Widows' Watch (10 page)

“I'll do that,” said Elena. She thought about Dimitra and T. Bob Tyler, the man described by Sheriff Blankenship as prone to assault. “Tyler might have killed Boris,” she murmured.

“I thought Lance was your prime suspect,” said Harmony.

“Well, he is,” Elena replied defensively, “but I heard some stuff about Tyler that makes me nervous. I wonder if Dimitra knows that he's a barroom brawler?”

Her mother went to bed, but Elena sat up fretting, watching the Potemkin house, which was dark. Finally an old truck pulled up in front at ten-thirty. T. Bob Tyler, be-Stetsoned, ambled to the back of the pickup and removed Dimitra's walker, then pushed it to the passenger side. Elena watched him lift Dimitra down as if she were Snow White and he the handsome prince. What a sight those two must have made at the country-music club. Elena wondered whether T. Bob had decked anyone for making remarks about senior citizens.

Once he'd returned to the truck, Elena hurried down the street to knock on Dimitra's door.

“Who is it?” Dimitra yelled. “I've got a gun.”

“It's me. Elena.”

Dimitra opened the door immediately. “You want more of my cabbage rolls, right? Well, I decided to take your advice and serve them after the funeral. Maybe I'll make some more tomorrow after we've put Boris in the ground.” She consulted an appointment calendar on a lamp table. “No, I can't do that. I'm going to the movies tomorrow afternoon with Omar.”

At least it wasn't T. Bob Tyler. “Look, Dimitra, there's something I've got to tell you. I hate being a gossip, but I ran a check on T. Bob Tyler. That's who you were just out with, right?”

“I certainly was. We had the best time watching the young people two-step. I've decided that if there's enough money, I'm going to have the physical therapy Boris wouldn't pay for after my hip replacement. I don't want to spend the rest of my life on the sidelines.”

“Yeah, well, I'm glad you had a good time, Dimitra. Was there any trouble?”

“Why would there be trouble? T. Bob Tyler would never let anyone lay a hand on me.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” muttered Elena.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“T. Bob's got a long history of assaults.”

Dimitra paled. “Who'd he hit?”

“A lot of guys in Otero County and one in Los Santos.”

“Did he hit any women?”

“No women,” Elena admitted.

“Then why are you telling me? It's men who hit women you have to watch out for.”

“Still, Dimitra—”

“I'm having a lovely time, young lady. Don't spoil it. And I'll thank you not to be spying on me. I had enough of that with Boris.”

Friday, October 1, 10:30 A.M.

Elena stood at the graveside with Harmony and Leo. Never having been to the Fort Bliss National Cemetery, she found it surprisingly beautiful—green grass, trees, the battalions of white crosses in the older section. You could almost forget you were living on a desert mountain.

As the Russian Orthodox priest prayed over Boris Potemkin's casket, Elena tried to look attentive, although she was, in fact, studying the mourners. A large contingent from Boris' V.F.W. Post clustered across from the family, one old soldier in a wheelchair, two hunched over canes, some middle-aged, who might be veterans of Korea or Vietnam. Neighbors had come, the Fogels, the Ituribes, and Gloria Ledesma, scowling at Leo as if she thought he planned to make an arrest during the ceremony. Lance evidently expected to be the arrestee. He was visibly nervous and looked more often at Leo and Elena than he did at the priest.

The bridge group and other people from the senior citizens center were also in attendance. Emily Marks wore a chic black suit and a hat with a black veil. Several of the veterans had taken her for the widow and come up to express sympathy. Causing great astonishment, she replied that she hadn't known the deceased well, but wasn't it terrible how many violent crimes were committed these days?

The mistake didn't surprise Elena, since Dimitra had on a yellow flowered dress and a bright blue straw hat with yellow daisies bobbing on the brim. She looked quite festive, flanked by her admirers, Omar Ashkenazi in a green polyester leisure suit—Elena hadn't known those were made anymore—his smooth brown scalp glowing in the morning sunshine, and T. Bob Tyler, who was glaring at the casket and then at Omar with such enmity that Elena decided he was a better suspect than she had figured.

Lance, standing to the right of Omar, reached over and patted his mother on the arm. The gesture earned him a beaming smile, and Elena heard Dimitra whisper, “Be sure to come for the wake. Cabbage rolls and vodka.”

“Might as well,” Lance muttered. “I can't go to Santa Fe.”

“Now, don't pout,” said Dimitra, as if he were ten years old. “There'll be other races.”

The bearded priest glared at them and continued his interminable prayer. Even the seven-man honor guard was starting to fidget. After the final amen, a ramrod-straight old man stepped forward, his uniform hanging loosely from a gaunt frame. In a loud voice that echoed across the cemetery, he said, “Before we have the military salute to our fallen brother-in-arms, Boris Potemkin, I would like to say a few words on behalf of the members of V.F.W. Post 8550.” He scowled at the civilian mourners. “Boris Potemkin was a soldier. He served his country honorably in The Great War, one of the few wars in recent memory for which the public feels any affection.”

