Summer Snow (26 page)

Tejada explained again his reasons for wishing to see Señorita Villalobos and added, “I understand she’s remained very close to you?”

“Yes, it is as if she were poor Jaime’s widow,” Bernarda agreed. “And honestly, Carlos, I wish that she had been. I can’t think of a girl I would rather have had for a daughter-in-law.”

“It must be a comfort to her that you feel that way,” Tejada said. He wondered if Elena was spending the morning with his mother.

“We’re all sorry she never became part of the family properly,” Fernando agreed. Bernarda blinked back tears. “The youngsters wanted to get married before Jaime enlisted, but the Villaloboses thought they were too young. And we thought so, too, God forgive us.”

Fernando cleared his throat noisily, and Tejada looked at the ground, embarrassed by the couple’s emotion. “Anyway,” Fernando spoke briskly into the pause, “Amparo’s like a daughter to us and always will be. We’d even like to see her married, a sweet girl like her.”

Bernarda nodded. “Yes, it breaks my heart to see her in black. She was just twenty when we lost Jaime. Just a child still. I was so pleased when Fernando said you wanted to meet her, Carlos. But of course I’d forgotten that you’re married. You’ll have to bring your—Elena, isn’t it?—to meet us.”

“I’d love to,” Tejada lied, with a flash of alarm. “I gather it would be possible to interview Señorita Villalobos here?”

“Yes, I telephoned her and asked her to come over today,” Bernarda confirmed. “She usually visits anyway, but since you had asked specially, I invited her. She said she’d be here by noon at the latest.”

“Thank you.” Tejada turned to Fernando Ordoñez. “There is one other thing. You haven’t heard from Tío Felipe by any chance?”

“Not since yesterday,” Fernando replied. “But I haven’t been looking for him. Why don’t you leave a message with the concierge at his apartment building? Or at the casino?”

“I will,” Tejada said, thoughtful. “Don’t you have any way to contact him in an emergency?”

“Not if he doesn’t answer his blasted telephone,” Fernando said. He glanced at the clock and stood. “I’m sorry, Carlos, but I must leave. I have an appointment at eleven-thirty. It was good to see you again.”

Tejada stood also and offered the older man his hand. “Likewise. Thank you for your help.”

“Anything, if it will help catch the man who killed Mother,” Fernando answered. He moved toward the door, adding, “If I see Felipe, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

The lieutenant made small talk with Bernarda for a few minutes. It was easy to bring the conversation around to Doña Rosalia. Fernando had told his wife about his conversation with Tejada the preceding day, and Bernarda was deeply shocked by the news that Doña Rosalia had been poisoned. The lieutenant knew this because she said so within ten minutes of her husband’s departure. “Poor soul.” Bernarda shook her head. “To die alone like that, without confession.”

“She lived alone as well,” Tejada pointed out.

“I always said that was very unwise.” Bernarda pursed her lips. “She was an elderly lady, and she could have suffered an accident very easily. And besides—she became confused in her mind sometimes, and she should have had her family around to care for her.”

“Really?” Tejada said, trying to decide whether Bernarda’s opinions were the result of posthumous piety or whether her husband had grossly misrepresented her relationship with her mother-in-law. “Did she not want to live with you?”

“With us?” Bernarda looked startled and faintly alarmed for a moment. “Goodness, no. She never liked this neighborhood. And it would have broken her heart to leave her husband’s home. No, no, that was out of the question. But,” she lowered her voice and leaned forward a little, “I really do think Felipe behaved very badly to her.”

“Felipe?” Tejada repeated, stunned. “What should he have done?”

“Moved back in with her, of course,” Bernarda said, as if surprised that the answer was not obvious. “He doesn’t have a family or business or a house to take care of. And at his age, living in a bachelor apartment is really ridiculous. The house would have been perfect for him. It was his childhood home, and it really did need a man to make sure that it was kept up properly.”

Tejada gritted his teeth to prevent his jaw from dropping. “You don’t think residing with his mother might have . . . interfered with his independence?” he managed, thinking how lucky he was to live in a blizzard-swept, Red-infested place like Potes, out of reach of family machinations.

