Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Yeah, and so are you,” he laughed. He patted the slender folder in his lap. “Grunt’s working today, so I thought I’d go over to Cruces again for a little bit, as long as we have the chance.” He opened the folder. “A few of the neighbors in the trailer park are willing to admit that they knew Marsh well enough to talk to him on an occasional basis…small talk stuff. Everyone says that he seemed like an okay guy, and two of ’em remember the truck. They thought that he was a student, and that maybe he worked part-time. As near as anyone can recollect, he’s lived in the park for about four months. That’s what the park manager’s rental records show, too.”

“Did anyone recall markings on the truck?” Estelle asked.

“No. And the Tylers live right next door. Their kitchen window looks out on his trailer, and he parked the truck in the space between. They’d have seen door plaques.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “That doesn’t mean they remember diddly, though. They were a little bit of help, but not much.”

“What’s the manager have to say?”

“Marsh paid his rent on time. No loud music, no obnoxious pets, no wild parties. The manager doesn’t ask for references, and rentals are by the month. Mostly minimum wagers, a few students, a few snowbirds without a budget, a few down-and-outers. He said he runs about a third vacancies, so he’s eager to get anybody who’ll pay. It’s a dismal little place, Estelle. I can’t believe people live like that. It sure isn’t about location, location, location. They get all the noise from the interstate, and the trailer park isn’t convenient to much of anywhere.”

The deputy stretched out his legs and crossed his boots, slouching farther down in his chair. “One little thing, is all. The Tylers-Mrs. Tyler, that is-says that Marsh had a girlfriend.”

“I would think so. Before his truck did a tap dance on top of him, he was a pretty good-looking kid.”

“She remembered the girl clearly,” Abeyta said. “The manager didn’t, but the neighbor did. The girl and Marsh ‘smooched’ a lot, she said.” He looked up from his notes and grinned. “It’s been a while since I heard anyone use that word.”

“Does this Mrs. Tyler neighbor remember anything other than the smooching? A name would be nice.”

“We should be so lucky, Estelle. She described the girl as ‘willowy.’ That’s the term she used. Willowy like a fashion model, she said. Taller than Marsh by a little bit. Always showing lots of midriff. And one time here recently, she was driving a late model Mustang convertible.”

“Earning more than a casual glance from the neighbor, I would think,” Estelle added. “Just ‘one time’? What’s that mean?”

“The neighbor thought that the ‘kids’-that’s what she called ’em-were just trying it out. It had a dealer demo sticker instead of a plate.”

“The neighbors were keeping more than a casual watch, apparently,” Estelle said.

“Well, you gotta understand. This Tyler woman is on the slide way past fifty-five, and on the upside of two hundred and fifty pounds. She isn’t a happy camper. She must have told me five times about how her drunk husband won’t fix their ’84 Crown Vic and that’s why the tags were expired. Mr. Tyler didn’t remember anything, by the way…or doesn’t want to. Not even the midriff. The missus isn’t real happy with the world right now, and she’s got these two gorgeous lovebirds next door to watch, with the supermodel driving a fancy-schmancy convertible to rub it all in.”

“But she only saw that car once,” Estelle added.

“That’s what she said. Blue convertible with a white rocker panel stripe.”

“It’d be interesting to know where the supermodel lives,” Estelle mused. “A low-rent trailer in the middle of a mobile home park doesn’t sound like her kind of place-not if she can afford a ‘fancy-schmancy’ new set of wheels.”

“I think that just happens to be where the boyfriend is camped out. Why he’s chosen such a dump is the puzzle.”

“It might be worth paying a visit to the area Ford dealers tomorrow. Maybe even today if any of them have Sunday hours,” Estelle said. “We might get lucky. Some salesman might remember the circumstances of the test drive, if that’s what it was.”

“I’ll see who’s open today,” Abeyta said.

“What do we know about the girl, other than the ‘willowy midriff?’” Estelle asked. “Did anyone get beyond that?”

“Mrs. Tyler said she was Mexican. Long black hair that she tied back in a ponytail sometimes, and really olive skin.” Estelle cocked her head at that, and the deputy shrugged. “It’s something. Black hair and olive skin narrows it down to about what, forty-seven percent of the population now?” He regarded the backs of his own olive hands. “More than that in Cruces. Unless you consider the Italians, the Indians, the Spanish, the French, the Moroccans, the Iraqis…” He let the list trail off.

“We need to find her,” Estelle said. “Chris Marsh wasn’t working in a vacuum, Tony. Someone was in the area when he picked up that last check from the Bacas on Wednesday night, and someone followed him, or was planning to meet him afterward. They were close enough that when he crashed the truck, they were Johnny-on-the-spot while he was still alive…and that’s looking like minutes.”

She glanced up as Brent Sutherland appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Bolles is here,” he said.

“We’re just about wrapped up,” Estelle said. “You can tell her to come on back.”

“Will do.”

In a moment the magazine reporter appeared, this time dressed entirely in black save for her off-white, frilly blouse and a modest squash blossom turquoise necklace. Deputy Abeyta snapped out of his slouch and pulled himself to his feet.

“Madelyn, this is Deputy Tony Abeyta,” Estelle said. “I don’t think you two have had a chance to meet yet. Ms. Bolles is a writer for A Woman’s World magazine, Tony. She has free run of the department while she’s here.”

“How do you do, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand. Estelle saw that the young man’s guard was up, his tone efficient, polite, but clipped and noncommittal.

“Deputy August,” Madelyn said, without looking at the framed photos on Estelle’s office wall-the “calendar” of employees. Linda Real’s portrait of Tony Abeyta showed the deputy standing beside a small dun pony. His right arm with lead rope in hand was draped over the horse’s neck as if the two of them were old friends. In his left hand, Abeyta held a small notebook, and it appeared that he was ruffling through the pages with his thumb. “I’d like to hear the story behind that photo some time.”

“I was just checking the mileage on my patrol unit,” Abeyta said with a straight face. “Nothing more mysterious than that.” He flashed a smile as he turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know,” he said to Estelle. “If we dig anything up, I’ll give you a call. Ma’am, nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Madelyn said warmly. She gazed out into the hall after the deputy had left. “He reminds me of someone,” she said after a moment. “I can’t remember who.” She turned and regarded Deputy August’s photo, but that didn’t prompt an answer, and she turned back to the undersheriff. “You had a quiet night for a change, I see,” she said. “Brent the dispatcher says that it was a long, boring shift.”

“That’s the way we like it,” Estelle said. She reached across her desk and x’d out of the Internet search she’d been exploring when Tony Abeyta had arrived. “You look elegant this morning.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Madelyn said. “Shed the squash blossom and change the shoes, and I’m ready to dig ditches.”