Widows' Watch (14 page)

“Broken leg.” The sheriff added wryly, “That's some murderer you got there. He came back to help her—only racer who did.”

Eavesdropping Los Santos race fans groaned.

“'Tis better to be a good Samaritan than a bicycle-race winner,” said President Sunnydale. “Herbert Hobart University is proud of Lance—ah—”

“Potemkin,” snapped Vice-President Harley Stanley, who had been telling everyone who would listen that Lance's trophy would be on display at the Herbert Hobart administration building. Now there would be no trophy.

“Dr. Sunnydale,” said Josie, giving the ex-evangelist a charming smile, “has Herbert Hobart University ever considered establishing a museum for that famous Southwestern artist, Armstrong Carr?”

“Your brother is driving Lieutenant Daguerre back,” said Ruben Portillo to Elena. “She evidently advised the suspect to return to the race, so he's on the road again.”

That was dumb of Maggie. “How many deputies has the Taos sheriff provided at his end?” asked Elena anxiously. Maybe Lance had arranged the accident, planning to fall behind. In front of the pack, everyone would see him if he tried to disappear, but if he were trailing, he could escape unnoticed. “Leo, we got a problem.”

“Tell me about it.” Her partner had just limped up. “There's a thorn in my Nike. I'll probably get gangrene of the foot.”

“Yeah, and never tap dance again,” Elena replied unsympathetically. “I told you to wear hiking boots.” She turned to Manny Escobedo. “Did you hear, Sergeant? Maggie's out of the race. Broken leg.”

Suddenly Manny was all cop. “Then no one's guarding the prisoner.” He thought a minute. “Either of you ride a motorcycle?”

“Not me,” said Elena.

“I'm wounded,” said Leo. “Anyway, we don't have a motorcycle.”

“There's a guy named Stanley who does,” said Manny, who had started his police career in the motorcycle patrol. Announcing his intention to catch up and guard the prisoner himself, he went off to requisition the vice-president's Harley.

“I don't know how you can think that Lance is a danger to anyone,” said Harmony, who had been listening. “Would he come back to assist a policewoman if he were planning an escape? Of course he wouldn't. Elena, could you help Aunt Josefina with the preparations for the barbecue?”

“Mom, I'm on duty,” Elena protested.

“Behave yourselves,” said Manny to his kids and roared off.

Sunday, October 3, 7:30 P.M.

A cool breeze whispered through the Chimayo Valley, rustling the leaves on cottonwood trees, stirring wild grasses and flowering fall bushes. Elena sighed with enjoyment, looking off toward clouds with underbellies blushing in the setting sun, mountains darkening. Crowds of racers and spectators mingled, drank beer, margaritas, and lemonade sold by townsfolk; watched the cabrito, wrapped in foil, being dug out of the cooking pits; sat at wooden tables eating the local cuisine.

Lance Potemkin, after rescuing Maggie, had come in fifteenth, which didn't seem to bother him. Los Santoans had to take what comfort they could in Mark Futrell's third-place medal. Riding right beside Lance at the finish was Sarah Tolland's friend, Colin Stuart. Hoke Mitchell complained that the two men had actually been chatting on the last lap into Taos. They were still chatting at a table under a huge cottonwood tree, Lance guarded by Leo.

Maggie Daguerre's leg had been set at a hospital in Santa Fe after Deputy Sheriff Two Portillo dropped her off at Emergency. Manny picked her up once he had returned the vice-president's motorcycle. As a result she and Manny were gorging themselves while Manny's children and the Portillo grandchildren, led by nine-year-old Cleo Armstrong, decorated Maggie's cast with elaborate, brightly colored pictures and Indian symbols—flute players on her ankle, road runners circling her shin. Elena wondered how Maggie's captain was going to react to that garish display of folk art in the conservative precincts of I.D. & R.

In the serving line Sarah and Elena finally reached the tables where food was being dispensed. Their plates were heaped with local delicacies, the last of which was a large scoop of meat provided by Harmony.

Sarah, who had already had two margaritas, which were being sold at four dollars apiece, daintily plucked a shred of the meat off the plate and popped it into her mouth. “What is this?” she asked Harmony.

“Cabrito,” said Harmony. “Young goat.”

Sarah was so taken aback that she neglected to protest when Harmony ladled a thick red chili sauce on top of the cabrito. “Is that spicy? I don't think I—”

“You'll love it,” said Harmony, “and it's extremely nutritious. High in vitamin C, which, as you probably know, is an antioxidant.”

“Well, I—”

“Protection against cancer.”

Looking dubious, Sarah paid thirty dollars for her meal and Colin's. Her plate already contained a number of items Elena knew Sarah didn't care for—tamales, beans, a big helping of corn relish. “Blue corn?” Sarah had whispered doubtfully.

“The area is famous for it,” Elena assured her.

Tia Josefina came up to relieve Harmony, who fixed herself a plate, then helped Elena carry back food for Leo and Lance. As she took a seat beside Lance, Harmony said, “When I was at Berkeley—”

“I didn't know you went to Berkeley, Mrs. Portillo,” Sarah interrupted, sitting down by Colin. “I got my doctorate there.”

