Summer Snow (14 page)

“Likewise. Say hello to your parents for me.”

“I will,” Tejada lied hastily and made his escape.

Made cautious by his experience at the casino, the lieutenant was careful not to make eye contact with any of the patrons in the Café Suizo. This made his search somewhat difficult as the café was crowded, and any number of people were looking at him. He glanced around cautionely whenever he thought it was safe, but saw no one he recognized. He was about to give up when a voice called, “Carlos! Pablo Almeida told me you were in town!”

With a sinking heart, the lieutenant turned around and found himself within a few feet of the man he was looking for. Fernando Ordoñez Tejada looked like exactly what he was: a prosperous landowner and the head of a respected provincial family. In his late fifties, he was stocky and running a little to fat, but his physical imperfections were concealed by an expensive tailor, who had provided a mourning suit that was appropriate and discreet. He wore a neatly trimmed silver beard, a pair of glasses, and a welcoming expression. He did not look like someone who had recently poisoned his elderly mother for an inheritance. Tejada put out his hand, relieved. “Hello, Tío Fernando. How are you?”

“Well, thanks, and you? Señor Ordoñez turned to the man on his right. “Rafael, did you ever meet my cousin, Andrés’s son? Carlos, my associate Rafael Montefrío. Rafael, Carlos Tejada Alonso.”

There was another round of courteous introductions, and then Ordoñez invited the lieutenant to take a seat. Tejada did so, wondering if his idea of interviewing his cousin at the Suizo had been ill-advised. For all his good nature, Fernando Ordoñez appeared to be discussing business with Rafael Montefrío, and he was unlikely to break off an important negotiation to talk about his mother’s demise. But luck was with the lieutenant. After ten minutes, Montefrío looked at his watch, and then leaned forward to gather up his briefcase. “I’m sorry, Fernando, I told my foreman I’d be with him by noon, and I won’t get out to the country at this rate. But, look, if you think we can go to the ministry with that offer, we will. I’m just afraid that if we go too high they’ll relax the duty on imports to keep the ration coupons stable.”

Fernando spread his hands and shrugged, but his voice was disgusted. “The refineries will operate at a loss if we go lower. If they want Cuban sugar they can start building more poorhouses, because we’ll have to let workers go.”

“You’ve always been best at dealing with them,” Montefrío conceded. “As long as we can count on you for the meeting then.” He reached for his wallet and was forestalled by a gesture from Ordoñez. “No, Fernando, I insist.”

“Your treat next time,” Ordoñez said. “I’ve got this. You won’t make it on time if you don’t hurry.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you Monday. Nice to have met you, Lieutenant.” Montefrío put on his coat and departed.

“Good man,” Fernando commented. “He’s the new secretary of the General Association of Sugar Producers. Clever on the technical side, but a bit supine when it comes to dealing with the government.” He laughed. “Although I suppose you approve of that, don’t you?”

“I only get sugar through the ration coupons, too, you know,” Tejada commented. “So I have to trust the government to negotiate on my behalf.”

“Stop by our house before you leave Granada,” Fernando ordered with a smile. He tapped his nose. “The railway patrols won’t inspect a guardia’s luggage.”

Torn between irritation that his comment had been interpreted as an invitation to bribery and corruption and the conviction that Elena would greatly appreciate the extra sugar, Tejada said nothing. His cousin filled the silence. “So what are you doing in Granada these days?”

“Looking for you,” the lieutenant answered.

“Really? I’m flattered. Any special reason? Aside from the rationing, of course.”

Fernando smiled to show that his last comment had been a joke, but Tejada, annoyed, said curtly, “Yes. I’m investigating the death of your mother. We have reason to believe she was murdered.”

“Oh, God, Carlos, not her Red delusions again. She was completely insane about them, may she rest in peace. Your father and I made that clear to the Guardia any number of times.”

“I’ve read the reports. They don’t appear to be helpful, but we are not speculating on the motivation for the crime at this time.”

Fernando took a sip of coffee before answering, watching the lieutenant over the rim of his cup. When he set it down on the saucer he was no longer smiling. “You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

Fernando lowered his voice and leaned forward when he spoke. “You think she was murdered?”

