Widows' Watch (19 page)

Thursday, October 7, 10:25 A.M.

The Castros had lived in a square, two-story brick house with a columned veranda set high off Copper Street. A fancier neighborhood than Elena's, but probably just as old. It had been only a year since the murder. There should be neighbors who remembered things about the family.

Elena tried the house next door but found no one at home. On the far side, a short, slender woman in her middle forties answered the door. She was wearing a navy blue suit and matching pumps.

“Yes?” she said impatiently.

Elena identified herself and explained that she was investigating the murder of Jose Castro.

“Him.” The woman made the word into a curse.

An interesting reaction. This lady didn't seem to think the death any great loss. “I'd like to talk to you about the family for a few minutes, ma'am.”

“I wasn't even at home when he was killed.”

“I wanted to ask about his wife.”

“Well, if you think Mercedes killed him, you're wrong. If he'd killed her, I wouldn't have been surprised, but she'd never have killed Joe.”

Elena's attention sharpened. “Maybe you could tell me about that.”

“Oh, all right, come in. I'm Harriet Upchurch.” They walked across a polished wood floor highlighted with a figured runner whose primary color was dark red, then through double doors into a living room furnished with Duncan Phyfe pieces. Elena recognized the style, because she'd been required to take a fine arts course in college. Since she registered late that semester, Rock Music, 1954–1974, was full. Art appreciation courses were closed except for—yuck!—Interior Decoration Through the Ages. Elena had learned more about furniture she didn't like than any sensible person should be expected to know. Mrs. Upchurch's living room did have handsome French doors that led out onto a side patio sheltered by ivy-covered trellises.

“That's lovely,” said Elena, admiring the setting and the white outdoor furniture with ivy-printed cushions.

“Yes,” Harriet Upchurch agreed, “but I've had to replace the furniture several times, and those doors are another target for thieves. They've been broken open twice in the last four years, but I don't suppose you deal with burglaries. Your card said ‘Crimes Against Persons.' Not that I don't feel pretty personal about having my house burglarized. What was it you wanted to know?”

“You said Mr. Castro might have killed his wife. What did you mean?”

“Men like that—they hurt their wives for a while, years even; then they kill them.”

“And you think Mercedes Castro was a battered woman?”

“I know she was. Good lord, I think the man beat her up every Saturday night. He was a drinker. One night a week he'd get drunk and go after her. And she adored him. Can you imagine? I told her she ought to leave him, go stay with her son, but she wouldn't. Probably the son thought it was O.K.—what his father was doing. Then I said she should go to a shelter. She said, ‘How would that look? For a high-school principal's wife to go to a shelter?' I said, ‘How does it look for a high-school principal to be beating up his wife?' Have you seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you saw that scar. You know how she got that? He backhanded her. He was wearing this huge, ugly ring. Some ancestral thing. It made a terrible gash in her cheek. She didn't even go to a doctor or a hospital. He probably told her not to.”

“You know for sure it was his ring that scarred her?”

“Oh yes. After he did it, he stormed out of the house, knocked down my trash cans driving away. I went straight over and found her in the kitchen bleeding into the sink. She tried to tell me she'd cut herself with a knife. I should have called the police then and there, but as it turned out, I didn't have to.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elena.

“He's dead. The bastard wouldn't even consider plastic surgery for her face. Mercedes was a real beauty and a sweet woman. Of course, I never see her anymore. Does she look as bad as ever?”

“Pretty bad,” said Elena.

“That means the son wouldn't let her have surgery either. Anyway, about a month or six weeks after the ring incident, someone went into their house and shot him. I thought, when I heard, ‘There is a God after all.'” Mrs. Upchurch nodded her head vigorously. “Not only did He see that Mercedes was out of the house so no one could blame her for Joe's death, but He sent some lowlife good Samaritan to kill the man. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving victim.”

Mrs. Upchurch wriggled uncomfortably on the sofa, her spine upright but not touching the sofa back. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I kept my mouth shut at the time. I knew that Mercedes would be embarrassed if anyone knew what she'd been through with him. I hope you're not planning on making trouble for her at this late date?”

“No, ma'am.” Elena thought of the widow with that dreadful scar, evidently keeping house for her son and his wife. “Poor woman,” she murmured.