“Poor dear,” said Harmony. “By the time you arrived, things must have been quite boring, whereas ‘64 was the beginning of the free speech movement—a very exciting time.”

“I understood that it was a violent time,” said Sarah.

“Not until the next year. In ‘64 everyone was so idealistic and dedicated. I met all sorts of wonderful people, and hilarious things happened.”

“Hilarious?” Sarah tried the cabrito with hot sauce. “It is good,” she admitted.

“Of course it is. And think of what it's doing for you. Keeping all those free radicals from attacking your cells. Elena, show her how to use the tortilla.”

Lance smiled at Harmony. “You're right about that, Mrs. Portillo. I take twenty-five hundred milligrams of vitamin C a day. I figure you can't start combating cancer too early.”

Big deal, thought Elena, who had squeezed in beside him as part of her professional duty. She was sort of irritated that he hadn't tried to run for it.

“I can't imagine anything funny happening during the sixties at Berkeley,” said Sarah.

“You do it like this,” said Elena. She lined a flour tortilla with blue corn relish, beans, cabrito and hot sauce, rolled it up, and handed it to Sarah. “A burrito. You'll love it.”

Sarah bit in gingerly and looked horrified when meat and beans shot out the other end.

“Well, one of the really wonderful incidents,” said Harmony, “was when a street person started walking around campus with a sign that said fuck.”

Sarah turned to stare at Harmony, who was laughing gaily.

“It caused a delicious controversy. Faculty members and visiting parents were offended. Some students complained that his sign didn't say anything worthwhile, and a good many said that, no matter what the sign said, it was his right to display it, and that the movement would be defeating its own purpose if they turned against him. At the time, many students were interested in solidarity with the street people and felt making him leave would be discriminatory.”

“Well, I really think,” said Sarah, “that such words have no place in public forums. Didn't the administration do anything?”

“They didn't have to,” Harmony replied. “One of the professors wrote a letter to the student newspaper and pointed out that fuck is a transitive verb, requiring an object, which the sign didn't have, which meant the university was condoning a grammatical error. The students pretty much agreed when it was pointed out to them, so the street person was asked to leave.”

Everyone at the table laughed heartily, including Elena, who had heard the story before, but excluding Sarah, who looked astounded.

“So you see,” said Harmony, “we radicals really did have an interest in higher education. We weren't just protesting because we didn't feel like going to class, or because we enjoyed irritating the establishment.”

Sarah shook her head and took a gulp of her margarita. “That reminds me, Elena,” said Sarah. “I want to introduce you to Colin Stuart. A member of our department.”

What reminded her? “You've already introduced us.” Elena had never seen her friend even mildly inebriated and found the spectacle amusing.

Colin said, “I don't know whether Sarah's told you or not, Detective, but she's dumping me.”

“It's just campus politics,” Sarah protested.

“And she's determined to fix the two of us up.”

“So I've heard,” said Elena dryly. “But really, Dr. Stuart—”

“For a policewoman,” said Lance, “Detective Jarvis is O.K., and she's got a great mom. How did you happen to drop out at Berkeley, Mrs. Portillo?”

Harmony was studying Colin Stuart as she murmured, “Oh, things got so violent the next year, Lance, and we were really peaceful young people—my friends and I. I didn't like being bludgeoned and hauled off to jail. Here I was demonstrating for peace and love, and strangers

were clubbing me. So I left for New Mexico to form a commune with friends, live off the land, and become part of an ancient, peaceful society. Did you know that the Spanish settlers never had guns?”

“That's why so many of them got killed off by the Indians, Mom,” said Johnny. “Anyone want to buy a race souvenir? How about you, Lance? Betts can paint ‘fifteenth' on it for you.”

“Coming in fifteenth isn't that memorable,” said Lance. “Maybe Colin would like one. We tied for that dubious honor.”

“Not me,” said Colin. “I'll remember the food and the company. Wonderful cabrito, Mrs. Portillo.”

“Ruben and the other Penitentes did the meat,” said Harmony.

“Penitentes?” Sarah looked alarmed. “I've read about them.”

“No sweat,” said Johnny. “They haven't crucified anyone in years.”

“Johnny!” Harmony laughed. “Your father says they never did.”

“Did what?” asked Ruben Portillo. He slid in beside his wife.

“Crucified people.”

The sheriff frowned. “We're a Catholic lay organization, started in the old days when we had corrupt priests or none at all. A few people may have volunteered to be tied to the cross, but that was a long time ago. No one was nailed to a cross.”

“I was just about to tell them how we met, Ruben,” said Harmony.

He nodded and pushed back his Stetson. “Real romantic. She was growing pot. We raided the commune—”

“—and Ruben and I fell in love,” Harmony finished. “But I wasn't growing pot! I was learning to weave.”

“Looked like pot to me,” said Ruben.

“Herbs,” said Harmony. “You know I've always been interested in herbal and holistic medicine.”

