Widows' Watch (24 page)

Sunday, October 10, 8:30 A.M.

“Finally you have a day off,” said Harmony. “We can get some practice in.”

Elena had been enjoying the Sunday Times, her huevos rancheros, and the anticipation of a pleasant morning digging trenches and installing the new irrigation system. “What practice?” she asked with a sinking feeling.

“For our act. I've settled on ‘House of the Rising Sun.'”

“I told you, Mom. The guitar's gone.”

“Frank returned it,” said Harmony smugly.

“How? Did he meet you on neutral ground or ignore the restraining order?”

“He honked, and I went out to his truck.”

Elena cut another bite after spreading the yolk of her egg into the melted cheese and salsa. Ambrosia! What was Frank up to? Had he given up bugging her? Or had her mother—”What did you do to Frank, Mom?”

“Nothing, dear. I asked him to return the guitar and gave him some advice on his aura.”

“Frank doesn't know he has an aura.”

“He does now.” Harmony smiled radiantly. “Don't you think ‘House of the Rising Sun' is a good choice?”

“The guys from Vice will love it,” said Elena dryly.

“Of course they will. You sing beautifully.”

Elena groaned and went back to her newspaper. On B-2 in the local section, she found an article that might explain Frank's having returned the guitar. He'd completely flipped.

MUSHROOMS FELL NARC

Detective Frank Jarvis of the LSPD Narcotics Squad was hospitalized Saturday afternoon at Thomason General after erratic behavior at Police Headquarters. Dr. Rama Bahadna, the attending physician, speculated that Jarvis might have ingested an hallucinogen such as peyote. Test results are not yet in. When contacted, Jarvis' superior, Lieutenant Paul Costas, had no comment on the incident.

“Look at this,” said Elena, passing the paper to her mother. Poor Frank. He wouldn't be the first narc to fall victim to the product. But peyote? She'd have taken him for the cocaine type. Thank God, she'd divorced him. She glanced across at her mother and noticed that Harmony had gone pale.

“I think we should visit him,” said Harmony.

“No way,” said Elena. “I'd rather pay a conjugal visit to Charles Manson.”

Harmony's eyebrows went up. “Frank can't have been that bad! And I'm sure hospitals frown on conjugal visits.”

“I'm sure,” Elena agreed.

“I really think—”

“Where's the guitar?” Anything to distract her mother from the crazy idea of visiting Frank. He was bad enough when he wasn't taking drugs. She couldn't imagine what he'd be like hallucinating, and she didn't want to find out.

Monday, October 11, 8:30 A.M.

“You hear about Frank?” Leo asked.

Elena had answered on the cordless phone because she and Harmony were eating on the patio. “Yeah, I read the article yesterday.” She tucked the phone between her head and shoulder so that she could pour herself more freshly squeezed orange juice. Harmony didn't hold with juice in cartons. She claimed the little vitamin C's escaped once they'd been separated from the rind more than an hour. But then that was her mother: full of crackbrained ideas. Not that Elena didn't appreciate drinking extra-fresh orange juice.

“The newspaper didn't tell the half of it,” Leo was saying. “Frank came in for his shift, and they had this scumbag drug dealer in interrogation. Everyone agrees that Frank was acting peculiar before he spotted the dealer: calling people by the wrong names, complaining about dangerous alien rays coming off the main departmental computer. Then he sees the dealer. ‘What are you bastards doing to my wife?' he yells at the narcs, and he grabs the dealer and kisses him. Course the guy, being the macho type, gets all upset. He doesn't want to be kissed by a male narc.

“The lieutenant, who's in on the interrogation, tries to drag Frank away from his true love, the drug dealer, while Frank's yelling, ‘Were you trying to come back to me, sweetheart?' Then Frank turns and punches Costas and yells, ‘Why are you bustin' my wife, asshole?'