“'Poor woman' is right. Mercedes was so proud of her looks. She didn't have much else. Her rotten husband was always telling her what a dummy she was, and she believed it. Then he destroyed her face and had the nerve to go around the neighborhood telling people it served her right for being so clumsy, and he wasn't springing for plastic surgery. I'd say he got just what he deserved.”

“Sounds like it,” said Elena.

“Well, a sensible policeman! I suppose it's because you're a woman. If I'd told any of this to those detectives who came around last year, they'd have dragged poor Mercedes off to jail, even though she had an alibi.”

“Was there ever any talk of Mercedes having an—admirer?” Elena was thinking of T. Bob Tyler.

“You can't be serious. Joe would have killed her.”

“Is there anyone else on the block who knew what was going on with the Castros?”

“Hmm. Maybe not anyone who'd talk about it. You just caught me in a moment of indignation or I'd have kept my mouth shut. It won't help her to tell the police now. He's dead.”

“We might catch his murderer.”

“Who cares?” Then Mrs. Upchurch reconsidered. “Oh well, you might try Arthur Fallon, across the street and two houses down. The place with the green shutters. I always thought Arthur was sweet on Mercedes, at least since Clara died. Not that he did anything about it,” she added hastily. “And don't get the idea that Arthur killed Joe. Arthur left town right after Joe slashed her. Probably couldn't stand to see the wound. Went up to Connecticut to visit his son. He felt terrible

when he got back. Mercedes had already sold the house and moved out. He didn't even get to say goodbye to her.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Upchurch,” said Elena, standing. She was anxious to get to Mr. Fallon.

“Oh, good lord.” Harriet Upchurch looked at her watch and said, “I'm going to be late for my lunch date.” Elena and Mrs. Upchurch left the house at the same time, Mrs. Upchurch dashing to her car on spindly legs. Elena took a leisurely walk down the street to the house of Arthur Fallon, where she showed her badge and explained her errand.

“What do you want me to say?” murmured Arthur Fallon, ushering her into a living room that had probably once been very handsome but was now covered with newspapers, magazines, and TV Guides. He had a soap opera playing but flipped it off as if he were embarrassed to be caught watching. “I wasn't here when Castro died.”

“I want to ask you about the relationship between the victim and his wife. Your neighbor, Mrs. Upchurch, said you knew them.”

The tall, stoop-shouldered man with thin, graying hair narrowed his eyes anxiously. “Mercedes was at Socorro Heights when it happened. That's what everyone told me when I got back.”

“I know,” said Elena.

“So why do you want to know about them?”

“I'm trying to find out how she got that scar.”

Arthur Fallon winced. “What did Harriet tell you?”

“That Castro cut her with his ring.”

Fallon nodded. “That's what everyone in the neighborhood believed. I didn't see it happen, and she didn't tell me, but I—I'll swear I saw dried blood on that ring the next day at church. He made her go to church. Looking like that. She had the edges of the cut taped together with Band-Aids, and he was talking about how clumsy she was, cutting herself on the cheek.”

“You saw blood on the ring?”

“He was waving his hands around, and that ring had—it looked like rust in the carving around the stone. But the setting was silver; silver doesn't rust. The stone was red too, maybe a ruby. He said it was. If so, it was poor quality. A muddy color.”

Elena made notes. If Castro left the ring uncleaned, he must have been pretty sure his wife wasn't going to accuse him—neither she nor anyone else in the neighborhood.

“I never understood how he could treat her that way,” said Arthur Fallon sadly. “Such a beautiful woman. My wife told me—this was years ago, before Clara died—that he'd come home from school and shout at Mercedes, accuse her of having affairs. The man was crazy. Mercedes was a virtuous woman. A good Catholic. She deserved better.”

“Do you yourself know of any abuse, Mr. Fallon? Not gossip but—”

“Bruises. She always wore long sleeves, but we were having a block party one night, and Mercedes was lifting a pot of beans. Her sleeves slid back, and I saw the bruises. And she knew I'd seen. She turned red and left the party early. The poor woman was ashamed. And for something that wasn't her fault.”

“Anything else?” Elena asked. She hated to quiz him, to remind him about the unhappiness of a woman he'd obviously cared for.