A Vietnam veteran muttered angrily under his breath.

“Boris built the bridges and the roads that allowed the army to march through France, through Germany to slay the Hydraheaded Fascist monster, the evil followers of dictatorship. Let us all remember Boris and his service to his adopted country, for Boris came from Russia, that hotbed of Communism.”

“It's not a hotbed anymore,” said Lydia Beeman. “You ought to keep up with the times, Conrad.”

“Boris never believed the Communists were gone,” said Dimitra from across the open grave.

“This is a man's tribute,” rumbled the old soldier. “If women want to say something, they can do it when I'm through.” He cleared his throat forcefully. “So we, his fellow soldiers, bid farewell to a departed patriot, Boris Potemkin.”

The officer with the honor guard barked, “Fire!” Seven soldiers discharged their rifles, the first of three volleys in the traditional twenty-one-gun salute. The Vietnam veteran jerked as if he'd been shot and, shouting, “Gooks! Hit the dirt!” dove toward the grave, taking a little old lady with him.

“Fire!” The soldiers, trying not to stare, fired.

“For heaven's sake,” cried Harmony, “the man's having a flashback. Stop that shooting.”

“Fire!” Their rifles no longer at the proper angle, the honor guard fired one last time. Seeing the smoke drifting from rifle barrels aimed every which way, the widow, her beaus, and the nonmilitary mourners scattered like protesters under a tear-gas attack.

“It's O.K., man,” said Lance, leaning down to pat the shoulder of the trembling ex-warrior, who was sprawled on the casket. “They're using blanks, not bullets.”

“Gooks,” whispered the veteran, pointing to Omar Ashkenazi.

“Sh-sh,” said Lance. “He's my mother's boyfriend, not the Vietcong.” Lance managed to help the old lady to her feet and onto the artificial grass beside the grave. Harmony kept up a soothing murmur to the trembling veteran while she disentangled him from the red, white, and blue carnations sent by the V.F.W.

“This has got to take the cake for graveside disasters,” Elena muttered, stepping forward to help her mother with the veteran.

“This is what happens when the country sends young men off to kill women and children for no good reason and then sneers at them when they come home,” said Harmony to the old veteran, as if the war in Vietnam had been his fault.

“Mom!” Elena hissed. That's all she needed—for her mother to get into a political squabble. She and Harmony had turned the victim of the flashback over to Leo.

“Madam,” said the old soldier, “I fought my way from the beaches of Normandy to—”

“And got kissed by pretty French girls all the way, I imagine,” retorted Harmony. “How many children and old women threw grenades at you?”

“Lance always was a sweet boy,” said Dimitra. “Did you see him go to the rescue of that poor woman?”

“He's a fine-lookin' young fella,” said T. Bob Tyler. “It's an honor to meet him.”

“Nice to know somebody likes my son,” said Dimitra. “Boris didn't.”

“I always liked Lance,” said Omar, not to be left out of the liking-Lance competition. “The boy has taste in rugs. I remember you bringing him down to my store when he was ten, Dimitra.”

Had Dimitra and Omar been friends for that long? Elena wondered. Fifteen years or so?

“His favorite was the most expensive carpet in stock,” said Omar admiringly. “Amazing taste in a child.”

Lance had turned red because the conversation was being carried on rather loudly. “Is the ceremony over?” he asked the bearded priest.

“No,” said Dimitra. “You and me, we gotta each put a flower on Boris' casket.”

“The hell with that,” Lance muttered. Then he glanced nervously at Leo and Elena, changed his mind, and rejoined his mother on the family side of the grave. Lance accepted a rose, studied it, and said, “This came from the bush he wanted to dig up and throw away.”

Dimitra gave her son a twinkling smile and dropped her offering on the casket, which looked to Elena as if it was the cheapest one Dimitra could find. No doubt, Omar knew where all the casket bargains were. “Goodbye, Boris,” said Dimitra as Lance flipped his rose onto his father's coffin, whose only other decoration was the trampled V.F.W. wreath. “We won't be seeing you anymore, Boris,” said the widow.

“There's always the afterlife,” the priest pointed out reprovingly.

Dimitra shrugged. “If anybody's going to hell, it's Boris Potemkin, and I don't plan to join him there. Now, everyone's invited to my house tonight for the wake.”

“We don't have wakes,” said the priest angrily. “That's an Irish custom. If you wanted a wake, Mrs. Potemkin, you should have held it before the burial and contacted a Roman Catholic priest for the service.”