Bernarda laughed. “Really, Carlos, he’s not a university student. Wild oats are one thing, but a man his age should take some responsibility for his home and his family. If he wasn’t going to get married he could at least have cared for his mother.”

Swamped by a wave of pity for Felipe, Tejada suddenly wondered how much of the family shared Bernarda’s attitude and how much pressure they could bring to bear on a man in Felipe’s position. Probably not enough to make him commit murder. But perhaps enough to make him want to disappear.

The clock chimed a quarter to twelve, and Bernarda added easily, “Fernando and I had hoped for a little while that Felipe might think of our Amparo. She was always so good to Doña Rosalia. Sometimes I think she was at the Casa Ordoñez more than I was. She would have been a good companion for both of them.”

“Señorita Villalobos?” Tejada blinked and did some rapid mental arithmetic. “But Tío Felipe must be twice her age!”

“Age doesn’t matter so much for a woman in Amparo’s situation, almost a widow,” Bernarda said, a little primly. “Amparo’s always been very mature and serious minded. And Felipe is so youthful. He could certainly make himself attractive to a girl like her if he tried.”

Ingrained good manners prevented Tejada from saying that he thought the Pyrenees would become flatlands before Felipe made an effort to attract a girl who was a virgin at twenty-seven. He leaned forward, afraid that his thoughts might show in his face. Bernarda, misinterpreting the gesture, raised the tray of cookies sitting beside her. “Would you like another?”

“Thank you.” Tejada took a cookie to cover his embarrassment, holding it gingerly by the edges to avoid spilling confectioner’s sugar. He ate quickly, wondering what on earth had possessed Bernarda to imagine that her brother-in-law might marry her late son’s fiancée and worrying absently if he could surreptitiously lick his fingers to avoid having them remain sticky with sugar. It was real sugar, too, although that made sense, considering Don Fernando’s business. Sugar. . . . “Villalobos and Rioseco!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What?”

“Amparo Villalobos,” Tejada amplified, forgetting about his sticky fingers. “She must be related to the Villaloboses of Villalobos and Rioseco? The refinery corporation?”

“That’s right.” Bernarda nodded, pleased that Tejada was once more relating to the world of Granada’s elite. “Except that the Riosecos are out of the business now. It’s just Amparo’s father.”

“Her father must own some very desirable lands,” Tejada suggested, understanding now why the Ordoñezes were so anxious to have Amparo marry into the family.

“I suppose so.” Bernarda was uninterested. “I know Fernando’s mentioned that we share a boundary with them. And Jaime and Amparo were very excited about uniting the estates.”

“Real love match then?” Tejada commented. He recalled his cousin Jaime as an insufferable monarchist, whose fervent belief in a lost age of chivalry was matched only by his constant need for money. He had once commented to a friend that it was a shame Jaime had been born too late to die in a fruitless quest for gold in South America and be made a duke for his pains. He had remembered the casual slur when he learned of Jaime’s death in combat in ’38 and felt guilty. Now he remembered it again and was struck by its appropriateness.

“Oh yes.” Bernarda was apparently unaware of any irony. “Well, when you see Amparo you’ll understand why all the boys were in love with her. If you’d been here in those years, you would have been yourself.”

The door opened and spared Tejada the effort of responding to this dubious assertion. “Señorita Amparo,” the servant announced without formality.

The woman who entered the room behind him was in fact a notable beauty. Her hair, visible beneath an elaborately draped mantilla of black lace, was blond and ringletted, its fairness in striking contrast to her enormous dark eyes. Considerably shorter than the lieutenant, she had a good complexion and a figure that even Felipe Ordoñez would have stopped to look twice at, elegantly swathed in black silk. As joined to these advantages was one of the largest dowries in Granada, Tejada could well believe that she had been much sought after. She came forward now and kissed Doña Bernarda affectionately, greeting her and asking after her concerns with the familiarity of a frequent and welcome visitor.