“And the drug dealer, he's screaming, ‘I ain't his wife. Bad enough you accuse me of sellin' smack. You think you're gonna break me down by callin' me queer and gettin' some scruffy Anglo to kiss me?' He's scrubbing his mouth like he's trying to get Frank's kiss off. I got all this from Harry Rainbow Trout—you know, the guy they say can sniff out narcotics better than their drug dogs?

“Anyway, Rainbow grabs Frank's arms. Says it's like trying to hold a madman or someone on LSD, ‘cause Frank, he wants to hit the lieutenant again, only he doesn't get a chance because the lieutenant slugs him in the gut. Whoomp! Frank folds. So the upshot is they haul Frank off to the hospital, babbling like an idiot. The drug dealer's threatening to file suit for sexual assault.”

Elena groaned.

“They're trying to keep it hushed up. The reporters got a little, but not the whole story.”

“I can see that,” said Elena.

“But you haven't heard the best of it. When Frank came off his high at the hospital, he claimed some curandera down in Segundo Barrio told him she was giving him an herbal tea that would improve—get this—his aura! So they tested Frank's blood, right? And he shows positive for some frog venom hallucinogen.

“Then they head straight down and arrest the curandera, who's claiming the only way to improve an aura is with a religious ceremony, which she put ole Frank through. So the curandera's in the slammer, and all her customers are trying to raise her bail, and she's screaming racial, ethnic, religious, and practitioner discrimination. She thinks it was a sting set up by the County Medical Association.

“Man, it is a mess! They tell me Chief Gaitan wants to fire the whole narc squad; the curandera wants to sue the department, Frank, and every M.D. in town; and Frank wants to sue her for endangering his job and his—get this!—his aura. You ought to ask your mother what's going on. She's the big aura expert.”

“I'll do that,” said Elena grimly. “Thanks for the info, Leo. Any news on the baby front?”

“Nah. Concepcion's talking about fertility drugs now. She says if she puts out more eggs, my two sperm per orgasm will have lots of eggs to take a shot at, and we won't have to worry about having five babies, because I don't have that many sperm. That made me feel great.”

“Listen to your wife,” Elena advised. “She's probably read every book on baby-making ever published.” Elena pressed the Off button and stared ominously across the breakfast table at her mother. “So Frank returned the guitar out of the goodness of his heart, right?”

“How should I know?” Harmony replied. “I can't divine the motives of a man with an aura like Frank's.”

As far as Elena was concerned, that was the wrong thing to say. “How did Frank happen to be going to a curandera?”

Harmony rounded her eyes innocently.

“Mom, come on. Frank wouldn't go to a curandera on his own. Frank wouldn't know an aura from an anteater. What did you tell him?”

Harmony gave a delicate shrug and poured herself a second cup of coffee. “I told him a curandera might—might, mind you—be able to help his aura.”

“And then what? He wouldn't care about his aura.”

“Well, Frank was interested in establishing friendly relations with you, Elena, and believe me, I didn't promise him a thing.”

“Oh, Mom.” Elena groaned. “God, I hope he keeps his mouth shut about our involvement in this. You and I will probably end up getting sued too.”

“By whom?” asked Harmony, astonished.

“By the curandera because you sent her a narc; by Frank because you recommended the woman who fed him a hallucinogen; by the scumbag drug dealer who's suing Frank because Frank took him for me and kissed him.”

“Frank kissed a drug dealer?” Harmony started to laugh.

“Mom, it's not funny. It's a disaster.” Then Elena broke into laughter too, because it made such a ridiculous picture. “The chief is beside himself,” she gasped.

“Oh, well, I'll fix that,” said Harmony.

“Leave it alone, Mom,” Elena begged and went to her bedroom to dress. She wasn't on duty till noon, so she was going with her mother to the senior citizens center to see what she could find out about T. Bob Tyler. First she wanted to know whether anyone had seen T. Bob at the center on the afternoon of Boris Potemkin's murder.

As soon as her daughter left the patio, Harmony called Police Headquarters and asked for Chief Gaitan, identifying herself and getting him immediately. “My dear Armando,” she said, “this is Harmony.”

