Steven Havill - Double Prey

The Trujillos had worked at Victor’s for less than a year, hired after Gus Prescott’s eldest daughter Christine had resigned from bartending to attend college in Las Cruces.

As Estelle pulled into the Broken Spur’s parking lot, she saw the Trujillos’ Jeep nosed in along the east side of the adobe building. Just visible behind the squat saloon was Victor Junior’s aging Dodge Ram Charger. Estelle drove around the rear of the saloon, and saw that Victor’s semi-vintage Cadillac was missing from its usual spot beside the mobile home that teed into the saloon itself.

She parked beside the Jeep. The dash clock read 8:12 AM, and Estelle made the notation in her log before climbing out of the car. She stood in the blast of morning sunshine for a moment, looking down the highway. The sun would have been at her back on Thursday, when she’d seen the ATV roaring down the highway shoulder. She hadn’t paid any attention at the time. There had been no other traffic that she could remember. If someone had been pursuing Freddy, he wouldn’t have seen the boy turn off the highway, swerving down behind the saloon.

But someone at the saloon could have. She turned and surveyed the building. Only the small, frosted restroom window faced east, but someone standing in either the saloon’s front door or the kitchen entrance would have an unobstructed view. The undersheriff closed her eyes, forcing her memory to concentrate, but there had been no reason to pay attention at the time. She’d been preoccupied with paperwork, remembered catching a glimpse of an ATV, and that had been it.

She could imagine the agile little machine cutting across the saloon’s parking lot, but she had no clear recollection of it. The ATV had to have done that-or disappear into thin air. The ATV and rider would have been momentarily obscured by patrons’ vehicles…a handful of pickups and SUVs, perhaps?

She shook her head with impatience and walked toward the back door. The kitchen door was open, and she rapped on the screen’s frame.

“Hey, in here,” a husky woman’s voice called, and Estelle tipped the door open and stepped inside. Mary Trujillo was standing on a short, three-step ladder, hard at work on the stainless stove hood with bucket and sponge. “Well, how about that,” she said with a broad smile. She stepped down carefully and set the bucket on the floor. “You come for some coffee? Just made a pot.”

“No thanks. How are you doing, Mary?”

“Well, when it comes down to it, I’m just fine. Victor had to go to Cruces, if it’s him you’re looking for.”

“Probably not,” Estelle replied. Victor Sanchez had not built his moderately successful business with pleasant personality. In fact, his foul temper was legendary. Bill Gastner could usually goad the saloonkeeper to civility, and Bobby Torrez could but didn’t bother. Estelle had noticed that on the rare occasions when she’d been in the Broken Spur, Victor had simply ignored her. He had no love of law enforcement, and Estelle respected his reasons.

Mary Trujillo, on the other hand, was a plump, bustling ray of sunshine who managed to avoid Victor’s personal cloud of gloom and grump.

“So, what are you all about this lovely morning?” she asked, and snapped off her rubber gloves. She fetched a coffee mug and held it toward Estelle. “Sure?”

“Really, no thanks. I’m looking for a little information, Mary. I was wondering if you worked last Thursday?”

“Thursday?” The woman regarded the ceiling for just a moment. “Sure I worked Thursday.”

“Both you and Macie?”

“You get one, you get the other,” Mary quipped. She pulled a hand towel off the rack beside the sink and wiped her face and neck, patting at the various rings of fat under her chin. “I hate that cleaning fluid,” she said, nodding at the bucket. “Victor says it’s the best, but the fumes are positively hell on my skin.”

She snapped the towel out, folded it neatly, and hung it up. “So…”

“Do you remember somebody on an ATV riding in the area?”

The woman closed her eyes and drew in a breath through open mouth. She held that thoughtful pose for a moment, and then said, “Oh, him . ” She didn’t open her eyes. “You know, was that the youngster that they say ran into the canyon? What, later on Thursday?” She opened her eyes and stared at Estelle, her hands entwining in her apron. “One of the guys said that’s who it was.”

“You saw him?”

“I did. Heard first. That thing he was on was loud , you know. Don’t they make mufflers for those things?”

Estelle smiled. “It’s supposed to sound powerful and aggressive, Mary.”

“Well, it did that. Junior and I were standing by the back door, taking a smoke break. Down the road comes this kid, and when he cut across the parking lot, I was sure that he was going to slide right into the side of the building.”

“He saw you?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did. He looked right at us. And that’s who that was? The Romero boy?”

“We think so.”

“Well, I’m sorry it happened, but I’m not the least bit surprised. He was riding like a maniac. But that’s what those kids do when they’re on those things, isn’t it.” She sipped her coffee while the other hand groped in her apron for a pack of cigarettes. “Right out here,” she said. Estelle followed her back outside.

“What a view, you know?” She gazed off across the prairie toward the east, the hand that held the cigarette shielding her eyes from the sun. “Anyway, we were right here. He cut down off the highway, and right through here.” The sweep of her arm included the parking lot and then the country to the north. “In fact, you can still see his tracks, over there where the dirt’s kind of soft.”

“Victor Junior was with you?”

“Yep.”

“Is he here today?”

“He will be. He took the truck and went to town for a bit. But he was right here with me. That’s the truth.”

“And anyone else?”

“Just him and me, sheriff. That’s all. I mean, it’s no big thing, right? The kid rode by, and off he went.” She drew deeply on the cigarette and then ground it out as she exhaled. “Shame what happened. These boys…they think they’re indestructible, don’t they.”

“Mary, can you tell me who else was in the saloon at the time? Who else might have seen the youngster ride by? From the front door, from even-I don’t know-the bathroom window? Someone who had just arrived and was still outside?”

Mary patted her apron as if to double check the cigarette pack, but she resisted the temptation. “We weren’t terribly busy. That’s all I remember. Just some of the guys…I think. Now, Macie was inside, so she might remember. But you know, you can’t see the parking lot from the bar. These guys like the deep dark cave thing, you know.”

Estelle laughed, and Mary looked at her quizzically. “But so what, I mean. I saw him, Victor saw him. I mean, everybody knows he went by here.”

“Just a question of loose ends,” Estelle said. “Do you think Macie has a minute?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Mary said. “She was going to go with Junior, but I said no. I mean, I don’t have any intention of running the place all by myself while those two are off mooning together.” Apparently romance could conquer even the cloying aroma of onions, green chile, and perspiration, Estelle thought. Mary pushed the door to the barroom open. “Macie! The sheriff wants to talk with you.”

Macie Trujillo, dressed in a fluffy white blouse with Mexican lace and a flowing scarlet skirt that would have been perfect for a twirling dancer, was frowning at glassware behind the bar. Short and stocky like her mother, Macie wore enough jewelry that it clinked and winked from her wrists, fingers, and ears as she worked. An enormous necklace of turquoise and silver-worth a fortune if the stones and metal were real, and expensive even if they weren’t-rested on the broad, voluptuous curves of her chest above the deep dish of her blouse.