Widows' Watch (3 page)

“Mr. Ashkenazi has the most beautiful rugs,” said Amy wistfully.

Elena and Leo moved on to the Ituribes', on the far side of the Fogels' house. “So we know he was alive after his wife left for the center,” said Leo, skirting a fall of orange pyracantha berries on the sidewalk to the front door.

“Right. Now the question is whether he was dead when she got home, maybe killed by her admirer. Or her son. Or by her, and then she waited around to report it.”

The Ituribes were in their late seventies, a widow and her brother-in-law. Mrs. Ituribe was short and built like a truck. She had a rosy, smiling face and arthritic knees. Mr. Ituribe, her brother-in-law, was like a bantam rooster on the edge of starvation, a stocky man gone thin, with a full face that had collapsed as a result of weight loss. Elena knew that he had metastasized prostate cancer.

The Ituribes, when questioned about Lance, clammed up disapprovingly. Homophobes, thought Elena. Neither admitted hearing the family fights, although they'd heard the gossip, about which they were very discreet when questioned. Had they seen Boris any time today? They hadn't.

“We sleep a lot,” said Mrs. Ituribe. “Because of the painkillers.”

Had they seen any unusual people or happenings in the neighborhood?

“The chair,” said Juanita.

“The bicycle,” agreed Jose. “We were taking this old chair out to the alley. You leave it there, the scavengers will pick it up.”

“It's nice to know some poor person will get use out of your discards,” said Juanita.

Elena could see Leo eyeing the rest of their furniture, wondering what kind of condition the chair had been in if these two considered it discardable.

“I was an upholsterer,” said Jose Ituribe. “In my younger days, I could have fixed that chair good as new.”

“When was it we took the chair out, Jose?”

“I dunno. Two-thirty, three.”

“Too late anyway,” said Juanita. “It was hot for two old folks like us trying to get that chair out to the alley. And what do we see when we get there? A beautiful bicycle. Now, why would anyone leave a beautiful bicycle out for the scavengers?” Both shook their heads. “If I could ride a bicycle, I'd have taken it myself. But I've got the arthritis. In the knees, you know. Everywhere. And Jose's got the cancer. We're too old for riding bicycles. But I was tempted. Weren't you, Jose?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “If someone's leaving it out, that means you can take it. You know about that, Elena?”

She nodded. “Whose house was it in back of?”

“Fogels'?” suggested Juanita.

“Dimitra's,” said Jose.

“It might have been Gloria Ledesma's.”

“Gloria doesn't have a bicycle,” said Jose. “Anyway, it was behind Dimitra's.”

“I'm short-sighted,” Juanita apologized. “I'm not sure where it was, but Jose, he sees pretty good. Maybe Lance was visiting Dimitra.”

“But it wasn't Boris' day to be out of the house, so it wouldn't have been Lance,” Jose objected.

“What did it look like?” asked Elena, thinking they'd forgotten Lance was grown and wouldn't be riding a bike.

“Looked good to me,” said Juanita.

“Color?” prompted Leo.

“I've got the—what is it I've got, Jose?”

“She don't see colors too good.”

Leo looked inquiringly at Jose.

“Green?” Jose guessed. “The sun was pretty bright. Hard to tell in bright sunlight. But it looked good.”

“What about the handlebars?”

Jose nodded, eager to be of assistance. “It had handlebars. And tires. Had a seat too.”

“A black seat,” Juanita agreed. “But it could have been something else, since I don't see colors too good. I've got the diabetes. And cataracts.”

“Did you see Mr. Ashkenazi today?” asked Leo.

“I didn't,” said Juanita. “Did you, Jose?”

“I didn't. He was probably sleeping. Like us.”

“Not like us,” said Juanita, turning to Elena. “Did you know that Mr. Ashkenazi sleeps whenever he gets tired? One night he might be up all night; next he's sleeping at night. Sometimes he takes catnaps. Omar claims that's the best way, that working an eight-hour day isn't what humans were meant to do. He says his health has improved two hundred percent since he started sleeping whenever he feels tired.”

“Dumb,” said Jose. “Now a siesta I can understand, but even that's old-fashioned. No siestas at the upholstery shop.”

Leo and Elena asked a few more questions and moved on, wondering whether the strange bicycle in the alley behind the crime scene was significant. Leo didn't think a murderer would use a bicycle for transportation. Elena reserved judgment. Maybe they'd find someone else who had seen it and could describe it more accurately.

“Jeez, gettin' old's hell, isn't it?” said Leo as they left the Ituribes' yard. “Isn't there anyone young on your street?”

