Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

When the advertisement ended, he said, “You know, my oldest son has himself a nice shop.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Was it just this past week or so that she died?”

“You could ask the police,” he said. “They were here.”

“I suppose.” I set the glass of wine on a small table. “Mr. Willit said he was coming to try to straighten all this out. We’ll have to wait and see what he wants to do.”

Florencio frowned and gazed at me appraisingly. I didn’t know what he could actually see through the crusted spectacles, but he took his time.

“There’s nothing for him here.”

“He just wants to know about his mother, that’s all. You can understand how he might want to do that.”

“She’s gone.”

“True enough,” I said.

“Where do you work?”

“For the county,” I said.

“They’re the ones who want to put a water line along the road over there?”

“That’s the village.”

“What do you mean, ‘the village’?”

“Village, county-they’re two different things. It’s the village that wants to put in the line.”

“Do I have to let them?”

“It’s my property, Mr. Apodaca. And no, I don’t have to let them.”

“How much you want for it?”

“It’s not for sale. If you want me to deed you a small plot of land that includes your wife’s grave, I’ll be happy to consider doing that.”

He nodded and took a sip of wine. “I thought I owned that.”

“I’m afraid not. But the village can put a kink in the water line, for all I care. The only thing I ask is that you clear up the circumstances of your wife’s passing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to know how she died, and when. The circumstances.”

“The circumstances.” He said every syllable as if it were a separate word.

“Yes. And I think that Stanley Willit has the right to know, too. It’s only a courtesy.”

Florencio Apodaca set his half-empty glass down beside mine. “He only wants the money,” he said with surprising venom. “If he causes any trouble, I know a good lawyer.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said.

The old man waved a hand. “That’s how these things go.” He turned back to the television. “She passed on. That’s all he needs to know. That’s all anyone needs to know. It’s none of their business.”

I sighed. I could see, highlighted by the pulsing light from the television, the muscles in his cheeks flexing. He was digging in, ready to play the mule. I stood up carefully, making sure I didn’t topple the old rocker.

“I’m going to run along,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You want some more wine, you come over. Anytime you like.” He got up and hobbled to the television and stood there, one hand on the corner of the cabinet. He extended his hand and his grasp was surprisingly strong. “You tell Stanley Willit not to waste his time bothering me.”

“I’ll do that.”

As I moved toward the door, he said, “Who did you say you worked for?”

“The county.”

He nodded as if it were all crystal-clear. “The county.”

I made my way back to the Blazer, careful not to trip over the uneven bricks of his walk.

“Success?” Camille asked as I slid behind the wheel.

I grinned. “His oldest son owns a shop in Las Cruces.”

Camille looked blank. “And…”

I shrugged. “That part was free. The rest of it, he’s going to ignore until it goes away.”

“And is it?”

“I don’t think so. By the time it’s all over, my guess is that Stanley Willit is going to wish he’d stayed in peaceful, logical California.”

When we returned home, I inspected the temporary plywood replacement for my bathroom window and decided to call Andy Sanchez the next morning to have a new frame installed. That took ten minutes. I was tired but not the least bit sleepy, and I finally settled in my leather chair in the living room.

Camille settled on the sofa next to the television, the prime minister’s life near at hand.

“I was thinking of going back on Saturday,” she said.

I nodded. “That gives us four more days.” I grinned. “I’m going to miss having you around.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m guessing that Mark will have reached his limit of endurance.” I tried to picture Camille’s husband, the quiet, sober Mark Stratton, arriving home from his dental office each day to a home managed by three teenagers. “Did you have a chance to call Sam Preston this afternoon?”

“No. Well, that’s not true. I had the chance, but I didn’t do it. You never want a real estate agent to think that you’re too eager, you know.”

“Your mind’s still made up, though?”

I nodded. “This old hacienda is too big for me. And I don’t see any of you guys moving back to Posadas anytime soon to take it off my hands.” Camille kept her expression politely blank, but I added, “Or ever, for that matter. And I really like the Gonzales place. So…” I shrugged. “You want some coffee?”

“No thanks. Will you take me over there tomorrow? I don’t remember it at all. I can’t picture it.”

“Sure,” I said. I started to push myself out of the chair, then stopped. “In fact, there are a couple of photos of the house right on that table by your elbow.”

“I saw those earlier,” she said. “It’s neat.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but the two Polaroid photos were typical real estate efforts, making the house look tiny, flat, and unattractive. “You want me to get that?”

“Get what?”

“The door.” She was up and halfway down the front hallway before I had gotten to my feet.

I saw the look on Sheriff Martin Holman’s face from twenty paces away, despite the harsh shadows from the light over the door and the single high bulb in the foyer. He would have made a lousy poker player.

“Good news?” I asked, and waved him inside. He advanced a few paces into the foyer and took off his tan Stetson while he exchanged pleasantries with Camille-altogether too pleasant on his part, I thought. And for a fleeting moment, I found myself wondering what Martin Holman would look like in faded, torn blue jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt, with his hair cut in a burdock buzz. Or even just without a tie.

“Would you drink some coffee if I made it?” I asked, and apparently Holman was more astute than I gave him credit for.

“Sure,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Camille grinned and shook her head in resignation. “I’ll make it, Dad,” she said.

“So what’s up?” I lead the sheriff into the kitchen.

“This is a nice place,” he said, repeating the same line he had uttered every one of the dozen or so times he had been in my home.

“Thanks. Any news on the youngster?”

He shook his head. “But what’s interesting is that the deputies couldn’t find Paul Cole.”

“What do you mean, couldn’t find him?”

“Just that. First, a detective went to his home. He lives in one of those new developments down by the bosque.” Holman pulled a small notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit coat and thumbed pages. “Neither he nor his wife were home.”

“He’s married again?”

“Less than a year ago. One of the neighbors said that she thought the wife went to Santa Fe with a girlfriend for a couple of days of shopping.”

“A couple of days? Wow. And Cole?”

“Well, that’s the interesting part,” Holman said. “Paul Cole has two vehicles registered to him. One is a 1996 Pontiac Grand Am, custom tag that says BEAT ’EM. Is he a coach, or what?” Holman grinned. “The other vehicle is a 1972 GMC four-by-four pickup that’s missing an engine.”