Dear Armando was delighted to hear from her and told her how much he was looking forward to the performance of her and her daughter at the talent show. He offered to take them out for celebratory champagne afterward. Harmony told him how sweet she thought his offer but admitted that he might not want to have anything to do with her after he heard the story she had to tell. Then she proceeded to admit responsibility for his narcotics officer, Frank Jarvis, going to a curandera. “I was hoping she could help him get over having lost the love of my daughter,” Harmony confided.

“That would be a hard thing for any man to get over,” said Gaitan.

“Yes, it would. Unfortunately, Frank must have offended the curandera, and you know that can be disastrous with a woman of power. I'm sure your own mother explained to you about curanderas.”

Gaitan agreed that one had to deal carefully with a curandera who was also a bruja, which this woman was. Sylvia Balderrama was well known and respected in Los Santos, he added.

“Well-known throughout the Southwest and Chihuahua as well,” said Harmony. “She makes Los Santos a place of awe in the eyes of all Hispanics who know their own culture, as you obviously do. I always think a man who knows his culture and holds in respect the power of the holy women is a man to be trusted and honored.”

Gaitan told Harmony how much he appreciated her kind words and her understanding of the spiritual and magical aspects of Hispanic life. They traded several more compliments, and Gaitan assured her that he did not hold the debacle in Narcotics against her or her daughter. He was even prepared to forgive Frank when Harmony told him that one could hardly expect an Anglo to understand what he was getting into. Harmony now felt that she should have better prepared poor Frank for his meeting with the curandera.

“I'm sure you did your best,” said Gaitan.

“I thought I had, but things don't always work out as one expects. I can't understand how my daughter came to marry an Anglo. I'm certainly glad I didn't make that mistake.”

“The sheriff is a lucky man.”

Harmony told the chief how much she was looking forward to seeing him at the talent show, and mentioned that she and Elena would be singing “House of the Rising Sun,” which she thought had a folk quality that would appeal to both Anglo and Hispanic. She told him how beautifully her daughter played Spanish guitar, as well as other types of guitar music, and hung up.

Elena was standing in the doorway when Harmony went back to her cereal. “I can't believe you called the chief,” Elena groaned.

“It's all straightened out, dear. He doesn't blame you, me, or even Frank, and he's very excited about our performance at the talent show.”

Elena threw up her hands. She'd been hoping to get out of that. Now with the chief involved, she didn't dare back off.

Monday, October 11, 9:30 A.M.

While Harmony went on to her classroom, Elena stopped at the business office to ask for a list of people who had signed into the center on the day of Boris Potemkin's death, Monday, September 27.

Hallie Markham, the director, ran her hands through hair that was already disarranged and said, “I'm sure we have it.” She looked hopelessly around her cluttered office.

“Maybe if you'd tell me where to look, I can do the rummaging.”

“Oh, would you? I have to referee the shuffleboard tournament. You wouldn't believe the things they say to one another if I'm not there to keep the peace.” She shook her head at the recalcitrance of senior citizens, then looked around once more. “Try that Seagram's box.” She pointed to a whiskey carton stuffed with papers. “Or the boxes to either side.” She started to leave, then stopped. “I don't want you to get the idea that we allow alcohol at the center. It's just that when we have to store things, we need sturdy boxes, which we can't afford to buy. And now I really have to go.” Hallie trotted out, hair flying in every direction.

It took Elena three-quarters of an hour to find the sign-in sheet for September 27. Then she looked at every name, puzzling over signatures, especially the spidery ones and those that wandered above and below the line. T. Bob Tyler's name was there. He'd signed in at 10:30 in the morning, but that didn't mean he'd stayed through the afternoon. There was no sign-out sheet.

She doubted that she'd find all these people at the center today, and it was going to be touchy checking T. Bob's alibi if he was here. A small table at the door held a sign-in sheet for that day, so she checked it. No T. Bob Tyler. She'd have to ask questions as fast as she could, then get a list of telephone numbers from Hallie so that she could call others who had been here on the day of the murder.

