Bill Pronzini: Beyond the Grave

It took me a few seconds to grasp the shift of subject. “My back? Oh, yes, he looked at it. After a few days of taking it easy, I'll be good as new.”

“See that you do, then.” She gave me a look that promised dire consequences if I didn't, then added, “You really must be more careful, Elena. This whole thing, being attacked by that murderer, it's horrible. Did he really kill his wife?”

“Yes, he's confessed to it. Apparently he was at the ruins collecting rocks-I think I mentioned he owns a rock shop-and she came up there and announced she was leaving him. He went crazy and strangled her, then buried her body in the apse. I guess he figured it was a safe place, since nobody ever goes there except Arturo and kids who are looking for a place to drink and neck. And probably no one would ever have discovered her if I hadn't found Quincannon's reports and started snooping around there.”

“And that's why he stole the report from Sam's house-to stop you from snooping?”

“Yes. He was watching me at the ruins one day-the day I thought somebody was there and then found the cigarette butt-and he got this weird idea that without the report I'd simply lose interest and go away. It wasn't logical, but then drunks are seldom masters of logic. He also thought that if he had the report, he might be able to figure out where the treasure was himself.” I laughed wryly.

Mama said, “What's so funny?”

“Not funny-ironic. Gray wanted to find the treasure, and all the time it was only a few feet from where he'd buried his wife.”

“I see nothing amusing about that. He might have killed you yesterday afternoon!” She gave me a truly dark look this time, and I was afraid a lecture would follow. But then she fell silent.

I was silent too, suddenly uncomfortable. When I'd arrived this morning, Mama had been too happy about being released with a clean bill of health, and I'd been too full of my news about the artifacts to talk about the quarrel we'd had the other day. Now was the time, however.

“Mama-” I said.

“Elena-” she said at the same time.

“Go ahead,” I told her.

She looked down at her clasped hands. “I just wished to say that I am sorry I spoke so harshly to you two days ago. I had no right.”

“No, Mama, I had no right to speak that way to you.”

She looked up again, her eyes reflecting my own relief. “There was a great deal of truth in what you said.”

“And also in what you said.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Then, we will speak no more of the matter.”

We were saved from any sentimental gestures by the arrival of the nurse with the wheelchair. All business, she transferred Mama to the chair, plopped one of the plants from the dresser in her lap, handed me another, and began wheeling the chair out to the elevator.

While we waited for the car to arrive, Mama said to me, “This man who saved you, Arturo Melendez-what is he like?”

I smiled. “I told you before. About my age, although he seems younger. A very talented artist. Not handsome, but quite nice-looking.”

“Melendez,” Mama said thoughtfully. “One of our own people.”

I knew what was coming next.

“And single,” she added.

“But poor. I told you, he is poor.”

She brushed the words aside. “Are you going to see him again?”

Normally I would have bristled at the question, but I was so happy Mama was well and going home and so relieved we'd made up our quarrel that I said, “Yes. We're having lunch tomorrow.”

“Ah, you like him.”

“I like him very much. But don't get all excited; we're only going to lunch to discuss a possible showing of his paintings at the museum.”

The elevator arrived. The nurse pushed Mama's chair into it and turned it around so it faced me. Mama was smiling. “That's good,” she said.

Astonished, I stayed where I was. “What do you mean-that's good?”

“It's good because I don't want you getting involved with him.”

The nurse was holding the door open, looking impatient, but I stood still. “Why not?”

Mama held up one hand and began ticking off items on her fingers. “First, it's too soon after Dave. Second, like you say, he doesn't have any money. And third, you're only interested in him because he saved your life. You're interested in anything that has to do with murder and violence, and I don't think those are very healthy concerns for a young woman.”

The nurse was smiling now. I rolled my eyes at her.

Mama added, “This Arturo looks exciting to you now, but after a while you'll realize he's no hero, and then we'll have another breakup on our hands-”

The nurse took her hand off the elevator's rubber safety strip. I reached inside to the operator panel and pushed the CLOSE button. As the two halves of the door moved together, I waved good-bye to Mama.

Maybe by the time I walked down to the lobby she'd have found a new topic of conversation. Whatever it was, I wouldn't have to put up with it long; I'd promised to have lunch with her and Nick at the trailer park, but then I had a date with Sam to read the remaining documents from the files of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

1894

It was not until three days after the suicide of Felipe Velasquez that Quincannon finally returned home to San Francisco.

There had been much for him to do at Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. The most difficult thing was dealing with Dona Olivia, and not because of her grief. It was apparent that she had cared for her husband and that she mourned his death; but it was also apparent that her primary concern was her future and that of her daughter. A cool, practical woman, who was not deceived-as Barnaby O'Hare and the servants were deceived-by Quincannon's lie that Velasquez had shot himself in a fit of despondency over his terminal illness, rather than suffer a few more weeks of pain.

If she had not known of his cancer, she had suspected it. And if he had not told her that he'd murdered Luis Cordova, she had suspected that, too. In private she indicated as much to Quincannon and left him no choice but to reveal the truth to her. Once she had it, she demanded to see the two pages of Tomas Cordova's letter, which he had removed from Velasquez's desk after the shooting. She also demanded that he reveal none of his knowledge to the authorities or to anyone else, for the sake of her daughter and the family's good name, and that he prepare a full confidential report of his activities while in the employ of her husband, so as to ensure his silence. He saw no reason to refuse her, not even when she said in her haughty fashion, “You will be well-paid, Senor Quincannon. You have my word on that.” He would have refused if she had demanded that he see to the private burial of Pablo at the ruins of the pueblo, a matter that would have to be attended to to preserve the facade she was erecting around Velasquez's death. But she seemed to sense that he would not go that far, and she made no mention of it. She would make the arrangements in her own way, as coolly as she would arrange for the public burial of her husband. Pablo, as far as anyone would ever know, had simply disappeared. Luis Cordova, as far as anyone would ever know, had died at the hands of an unknown assailant. And Felipe Velasquez, as far as little Sofia and the world at large would ever know, had died of natural causes; O'Hare and the servants would be sworn to secrecy just as Quincannon himself had been.

When he finally left the hacienda for the long ride back across the mountains to Santa Barbara, it had been with a sense of relief. But the relief had not lasted long; it had been replaced by an odd feeling of cheerlessness and frustration. Part of it was the events at the rancho, but a large part of it, too, was a sense of personal failure. None of what had happened was his fault, of course. Nor was any of it an adverse reflection of his skills as a detective. And yet the suspicion nagged at him that he had not done all he could have; that Don Esteban's artifacts were hidden at the pueblo, and that given enough time, and with enough effort, he could have found them. Groundless though the feeling might be-Velasquez had given up hope, after all, and he had had far more knowledge of the area-it continued to chafe at him. He should have found those artifacts, by God! Not for Velasquez's sake, nor for Dona Olivia's; for little Sofia's and for his own peace of mind.