Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

“I don’t think so.” Estelle moved fully into the living room, and Torrez followed, shutting the front door and leaving Deputy Thomas Pasquale standing outside on the steps.

Loath to probe deeper into Kevin Zeigler’s home, Estelle waited. Apparently the sheriff felt the same awkwardness, because he made no move to press by her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Estelle shook her head, jolted by the intrusion of Torrez’s voice. Her senses told her nothing except that the house was most likely as it had been when the county manager left for work that morning. She turned in place, inventorying the living room. Zeigler was a movie fan, and the room was arranged so that all seats, including the large, plush sofa, faced the enormous entertainment center on the east wall, with speakers surrounding the room.

On a small shelf to one side of the VCR, the tape-rewinding machine yawned open, a videotape visible inside.

The curtain was pulled securely over the west-facing window, and much of the remainder of that wall was taken up with a twelve-foot span of bookshelves. An old-fashioned wooden coat-rack stood between the window and the corner nearest the door, the hooks empty except for a single dark brown sweater. Estelle stepped to the window and examined the curtain. The pleats hung straight and true, the center seam overlapping precisely.

She slipped a finger between the two curtain halves and pushed one far enough out of place to see outside. The view was directly toward the Acostas’ kitchen door.

“There’s always the possibility that Freddy is a lying sack of shit,” Torrez said matter-of-factly. “He says Zeigler’s truck wasn’t parked there when he left for the store. He says it was in the driveway when he came home and found Carmen. Maybe that’s not the way it was at all.”

Estelle let the curtain slide back into place. “Freddy might have done a lot of things, but what happened to Carmen isn’t his style,” she said. “He might not have noticed the truck the first time. Things like that are easy to miss.”

She lifted one sleeve of the sweater. Made of lightweight wool, it smelled faintly of Kevin Zeigler’s musky cologne. No blood, no gunpowder aroma, no rips or tears. Leaving the sweater hanging on the rack, she turned and walked quickly past the shelves. This wasn’t the time for a full inventory, despite her curiosity. She scanned the books and videos as she passed. Zeigler was an organized soul, books alphabetically by author, videos alphabetically by title. By and large, both books and films were all new releases.

The living room fronted a hallway leading to bedrooms and bath on one side, and a large, well-appointed kitchen, utility, and laundry on the other. As Estelle moved through the house, it struck her as clean, neat, and entirely unremarkable, the sort of place where the frenetic county manager alighted for a few minutes out of each twenty-four hours to recharge.

The first bedroom on the right served as an office. The same make and model of computer terminal used in Zeigler’s office in the county building dominated the far wall. The metallic county inventory sticker was displayed prominently on the side of the computer’s beige tower. Filing cabinets, a map hanger on wheels, even a large copier had all been wedged into the small room-the county manager’s office-away-from-office.

The small window that faced the Acostas’ was shaded by a standard venetian blind. To open it, Zeigler would have to reach over the top of the copier.

“So much for not taking work home,” Estelle said. She turned in time to see Torrez nudge open the bathroom door across the hall. The glass shower door gaped open a couple of inches, and he slid it further, examining the tiled tub.

“Not used much,” he said.

With careful planning, the second smaller bedroom could have served as a guest bedroom, if the guest wasn’t either claustrophobic or a sleepwalker. In the far corner, a small bunk bed-the kind that would have fitted Estelle’s two small boys perfectly-served as a rack for two new-style stunt kayaks. One above and the other below, neither kayak was more than six feet long. They looked like two large fiberglass slippers upended on the beds.

“You got to be kidding,” Torrez said. He slipped past Estelle, stepped to the center of the room, and looked at the array of sporting gear with wonder. Near the end of the bunk beds, an aluminum stand held half a dozen kayak paddles. Just beyond, a wall rack engineered to balance itself on two slender legs held a pair of mountain bikes.

Most of the rest of the room was crowded with two exercising machines, one a popular, much-advertised model with integral bench. The exerciser’s various arms arched like a giant spider. Toward the door, another gadget rested on the floor, and Torrez eyed it critically.

“For the bikes,” Estelle said. “Snap a bike in, and you can pedal indoors when the weather’s bad.” Her husband had experimented with the idea during their brief stay in Minnesota, but hadn’t gotten beyond trying one out in a bike shop.

“Huh,” the sheriff replied. “Not this kid.” He frowned and turned his attention to what had once been a closet with sliding doors. The doors and door molding had been removed. The space formed an alcove that was home to two more bikes, sleek, razor-tired racing machines that bore the United States Postal Service racing team decal.

“I knew he rode a bike sometimes,” Torrez said. He knelt and examined the neatly paired cycling shoes. “This is him and somebody else,” he added. “Size nine and size ten and a half.”

Without rising, he reached out and spun one of the small skeleton pedals of the nearest bike. “Pasquale keeps sayin’ we should use something like this in the village,” he said.

“Good idea,” Estelle said, and she grinned at the thought of Torrez’s six-foot-four-inch frame in black spandex.

They moved quickly to the other side of the hall and the larger master bedroom suite. A king-sized bed filled that room, with just enough space for a small television stand and VCR, a single dresser, and a tiny desk that looked as if it would fit a fourth grader.

Estelle stood in the doorway of the large bathroom. Zeigler hadn’t been content with the standard tub/shower combination that would have been so upscale in the ‘50s when the house was built. A huge, custom-tiled shower, nearly five feet square, filled one side of the bath. A smaller jet tub had been installed on the wall near the commode.

She stepped across and snapped on the light of the walk-in closet. Kevin Zeigler’s clothes marched in neat rows. She recognized shirts that the county manager favored, some still in the plastic bags from Keiley’s Kleaners.

“I don’t think he’s been here all day.”

“Huh,” Torrez mused. He was standing at the foot of the huge bed. “You said this Page guy stays here when he visits?”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

Torrez shot her a quick glance, and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Those bunk beds in the other room aren’t for no adults, unless they’re midgets,” he said. “Is this Page guy a midget? If he stays here, he ain’t going to be sleeping in one of those, unless he is.”

“He may stay at one of the motels,” Estelle said.

“Oh, sure.”

“Or, he might stay here. Maybe he sleeps on the sofa. I’m not concerned with that right now. And he’ll be here in a couple of hours if we have questions.”

“Yeah. I got questions,” Torrez said. “This place gives me the creeps.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m going to check out behind the kitchen.” His radio crackled, and as he pulled it off his belt, he added, “Make sure someone hasn’t stuffed old Kevin in the freezer or something.” He palmed the handheld. “Torrez.”