Steven Havill: Statute of Limitations

“I haven’t heard you play that before, hijo ,” Sofía said.

“Mrs. Gracie gave it to me yesterday,” Francisco said matter-of-factly. Whichever of Mozart’s early works his piano teacher had found for Francisco, Estelle saw that the sheet music was not in evidence on the piano stand. If Mrs. Gracie had been impressed with the little boy’s almost instantaneous absorption of the music, she hadn’t commented when Estelle had picked him up after his twice-a-week lesson. “We’ll just see,” was her favorite comment. Over the years, Mrs. Gracie had no doubt mentored many children whose momentary passion for music would veer away in some other direction, leaving the piano silent. But Estelle knew that in this case, the wait was unwarranted. For little Francisco to abandon his music would be akin to abandoning his most cherished, closest friend.

“He was probably about your age when he wrote that,” Sofía said.

“I think so,” the little boy replied soberly. He played a chord so softly it was a mere kiss of the keys, then slid off the piano bench and carefully closed the lid.

Estelle had started to close the front door but stopped when she saw a shiny new Blazer idle to the curb in front of their house. “Here’s Padrino, ” she said.

“Well, we all timed that with perfection, didn’t we?” Sofía said. “And I see Francis had to leave. His car is gone.”

“Not for long, I hope,” Estelle said.

Sofía held up both hands in mock self-defense as the two boys careened past her, their grandmother, and Estelle to plaster their faces against the glass of the storm door.

As he ambled up the front walk, former sheriff of Posadas County Bill Gastner saw the boys waiting. He stopped, a wonderful beetle-browed scowl darkening his heavy features. Shaking his head in disgust, he waved a hand in dismissal and started to turn back toward his vehicle.

That brought howls of delight from the boys. Francisco unlatched the door and plunged outside. In a moment, Gastner was escorted into the house, a child glommed onto each hand.

“Ho, ho,” he said. He managed to extricate himself and reached out toward Sofía. “Did you guys go to Regál?”

“Yes, we did,” she said, and returned Gastner’s hug.

“Brave or dumb,” he said. “One of the two.” Teresa had already covered half the distance toward her rocking chair, and she leaned against her walker. Gastner crossed to her and escorted her the remaining steps. “How’s Teresa?” he asked.

“Teresa’s fine,” the elderly woman said. She lowered herself into the rocker with a sigh. “That’s a wonderful shirt.”

Gastner looked down at the expanse of cozy blue flannel. “Something, huh?” he said. “Every once in a while, Camille hits the mark,” he added, referring to his eldest daughter. “Usually, she sends me health-food books, or some damn thing like that.”

Estelle appeared from the hallway where she’d gone to hang up coats, but the telephone cut off her greeting to Gastner. She veered to the kitchen to take the call.

“Unplug the damn thing,” Gastner called. “Christmas Eve is off-limits.”

“That’s right,” Teresa grumbled with surprising vehemence. “I try to tell her that, but she won’t listen.”

The Sheriff’s Department beeper on Estelle’s belt chirped simultaneously. She picked up the phone, at the same time turning on the portable hand-held radio that sat in its charger by the telephone.

“Guzman,” she said, and she couldn’t help glancing at the clock and seeing that barely nine minutes had elapsed since she had answered Eduardo’s call.

“Hey,” the quiet voice of Sheriff Robert Torrez said. “Do I need to send Irma over?”

Estelle hesitated an instant, bringing herself up to speed with the sheriff’s cryptic conversational habits. Irma Sedillos, Bobby’s sister-in-law, worked as the Guzman family’s nana, bringing order to a frenetic household. With Sofía Tournál visiting and always more than willing to babysit the two boys, Irma had taken a much-deserved vacation for Christmas Eve to be with her immediate family. The sheriff’s question meant that Estelle’s few moments of familial bliss were over.

“No. We’re covered,” she said. “What’s up, Bobby?”

“A couple of minutes ago, your hubby called 911 dispatch for an ambulance at the motel.”

“Yes, he did. For Chief Martinez.”

“Okay.” If the sheriff was surprised, he didn’t react. “About thirty seconds after that call from Dr. Francis, someone at the motel called dispatch to report some kind of incident, maybe an assault. One victim down. I don’t know who called. Maybe the desk clerk, I don’t know. I’m headin’ that way now. Mike Sisneros took the call, so he’ll be about there by now. He was a couple miles south.”

“I’ll be right down,” Estelle said. “Essie and the family are all at church, by the way.”

“Okay,” Torrez said. “I’ll take care of that when we know what the hell is goin’ on. You sure you’re covered there?”

“Yes. I’m on my way.”

She placed the telephone gently back in the cradle, then looked up to see Bill Gastner regarding her.

“It’s Eduardo Martinez,” she repeated. “But…” She covered the rest of it with a helpless shrug.

“Uh-oh,” he said quietly, and his heavy features sagged. “Dead?”

“Maybe.”

Gastner didn’t ask for elaboration, but shrugged back into his jacket. “Mind if I ride along?”

“I could use the company,” she replied, already heading toward the hall closet.

“We’ll be fine,” Sofía called from the living room.

“Poor Essie,” Teresa Reyes said, proving once again that her octogenarian hearing was as keen as ever. “Not such a merry Christmas for her.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Estelle said, crossing quickly to her mother for a quick peck on the cheek.

“We know how that goes,” her mother said.

The drive from one end of Posadas to the other took no more than a few minutes, especially with Bustos and Grande avenues nearly deserted. Just before they reached the interstate, Estelle slowed and swung into the parking lot of the Posadas Inn, once part of a well-advertised national chain but now a weatherbeaten relic of its former self. High on its pedestal, the neon sign announced free t.v., restaurant, american owned.

This time the mist played kaleidoscopic halos of red, blue, and white, slanting across the parking lot of the Posadas Inn and muting the harsh, flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. Estelle pulled her unmarked county car to a stop beside the bulk of the ambulance. Twenty yards away, a group hunched around a figure partially covered with a bright yellow rain slicker. The body lay close to the curb, a pace or two from an older-model sedan with out-of-state license plates.

Estelle had never thought of Eduardo Martinez as a small man, but the lump under the slicker could have been mistaken at a distance for a child.

“Shit,” Bill Gastner muttered, more to himself than anyone. She glanced at him as she pulled on her black baseball cap. His big, rough face was set in a scowl, teeth clenched to make his already square, prominent jaw all the more pugnacious. His comment wasn’t directed against the weather. He was looking at the same thing that had made her blood run cold-a yellow plastic crime scene tape that delineated the area around Eduardo Martinez’s body.

The rain beaded on the plastic cover of Deputy Mike Sisneros’s Stetson and drizzled off the brim. He kept the aluminum lid of his clipboard nearly closed, protecting the pages inside. As Estelle approached, he took a couple of steps away from the group to meet her. “I don’t think they can do much for him,” he said. “They’re giving it the old college try, though. Somebody at the motel initially called in a fatality, but he’s hangin’ in there.”