“Black eyes. She claimed she couldn't get used to her bifocals and ran into things, but the truth was she never wore them except for reading and driving, and no one saw her run into anything. There was a broken arm once. Harriet said that Mercedes claimed the dog had tripped her. I hope she's doing well at her son's. Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” said Elena. “She fed me some wonderful empanadas, but she said her husband never abused her.”

Arthur Fallon sighed. “She would say that. Even now she's defending him.”

“Why don't you visit her, Mr. Fallon? I'm sure she'd appreciate a call. She's home by herself out there in the Upper Valley with everyone at work or school. She must be lonely. Away from her old neighborhood and friends.”

“Do you think I should?” He looked eager and hopeful.

“I really do,” said Elena, hoping that her suggestion would generate happiness, not trouble.

Thursday, October 7, 12:05 P.M.

Elena headed for her cubicle with the intention of typing in reports on the interviews with Mercedes Castro, Harriet Up-church, and Arthur Fallon before she went out to lunch. She had discovered things, significant things. She just wasn't sure yet what they meant. A few feet from her desk, she stopped short. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

Harmony swung Elena's chair around from the lighted computer screen. “Amusing myself until you got back. I thought maybe you'd like to go out for lunch. I'm buying.”

“Wonderful,” said Elena, “but you shouldn't be using the police computer.”

Harmony laughed, tossing her hair back over the shoulder of her deep rose blouse. “Well, you don't have a typewriter or a computer at home. No wonder you don't write very often.”

“Frank took the typewriter with him.”

Harmony frowned. “Something needs to be done about him.”

“That's why I got the restraining order.”

“Anyway, I was typing in some recipes for you.” Harmony handed Elena a small pile of printouts.

“When did you learn to use a computer?”

“Just now. It doesn't seem too difficult.”

Elena groaned. Everything about computers seemed difficult to her, but her mother had evidently mastered the art in fifteen minutes.

“By the way, I've sent for an herb garden. It will fit in your kitchen window and provide you with all the medicinal and culinary herbs you need.”

“Come on, Mom! I don't have—”

“And it won't take any time. Just water it while you're fixing your own dinner, then clip the herbs and follow these recipes. They're mostly herb teas—for insomnia, headaches—”

“O.K., O.K.” Elena accepted another handful of printouts, folded them and stuffed them into her large handbag. “Where do you want to go to lunch?”

“I have one more to type.”

Because she had reports of her own, Elena agreed and used Leo's computer while her mother labored across the aisle. Then, since Harmony was still staring at the screen, Elena went through her messages. Ah! Chantal Brolie had returned her call. She dialed the number and reached a lady with a delightful accent. The widow had taught high-school French, a language Chimayo schools hadn't even offered. “What time would be convenient for you?” Elena asked after identifying herself and her reason for calling.

“Two-thirty,” said Mrs. Brolie pleasantly. “This is a secure enclave, so I'll tell the guard to expect you.” Elena hung up and turned back to her mother.

“Done,” said Harmony and zipped the recipe from the printer. “Sergeant Escobedo was telling me about a place where they have salpicon. You know we don't make that at home. I'd like to try it.”

“That would be on the Westside near the university or way up northeast off the interstate on the access road. Either one's a long way.”

“Now Elena, I'm sure Manny won't mind if you take an extra few minutes.”

Elena threw up her hands and said, “Which did he recommend, Julio's or Casa Jurado?”

“Both,” said Harmony, “so you can pick whichever one's closer since you're in a hurry.”

“O.K., we'll take Brown over the mountain to the Westside. The interstate's bound to be pretty crowded. And I'll drive,” she added. Before her mother could object, Elena had to take another call.

“Detective Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

“This is Michael Futrell. We met at the bicycle race.”

“Oh sure.” The good-looking criminology professor.

“I'm sorry to call you at work, but your home phone isn't listed.”

“Most cops' aren't.”

“Of course. Look, I wondered if you'd like to go out Saturday night.”

“On a date you mean?” she asked, surprised. She'd decided he wanted to interview her, not date her.

“Well, yes. On a date. Is that against the rules?”

“No, but—well, Saturday?” Shoot! She was tied up with Colin Stuart, Sarah's ex-beau. “I'm afraid I already have plans.”