“Vodka and cabbage rolls,” said Dimitra with blithe indifference. She looked around at the staring crowd. “So if that's it,” she announced, “T. Bob and I have to get over to the senior citizens center.”

“So do I,” Harmony murmured to Elena. “I'm late.”

Elena wondered what the big rush was. Maybe T. Bob and Dimitra had signed up for Harmony's weaving class.

Dimitra went on tiptoe to kiss her son on the cheek. “Eight tonight,” she said. “I've saved you twenty frozen cabbage rolls to take home.”

“Aren't we going to a movie this afternoon, Dimitra?” asked Omar, and got a possessive glower from T. Bob Tyler.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Omar. I can't. We've got big plans at the center,” Dimitra replied.

What big plans? Elena wondered. A shuffleboard tournament?

“Maybe this evening. No, that's the wake. How about tomorrow afternoon?”

“Tomorrow it is,” said Omar. “If I feel myself drifting into sleep, I'll give you a call to reschedule.”

“You do that, dear.” Dimitra kissed him on the cheek and T. Bob Tyler muttered, “Come on, Miz Dimitra. We've got us important things to do.” With that, the mourners dispersed.

“I've never seen a funeral like that,” said Leo as they climbed into their unmarked police car. “Anyway, I'm free to get back on the case. Maybe we should split up.”

“I was thinking of hitting the pawnshops,” said Elena. “We ought to make an effort to find the czar's medal. If we don't try, some defense attorney will claim it was a robbery-murder and we ignored the possibility in order to make an easier collar.”

“Like it wasn't the son or a jealous boyfriend with a quick temper,” Leo agreed. On the way over, Elena had told him about her conversation with the Otero County sheriff the day before.

Friday, October 1, 11:30 A.M.

Elena dropped into her chair at headquarters. Brief consideration convinced her that the department didn't need a report on the bizarre funeral of Boris Potemkin, since she hadn't learned anything there. Picking up her ringing telephone, she said, “Detective Elena Jarvis.”

Pete Amador at Central told her that he and his partner had canvassed her neighborhood looking for anyone who had seen Omar Ashkenazi the afternoon of the murder. They hadn't found a murder witness, but they had found a little boy peeking in Ashkenazi's window. “He was watchin' the suspect, who was lyin' on a rug, snorin',” said Amador. They had caught up with the child, whom Elena identified as Beanie Montoya, in his back yard across the alley, but Beanie had been too frightened to say anything. “My partner thought it might be better if you talk to the kid yourself in case he was lookin' in your guy's window on Monday afternoon.”

“I'm surprised he was out of the house,” said Elena. “His grandmother treats him like an egg she has to sit on or he won't hatch.” Elena hung up. There was a slim possibility Beanie might be able to eliminate Omar from her list of suspects, although what were the odds of a five-year-old kid spending two afternoons watching Omar Ashkenazi asleep on his Oriental carpet? On the other hand, what if the kid liked to follow Omar around? Maybe Beanie was playing detective. Maybe he'd seen Omar go over to the Potemkins' Monday and—well, she'd just have to find out. She'd hit a few pawnshops, have lunch, and show up at the Montoyas' around one, when Beanie was home from play school.

Amarinta Montoya, Beanie's grandmother, filled the door when she answered Elena's finger on the bell. Three hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce was Elena's guess. Amarinta was as tall as her son Belen but double his weight, and she had a better mustache. “Mrs. Montoya, remember me? Elena Jarvis?”

“Sure, sure,” said Amarinta.

“I'd like to talk to Beanie.”

“What about?” asked Amarinta suspiciously. “If we got graffiti artists in the neighborhood, it ain't Beanie.”

“Beanie didn't do anything.” Elena could see the little boy, a loose Western Playland T-shirt drooping off his shoulders, twig legs sticking out beneath baggy shorts, socks sagging onto his sneakers. He looked scared to death. “Hey, Beanie,” called Elena, giving him her best kids' smile. “Que paso? You're about to become a cop's best friend.”

“Come here, Rudolfo,” said his grandmother. “You ain't in any trouble. This is Mrs. Jarvis. She lives one street over. Don't you remember her?”

Beanie nodded, took two steps forward, and stopped by a lavender and pink couch, the latest in Southwestern chic, although the pillows had already lost their shape, so Elena figured the Montoyas must have bought it at some double discount store or off the back of a truck.

“So why are you here if he didn't do nothing?” asked Amarinta.

“I just need to ask him a few questions.” Beanie was sneaking a terrified look at his grandmother. So that was it, thought Elena. Somehow or other he'd been getting out of the house without Amarinta knowing it. Now he was afraid Elena would reveal his secret.

“Come on in,” said Amarinta.

“Actually, I thought I'd take Beanie out to the car,” said Elena, figuring his grandmother would listen if they stayed inside. “Kids love police cars. You know? We'll just sit and chat, and then I'll send him right back in.”

