Linda Real must have scrunched into the corner by the fridge to take the portrait of George’s kitchen caught in the first photo. I examined it for a long moment, then accepted the second one she offered, this time a close-up of the glass casserole dish. It was the same photo I’d looked at on the computer screen.
“I don’t like this,” I muttered.
Linda’s photos were in flawless focus, once I’d figured out which portion of my trifocals to use. In the photo of the casserole, the garnish of tomatoes and lettuce couldn’t hide the little pieces of diced green chile. After a long moment of scrutiny, I looked up at Estelle. “Diced, not sliced,” I said. “Fernando said he uses the canned chile for sauce base. He got a little carried away this time. Or Aileen.”
I looked in the rearview mirror and watched my little spotted prisoner in the SUV behind us. His tongue dangled so far out of his mouth that I thought it might have become unhooked at the back. “So,” I said, and Estelle tapped the photos on the steering wheel.
“I need to go to Albuquerque,” she said quietly.
“And what can you do up there that Tony Abeyta can’t?” I said. “One question’s been answered,” and I nodded toward the office. “We know who delivered lunch. If there was a question about the chile, I think we have our answer. Pride is a powerful motivator here. Chefs, you know.” I turned to rest my hip. “He says he never uses canned chile, but obviously he does. Are we hung up on that because there’s nothing else?” I asked. My cell phone buzzed and I fished it out of my pocket. “Hold on a minute,” I said into it without bothering to find out who it might be, then pressed it against my thigh to give us some privacy as I waited for Estelle’s reply.
“Do you think it was a heart attack?”
“I do, but then again, I’m no doctor, sweetheart. Now, maybe it wasn’t your usual garden variety coronary that warns a guy to change his lifestyle. It obviously was one of those massive infarcts that drops a person in his tracks. If you remember my performance a few years ago, you’ll recall that I managed what, a step and a half before I fell on my face? Now, I admit there are a few things here that need to be explained. You start talking about allergies and reactions, and it’s a whole new game.”
“And that’s what’s bothering me,” Estelle sighed. “I’m not saying that I think something is wrong, padrino. I’m just saying that something happened that I don’t understand. If Alan Perrone says that George suffered an allergic reaction to something fierce enough to trigger a heart attack, then I want to know what the cause of that reaction was. That’s all.”
“Fair enough. If it was in the food, the lab will be able to tell us,” I said. “Or a spider bite, or anything like that.”
“Your phone, sir,” Estelle said, and I realized that I’d forgotten all about it.
“Gastner,” I said into the little black gadget, surprised I wasn’t talking to empty ether.
“Bill, I’m comin’ up to the exit, and wondered where you’re at,” Herb Torrance said. “You got a minute?”
“Sure do. I have a critter in custody here for you. How about the motel right there at the exit ramp?”
“If that works for you,” Herb said. “I’m comin’ up on it right now.”
“Then give me five minutes.”
“Don’t forget dinner,” Estelle said when I snapped the phone closed. “We’ll see what we know.”
“I’m not likely to forget. Starve, maybe.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell Tony exactly what I’m looking for.” Her dark face broke into a wide smile and she nodded toward the center mirror. “Look at this.”
I turned and saw that Socks was now standing with front paws on the dash board, face against the glass, tongue dripping rivers. His eyes and ears were locked on us as if he’d been eavesdropping on the phone call.
“Okay, then,” I said, and laughed. “I need to get him back to Herb before he leaves his marker all over my cab.” I turned back to Estelle. “And if you happen to catch sight of young Mister Gabaldon in the next few minutes, give me a call.”
I struggled out of the car and turned, one hand on the roof and one on the door. “There’s a simple answer to all of this,” I said. “That’s the way these things work.”
“Nos vemos,” Estelle said.
As I drove south through town, Socks could sense change in the air. He couldn’t sit still, and as I pulled into the parking lot of the American Owned, American Operated Posadas Inn near the Interstate exchange, he started to huff little whimpers. The Torrances’ blue Chrysler was parked in the center of an empty parking lot. Socks recognized it, I suppose, since every nerve and muscle in his compact little body started to twang. Herb stepped out of the car and I thought the dog was going through the window. I made sure the short rope was secure before I opened my door, and Socks used me as a springboard, scrambling down and heading for Herb. The rancher said something and the dog dropped as if he’d been shot, adoring eyes locked on the Herb’s face.
“He and I were headed out to dinner.” I handed the rancher the end of the lead rope. “I promised him something to eat.”
“Don’t need that,” Herb said. He popped off the rope, gestured with one hand and the dog shot through the Chrysler’s open door. “I owe you something for the permit,” he said, and I consulted my paperwork, finding the receipt I’d already made out in his name.
“Fair and square,” I said, taking the money he offered and tucking it in the small bank bag. “Dale’s coming home tomorrow?”
“Suppose so, maybe,” Herb sighed. “Hell of a deal. Just about the last thing we need right now. Last thing he needs. If that kid didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all, seems like.” He surveyed the empty parking lot. “I’d best get home and see what Pat’s got to say for himself.”
“Let me know,” I said.
“Damnedest thing, “ the rancher said. “Thanks for takin’ care of the damn dog,” He slid down into the sedan’s low seat, pushing the heeler away from his lap.
“You bet.” I didn’t tack on the customary “any time.”
Chapter Thirteen
The two beasts were busy at the kitchen table when I arrived at the Guzmans’ modest home on Twelfth Street. So engaged that they didn’t hear me drive up, their preoccupation gave me a tactical edge. The oldest boy, Francisco, just five and already having his own struggles with kindergarten, appeared to be coloring a large map of the United States.
Even at his tender age, he’d had some experience with geography after living in various parts of New Mexico and Minnesota, but why a kindergarten student needed geography studies beyond his own sandbox was a mystery to me. His younger brother Carlos, mercifully spared the harness of school, was coloring an identical map, and the states would probably go to war over the new boundaries his clenched hand was inflicting.
Both boys abandoned their art when they saw me peering through the front screen door. It wasn’t that I was interested in them, mind you. The aroma of something in the oven had curled outside to my tender nose.
“Padrino!” they shouted in unison, diving away from the kitchen table amid a welter of scattered Crayons. They charged the door, and I opened it quickly to save the screen, dropping to one knee and using my generous belly to bumper them back inside.
Dr. Francis Guzman came to my rescue. Knowing just where and what to grab, he spun both little boys under his arms like two bags of sand. “Back in your cages,” he commanded amid the cackles, screeches, and whatever it is that little kids babble faster than old ears can hear. I heaved myself back to my feet.
“Has your day improved any?” I saw Francis’ gaze flick over my features in a quick physical. He had stuck plenty of needles in me over the years, and tried to convince me to control this and that ailment with a vast pharmacopoeia that I generally ignored. He argued gently but in vain about my life-style. I knew his question was more than just polite gab.