“O.K.” There was a pause. “Well, goodbye.” He disconnected before she could say that she'd like to have gone out with him. Now he'd probably never call again. Elena hung up and went to the car with her mother.

“Who was that?” asked Harmony. “It sounded as if you were turning down a date.”

“It was Michael Futrell, the—”

“—criminology professor. He seemed like a nice young man. Why would you—”

“Because I'm going out with you and Lance and Colin Stuart, Sarah's hand-me-down.”

“Well, you could have asked for a rain check. I hope your experience with Frank hasn't soured you on marriage, Elena. No matter how Grandmother Portillo feels about divorce—”

“Mom!”

“I won't say another word,” Harmony promised. “Let's see. What shall we talk about that won't set you off. Ah! Today I suggested to my weaving class that we have a sixties fashion show. I thought it was a wonderful idea, but it seems that they aren't interested in the sixties.”

“They probably remember those years with horror.”

“Oh, surely not. Anyway, they voted for a regular fashion show. And then that Lydia Beeman—do you know what she said? She said she didn't object to a fashion show because, in her opinion, older women should pay attention to their appearance as well as their health, but she refused to wear heels. She said high heels are the American equivalent of Chinese foot-binding, and whatever outfit she wore in the show, she'd wear sensible walking shoes with it. Isn't that something?”

“Well, Mom, you're always wearing sandals—or boots. I don't know what you're complaining about.”

“Sandals can be dressy. So can boots,” said Harmony loftily. “Lace-up walking shoes don't go with anything but slacks, and not even dressy slacks.”

Elena grinned and accelerated from the Murchison light.

Harmony exclaimed over the houses in Kern Place on the other side of the mountain. At Casa Jurado on Cincinnati she said, “Just order me the salpicon,” and went off to examine the paintings for sale, not to mention the neon cactus at the cash register and the thick stained-glass windows inset in the front wall.

“Delightful,” she said to the owner and introduced herself.

Elena had to lure her back to the table for lunch.

“I think Leo's idea is absolutely charming, don't you?” said Harmony once they were seated.

“What idea?”

“He hasn't told you? You didn't notice the article in the paper this morning?”

“I didn't see the paper. You had it.”

“Well, I'd have shared. Leo is organizing a Tap Night for Los Santos. It's something your friend Sarah Tolland told him about. The idea is that all the Los Santos tap dancers will gather at the Main Library downtown and tap their way to San Jacinto Plaza.”

“Wonderful,” said Elena.

“Isn't it? I happen to know quite a bit about the plans because Leo's wife called him, and I took the call.”

“Mom, you're not supposed to answer Leo's phone.”

“Well, I did. Unfortunately, Concepcion's very upset. The article listed his home telephone number, and seventy people have called there to sign up.”

“Oh lord,” said Elena. “Does she still have the flu?”

“She does, poor thing. Imagine taking all those calls when you're feeling terrible, aching in every joint, throwing up. I'm going to take her a nice herbal tea as soon as I get back to the house.”

“You do that, Mom.” Here she was pursuing a serial killer, getting all sorts of crazy information that had to mean something, and Leo was organizing Los Santos' first Tap Night. Wait till she got her hands on him.

“It's to be Saturday,” said Harmony. “Naturally, we'll want to go.”

“What time?”

“Eight in the evening.”

“He wants to go tap dancing downtown after dark? When the library closes, that area's a hangout for prostitutes.”

“Well, Leo's a policeman. I'm sure he can take care of it. We'll have to call Colin and Lance. We'll need to eat dinner before or after the event.”

“Ummm.” Elena wondered how Colin Stuart would feel about attending Tap Night.

“Concepcion said Leo left this morning talking about television coverage.”

“He might just get it. They'll put anything on the weekend news programs.”

“Yes, doesn't it sound exciting?”

“I can hardly wait,” said Elena dryly, trying to picture gangly Leo and seventy other Los Santoans tapping their way from the Main Library to San Jacinto Plaza, possibly trailed by flamboyant transvestite prostitutes. Too bad the city no longer had alligators in the plaza pool. With all that tapping, the creatures would probably leap out of the pond and attack the dancers, getting Leo and Tap Night on the national news as well.