Steven Havill - Red, Green, or Murder

She squeezed my hand. “No, I mean the whole livestock inspector’s job. I was surprised when Dad told me that you’d taken that on.”

I shrugged. “Actually, it’s a good fit for me,” I said. “Gets me out, gives me the opportunity to talk with old friends. Did it originally as a favor for Cliff Larson when he got sick, and then he died on me, and here I’m stuck.” I shrugged. “Things are changing, though. I would guess that it’s not a long-term gig for me.”

“Oh? There will always be cattle,” Maggie said.

“Sure enough. But the permit policy keeps getting wound up in red tape, and the solution to that is just more paperwork. They have a whole herd of new concerns with this mad cow thing, and the illegal border traffic is a real pain in the ass, if you’ll pardon my French. And then I got a memo the other day saying that we’re going to be carrying guns now.” I waved a hand in disgust. “I mean, I do anyway, and have for half a century. But now there’s a whole raft of training procedures and policies coming down the pike. Christ, the whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t need it.”

“Like everything else,” Maggie said. “We live in a world of paperwork. You should see my desk. ”

“It’s silly, isn’t it.”

“Yes, it is.” She sat quietly for a moment, regarding the none-too-clean carpet. “You said you were out at the ranch. You know, I haven’t seen Herb or Annie Torrance in months.”

“They’re fine,” I said, which was more or less true.

She nodded and regarded her hands, deep in thought. “Dad thought a lot of you,” she said after a while.

“It was mutual.” I knew it was about time to stir. Through the open kitchen doorway, I saw Estelle stand up and nod in response to something that Alan Perrone said. She ducked under the yellow ribbon and detoured toward us.

“We’re almost finished,” she said. “Are you going to be all right?” Maggie had finally dived into the tissues, and was working to restore order to her face.

“We’re reminiscing,” Maggie said. “Can I help with anything?”

“No, ma’am. Thanks.” For a moment, Estelle stood there, looking as if she wanted to ask us something, then turned away with a sympathetic little nod. She left the house with Linda Real in tow.

“What a gorgeous creature,” Maggie said.

“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “She’s managed to cope, though.” Maybe Maggie knew what I meant, maybe not.

“How’s the clinic going for them? What a venture that is.”

Estelle’s husband, Francis, was opening a medical clinic in partnership with Alan Perrone. Construction was nearly complete on the hi-tech facility on property behind my house on Guadalupe Terrace, south of the interstate. Posadas Health Center included offices for three physicians and a pharmacy. I knew that plans called for another wing that would include a dental office.

“They’ve had their challenges,” I said. “Like anything. But it’s what they’ve wanted.”

“Realtors everywhere burned you in effigy for giving away that land,” Maggie said, but a soft smile told me that I’d been forgiven for not realizing that, in any venture like the clinic, the right folks needed to get rich.

“I smelled the smoke,” I laughed, trying not to let any irritation show. “I didn’t need the land, and the Guzmans did. It was that simple. I didn’t need to make a bundle on the deal. Anyway, I had ulterior motives, Maggie. It gets kinda lonely out there in that big old adobe of mine. This way, I wound up with just the neighbors I wanted.” She nodded at the logic of that. “Kind of like your dad deciding to give that lot behind the Public Safety Building to the county for the new office wing. He didn’t need it, they did…”

Maggie looked heavenward at that. “And I don’t know if dad ever finished with that or not.” I cocked my head quizzically at that-and not because it was new information. The county wanted more offices, for what I don’t know. One of the lots involved in the expansion project was owned by George, and I had assumed long ago that the deal to transfer the land to the county had already been consummated.

She caught the expression and patted my hand again. “ Mañana was my dad’s favorite expression when it came to things like that,” she said. “Lots of i’s and t’s to be dotted and crossed yet.”

The undersheriff reappeared, lugging the large black briefcase that lived in the trunk of her county car. “May I talk with you for a few minutes, sir?” she asked me, pausing on her way to the kitchen.

“Sure. Do I have to get up?”

She smiled and stepped closer, holding out a hand. I outweighed her by an embarrassing tonnage, but she was surprisingly strong.

“I’d make some fresh coffee,” Maggie offered, “but everything is in the kitchen.”

“Not to worry.” I followed Estelle under the tape again. To my surprise, she closed the door behind us.

“How are you doing?” Perrone asked, looking suspiciously at me. He wore thin latex gloves and didn’t offer to shake hands.

“I’m fine,” I said, feeling a little rise of annoyance. People needed to stop assessing my mortality. There were better things to do. Estelle knelt over by the fridge and opened her case, removing a selection of plastic evidence bags and a fine-line marker. Perrone leaned against the counter, both hands held in front of him like a freshly scrubbed surgeon, watching.

“What puzzles me,” he said, and beckoned me closer. I stepped around the table so I could hear him. “What puzzles me,” he repeated, “is the allergic reaction that we see here.”

“The mucous that Estelle mentioned?”

“Indeed that. Anaphylactic shock is really pretty characteristic,” Perrone said. “Somebody is stung by a wasp or something, and reacts? If the allergy is acute, the whole system can crash.” He spread his hands apart again. “In some ways, the symptoms can mimic a massive coronary-and I suppose that the end result is the same. The system can’t get air, the pulse races, things go from bad to worse.”

“You’re saying that George had an allergic reaction?”

“I would say so. Just from some preliminary hints. I could be wrong, of course, but, you know…”

I didn’t know. “He had a bad heart,” I said, as if I didn’t remember that I was talking to George’s personal physician.

Perrone nodded slowly. “ Bad is an understatement, Bill. I’d say more like wrecked. An allergic reaction is really dangerous for someone in his condition. I could add that he was supposed to be on supplemental oxygen, but didn’t use it most of the time. He didn’t take his meds. On and on.” He bent down beside George’s corpse, which had been moved now so that the victim lay on his back, parallel to the sink counter. “The massive mucous discharge is consistent with an allergic reaction.” He reached out and gently opened George’s mouth a bit.

“The bronchial spasm makes it impossible to swallow,” he explained. “The choke reflex is going to trigger all sorts of responses, including that feeling of desperation.” He glanced up at me. “All of that happening in someone with George’s bad health is as dangerous as a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Likely that his damaged heart couldn’t take the strain.”

“So you’re saying that he started to choke, is that it? And that triggered the coronary?”

“Good a guess as any at this point.” He resumed his examination of the victim’s mouth. “There’s still food in the mouth and esophagus. That’s how quick and massive the whole scenario was.” He leaned back, regarding the corpse for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. “Estelle tells me that this is a meal that George ate on a regular basis?”