“And this is Carlos,” Bernarda said, turning her guest to greet the lieutenant. “He asked to meet you especially.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Amparo put out her hand, smiling. Tejada kissed it, because she obviously expected him to, and murmured something polite. “You’re here because of poor Doña Rosalia, rest her soul, aren’t you?” Amparo continued when they were once more sitting.

“I’m afraid so,” Tejada agreed. “I wonder if I could ask you some questions, Señorita?”

The lieutenant had used the formal you, although Amparo, following Doña Bernarda’s lead, addressed him as
tu
. She noted his formality, but answered easily, “Of course. However I can help.”

“You visited Doña Rosalia the day before her death?”

The girl’s eyes clouded. “Yes, I think so. Or perhaps two days before. I went often.” She hesitated a moment and then added quietly, “My days are empty now. I had time.”

“What did you talk about?” Tejada asked.

Amparo misunderstood the question. “Everyday things. The way the house was running, how the weather would affect the garden. Sometimes we reminisced about Jaime or his cousins. Sometimes about her late husband. I suppose you could say we lived in the past, but it was a comfort to her. And to me.”

“The last time you saw her,” Tejada clarified. “Do you remember talking about anything in particular?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Amparo shrugged. “She was worried about one of the maids slacking off, I think. I brought her some fresh apples, and we talked about how the fruit season was almost over.”

Little Red Riding Hood taking a basket of fruit to Grandmother
, Tejada thought.
And not a wolf in sight, damn it
. “Do you know if she had any enemies? Anyone who would try to kill her?” he asked.

“No.” Amparo was emphatic. “No, I can’t think of anyone who would do such a wicked thing.”

“Who were her friends?” Tejada asked, without much hope.

“She didn’t go out very much. Her husband’s acquaintances still called occasionally, but she didn’t”—Amparo hesitated—“really enjoy that. She was upset by strange people. I think she was shy, you know. She liked it when I came or Felipe or Don Fernando or your father, because she was used to us. But . . . well, she didn’t really like to have many visitors, poor lady.”

It was an unusually charitable interpretation of Rosalia’s behavior, but still recognizable. “Did you know that she had made a number of complaints to the Guardia Civil?”

“Oh, yes.” Amparo smiled. “She used to talk about the sergeant sometimes after he’d been to see her. I think she enjoyed
his
visits as well. But, of course, he couldn’t come if she didn’t make complaints.”

Tejada swallowed a smile and made a mental note to tell Rivas that he had been the high point of an aristocratic lady’s social life. His opinion of Amparo’s intelligence increased. The girl had a combination of tact and insight that might be useful. “The last time you visited her,” he said carefully, “do recall her eating anything?”

“Oh, we never ate when I was there,” Amparo replied. “Doña Rosalia always had her meals at the same time and never when there were visitors present. She preferred to dine at home, alone. She didn’t like eating out at all. It was one of the reasons she didn’t go out much.”

“What about drinks? Did she offer you a glass of anything, for refreshment?”

“No.” Amparo shook her head. “In the summer she would offer a glass of water sometimes, but that was all. And that last time, nothing.”

“You were very good to spend so much time with someone who wasn’t really a relation,” Tejada said. “Why did you?”

Amparo blushed at such a frank question. Then, looking at the ground, she said. “I felt sorry for her. And . . .” She took a deep breath and the lieutenant had the impression that she was summoning words from memory. “I don’t intend to marry now. I have no children. I was glad to do something useful.”

Coming from a sixty-year-old widow, the words would have been heartrending. Coming from an undeniably beautiful twenty-seven-year-old, Tejada found them a little odd. He understood—or thought he understood—why Fernando Ordoñez was anxious to remain close to a sugar heiress who was the daughter of a major colleague and rival. But he could not understand Amparo’s apparent determination to remain close to her fiancé’s family. He could only imagine that she had been deeply in love with his cousin Jaime. The lieutenant personally could not comprehend Jaime inspiring that kind of devotion in anybody, but he supposed a well-bred young woman might feel differently. “That’s very kind of you,” he said.