“You're taking Rudolfo out of the house? You got a warrant or something?”

“I don't need a warrant,” said Elena.

“Well, let me see your badge. I don't want Belen coming home and getting after me because—wait a minute. How come you're looking so relieved, Beanie?”

“I'm not, Abuelita,” he said in a scared voice.

Abuelita? thought Elena. Little grandmother? Now there was a misnomer! “Here's my badge, Amarinta. Come on, Beanie.” She held out her hand to the child, and he edged across the room to take it. They walked out to the car together.

“It's not a police car,” he said, disappointed.

“No, it's a detective car, but I got a flashing light I can stick on top.”

“Yeah?” Beanie looked interested.

Elena fished the light from under the seat and stuck it on the roof. “There,” she said. “It's official. Hop in.”

Beanie stared a minute at the light. Then he scrambled across the seat to the passenger side. “Do I need to fasten my seat belt?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Elena. “We're just gonna sit here and talk.” She turned on the air conditioning.

“Is Mr. Ashkenazi mad at me?”

“Mr. Ashkenazi doesn't even know you were looking in his window. Do you do that often?”

“Are you gonna tell Abuelita?”

“Everything we say is confidential.”

“What's that?”

“Secret. It means I won't tell.”

“I go every day when Abuelita's asleep.”

“Ah-huh. How long is that?”

“I don't know,” said Beanie. “After lunch she goes to sleep. She don't wake up till Barney the Dinosaur comes on TV.”

“What time is that?”

“When the little hand gets to the four.”

Elena thought a minute. That meant Amarinta slept about three hours each afternoon. “And you watch Mr. Ashkenazi every day from one till four?”

Beanie shook his head, thumb in his mouth.

“How often, then?” asked Elena.

“Only if he's in the living room.”

“How come you watch Mr. Ashkenazi?” It didn't sound like a very exciting pastime to Elena. Surely the kid would rather watch TV or play with his toys, even if his abuela wouldn't let him play with other kids. Not that there were any along his street. Elena and the Montoyas were the first droplets in the wave of the future, the first younger people to move into a neighborhood of aging residents. She could see that Beanie didn't want to explain why he watched Mr. Ashkenazi. God, what was the old man doing in there? “You can tell me, Beanie,” she said gently.

After an obviously painful moment of inner debate, Beanie whispered, “He's a space alien.”

“He is?” Elena suppressed a grin. “How do you know that?”

“He looks like the alien in my comic book.”

Mr. Ashkenazi was kind of different-looking. “Anything else besides the way he looks?”

“I seen him put his legs behind his head. An' sometimes he stands on his head or waves his arms an' legs around funny.”

“Ah-huh.” Yoga exercises, Elena guessed.

“An' when he sleeps, he makes loud, space-language sounds.”

“I see.”

“I'm waiting for more aliens to come. When it happens, I'm gonna be there an' see it all. Maybe a flying saucer an' green people an'—wow!” Beanie's eyes got as big as tortillas. “It's really exciting!”

Poor kid, thought Elena. The highlight of his afternoon was watching a retired Oriental-rug salesman snore and do yoga exercises.

“Mr. Ashkenazi doesn't eat meat,” said Beanie, shyness overcome by his desire to confide these wonders to an interested party who had promised secrecy. “He can speak Earth language too. An' he told me meat was bad for me. ‘Course, I know that's just an alien thing, ‘cause Abuelita is always telling me to eat my meat ‘cause it'll make me big an' strong an' smart.”

Abuelita evidently hadn't heard about fat and cholesterol, thought Elena. “So tell me, Beanie, do you remember whether you were watching Mr. Ashkenazi on Monday? That would be the day you went back to school. After Sunday and Mass. The day all the police cars were on my street.”

“I remember,” said Beanie. “Me an' Mama went to see them.”

“Did you watch Mr. Ashkenazi that day?”

His head bobbed. “First I had to eat all my frijoles an' my arroz con pollo. Then Abuelita gave me a popsicle ‘cause I ate everything on my plate. I can make a popsicle last a long time,” said Beanie proudly. “Then Abuelita sat down an' went to sleep, an' I went over to Mr. Ashkenazi's.”

“That's a neat watch you got there.” She admired his dinosaur watch. “Where were the hands when you left?”

“They were both on the one. An' I went home when the little hand was on the four so I could see Barney. No space aliens came.”

So Omar had been under surveillance by Beanie Montoya from one to four, and the coroner said Boris died between two and three. Elena rolled down the car window when Amarinta knocked and shouted, “Ain't you through yet?”

“Your grandson is one smart kid,” said Elena. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I'll never tell about the aliens.”

Beanie gave her a conspiratorial smile and whispered back, “Abuelita might be scared if she knew.” Then he scrambled out of the car.