toddler can just wander off like that without being noticed,” Camille said.
I grunted and sipped the water. “The ‘without being noticed’ part happens all the time, sweetheart.” Movement caught my eye and I looked out the window again. A county car had pulled into the parking lot, and an instant later, it was joined by a dark brown Buick.
“Our peace and quiet is over,” I said. JanaLynn arrived with dinner, and I concentrated on inhaling at least a healthy sampler before the sheriff found us.
Chapter 6
“Do they know you’re here, do you suppose?” Camille asked. I watched Sheriff Martin Holman walk across the parking lot toward the restaurant’s entrance, head down, hands in his pockets. At five ten, the same height as I am when standing up straight, he was a head shorter than Sgt. Robert Torrez, who walked beside him.
Torrez was explaining something to the sheriff, and with Holman, it could have been something as simple as the time of day. The sheriff nodded, then nodded again, then shook his head.
“He knows all right,” I said. “He would never eat here, given any kind of choice. The country club is more his style.”
And sure enough, within the minute, JanaLynn appeared around the salad bar’s divider, followed by Holman and the towering sergeant.
Martin Holman pasted on his widest smile, stuck out both hands, and shook mine like a long-lost brother. I didn’t bother trying to get up by scrubbing my belly through my burrito. “Back in the real world,” he said. He waved a hand at my dinner. “And this figures. A safe bet that it’s the exact opposite of what the doctor ordered.”
I shrugged and had the courtesy not to say something nasty about his preference for embalmed chicken and green beans. Instead, I said, “Sheriff, this is my eldest daughter, Camille. From Flint, Michigan. I think you two knew each other, back in the dark ages.”
Martin pumped her hand, too, maybe for just a little too long. Camille’s smile was radiant. “I’ll be darned,” she said, as if I’d never talked to her about the current sheriff of Posadas County. “You aren’t that scruffy little kid that sat in front of me in Mrs. Dutcher’s American history class.”
“Not anymore,” Holman said. He feigned mock hurt. “And I don’t think I was ever scruffy.”
I glanced down at his polished boots, still mint after a day up on the mountains, and the sharp crease of his gabardine trousers. Even the raindrop circles on his leather jacket were placed just so. “I don’t think so, either,” I said. “Join us.” I pushed myself over closer to the wall, taking my burrito with me. “Robert, it’s good to see you. Camille, this is Bob Torrez, the department’s senior patrol sergeant.”
Torrez nodded at me, then at Camille. He was handsome enough that he probably could have landed a Hollywood job, but instead he had settled into place, keeping tabs on his eight younger brothers and sisters. I’d suspected for years that the long-term arm’s-length love of his life was our senior dispatcher, Gayle Sedillos. Maybe the two of them figured there was no hurry, since they saw each other as regularly as shift work.