“But the transfer of that property hadn’t been formalized?” Estelle asked.
“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. The last I heard, Mr. Payton was going to transfer the property to the county for a dollar. But that’s Kevin’s bailiwick. I know that he was going to have Paul Simmons handle it.”
“When would you hear about it being finalized?”
“A deed transfer would be filed with the county clerk, and then I’d hear about it,” the assessor said. “You ought to catch Stacey Roybal. She’s the clerk, and the one with the paperwork.” He prepared another mouthful. “But I see her all the time, too, and she never said anything one way or another.”
“That’s what Kevin said,” Estelle agreed. “Mr. Payton’s property here in town has not been transferred yet to the county.”
“As far as I know, that’s how it stands.” He dabbed his nose again and lowered his voice. “What do you want to bet that now Maggie isn’t going to give away the property for a buck? We had no written agreement with George, you know. And it wasn’t even a handshake kind of contract.”
“No bet,” I said. I liked Maggie Payton well enough, but I had no idea how altruistic she might be. Handle a $100,000 sale, and she might garner a $6,000 commission. Own the property outright, with none of her own money invested in it, and the whole hundred grand was hers-assuming that her father had left his holdings to her in his will…assuming he had left a will. If he hadn’t, the state would run the whole mess through probate in its own good time, and all of George Payton’s estate would go to his only daughter, minus the various blood-lettings and pounds of flesh that the feds and the state would require.
Lauerson looked across at Estelle. “You know,” he said, “It’s incomprehensible to me that George wouldn’t have at least talked with his daughter about what he wanted to do. I mean, I realize that he was a brusque old guy. But why hide something like that?”
“Because he didn’t want to have to argue with her?” Estelle said. “It’s not so much a question of hiding as it is just doing things his way. No haggling, no negotiations, no nothing.”
The assessor wagged his fork at me. “Did George know that you gave the Guzmans those acres behind your house?”
“Sure,” I replied. “We talked about it once or twice. That’s what gave him the idea.” I knew what Estelle meant. I had told my four adult children that I was giving my land away, but as a point of interest only, and damn near after the fact. I hadn’t asked for permission or help in the process. I had asked neither sons nor daughters what they thought, or if they agreed with my decision. To my way of thinking, it wasn’t any of their business. The property was mine, and I disposed of it. End of story. I could see crusty old George Payton doing the same thing.
Lauerson stretched back away from an empty platter. “Did you see Maggie yesterday?”
“Sure.”
“She’s taking it all right? Her dad’s death, I mean?”
“I think so,” I said, and let it go at that. We had no way of knowing what was going through Maggie Payton Borman’s mind.
“What’s the department’s interest in George’s land, anyway?” Lauerson asked. It had taken him longer to echo Kevin Zeigler’s question than I expected.
I considered several options for an answer, but not surprisingly, Estelle Reyes-Guzman beat me to it.
“Whenever there’s an unattended death, we want to be as thorough as possible,” she said.
“There’s some question about the circumstances? I hadn’t heard that.”
“Yes,” she replied. JanaLynn approached and favored us all with a wide smile.
“Dessert for anyone?” she asked. “We have an amazing triple fudge thingee that’ll make you reconsider that afternoon nap.” That sounded terrific to me, but Lauerson groaned protest, and I knew that Estelle wouldn’t indulge.
“I really need to get back to work,” the assessor said. He started to reach for his wallet, but I clamped his arm.
“Mine,” I said. “It’s not often we get to enjoy the company of such distinguished company.” By the time I’d settled the modest ticket with JanaLynn, Jack Lauerson was outside, exercising his back to help it support the added weight in his gut. Estelle waited for me in the small foyer.
“Tom Mears should have the histamine jar processed for prints,” she said as I approached. “And Patrick’s cell phone. I need to see what he came up with, and I have a couple of other stops to make. Do you want to shake down lunch?”
“Well, sure. Where are we headed?”
She hesitated. “I’d like you to talk with Herb Torrance again, sir. There are some questions that are nagging at me, especially after talking with Jack Lauerson. If you’d do that,” and she pulled her small notebook out of her pocket, “it would free me up for a couple of errands.”
“Perfect,” I said. “That’ll give me time to think great thoughts.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
County records showed that George Payton owned property on both sides of Herb Torrance’s H-Bar-T ranch. Maybe George had some insider information about the future.
When Claudio Martinez, the elderly sheepherder, had first felt the rush of cool air pouring out from the jumble of rocks in 1966, he had been intrigued. What he’d found hadn’t rivaled Carlsbad, or the weird and wonderful serpentine complex of Lechugilla discovered just a few years ago. But, I’d been told, in this new find, a brave soul could squirm through limestone passages for many hundreds of yards, even reach an ice cave that one Realtor said reminded him of the ice caves in the Malpais National Monument southwest of Grants.
Over the years, the Bureau of Land Management had acquired several pieces of property along County 14. Inevitably, enough explorers tried their hand at spelunking Martinez’s Tube that the feds became concerned. The spread of trash and SUV tracks marked the entrance, making it fair game for anybody and too likely that someone might crawl in to the labyrinth and not crawl back out. In recent months, the BLM had found some funding to begin their master planning process and had initiated some serious exploring on their land paralleling County Road 14, just across the road from the Torrance ranch.
None of this was a big-dollar operation, and as far as I could see, didn’t promise much for the near future other than an improved fence and a small sign. Of course, the only cave I was interested in exploring was my own dark adobe. Crawling through rat shit and bat guano or among sharp-tailed bugs or sleepy rattlesnakes didn’t appeal to me one bit.
“It’s curious that Herb didn’t buy the Payton property a long time ago,” Estelle said as she handed me a reminder note. “The property south of his ranch includes a good working well, for one thing. I’m not sure about the value of the mesa top north of his place.”
“He’s had use of the well for years,” I said, “and what acreage there is around it. If he had an agreement with George that didn’t cost a penny, why pursue buying the land? There’s not a whole lot of money in ranching these days.”
Estelle’s brow furrowed. “If Herb depends on that water well, I would think he’d do something to make the arrangement permanent and legal.”
“Well, from his standpoint, the arrangement was permanent and legal, sweetheart. An old friend told him to go ahead and use the property and water his livestock, and he did. That’s what it amounts to.”
“With George Payton so frail lately, it’s interesting that Mr. Torrance hadn’t made other arrangements,” she said. “I would think that some long-term planning would put his mind at ease. It would be good insurance.”
“Git to it tomorrow,” I said, imitating Herb’s measured drawl. “I’m sure Herb knew that he should do something. But you have to remember what that requires. He has to call up George, and they’d talk. Herb might get around to mentioning that he’d like to make an offer on the property. George might say, ‘Well, now, let’s talk about that. Why don’t you swing on by next time you’re in town.’ You can see how it goes, sweetheart. Neither one of them were the sort to say, ‘Let’s set a date for nine on Wednesday morning.’”