“We have compelling proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“An autopsy report. She was poisoned.”

Fernando seemed neither angry nor grief stricken, merely perplexed. “But
why
?”

“You tell me.”

“Why would someone do that?” Fernando did not appear to have heard his cousin. “You knew Mother, Carlos. Everybody wanted to kill her, but nobody could actually have wanted to
kill
her.”

“Someone did.”

A pair of businessmen squeezed past Fernando’s chair to get to an empty table. Glancing around, he said softly, “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk in private?”

“Your sister’s,” Tejada suggested. “I’d like to speak to her afterward anyway.”

Ordoñez nodded and signaled a waiter for the bill. Giving him no time for private thought, Tejada said quietly, “Can you think of any enemies your mother had? Any
real
enemies?”

“Of course not,” Fernando responded. “Not enemies of that sort. I mean, she didn’t visit us very often because she used to say that she couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as Bernarda, but she didn’t mean it seriously.” The bill arrived and he dug in his wallet for coins.

“How did your wife feel about
her
?” Tejada asked, although he could form a good guess based on his own mother’s opinion.

“I suppose a wife is always a bit jealous of her mother-in-law.” Tejada started to understand why his cousin was a good negotiator. “But Bernarda was always very respectful of her.”

“The few times they were under the same roof,” Tejada said with a faint smile as they stood.

Fernando shuddered slightly and leaned toward his cousin with a sudden impulse to openness. “It was just as well they weren’t often. We last spent Christmas together three years ago. Bernarda had a migraine until Three Kings Day, and the doctor said it was a wonder Mother’s heart hadn’t given out under the strain.”

“Did she have heart trouble?” They were out of the café by now and crossing the street nearing the post office.

“Well, the doctor said that she shouldn’t get excited. But they always say that once you get to a certain age, don’t they?”

“Did she take anything for it?” Tejada asked, wondering if it was going to be that easy to find the source of the cyanide. “Pills? Special teas?”

“No,” Fernando shook his head, and then, understanding the purpose of the question, added more carefully, “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I didn’t see her every day. Why don’t you ask her maid?”

Since this was a sensible suggestion, Tejada decided to move on to another topic. “So, she fought with your wife?”

“Not
seriously
,” Fernando protested.

“Not seriously,” Tejada agreed. “How did she get along with her other children?”

“Felipe and I were always her favorites,” Fernando said consid-eringly. “First and last born, you know. But then after what happened to Ramón and Javier . . .” He hesitated. “It changed her, you know. She was a sweet-natured woman when I was growing up.”

“I’m sure of it,” Tejada lied.

Fernando sighed, still thinking of his brothers. “Such a waste. They never got the bastards who did it, you know?” He turned on the lieutenant with sudden ferocity. “And now the damn Reds have killed Mother, too! Javier and Ramón weren’t enough for the sons of bitches. Now they’ve killed Mother! You’ll get them, won’t you, Carlos?”

As far as Tejada could tell, Fernando’s emotion was genuine, but he replied coolly, “I thought you said your mother’s fears about Reds were delusions? Fantasies that the Guardia was right to discount.”

“Obviously, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” Fernando snapped. “Why would anyone else kill her?”

“Why would the Reds?”

“For God’s sake, Carlos, you served in the war! They don’t need a reason.”

Tejada felt a flicker of annoyance at his cousin’s naïveté. “Right now, they kill for money or to make a point,” he said. “And usually we catch them. I don’t see what they’d gain from Doña Rosalia’s death.”

“No one else would gain from murdering Mother!” Fernando shot back.

They walked in silence for a few steps. “What are the terms of your late mother’s will?”

Fernando snorted. “You’d know more than I do.”

“What?”

“The Guardia have it, don’t they? That’s what your father told me when I went to see him about it.”

Tejada stopped walking. “When was this?”

“A couple of days ago. I didn’t like to bring it up until after the funeral, of course, but I knew Mother had made him her executor and I thought—” Fernando became aware that his cousin was no longer walking beside him, but standing stock-still, looking sick. He took the younger man’s arm with concern. “Carlos, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Go on.”

