Steven Havill - A Discount for Death

“And don’t want to talk to us,” Torrez said.

“All the more reason.” She reached into her car for her clipboard and double-checked the tape inside the microcassette before sliding it into her jacket pocket. She’d taken two steps back toward 210 Twelfth when the phone on her belt awakened once more.

“Guzman.”

“The two kids are home with their grandmother,” Tom Mears said without preamble.

“They’re all right?”

Mears hesitated. “They’re in bed, asleep. I guess they’ll find out in the morning.”

Estelle heard a sound in the background that could have been a yelp of pain, a sob, or both. “Mrs. Parker’s with you?”

“Yes, ma’am. What I wanted to tell you was that she says Kenderman stopped by earlier this evening to see Colette. They’ve been going together for a little while.”

“How long?” She looked across at Torrez and shook her head wearily.

“For about six months, the mother says. Colette wanted to break it off. Kenderman came by this evening, while he was on duty. He wanted to talk to Colette, and she didn’t want to see him.”

Estelle backpedaled as if she’d been shoved and slumped against the side of her car. “Ay,” she murmured.

“Mrs. Parker tells me that sometimes after Colette puts her daughters to bed, she likes to take a short ride on the bike. No traffic, all by herself-that sort of thing. That’s what she did tonight.”

“And Kenderman followed her.”

“Mrs. Parker doesn’t know about that.”

“She didn’t hear anything?”

“Apparently not. She had the television on and wears earphones so the noise doesn’t disturb the kids.”

“Thanks, Tom. You’re going to get a statement from her tonight?”

“If I can. She’s not doing too well.”

“Do what you can. Bobby and I are going to talk to some neighbors at the other end of the racetrack.” She switched off and then pushed the phone’s autodial. “Wow,” she breathed. She looked at Robert Torrez and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Looks like it started as a domestic,” she said. “Nothing’s going to be simple.”

Sheriff Torrez waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler answered Estelle’s call.

“Ernie, I need a name and number for two ten North Twelfth Street.”

“It’s Luis and Maria Rubay,” Torrez muttered just loud enough for Estelle to hear.

“The sheriff says to check a listing for Rubay,” Estelle added. “R-U-B-A-Y.” She waited for a moment and then jotted down the number. “Thanks. The sheriff and I will be at that address for a few minutes.”

As she was pocketing the phone once more, Torrez nodded across the street at the small brown adobe on the northwest corner, directly across Highland Court from the Rubay’s at 210. “If Maria didn’t see or hear anything, then we can talk to Mrs. Corning. She’s been watching us all the time we’ve been here.”

Estelle grinned. “You know everybody in every house? You sound like Bill Gastner, the walking gazetteer of Posadas County.”

“Not quite,” Torrez said. “I don’t know who lives over there, for instance.” He jerked his chin at the two-story cinder-block monstrosity on the northeast corner of the intersection.

“Maybe we’ll find out,” Estelle said. “Somebody knows exactly what happened.”

“Yep,” Torrez agreed. “Perry Kenderman, for one.”

Estelle Guzman pushed the doorbell button in the center of an enameled tin design that looked like a flattened, road-killed lizard. Inside, they heard the first notes of “Ave Maria” on the chimes. There was no response, no movement or shuffling from within. No dog yapped greeting or warning.

Estelle turned and lifted an eyebrow at Torrez. “Tell me I wasn’t dreaming when I saw the porch light turned off,” she said.

“Maybe on a timer. Or not. Maria marches to her own drummer.”

“She an aunt of yours?”

“One of the cousins.”

“She lives by herself?”

“Yep. Her husband Luis died a month or so ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She pushed the button again, wondering how much information she could pry out of the sheriff, one isolated sentence at a time. She listened to the six soaring notes of the doorbell once more. With no response, she stepped back and drew out her telephone, dialing the number Dispatch had provided.

In three rings, a woman’s voice answered with a warbling “Yeesss?” that sounded as if she was holding the phone in one hand and a dripping egg beater in the other, interrupted mid-recipe.

“Mrs. Rubay?”

“Yes.” The reply was guarded, then brightened. “And whatever you’re selling, I’m really glad you called. I just declared bankruptcy and can’t find anyone who’ll take my checks.”

Estelle glanced at Torrez and grinned. “Mrs. Rubay, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Would it be possible to talk with you for a few minutes?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“We’re just outside your address. Is this a good time?”

“Sure. Hang on just a minute. I’m just cutting up my husband, and I don’t want the pieces to blow all over the dining room floor.”

The phone clicked off. “She’s butchering her husband,” Estelle said, and Torrez nodded.

“I’m not surprised.”

In a moment the dead bolt clacked. When the woman opened the door, Estelle realized that she knew Maria Rubay as one of the part-timers who worked at the post office. No doubt Cousin Robert would have dredged up that basic information eventually if pressed hard enough.

“Evening, Maria,” Torrez said. He ducked his head in greeting, both hands firmly in his back pockets.

“I was about to call the police because of all the vagrants standing around out in the middle of the street a little bit ago,” Maria said, and favored them with a warm smile, an expression that illuminated her classic oval face. She looked at Estelle. “You have an awfully nice telephone voice,” she said. “You could be one of those phone solicitors who keeps me such good company in the evening. Come on in.”

“Thank you.”

She held the door for them, looking up as Torrez slipped past her. “You’ve grown another inch or so,” she said, and her cousin actually laughed. “How did a family of runts produce you and your sister,” she added. She shook her head and then waved at the sofa in the living room. “Let’s sit.”

“We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rubay,” Estelle started, but the woman interrupted.

“ Maria works just fine. And it’s no bother. I’m glad for the company. You know, I just don’t answer the door after dark. Especially with Luis gone now. I just ignore it.”

“I understand.”

“You want to see what I’m putting together, Bobby?” Before the sheriff could answer, Maria Rubay rose quickly to her feet. “Of course you do. Come into the dining room.”

On the table, a vast sea of family photos lay in no obvious order, with the scissors and glue holding down a pile of scrap. “I’m cutting Luis out of every old photograph I can find.” She leaned over the table and smoothed the large piece of tag board, the surface already a third covered. Luis Rubay’s pleasant face, dominated in more recent photos by his heavy Fu Manchu mustache and stubbly brush cut, gazed up at them in dozens of versions.

“When I’m all done, I’m going to have copies made for the family,” she said. “Nice idea, yes?”

“Yes, it is,” Estelle said. She glanced at the pile of photographic rubble to the left. “He was quite a fisherman, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, and I’m hacking out all the damn fish,” Maria said. “A trout is a trout. Maybe I’ll save one or two, just to make him happy.”