Before I had a chance to bring the thing into focus, he thumped a portion with his index finger. “This is Herb Torrance’s ranch-actually, let me correct that. This is the portion of Herb’s ranch where his residence is located. See County Road 14 right here?” I nodded, following the thin blue line down to its intersection with the state highway. Lauerson slipped the sharp blue pencil from his pocket and used it as a pointer. “That black symbol is his residence. And the various permanent outbuildings.”
The pencil pointer moved over to one of the blue lines. “This is the property boundary of Herb’s ranch. To the south is a block of land owned by George Payton that runs out to the county road. That’s 1456. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, one of the windmills that Herb uses is right there.” He touched the map gently.
“On George’s land.”
“That’s correct,” he nodded.
“How many acres is that plot?”
He cocked his head, reading the legend under the neatly printed name. “Seven point two one five, more or less.”
“A little seven-acre postage stamp,” I said. “Now what the hell is the point of that?” I meant it as a rhetorical question, since it was obvious that George Payton had collected and bartered land like some folks collect and trade postage stamps. But Lauerson was a walking, breathing property gazetteer, and he was eager to share what he knew.
“Oh,” he said, “always water out here. A good well, access to the county road? A great home site, for one thing. I mean, seven acres is ideal for that. Just a good investment. I remember how he got that one, too. In fact both of you probably do, too. George bought the property in a deal with old Reuben Fuentes, years ago.” He turned to smile at Estelle. “Your infamous uncle, if I’m not mistaken.”
“My great uncle,” she corrected. The relationship was actually more complicated than that, since Reuben had been Estelle’s adoptive mother’s uncle-making him a step-great-uncle. “He liked land, too.”
“Sure. Now this particular piece…I always wondered why Herb Torrance didn’t acquire the land when Reuben passed on. But he didn’t. George Payton jumped on it. I know that Herb uses the well, and I don’t know what kind of deal he had worked out with George. You’d have to ask him.”
“And the mesa parcel?”
“Those eleven acres are high and dry.” He traced the outline with his pencil. “Herb might have use of them for pasturage, I suppose. The parcel joins his land at the east end.”
I turned to Estelle, tapping the map just north of the mesa parcel. “Waddell’s drill rig is parked right here.”
“That’s BLM land,” the assessor said. “Waddell has grazing leases with them all through that area. He’s doing some range improvement, would be my guess.”
“Interesting place to do it,” I said.
“No comment,” Lauerson quipped. “You didn’t ask about them, but Payton had two other parcels a little to the north, too.” He stepped to the file and removed another map. “One parcel is 56.48 acres, the other is…” and he hesitated while he found the legend, “it’s 108.225 acres, more or less.”
“So about a hundred and sixty or so.”
“Yep. The larger one was part of the exchange deal with the Forest Service ten years ago or so. They wanted some land that George had up on Cat Mesa, so they cut a trade for this.”
“That’s another, what, about a mile on up the county road from Herb’s place?”
“More like two,” Lauerson said. “But in the same general neighborhood.”
“And all those parcels…they’re still in George’s name?” Estelle asked.
“As far as I know,” Lauerson said. “If he’s sold one or more parcels here recently, then there hasn’t been time for the information to make it over from the County Clerk’s office.”
“But that’s an instant transfer of information, is it not? When the deed is transferred in their files, it shows up on yours? All on computer?”
“Essentially correct.” He looked at the undersheriff and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “what’s next?”
“And the courthouse property?”
“Another map,” he said good-naturedly. From another filing cabinet two stalls down he searched for a few seconds and slipped out a sheet. “A really irregular-shaped piece, as I recall. It used to include the old Nolan Pet Shop, remember that? It burned way back when?”
“Back when there were enough people living in Posadas that someone could actually make a living selling goldfish and gerbils,” I said.
“Well,” Lauerson said, “it’s this narrow little parcel that runs down the side of the old bank’s rear parking lot, and then right over to the property boundary with the county building. The village had great plans when the bank moved into its new place behind Pershing Park. The city council had visions of an office complex that adjoined the county building. That never happened, and now we want to expand.”
The property lines were a jumble. “What’s that little piece assessed for?” I asked.
“Just a second.” Lauerson crossed to his desk and consulted the computer. In a moment he returned with a scrap of paper that he handed to me.
“This is current?” I asked, forwarding the paper to Estelle. “Sixty-two thousand bucks is a fair chunk of change for a postage stamp.”
“Well,” and he shrugged. “I could argue that it’s on the low side for a piece of property right downtown, right next to the county complex, right in the path of the planned expansion that’s in the works.”
“That’s not necessarily the market value, though.”
He laughed abruptly. “God, no. Not likely. Depends on who wants it and who’s selling it. The average right now for downtown properties is roughly a 150 to 200 percent of the valuation. Where this one goes is anyone’s guess. When they floated a bond issue to fund the additions and renovations, this little piece of land is what makes it possible. So it’s a seller’s market.”
“I never had the impression that George sold much,” I said. “He collected a lot. Anyway, he was planning to give this property to the county. His contribution to the project. He’s told me that a dozen times.”
“I heard he was going to do that. That would help Kevin’s budget.”
“If it happens,” I added. “Deals may change now.”
“Well, that’s true. They hadn’t moved to finalize that generous offer before he…before he died?”
“No, they hadn’t. And it was just a matter of days, too. Kevin had the county attorney working on it.”
“Ouch. Somebody is going to have a good time straightening it all out,” Lauerson added. “It’ll fall in Maggie’s lap, I suppose.”
“That’s what she’s good at,” I said. I turned and looked at Estelle. “What do you think?”
“I have a favor to ask,” she said. “I know it’s a bother, but you have records for fourteen properties owned by George Payton. That’s the whole list in Posadas County?”
“You’d like some copies?” the assessor guessed.
“I really would. You don’t have a way of telling what he might own in surrounding counties? Grant, Luna, Catron?”
“Ah, no. You’d have to contact the county offices in each one. I could do it via e-mail for you, but you can do it just as quickly yourself. Let me fetch what material we have for you.” Less than fifteen minutes later, we had not only the list, but a neat little stack of plats. Lauerson tapped the pile into order, ranked by ascending file number, clipped the lot together, and slid them into a shiny blue folder with the Posadas County seal on the cover.
“Absolutely wonderful,” Estelle said. “Will you make time so we can buy you lunch?”
I was delighted but astounded to hear her say that, since as far as I’d ever been able to tell, she had the daily caloric intake of an anorexic gnat and was deaf to my occasional whimpers of gastronomic suffering.