Photocopying both sign-in lists on a machine that made ominous sounds when she punched the print button, she produced copies that looked as if they had been caught in a fire. Then she went out to the main room and started at the top of the list, cross-referencing as she went. In less than two hours she'd located fifteen of the thirty-five people on the September 27 list. None of them remembered seeing T. Bob Tyler on the fatal afternoon. “If he'd been here,” said Rolf Hankins, whom Elena caught as he came out of Harmony's weaving class, “you can bet he'd have been hanging around the bridge group. Dimitra played that day, and T. Bob always did like her, mostly because she was a bang-up country dancer. Don't reckon anyone here at the center could do the Cotton-Eyed Joe with more pizazz than Dimitra. ‘Fore she broke her hip, anyways.”

All the more reason for T. Bob to hate Boris, thought Elena; Boris had crippled T. Bob's dancing partner. If Dimitra got the post hip-replacement therapy, she and T. Bob could do the Cotton-Eyed Joe on Boris' grave. “Hey, Mom,” she called to her mother, who was leaving the classroom. “You going to eat here?”

“Absolutely not,” said Harmony.

“What's the matter?” Elena hustled after her mother, who was leaving the center at a fast clip.

“I don't want to have to look at that Lydia Beeman for one more minute.”

“What did Lydia do this time?” asked Elena, suppressing a grin. They had reached Harmony's pickup.

“Lydia had the nerve to say she's quitting my weaving class because weaving is too sedentary a pastime. She told me that if I had any interest in my health, I'd take up something more active.” Harmony climbed in and slammed the door, leaving Elena on the parking lot pavement. “Where does she get off saying that to me? I don't weigh an ounce more than I did when I was twenty. I'm certainly as slim as she is.”

“Not to mention prettier,” said Elena. “She's probably jealous.”

“No, she isn't. She's arrogant and supercilious. A woman like me, who's raised five children in the Sangre de Cristos and walked the loom besides, is not sedentary.”

“O.K.,” said Elena. “How about a quick lunch at Señor Fish? They have great sopa pescado. You'll love it.”

“Oh.” Harmony looked mollified. “Well, that sounds good to me.”

“It's on Montana too, so I think I can just about wolf down the soup and get to work in time for my twelve o'clock shift.”

Once Elena had signed in and checked her messages, she realized that she'd forgotten to get a membership list. Accordingly, she drove back to Socorro Heights and asked Hallie for a printout of the names, addresses, and telephone numbers.

“You're not going to make trouble for any of these people, are you?” Hallie asked.

“You don't think any of them committed murder, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Hallie. Blushing as if she'd slandered her clients, she printed out the list.

Elena stuffed it in her purse and checked the main room to see if anyone else had arrived while she was at lunch.

“How nice to see you back, my dear,” said Lydia Beeman, who seemed to be between lunch and the daily bridge game. “Won't you have a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you.” Elena accepted the plastic foam cup Lydia handed her, and the two sat down at an empty table.

“I suppose your mother's been telling tales on me,” said Lydia.

“What tales?” asked Elena innocently.

“Well, we had a set-to about exercise this morning, but I assure you, I was thinking of her health. When she gets to be my age, she'll wish she'd followed a more varied program. Walking a loom may seem strenuous to your mother, but it doesn't involve enough of the important muscle groups. I myself try to follow a well-balanced program of physical activities.”

“Well, you certainly seem in excellent health, Mrs. Beeman,” said Elena politely.

“Lydia.”

“Lydia,” Elena agreed. “You're very sprightly.”

“Sprightly?” Lydia cocked an eyebrow at Elena. “That's an old woman's word. I may be an old woman chronologically, but my body, my doctor would be happy to tell you, is that of a woman forty-five or fifty. Your mother should take that to heart. I imagine my physical age corresponds to her chronological age.”

“Ummm,” said Elena.

“Now, you seem to be in very good shape, my dear. What exercise do you participate in?”

Elena grinned. “House repair, gardening, and chasing criminals.”

