Steven Havill: Red, Green, or Murder

I doubt that Maggie saw any of it. Her mind was elsewhere. Off to her left, a yellow sheriff’s ribbon stretched across the narrow doorway into the kitchen, the bright color a jarring intrusion on this dismal scene.

Maggie turned, saw me, and held out both arms. We met in the center of the room and she held me hard enough to make me flinch. She hung on for a long time, not saying a word. Eventually she drew back and looked me straight in the eye without saying a word.

“Maggie,” I said, “what can I say.” She squeezed my shoulder. A good-looking woman, tending to be stocky like her father and with the same honest, open face, Maggie was the kind of person who bustled. She bustled to arrange things, to control things, to take charge of things, even when she didn’t have to. Now, she had been hauled up short, with nothing to bustle about. She had nothing to do but stay out of the way. She couldn’t even go into the kitchen to fix us a sandwich.

“I was supposed to have lunch with your dad today,” I said. “Herb Torrance’s boy managed to break a leg, and we got hung up with that.”

She shook her head sadly. “Dad told me yesterday that you two were getting together. But isn’t that’s the way of it,” she said. “It was Dale who was hurt?”

“Yes. He’ll be all right.”

“Such an attractive young man,” Maggie said, and then heaved an enormous sigh. “Bill, I’m just not ready for this.”

“No one ever is,” I said. “Had you talked to your dad this morning?”

She shook her head again, a quick little twitch. “I meant to look in on him this morning.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears back. “Meant to. And isn’t that the way. Like I said, he told me yesterday that he was having lunch with you.” She tried a brave smile. “More of that health food from the Don Juan.”

One of the things I liked about Maggie, regardless of her power-brokering in the professional world, was that she tried hard to let her dad be himself. She hadn’t tried to force George’s habits, or clean a house he didn’t want cleaned, or manicure a yard that pleased him just the way it was. “What happened, do you know?” I asked.

Maggie sighed deeply again, and I saw her eyes flick toward the yellow ribbon “As nearly as we can tell, dad sat down to lunch and then had a seizure, right there at the table.” This time, her sigh had a little shake to it, the misery close to the surface. “I wish I had been there, Bill. But,” and she shrugged helplessly, the kind of gesture that prompted me to rest a paternal hand on her shoulder. “The world turns, you know. I had to show a house, and that dragged on and on. I guess…I guess that I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t worry about dad. I mean, he said you were coming over and all. And then another call came in. I had folks waiting for me in the office-a family from Maryland, of all places.” She reached out and held my right wrist. “Phil was going to talk to dad about maybe going over to Elephant Butte for an outing this weekend. He came by here after lunch and…and found him.”

“I’m sorry that had to happen.”

“I just can’t believe this,” Maggie continued, and she smiled wistfully at Estelle, who had crossed the living room like a dark shadow and now waited patiently, and obviously for me, by the kitchen door. Maggie dabbed at her eyes with a tiny hanky. “He’s been so frail the past few weeks, and we check on him often, you know. He won’t wear that alert gadget I got for him.”

That was easy to imagine-on both their parts…Maggie wanting to do something protective, George refusing. Estelle ducked under the yellow tape, but went no farther into the kitchen.

“Where’s Phil now?” I asked.

“He’s outside,” she replied. “I think he’s out by the garage, if you want to talk with him.”

“No, no,” I said quickly. I wasn’t sheriff of Posadas County. I didn’t need to talk with anyone, unless George had secreted a herd of cattle somewhere out behind the house. I would pay brief respects to Phil Borman eventually, but there was nothing that either he or Maggie could tell me about George Payton that I didn’t already know. I’d spend a lot of time in the next few days and weeks missing old George and his dour, often profane comments about life. The world would march on now, a little poorer for his absence.

“Let me talk with Estelle for a minute,” I said, and Maggie nodded.

“Sure,” she said. A hint of a smile touched her pleasant face. “She’s so thoughtful, isn’t she. So professional, but with such a sympathetic touch. We’re so lucky to have her.”

“Yes, she is,” I replied. I always felt better when I was in Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s presence. It was only logical that others would feel the same way.

“You go ahead,” Maggie said, and turned away.

The undersheriff didn’t move as I approached. I didn’t need to be prepared for what was in the kitchen, she had to know that. After twenty years in the military and almost thirty-five in civilian law enforcement, I’d seen enough final moments that I was adequately armored, even when the departed was one of my oldest friends.

“I’m a little puzzled,” Estelle said in that husky whisper that traveled no farther than the ears for which it was intended. She lifted the yellow tape for me.

It would have been nice if George Payton had just drifted away in his sleep-at least I think it would have been. After seeing too many of them, I still had reservations about final moments. I wasn’t convinced that there was a good way, or a good day, to die.

George was seated on the floor, his back leaning against the cabinet door that concealed the kitchen sink’s innards. His left leg was stretched out straight, his right flexed at the knee. His right hand lay on the linoleum beside his right thigh. His left hand clutched a brown paper bag to his chest, resting on his ample midriff. His head nestled in his various wrinkled chins, eyes and mouth open.

The position was one that he might have sagged into had the seizure struck just as he bent over to toss the bag into the under-sink trash. One chair was pushed away from the table. On the placemat rested a familiar glass serving dish, its plastic snap-on top placed carefully toward the center of the table. I recognized an inexpensive Styrofoam cooler over on the counter beside George’s enormous pill organizer, the cooler’s top askew.

I knew exactly where the serving dish and cooler came from, and knew exactly what savory aroma had wafted up when George popped off the lid-a green chile burrito grande from the Don Juan. “And that’s not really fair,” I said.

“Sir?”

“He didn’t get to finish.” In fact, George had barely begun. Most of the wonderful burrito remained in the dish, and of the portion that George had spooned out on his plate, all but a few bites remained.

“This was a usual thing?” Estelle asked.

“What, the burrito?” I stepped closer to the table, careful not to touch anything. “Sure it was. You know that George shared my superior taste in food. Today I was supposed to have lunch with him, and I would have stopped at the Don Juan to pick up the grub.” I shrugged helplessly. “Turns out that I couldn’t make it. I talked to him on the phone a couple hours ago, maybe a little longer. He said he’d have the restaurant send over take-out.”

“He called you, then?”

“Well, he might have. Like I said, my phone rang but I was indisposed, sweetheart. I didn’t answer it. When it became clear that I was going to miss our lunch date, I called him.” I pointed at the chair pushed in at the end of the table. “My spot.”

“Was there a particular reason for today?”