“I thought I’d better ask him what he knew,” Fernando finished, puzzled. “He told me that the Guardia were holding the will pending an investigation into her death because of all the silly complaints she’d made about Reds threatening her.” Fernando grimaced. “That’s what he said. ‘Silly complaints.’ And I told him we should explain to the Guardia what nonsense it had been. God! Poor Mother.”

They had reached the Río Genil and were strolling along the park on its banks. It was, Tejada remembered, only a few more steps to the Condesa de Almagro’s home. He would have dearly liked time to think over what he had been told. He wanted to be able to sit facing Fernando, to interview him properly, with a notebook in hand. The wind along the river whirled dead leaves along the sandy paths, in sympathy with the random motion of Tejada’s thoughts. His heel met one of the leaves in its skittering flight and he crushed it violently, glad to make something stand still.

“What do you know about the provisions of your mother’s will?” he asked, trying to pin down some facts.

Unaware of the lieutenant’s inner turmoil, Fernando assumed he was merely following an earlier line of thought. “Not very much. That was why I asked your father. Mother was. . . rather volatile. She changed her will around quite a bit, so none of us ever knew exactly what was in it. Ever since Father died, she’d felt alone and helpless, and she . . . couldn’t always handle the responsibility wisely. Here,” he added, taking his cousin’s elbow. “Dani’s house is just across the street.”

Tejada was grateful for the arm on his elbow. He felt as if the world were spinning too quickly. “So none of her heirs knew exactly what they would inherit?” he managed.

“Father had left the refinery and some of the land in trust for her lifetime, so that she would be provided for. They’ll revert to my sole control now,” Fernando answered easily as they crossed the street. “I don’t know about the rest. Why does it matter?”

Fernando’s blithe ignorance of the obvious was hard to swallow. “Because if no one knew the terms of your mother’s will, no one would have been likely to poison her for the sake of an inheritance.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Fernando was impatient. “Anyway, she would never have left her money away from the family.”

He rapped on a dark wooden door in a whitewashed wall, broken by a tile proclaiming the name Carmen del Río—river garden. Daniela, Tejada recalled, had always been literal minded.

A maid opened the door and curtsied. Recognizing Señor Ordoñez, she gestured them inside, and they found themselves in a courtyard overflowing with lushly flowering bougainvillea. A small fountain tinkled in one corner. “The
conde
and
condesa
are not home,” the maid said. “Would you like to wait?”

“Yes, please.” Fernando was obviously at ease. He guided his cousin to a stone bench in the shade of a screen of vines. “We can sit in the garden; it’s still pleasant at this time of year. Would you like a drink, Carlos?”

“Just water, thanks.” The lieutenant sank onto the bench and placed one palm flat against the stone, glad of its coolness and its unforgiving solidity. He waited until Fernando was sitting comfortably beside him and then he dug out his notebook and a pen.

“You said your mother would never have left anything away from the family. Does that mean her children or would it include,” he swallowed, “other family members as well?”

“I don’t know, but I’d guess just her children,” Fernando said. “And perhaps your father, as well. She was always very fond of him, and he was her nearest relative, after us.” He smiled. “I’m afraid there aren’t any mysterious heirs with evil designs, Carlos.”

Tejada was tempted to retort that Fernando seemed eager to narrow the circle of suspects to himself and his siblings, but the unsettling knowledge about his father’s deception kept him silent. His father had clearly lied to Fernando. That suggested that he had lied about Doña Rosalia dying intestate as well. What did the lies have in common?
No one’s seen this will
, Tejada thought.
Except Don Pablo, and he wouldn’t tell me what was in it.
Why? Because knowing the beneficiary would point the finger at
Rosalia’s murderer? But if the will just divides the property among her
children, or even her children and Father, no one would be surprised by
it.
The maid brought water, and he gulped it gratefully. Elena had reminded him that his father would not have called for a murder investigation if it could harm him in any way.
But he’s
breaking the law, no matter what
, the lieutenant thought miserably.
And I’ll have to tell him that I know
.
Oh, God, I’ll have to let Rivas do
it. But even if Rivas tells him, he’ll know
I
found out
.