“Me,” said Elena. “And there are a lot of old people in better health than the ones you've seen. Actually, Mrs. Ledesma's in good health. So was Dimitra before she broke her hip.” They continued to canvass the neighborhood, reinforcing their suspicion that the Potemkins had been a troubled family. Lots of quarrels. Possible abuse. Nobody would admit that Boris had pushed Dimitra down the steps of the bomb shelter, but some hinted. No one else had seen the bicycle. Several had seen Ashkenazi meditating on his porch while Boris shouted insults.

“How come you missed all the problems with the Potemkins?” Leo asked Elena as they left the last house and went over to Omar Ashkenazi's place.

“Cause I'm three doors away, and Hispanics don't talk about family abuse. Older Anglos either. It happens, but it's covered up. Even taken for granted. You ought to know that.”

Leo shrugged. “I'm gonna catch some Hispanic abuse if I don't get home to my wife sometime tonight.” He rang the doorbell. No answer. Pounded on the wood. No answer. “His car's in the driveway,” Leo muttered. “Police! Open up!” he shouted.

“Come on, Leo,” said Elena. “The man's probably asleep.”

“He's not deaf, is he?”

“No, but when he decides he's tired, he sticks in earplugs and wears a sleep mask.” She turned away from his door. “I'll come back later tonight. He's bound to be awake within the next few hours. And tomorrow we'll talk to Dimitra again. See if she's found anything missing. Talk to the son, Lance. Then drop by the senior citizens center at noon to catch the bridge players.”

“Suits me,” Leo agreed.

“You wanna stay for dinner? Mom will have fixed something.”

“So will Concepcion, and I'd better turn up to eat it—even if it's grown mold while we were talking to your neighbors.”

“It takes more than two hours to grow mold, Leo, unless your refrigerator's already full of it.”

Monday, September 27, 9:15 P.M.

When Elena let herself into the house, she heard the familiar thump, thump of her mother's loom coming from the living room. Harmony was, as usual, setting out to make order and beauty out of chaos.

“Your dinner's in the microwave,” she called. “Set the timer for four minutes.” Elena did as she was told, peeking under the plastic wrap her mother had laid on the plate. Beans and brisket. It looked great. Harmony must have brought the brisket with her.

“Guacamole in the refrigerator,” Harmony called.

Elena closed the microwave door, set the timer, and snatched a can of Tecate from the refrigerator. Once she had sprinkled the top with salt, squeezed a cut lime over the salt and taken a deep swallow, she removed her jacket and shoulder holster, placing the gun in a locked drawer. The microwave buzzer went off, and she carried her dinner into the living room.

In the early days after the vandalism, she'd reshelved the books that had been tossed everywhere, thrown away those that were badly torn, along with broken lamps and end tables, swept up the glass underfoot, and ordered miniblinds to replace the ravaged draperies. Then she'd put off the rest. Consequently, a jagged hole gaped at her from the television screen, and the slashed upholstery had not been replaced. Somehow she hadn't found the time for any major shopping expeditions. Now the insurance money was gone. She sighed and put her dinner and beer on the tiled hearth of the round corner fireplace while she unfolded a TV table and set it up. Then she sat down on the hearth to eat.

“Who's looking after Pop?” she asked.

Harmony continued to weave. “Josie and Armstrong are back in Chimayo, so your father's staying with them.”

Elena nodded. Her middle sister Josie had married the artist Armstrong Carr when she was eighteen. During the tourist and opera season, they lived in Santa Fe, where he had a studio and gallery. In the fall they moved back to his house in Chimayo with their nine-year-old daughter, Cleo. “Armstrong's going to go crazy with Pop's calls coming in day and night.”

“Armstrong's taken to painting with earphones on. Then he names the canvas after whatever music inspired it, usually something from the chamber music programs. He'll never hear the telephone.” Harmony settled onto a high stool she had carried into the room, and studied the first six inches of her pattern. Then she turned to Elena, who was dipping tostados into guacamole. “I brought you a cordless telephone and an answering machine.”

“How come?” Elena wrapped a slice of the brisket in a flour tortilla, garnished it with beans, and bit into her improvised burrito.

“Because I haven't been able to get hold of you for three weeks.” Harmony had resumed her weaving. “They're in the bag by what's left of your television.”

“When I'm home, I'm usually out back,” said Elena, feeling guilty that she hadn't written or called in so long. “I've been working on the rock wall.”

“I thought it was something like that,” Harmony murmured. “I do worry about you, Elena. Now you can answer from outside or return my calls.”

“Sorry, Mom. I promise to do better.” Elena finished the last bite of her dinner and rose to examine the two gifts. Very high-tech. “Listen, Mom, these are way too expensive. You better take them back and—”

“Nonsense. I bought them at a discount store in Albuquerque. Besides that, I have more money than I know what to do with.”

