Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

“Mr. Willit, all this is fascinating, but just what is it I can help you with?”

“Well, see, that’s just it. My mother-that is, my stepmother, although she was always like a real mother to me-Gloria had a good deal of money in her own name. From the sale of the store and all. She always kept that aside-for her old age, she used to say.”

“They were elderly,” I said, remembering the two of them hobbling down Escondido Lane on warm evenings, usually arguing with each other.

“Well, she finally gave in here a year or so ago, and she transferred her account to their joint bank account. I don’t know who convinced her to do it, but she shouldn’t have.” I heard a rustle of papers. “I’ve got a whole slew of documents here, letters from mother. After she made that initial transfer, the first thing Florencio did was go out and buy a new pickup truck.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. “He’s been driving the same old truck for years.”

“That was just the beginning,” Willit said, and for the next ten minutes I sat patiently and listened to a litany of purchases, most petty, all paid for with old Howard Willit’s furniture-store money.

“And so,” I said to cut Stanley Willit short, “what can I do for you? There’s nothing wrong with a man spending his wife’s money, especially if it’s in a joint account.”

“That’s my point,” Willit said. “Last year, she told me that Florencio had started buying land around Posadas.”

“That’s a thought,” I said, Posadas had never made any of the “fastest-growing communities” lists.

“He’s got at least three sons from a previous marriage of his who are all starting to come out of the woodwork. So I guess he figures to set them up. Anyway, my mother said she was going to pull her money-what there was left of it-out of the bank and put it somewhere safe. She said that’s all she and Florencio argued about anymore. Money, money, money.”

I almost said, “But she isn’t your mother,” but I caught myself in time. “She was well into her eighties, wasn’t she?”

“Eighty-four. Florencio is two years younger, I think.”

“But then she died,” I prompted. “And by New Mexico’s law, right of survivorship gives her estate to her husband, unless she directs otherwise in her will, and as long as they were legally married. Did she leave a will?”

“That’s one reason I’m calling. I don’t know. She said she was going to write one. I don’t know if she ever got around to it.”

“The elderly often don’t, Mr. Willit. Have you asked Florencio?”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“Ah. By law, I don’t suppose he has to, either, sir. Under ‘joint tenants,’ he’s free to do as he likes.”

“Maybe so, but I want you to listen to this last letter. Wait a minute.” More shuffling followed. “Here we go. It’s dated September twentieth of this year. I won’t bore you with all the chitchat, but right here, it says, ‘It’s very sad what he said he might do. I don’t care, old as we are. There’s still a little more,’ and right here I can’t read what she wrote, but I guess she’s talking about her money.”

“Did you hear from her after that?”

“No. That’s the last letter I got.”

“Did she normally write to you regularly?”

“Oh, once or twice a year, I suppose. Maybe four times, counting Christmas cards and so on.”

“Did Florencio write to you, or contact you in any way, when your mother died? When Gloria died?”

“I didn’t know she had died until last week. I telephoned, hoping to talk with her, and Florencio said that she’d passed away. He told me that she hadn’t wanted a funeral service of any kind.”

“I see. Have you talked to him since then?”

“No. He won’t talk to me. But listen. It doesn’t make any sense that he’d bury my mother just across the street in some vacant lot like that. Good God. And she was a devout Catholic. She’d have wanted services of some kind, I’m sure.”

“Well, sir, it’s hard to tell what he was thinking. The very elderly sometimes get a few screws loose, and what seems simple and logical to them is pretty bizarre to the rest of us. Actually, it’s not a vacant lot, if you remember correctly. It’s a quiet, shaded spot, almost like a park.” I thought of the jumble of low shrubs and realized my description was a bit optimistic. “There’s no law that says he had to use the cemetery, and with all you’ve mentioned about his ways with money, maybe the whole idea appealed to him.”

“Well, it doesn’t appeal to me. I mean, there’s no protection for her grave from possible future development, no care, no maintenance. And from what the sheriff told me earlier, it’s not even Florencio’s property. It’s yours.”

“True enough.”

“And we haven’t settled a more important issue, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“I think he killed her.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” I said, trying to keep the grin out of my voice.

“Well, it’s perfect,” Willit said. “She’s very elderly, so no one suspects because of that. He prepares her grave all by himself, like some innocent, half-senile old fart, and even carves a crude cross for special effects. People look at it and say, ‘Isn’t that sweet,’ and he’s home free.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Willit.” But I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Words similar to Willit’s prediction had been spoken as Camille and I visited the grave the day before.

“Why not? Two, three years, who’s going to know the difference? Especially if she’s just wrapped up in an old bedsheet or something like that. The body will be decomposed before long. That’s why I’m going to Posadas this week. Tomorrow, if I can make arrangements. I want a court order signed. It’ll make things a lot easier if you’d sign a statement saying that you don’t want her buried on your property.”

“I really don’t care one way or another, Mr. Willit, but a court order for what?”

“Exhumation. I want to find out what killed my mother.”

“We’re ready, sir,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said, and I damn near jumped out of my chair. I had swiveled it sideways and was gazing out the window, lost in thought somewhere. She frowned. “What’s wrong, sir?”

I got out of my chair with a grunt and waved a hand at the telephone. “Nothing.” I didn’t have a clue how long I’d been wool-gathering. On the chance that it hadn’t been too long, I added, “I just got off the phone with Gloria Apodaca’s stepson.”

“That’s the Willit person that’s been calling?”

I nodded. “He wants a court order to exhume the body. He thinks that Florencio Apodaca did her in.”

I thought Estelle might laugh, or maybe chuckle, or even smile-just a little maybe. But the corners of her mouth didn’t twitch and the little lines around her eyes didn’t deepen. She stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. “What did you tell him?”

“Well, I didn’t give him a definite answer. He’s flying in from California sometime in the next day or two.” I thrust my hands in my pockets and looked down at the old wooden flooring. “I guess it’s something that’s got to be settled one way or another. If I refuse, then Willit will take old man Apodaca to court, and we’ll be tied up that way until he finds enough evidence to convince a judge. And I’m sure he’ll find some excuse. I was thinking of going over to talk with the old guy. Maybe I can convince him that Gloria needs to be buried properly, out of the way of future water lines. That way, Stanley Willit can have his look-see, and the old lady can rest in peace.” I shrugged. “It won’t hurt to talk to him. See what he says. You want to go along?”