Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Did you get to know her pretty well during the course of the semester?”

“Well, you know. She was my lab partner, and we talked about this and that. I didn’t cut class as much as she did, but…” And she made a resigned face. “Some of the guys can get away with that. I never could.”

Estelle took a deep breath, letting her insides settle. A whirl of questions crowded her mind, but the door had been opened. At this early stage, the last thing she wanted was Irene Salas on the cell phone, back to Las Cruces, breaking the tragic news to college friends.

“So, you’re going to fix up the Jeep?” Estelle asked Danny, and he brightened at the change of subject.

“I think maybe,” he said. “First thing is to find a tire that fits.”

“Well, I’ll leave you guys to do that,” Estelle said. “Irene, it’s great that you were able to visit Serafina today. She’s so pleased.”

“I really like coming back here,” Irene said. “I wish I could talk Mom out of her love affair with Phoenix. It’d be so great for her to move back here and just… relax , you know?”

“Not everyone shares our enthusiasm for the tiny crossroads,” Estelle laughed.

“Thank heavens,” Irene said. “Regál doesn’t need a box store.” She reached out and took Estelle’s hand. “Or any kind of store, for that matter. I’m glad you stopped by. Say hello to the sheriff. The last time we talked, he was just a deputy, and he was writing me a traffic ticket.”

“Lead foot,” Danny muttered, and he shook hands with Estelle, his grip firm and grimy.

The undersheriff made her way back to the car, forcing her pace to remain at a casual amble. She could tell by the writer’s posture that she was primed with questions, but Estelle held up a hand. “Give me some time to think,” she said.

The “time to think” lasted about twelve minutes, just long enough for them to shoot over the pass and take the switchbacks down the back side. As they flashed by the Broken Spur, Estelle reached for her phone. Gayle Torrez answered promptly, having relieved the weary Brent Sutherland.

“Gayle, I’m ETA about twenty minutes. I know it’s Sunday, but I need Melinda Torrez to meet me at the MVD office as soon as she can.”

“She’s home, I think,” Gayle replied. “Do you want me to have her give you a call?”

“Actually, no. I really need the MVD computer.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“If he’s not in the middle of anything, you might have Bobby meet me there as well.”

“Right at the MVD office?”

“Yes. Thanks, Gayle.” She put the phone down, and Madelyn Bolles waited for a moment before raising one hand, like an elementary school student asking permission.

“Can I ask now?” she said.

“Sure,” Estelle said.

“What happened back there?”

The undersheriff looked at Madelyn for a brief second as they charged northbound.

“I found out how the name of a reclusive widow in a tiny village like Regál gets on the list,” the undersheriff said. She didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know that the needle was posted close enough to 100 to make any passenger nervous. “Now we see how quickly we can open some other doors.”

“It takes a little bit,” Melinda Torrez said cheerfully. She turned away from the screen just far enough that she could see Estelle out of the corner of her eye. “Do I really want to know what’s going on? Do I want to have something really creative to tell the computer nerds in Santa Fe when they monitor my system and see that I opened up on a Sunday?”

“This all stems from Friday night’s crash down on the pass,” Estelle said. “A nasty turn.”

“Oh my, that,” Melinda said, and shook her head sadly.

“There’s a considerable flight risk,” the undersheriff said. “Otherwise I’d take the chance and wait for tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” Melinda said, and nodded. She smiled and leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest as she regarded the magazine writer. There was little extra room in the crowded office, a tiny facility that rented space from the U.S. Post Office, and both Madelyn and Estelle waited at the counter as if they were in line to renew their car registrations.

When she had introduced the writer to the sheriff’s sister, Estelle had seen the instant magnetism, that uncommon attraction that occurs when two people meet and instantly like each other.

“How long are you in town for, Madelyn?” Melinda asked.

“You know, I’m not sure. When I drove up here, I had all these visions of pastoral peace and quiet…you know, the aroma of chiles roasting and piñon burning.”

Melinda laughed. “And now look at the mess Estelle and my brother have landed you in. What will the rest of the world think of us.”

“I may have to go on vacation in some quiet inner city somewhere to recover,” Madelyn said.

“Hey, take me with you,” Melinda said, raising a black eyebrow. She was obviously her brother’s sister, cast in the same Torrez mold, with a family resemblance that had once prompted Bill Gastner to remark, “Yep, they threw away the mold after they made Rafael, Elsa, Bobby, Melinda, Scotty, MaryAnne, Tiffany…” And he could continue on and name all nine of Rafael and Elsa’s children-the heart of an enormous extended family that virtually took over MacArthur Street in Posadas when the family had a reunion.

What Melinda lacked, Estelle reflected, was the wonderfully dour, deadpan expression that her older brother had perfected as his substitute for charm. Four years younger than the sheriff, unmarried, dedicated totally to her enormous family, “Auntie Melinda” had always impressed Estelle as the very definition of contentment. As supervisor of the local Motor Vehicle Department office, she was adept at guiding folks through the sometimes frustrating labyrinth of state vehicle laws.

A truck idled to the curb, and Melinda nodded, recognizing her brother’s vehicle. “Don’t say that I said so, but he was taking a nap . Here you all are working and he’s napping .” She leaned forward as something appeared on the screen, then quickly tapped in data. She relaxed back again as the computer went on digesting. “You’ll have to turn the key to let him in. I locked it.” Estelle stepped to the door and twisted the lock.

“Hey,” the sheriff said, and let a nod to Madelyn and his sister suffice.

“How’s the nap?” Melinda asked, and Torrez’s instant frown was dark.

“How do you know if I was nappin’ or not,” he said.

“’Cause Gayle said you were going to,” Melinda shot back. “And if Gayle says it, it’s true.”

“She said I was going to. Don’t mean I got to, thanks to you guys.”

“Okay,” Melinda said, and held up both hands. “We’re up and running. Who needs a new license first?” Her expression turned serious. “What do we need to know that doesn’t require a court order, which you don’t have.”

“I have a name,” Estelle said. “I need to know what vehicles are registered to her. And I need her last known address. CJ Vallejos.” She spelled the name, and both she and Melinda finished at the same time.

“Well, now,” Melinda said, leaning back again. “I need something to narrow this down. There’s a whole city of Vallejoses in the state, and when I scroll down, let me see,” and she ran a finger down the screen. “Not a single CJ. Let’s roam a bit farther. How about Constance Vallejos?” She looked up at Estelle.

“Maybe. She would be in her early twenties,” Estelle replied. “Certainly no more than thirty. The last residence we know of is in Las Cruces.”