“Gardening is good,” said Lydia approvingly. “As for house repair, can't you afford to hire it done?”

“I'm not that well paid,” said Elena, “and I'm divorced. I don't intend to let the house fall apart, since it's all I have to show for the marriage.”

“Very wise. A good citizen takes care of her property. As for chasing criminals, I don't suppose you meant that literally.”

“Sure I did,” said Elena. “I have quite literally run down drug dealers, murderers, drive-by shooters who abandoned their cars. You name ‘em, I've run ‘em down.”

“Good for you,” said Lydia. “I'm an ardent walker and bicycle rider, but I can't say I do much running.”

Bicycle rider? Did she mean a real bicycle or one of those stationary things? Elena wondered, remembering the bicycle in the Potemkins' alley.

“Aren't you worried that you'll suffer joint injury?” Lydia asked. “I've heard runners do.”

“They're probably the kind who run ten miles a day.” That Ann Malone, whom Mrs. Ramsey mentioned, had ridden a bicycle outdoors at an advanced age. Maybe Lydia did. “I just run when somebody who shouldn't be at large needs catching,” said Elena.

“Yes.” Lydia nodded. “There are, unfortunately, many people whom society is better off without. I admire your career choice and your devotion to it. Had I had a daughter, I'd want her to be a good deal like you.”

“Why, thank you, Lydia.” Elena was touched. That was a real compliment coming from a woman who didn't seem much given to sentimentality. Because Lydia was part of the bridge group and had been absent on the day of Boris' death, Elena would have to check out the bicycle angle, but she didn't really believe that a woman as hung up on law and order as Lydia Beeman would take the law into her own hands. If I'd had a daughter, I'd want her to be like you—what a nice thing to say.

“It's surprising that you turned out as well as you did with a mother like yours.”

Elena's warm feeling vanished, and she said sharply, “I couldn't have asked for a better mother.”

“I'm sure she was very loving, but she does have peculiar ideas. Auras, for instance. Do you know anyone, besides your mother, who claims to have seen an aura?”

Elena grinned, her momentary anger dissipating. “We all have our idiosyncrasies. Mom's are harmless.” She murmured that she had to get back to the police station and excused herself.

At headquarters she began to call more people who had been at Socorro Heights the Monday of the murder. None of them had seen T. Bob Tyler that afternoon and claimed that if he'd been there, they'd have noticed him hovering around the bridge group. Elena remembered him from the day she'd interviewed the four ladies. He'd been very protective. Had he been afraid they'd reveal something incriminating about him?

One woman laughed and said T. Bob Tyler had a crush on anything in skirts. That information didn't add any evidence to Elena's case against the old cowboy, but it did hone her suspicions. And he had no alibi. No matter what he'd said, no one had seen him at the center that afternoon.

She called to remind Harmony that dinner would have to be served at eight-thirty since Elena was now on the twelve-to-eight shift.

“We'll eat fashionably late,” Harmony agreed. “How about something French and sumptuous? I'll go shopping.”

“If you're willing to cook it, I'll eat it,” said Elena. She had a suspicion of French cuisine as admired by her friend Sarah Tolland: snails, brains, and goose liver. But Harmony would never serve her anything like that.

“And I forgot to tell you about something I discovered,” said Harmony. “I've been asking questions—”

“About the murder?” interrupted Elena, alarmed. “I told you not to do that.”

“Well, it's not as if I learned anything about anyone dangerous, Elena. Just a curious little item. Did you realize that each time a wife substituted in that bridge group and her husband was killed,

Lydia Beeman was the person whose place the wife took? Not that I think Lydia killed anyone; she's too strait-laced. But it is odd.”

Damned odd. Especially added to the bicycle-riding. Elena decided to talk to the members of the bridge group again. At their houses if possible. She glanced at her watch: 3:45. Some of them should be home from the center. By 4:15 she had appointments with Portia Lemay, Margaret Forrest, and Emily Marks. She hadn't been able to reach Lydia, but she could pick up that appointment tomorrow.