“Since when?”

“Since I started using my fabrics to make coats and dresses for the Santa Fe tourists. Armstrong's gallery on Canyon Road is handling my creations.” Harmony laughed. “He can't very well charge his mother-in-law a commission, and the last coat sold for twelve hundred dollars.”

“You're kidding!” said Elena, astonished. That was more than she and Frank had put down on the house when they took out their V.A. loan. “How does Pop feel about it? You must be making more than he does.”

“Not yet, but I'm thinking of hiring other weavers. And your father hasn't complained.” Harmony finished her row and started a new one. “How's Dimitra?”

“Celebrating, would be my guess.” Elena carried her plate to the sink and tossed her beer can into a large wooden waste basket, handsomely antiqued in green and lined with a plastic garbage bag. “How come Pop doesn't mind?” she called, rinsing plate and silverware and putting them into the dishwasher. Her father was the quintessential Hispanic male. She couldn't imagine that he'd be cool about his wife making tons of money.

“Ruben's busy trying to find out who's been taking more than their share from the acequias,” said Harmony, “and it's not as if our lifestyle has changed. I'm using my profits to send Maria spending money while she's in med school, and I've put some into Johnny and Betts's business.”

Elena had returned to the living room. “Right. Portillo Southwestern kitsch.”

“Now, Elena,” chided Harmony, “not all of the tourists can afford Pueblo pottery or Armstrong Carr paintings. Johnny and Betts provide a welcome product—tasteless, but popular.” Laughter sparkled in her blue eyes. “Next I plan to make a down payment on a new pickup for Two and Rafaela.” Two was Ruben, Junior, third oldest Portillo and a deputy sheriff under his father.

“You want a beer, Mom?”

“Not so close to bedtime, Elena. Now, why don't you tell me what happened between you and Frank. You've been pretty vague about that divorce, and your grandmother Portillo was horrified, needless to say.”

Should she tell her mother that Frank had turned out to be a man who'd knock his wife down during a quarrel over his infidelity? Elena had picked herself up, got her gun from the locked drawer, driven him out of the house, and filed for divorce. Goodbye, Frank. If she told Harmony, Harmony would find someone to put a curse on him. If Harmony told the sheriff, he might come down and shoot Frank.

Elena sighed. Pop had been dead-set against the marriage. He hadn't liked Frank, whom Elena had met backpacking in the Gila Wilderness. Pop didn't even like the Sierra Club, which sponsored the trip. And he had a fit when Elena announced that she was marrying Frank after one month's acquaintance—two weeks camping and two weekend visits to Albuquerque, where Elena was a student at New Mexico University. But Elena hadn't paid any attention to her father. She'd been in love.

“Part of it was professional jealousy, Mom,” she hedged. “Frank couldn't hack it when I did better on the exams and promotion lists, and did it faster. He got to be a real pain. Still is,” she added, remembering that Frank had let Harmony into the house with a key. She'd have to pay that locksmith a visit, ask a few pointed questions, demand a free lock change. And get a restraining order against Frank. She should have done it that one time he hit her, not waited through the divorce and his stupid, post-marital bids for attention.

Determined to make up for lost time, she went to the kitchen to call a lawyer who owed her a favor. From now on if Frank came within a hundred yards of her, her house, or her car, she'd have him thrown in jail. That ought to go over great with his lieutenant. Once Frank bailed out, they'd can him, or at least shift him from Narcotics to Traffic.

Elena grinned at the idea of her ex-husband, who thought being an undercover narc was more fun than sex, getting assigned to Traffic. Or Community Relations. He could run around giving lectures to grade-schoolers. He'd have to shave off that dirty blond stubble and put on decent clothes. She was still grinning after her conversation with the lawyer.

“Elena, what are you up to?” asked her mother when Elena came back into the room. “I haven't seen that look since you and your brother Johnny tried to sell the tourists bottled lemonade with lizards in the bottom.”

“Hey, we thought if the Anglos would buy mescal with worms, they'd love the lizards. A lizard's cute; a worm's disgusting.” Elena excused herself again and went to the front yard to check Omar Ashkenazi's house. The lights were on. “Back in a half hour, Mom,” she called through the door.

Omar had a nifty live oak in his front yard that Elena coveted. It looked as if it had spent two hundred years in a strong wind and survived with a very gnarly character. She knocked on Omar's door, then rang his bell, hoping he'd remembered to take his earplugs out. When she got no answer, she peeked in the window and saw him puttering around in his front room, so she knocked on the window. When he turned to pick up a newspaper, she waved her arms. His sleep mask was pushed up above his eyes, and he squinted, came over, and peered out the window. Then a big smile blossomed across his unwrinkled, shining brown face, and he rushed to open the door.

