Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

“Huh,” Francis said. “Every day for three weeks?”

She nodded. “Every day.”

“And why doesn’t Myra just tell him to get his little butt back to the class? Or group.” He grinned. “The herd. They generally don’t let first graders roam much, do they? Isn’t that the grade where they all line up along the wall to be counted? Seems to me I remember something like that.”

Estelle paused. “Myra was struck by how much it meant to Francisco to be able to do that. To be able to go off by himself.” She turned to face Francis more squarely. “When you think about it…”

He nodded. “I can’t imagine him keeping it a secret. That’s remarkable.”

“But he has. He hasn’t told his teacher, he hasn’t told any of his classmates as far as we know, he hasn’t told me or you.”

“What’d he say when you mentioned your visit?”

“I didn’t mention it. Melody Mears told him that I’d been at the school.”

“Ah.”

“What’s a six-year-old going to think,” Estelle said, lowering her voice. “If the adults find out that he’s where he’s not supposed to be, what are they going to tell him to do?”

“Get back in line.” Francis mimicked the order.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think he’ll just talk to you about it, if you ask him?”

“I don’t want that,” Estelle said quickly. “Myra thinks it’s fine. I think it’s fine. I want to leave it alone. He’s found this private time for himself.” She hesitated. “But we need to buy a piano, oso .”

Francis untwined his fingers and clamped his right hand on her left thigh in his strong grip. “Probably we do.” He grinned. “Next thing you know, they’re going to want a puppy or something.”

“Then the dog can howl in concert,” Estelle said, “and Carlos and I can be one big case of hives from the dog hair. Did Sofia say when she’s coming?”

“Ah,” Francis said again, making the connection. “She thought this weekend, if we weren’t busy.”

“Were you going to call her back?”

“I was…or you can.”

“Would you ask her to come Thursday or Friday? That way we can drive to Cruces when the piano store is open.”

Francis grimaced. “Wouldn’t one of those small electronic keyboards work? I mean, to start with?”

“If it will, that’s what they’ll decide,” Estelle said. “But I want to do this right, oso . Sofia will know.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Francis agreed. Of his vast, extended family, Francis Guzman was the only member who lived in the United States. His Aunt Sofia, widowed for more than two decades, had enjoyed a long, distinguished, and highly profitable career as an attorney in Veracruz…and had been the major financial force behind the new Posadas health clinic.

“But she mustn’t buy it,” Estelle added firmly. “I want to do that.” She leaned toward her husband. “Or we want to do that. But Sofia knows Francisco, and she knows music, and she plays beautifully. That’s why I want to talk with her.”

Francis looked bemused. “And suppose that this old lady and the six-year-old kid together decide in their own mystical way that the only thing that will do is a fifty-thousand-dollar Steinway, just like the one Sofia has in her parlor in Veracruz?”

“That won’t happen.”

“She said,” Francis quipped.

Estelle laughed. “If it does, I’ll find a part-time job.”

“Something you can work between midnight and three AM”

“Is that the time slot that’s available?”

“Just about.”

Estelle took a deep breath. “If they lose interest in the piano, we can always sell it.” She covered his hand in both of hers, feeling the heavy scar that crossed from the base of his thumb to the base of his ring finger, a souvenir from a biking accident several years before. “It would be good for you to play again, too.”

He laughed. “Oh, sure. It’s been so long I don’t know where middle C is anymore. Anyway, this is going to be interesting. What if the only time Francisco will touch the piano is when he’s alone? Are we all going to have to stand out in the backyard when he practices?”

“I don’t know,” Estelle said. “One step at a time. First, I want to talk with Sofia.” She relaxed back, comfortable against her husband. For a few delicious seconds, her mind roamed among thoughts of her children. And then the image of Melody Mears danced back into her memory, and Deena Hurtado, and the limp, bloody form of Carmen Acosta. She groaned and leaned forward.

“What?” Francis said. He ran a hand up her back as she leaned over toward her gear at the end of the couch. She retrieved the small cellular phone.

“I need to see if Eddie Mitchell is back yet,” she said.

“At midnight?”

Estelle grimaced in resignation. “He’s bringing back evidence that’s going to determine what direction we go come morning,” she said. “It can’t wait.”

“And come morning, you’ll be really sharp without any sleep,” Francis said.

“This won’t take long.”

“She said.”

The blue jeans looked small and oddly pathetic in the evidence bag. Estelle glanced at the photograph of the girl lying facedown on the bed, with two pale-faced paramedics kneeling by her head. Eighteen hours before, Carmen had poured herself into those jeans, tight enough to hinder the circulation.

“Her mother says that she’s right-handed, if that’s any help,” Chief Eddie Mitchell said. He stood with his spine pressed tightly against the wall, trying to straighten out the kinks in his back after four hours in a procession of cramped, speeding patrol cars.

“Something is bound to show,” Bob Torrez said. “But even if it does, I’m not sure that it tells us a whole lot.”

“Every little bit,” Estelle said. She arranged the fabric of the left leg of the blue jeans under the low-power stereo microscope. An instant later, it took no imagination to see the uniformly stretched threads along the inseam. The loops of thread that marched along the seam in the jeans were normally so tight as to be pulled right into the stiff fabric. Under the lens of the stereoscope, Estelle could see the stitching stretched up into a small loop, every half inch or so. She straightened up and beckoned the sheriff toward the table. “Want to place bets?”

Torrez planted both hands on the bench on either side of the microscope and bent over, then released his grip to adjust the oculars. “Huh.”

“You can see the loops,” Estelle said.

Torrez gazed through the eyepieces for another few seconds, then twisted to one side as Eddie Mitchell ambled over, hands pressed to the small of his back. With a sigh, he bent down and examined the inseam for himself.

“Regular little holster she’s got there,” Torrez said. “Why not just stab it in twice-once going in, then again a few inches down the pike to hold the tip?”

“That’s not very secure,” Estelle said. “Thread the hat pin through loops every little bit, and it’s going to be held in place, keeping the tip on the outside of her jeans, out of her leg.”

“Right now, we’re thinking that the hat pin was Carmen’s,” Mitchell said, and straightened away from the counter. “That makes for an interesting scenario.”

“ If she was wearing it when she was attacked,” Torrez said. “We don’t know that.”

“Let’s suppose that she was,” Estelle offered. She stepped across the small room and tapped the drawing on the white board. “There’s no blood in the kitchen-just furniture that indicates a struggle, a chase of sorts. Whoever attacked Carmen got through the door, busting the already broken screen. Maybe she tried to push the table between herself and her assailant, buying a few seconds.”