Steven Havill: Convenient Disposal

The county manager pushed himself away from the car’s fender and brushed off the seat of his tan chinos. “If you can stop by, it will help. The sheriff told them that the SO would be absorbing the two and a half village officers, but I’m not sure that Tinneman heard him.” He sighed. “I’d like to get this all cleaned up and running smoothly so we can move on to other issues. The world isn’t going to hold still for us to dither this to death.”

“I’ll be there,” Estelle said. “I’m not sure what I can say that will make any difference to Tinneman, but we’ll see.”

“Every bit helps,” Zeigler said. He paused with his hand on the door of his idling truck. “Everything staying quiet?”

“Quiet is always relative,” Estelle said.

“Boy, ain’t that the truth. See you after lunch, then.”

As Estelle settled into the county car, she enjoyed an unexpected sense of relief. The county meeting, with the ebullient Barney Tinneman always vying for center stage, could be entertaining-a good way to pass the hours until Francisco stepped off the school bus later that afternoon. She had no idea what she would say to her son.

Pershing Park was a dusty, forlorn triangle that overlooked the intersection of Bustos and Grande Avenues, the two main streets that crossed through the heart of Posadas. The park featured half a dozen elms, a spread of struggling grass, two picnic tables, and a rusting vintage tank alleged to have been part of Black Jack Pershing’s assault on Pancho Villa’s forces in 1916. The tank had rested on its concrete pedestal for so long that it had colored to a nice, even patina from tracks to turret. Sheriff Robert Torrez had once irreverently remarked that the tank had been donated to the Village of Posadas by someone who didn’t own a cutting torch.

Pershing Street formed the hypotenuse and northwestern boundary of the park. One of the few modern buildings in Posadas, the U.S. Post Office fronted the intersection of Pershing and Bustos. Its nearest neighbor was the former Martinez Brothers A amp; P grocery store, a flat-roofed, concrete block building. Sometime decades before, an industrious contractor had purchased the A amp; P, thinking that with a few tons of Sheetrock, the old store could be partitioned into a minimall of sorts.

Of the various ventures that had counted on the neighboring post office to provide a constant flow of daily traffic over the years, only three remained. Arley’s Vacuum and Sewing occupied a small corner niche in the old supermarket building, about where the fruits and vegetables used to be. The various cracks and BB holes in the front window had been artfully repaired with duct tape. Arley was semiretired. When Estelle had tried to have her mother’s aging Singer fixed, she had discovered that Arley had adopted “You can’t get parts for those” as his basic operating motto.

At the other end of the building, the elderly Helen Pierce’s retirement project, Junque and Treasure, was filled to overflowing with more the first than the second, and was open occasionally on Tuesday afternoons. Sandwiched between Junque and two vacant opportunities was Great Notions, a little boutique owned by MaryAnne Bustamonte.

The OPEN sign was propped in the window of Great Notions as Estelle’s county car drifted to a stop at the curb between the post office and Arley’s. She studied the boutique for a few minutes in the rearview mirror, then keyed the radio.

“PCS, three ten is ten-six on Pershing near the post office.”

“Ten-four, three ten. Did the county manager find you?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Ten-four, three ten. Bobby wanted to be sure you were going to the meeting.” Gayle Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, leaned hard on the word sure .

Estelle grinned as she hung up the mike. It was a safe bet that the sheriff would bow out of the commissioner’s meeting the instant he could finagle someone else to represent the department. Despite something as important as the pending dissolution of the village police force, with village patrol contracted through the county, Robert Torrez would rather clean up roadkill than sit in the stuffy commission chambers.

The cork tip protecting the long, polished hat pin was still in place as Estelle slipped the evidence bag out of her briefcase and into her inside jacket pocket.

She had visited Great Notions a half dozen times since it had opened a decade ago, not always as a customer eager to browse through the scarves, handmade vests and hats, incense, or bolts of Guatemalan fabric. MaryAnne Bustamonte had developed a love of other things from south of the border, and generally wasn’t too concerned about whether the burning incense samples covered up the aroma of smoldering hemp.

MaryAnne Bustamonte and Ivana Hurtado were sisters, some times to the younger Ivana’s discomfort. Ivana didn’t find her sister’s occasional court appearances the least bit amusing. Perhaps more important, Ivana might find it even less amusing to know-if she didn’t already-that her middle-school daughter Deena probably regarded Aunt MaryAnne as the perfect role model. The instant she’d seen the hat pin, Estelle had thought of MaryAnne Bustamonte.

A little brass bell from India jingled above the door as the undersheriff entered. MaryAnne Bustamonte was perched on a two-step ladder, trying to shove a bolt of fabric into the highest spot on an upper shelf. She turned and looked over her shoulder, squinting through the haze.

Except for a thickening of the waist, MaryAnne had changed little from the attitudinal teenager Estelle remembered from an American History class the two of them had shared at Posadas High School twenty years before.

“Hi,” MaryAnne said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“No hurry,” Estelle said. She remained near the door, trying not to breathe the cloying air too deeply. When not smoking marijuana, MaryAnne lit one nonfiltered cigarette after another. One was smoldering in an ashtray by the antique cash register. Its smoke twined with vapors from a burning incense stick near the pens.

With a final pat to smooth the fabric, and apparently not the least concerned that the expensive cloth would reek of smoke, MaryAnne retreated down the ladder.

“And what is the law west of the Pecos up to today?” she asked. Her voice was raspy, on the verge of a cough. With an efficient twist, she snubbed out the cigarette and then leaned on the small counter with both elbows, watchful as Estelle ambled up the narrow aisle.

The undersheriff stopped in front of a glass-fronted display labeled HEAD CASE. Inside, MaryAnne had arranged an impressive collection of barrettes, combs, and hairpins on a large, open Oriental fan. The eclectic display featured accessories carved from, or studded with, coral, jade, turquoise, amber, enameled copper, even carved wood.

Fanned out on a shelf under the display were half a dozen hat pins, ranging in size from three to six inches. Their handles were utilitarian black plastic.

“MaryAnne, I wanted to talk to you about your niece.”

The woman reached across the register and pulled a cigarette out of the crumpled pack. “Need I ask which one?” When Estelle responded only with a tilt of the head, MaryAnne tapped the end of the cigarette against the glass countertop, then held it like a pencil, unlit. “We would be talking about little Deena, right?”

“Yes.”

MaryAnne exhaled as if the cigarette were lit and she’d drawn a lungful. “What now?”

“She was charged this morning with bringing a weapon onto school grounds. The school suspended her for the remainder of the year.”

“Oh, you’re joking.”

“No.” Estelle pulled the plastic envelope from her pocket and laid it carefully on the counter in front of MaryAnne. The woman didn’t change position, but Estelle saw her eyes flick from the envelope to the display on the shelf.