“Elena, what a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Omar.”

“What?”

Elena pointed to her ears, and Omar Ashkenazi laughed merrily, removing his sleep mask, then his earplugs. He was a short man, dressed in a peculiar gray-green jumpsuit with black epaulettes and black and gold buttons down the front. His head was perfectly bald and dome-shaped, the skin a satiny light brown, his nose a thin hook with pinched nostrils. His eyes had a peculiar slant, not quite Oriental. From the back, the shells of his ears flared out like tropical flowers from two-inch stalks. From the front, the protruding earplugs had made his ears look like double mushrooms.

“Sit down, Elena. Sit down. Can I offer you something to drink? A kiwi and mango cocktail? I created the recipe myself.”

“Sure. Why not?” While Omar bustled off to prepare the fruit juice, Elena stared at his living room. It contained a small inlaid parquet table with a green and white onyx chess set from Mexico. Elena had seen a hundred sets like it in the shop windows along Avenida de Juarez, where eager shopkeepers stood out on cracked sidewalks trying to lure the gringo touristas in to buy. Two wooden chairs, intricately scrolled, sat at the table. Other than these pieces and a chair at the window, the room held no other furniture, but it did have a spectacular rug, so splendid in color and design that Elena skirted it to take the window chair. She couldn't imagine actually stepping on such a beautiful thing.

“Here you are,” said Omar, handing her a glass of green liquid swirled with yellow. He sat down cross-legged on his beautiful carpet, facing her with his hands resting, palms up, on his knees.

Elena took a sip of her kiwi and mango juice and gasped. “Is this alcoholic?” she asked.

Omar nodded enthusiastically. “I ferment it myself. Kiwi-mango hard cider. I'm applying for a patent.”

“Well—” Elena cleared her throat. “It certainly has a kick. Are you aware of what happened in the neighborhood this afternoon?”

“Can't say that I am,” said Omar, “but I always enjoy a good gossip.” Then his face fell. “I hope you're not going to tell me that both Fogels have colon cancer. I know they were scheduled for their yearly—”

“They're fine,” Elena interrupted, not wanting to hear any more about flexible sigmoidoscopy. “It's about Boris Potemkin.”

“That old fart! Someone ought to lock him up in his bomb shelter and throw away the key. Here, he's married to a beautiful, intelligent, charming woman like Dimitra—”

Beautiful? wondered Elena.

“—with hair, as the young people say, to die for.”

Elena pictured the aluminum slinky curls on her neighbor's head. They were unusual. But beautiful?

“Dimitra's a charmer,” said Mr. Ashkenazi. “A chess player par excellence.” He lifted one small brown hand and circled the thumb and forefinger, smiling delightedly. “So what happened to Boris? Did she finally turn him in to the police? High time.”

“He was murdered,” said Elena, watching Omar closely.

“Murdered? What luck!” cried Mr. Ashkenazi and scrambled off the rug. “I must go right down to console Dimitra.”

“She's gone to bed,” said Elena.

“Oh, of course. Dimitra keeps conventional hours. Have I told you my theory of natural sleep?”

“Yes, you have,” said Elena. “I'm afraid I have to ask you where you were this afternoon, Omar.”

“Well, I was right here. Snoozing. I just got up a few minutes ago.” He looked at his watch. “Nine hours sleep. I may not need any more for a few days.”

“Did anyone—ah—know you were asleep here?”

“Probably not. I was sleeping on this very rug. If you nap on a beautiful carpet, it's not only good for your back, but it gives you splendid Oriental dreams. ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree'”—Omar was waving his hands excitedly—”'where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea.' Coleridge had his opium; I have my rugs. Would you like to hear one of the dreams I dreamed this afternoon?”

“Ah—some other time,” said Elena. If, when she and Leo came thumping on his door earlier in the evening, they'd looked through the window, would they have seen him sleeping on his Oriental rug? “No telephone calls or anything?”

“While I was asleep? I wouldn't know, my dear. My earplugs are exceedingly effective.”

“Any ideas about who might have killed Boris?”

“Goodness, I'd have done it myself if I weren't a pacifist. That was one of the troubles between Boris and myself, you know. Aside from the fact that he treated the enchanting Dimitra so badly. We disagreed about war and violence. I do not believe in violence. Happily I am of an age to have missed the various wars this country fought. But I would have been a conscientious objector had I been called. Perhaps served in an ambulance unit. Unarmed. Saving the lives of young men maimed by nationalistic jingoism.”

“Omar—”

“Boris, however, believed in violence. He was hoping our Government would make a preemptive nuclear strike against Russia during the years when we were at each other's throats, figuratively speaking. I have myself overcome a violent heritage.”