“I don't know of anything you haven't been interested in one time or another. This aura business is driving me nuts.” He turned to Elena. “Your mother keeps telling me Efraim Ontiveros doesn't mean any harm; he's got a great aura. Everyone in town knows he's a thief. Water, apples, chiles. He'd steal the frijoles out of your pot.”

“He's a kleptomaniac,” said Harmony. “He needs therapy.”

“In Chimayo we don't have therapy; we have jail,” said Ruben.

“Dr. Stuart has a good aura,” said Harmony. “If he asks you out, Elena, you should accept.”

“Just what I told her,” said Sarah.

“Me too,” said Josie. “Here's your painting, Dr. Tolland. I padded and wrapped it.” She handed a large parcel to Sarah. “Elena thinks he's too old,” said Josie.

“How old are you, Dr. Stuart?” Harmony asked.

“Mom!” Elena protested.

“Forty-four,” said Colin Stuart. He smiled at Elena. “Is that too old?”

“Of course not,” she mumbled reluctantly.

“Fine. Lance has given me the name of an after-hours club. Maybe we could go next weekend.” He shot Sarah a challenging look, as if she might change her mind about not seeing him when she realized he was going to accept her offer to fix him up with a friend. Sarah didn't seem to notice. She was eating her burrito.

“I'm a cop,” Elena said to Colin Stuart. “At an after-hours club, I'd have to arrest the management.”

Stuart looked disappointed.

Lance said, “If they ever decide I didn't kill anyone, I'll take you and introduce you around, Colin. The jazz there is fantastic. Quite a few university people go.”

“We all know you didn't kill anyone, Lance,” said Harmony.

Elena rolled her eyes and said to Lance, “She doesn't speak for the department.”

“Maggie doesn't think I killed my father,” said Lance.

Elena could understand that, given the fact that Lance was a white-water rafter who had lost his chance to win the race in order to rescue Maggie. Since he hadn't run, Lance's chivalrous actions made Elena wonder too. Maybe he hadn't killed Boris. But then who? Some medal thief? One of Dimitra's suitors?

“I remember you,” said Sarah, staring, somewhat owl-eyed at Leo. “You arrested me.”

“So did Elena,” said Leo defensively.

“You're the tap dancer,” Sarah added. “Did you go to Tap Day in New York City?” Sarah took a big bite of her second burrito, failing to notice that this time half the contents fell out the other end. “Thousands, possibly millions of tap dancers gathered to dance in the streets of New York. Together. I imagine it was very noisy.” She stuck her fork into a fallen bean and popped it into her mouth, then took a swig from her plastic margarita glass. She had salt on her upper lip. “But nice for tap dancers,” she added.

“I've never heard of it,” said Leo, looking at her suspiciously.

“I saw it in the New York Times,” said Sarah and finished off the last of her cabrito. “I bought one of your son-in-law's pictures, Mrs. Portillo,” she said to Harmony. “On the advice of Professor Zifkovitz of our Art Department.”

“Looks to me like you're dumping me for Zifkovitz,” said Colin Stuart.

“Don't be silly,” said Sarah. “I wouldn't dream of getting mixed up with another arty type. Mrs. Portillo, would you have a remedy for an upset stomach? I don't feel at all well.”

“Too many margaritas,” said Elena.

“You're quite wrong,” said Sarah. “I am known for being able to drink with dignity. The problem is too much exotic food.”

“I'd like to hear more about this Tap Day,” said Leo, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

Oh God, thought Elena. He's going to start one in Los Santos.

“Look it up in the New York Times Index,” said Sarah. “At present, I'm going to be sick.”

“Johnny, go get the curandera for Dr. Tolland,” said Harmony.

“What's that?” asked Sarah. “I thought maybe you or Aunt Josefina could—curandera? I don't think I—”

“She's a witch,” said Elena, grinning. “Herbs, teas, curses, love potions—”

“Now, Elena,” said Harmony. “Joaquina has a wonderful tea for an upset stomach. That business of the curse was years ago.”

Sarah dropped her head into her hands. “I know better than to attend sporting events and eat Mexican food.”

Harmony patted her on the shoulder and said, “You need to expand your horizons, my dear.”

“I had hoped marrying Gus would be my last horizon-expanding experience,” mumbled Sarah. “Because of him, I was charged with murder. By your daughter. And her partner, the tap dancer.”

“Would that be Gus McGlenlevie?” asked Harmony, looking astonished. “You married him?”

Sarah nodded.

“You poor dear. That man has a terrible aura.”

“Wait till you read his poetry,” muttered Lance. “His aura couldn't possibly be worse than his poetry.”

“I wouldn't dream of reading anything he wrote,” said Harmony. “He has absolutely no scruples. When we were picketing the police station, he was interested only in publicizing his book.”

“You were picketing a police station?” exclaimed Ruben Portillo.

Elena found herself warming up to Lance. He didn't like Gus. He didn't like Gus's poetry. And he was really cute. Much more her age than Colin Stuart. But then Lance, unfortunately, was gay. Too bad. Elena had been wishing some eligible man would turn up in her life. Preferably someone under forty.