Summer Snow (40 page)

He left Señor Perea and his wife openmouthed, wondering why the Guardia had come to question them and then departed so gently and quickly. He walked back to the post feeling vaguely depressed once more. The Pereas, with their loud radio and louder denials, had not left a pleasant impression. He thought about Catalina Romero, too angry to know or care if her father was in prison or simply forgetful of her, and about Amparo Villalobos, too well bred to know or remember Miguel del Rioseco or the other young men who had been Reds before the war. He thought about María José, nursing a grudge for years against Reds in the person of the man who had left her and her daughter. If Catalina was telling the truth—and the lieutenant believed she was—María José had good reason to be actively grateful to Doña Rosalia. That made her a bad suspect.

He skirted the Civil Government building and turned onto the Calle Duquesa, deep in thought.
One
of Doña Rosalia’s servants had to have been at least an accomplice to her murder. Alberto had denied it even under torture. María José had no motive. That left only Fulgencio and Luisa. And neither of them had any visible motive for murder. So they had agreed to help someone else, who
did
have a motive. Someone who one or both of them trusted. Someone whom they thought could and would give them an ample reward for poisoning their mistress. Tejada was positive that he already had enough information to figure out who the
someone
was and which of Doña Rosalia’s servants had been suborned. But the information refused to arrange itself into a neat pattern. It was a maddening feeling, like beginning a sentence and then forgetting what you intended to say.

A guardia hailed him as he reached the post. “Sergeant Rivas is waiting for you in his office, sir.”

Tejada abandoned the irritating conundrum and headed for the sergeant’s office, bracing himself for a fresh wave of disappointment and disapproval. Rivas was standing behind his desk when the lieutenant entered. “Sir.” He saluted formally.

Tejada sighed. “You searched the Villaloboses’ place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll take responsibility for it with the brass and Señor Villalobos,” Tejada said, his voice apologetic.

Rivas smiled and picked up a manila envelope lying on the desk. “No need, sir,” he said, holding it out to the lieutenant. “I believe this is your lady aunt’s will. Properly signed and witnessed at the offices of Pablo Almeida. October 4, 1945.”

Tejada stretched out his hand, but it was not until his fingers closed around the thick paper envelope that the reality of the sergeant’s words sank in. “You found it?”

“In Amparo Villalobos’s desk, under a pile of scented notepaper.” Rivas allowed himself a slightly broader smile.

Tejada stared at the envelope in his hand, half triumphant and half puzzled. “She hadn’t destroyed it?”

“No, sir. She said it was given to her for safekeeping.”

Tejada snorted. “So she naturally proffered it as soon as she was asked to do so by the proper authorities?”

“Not exactly!” The sergeant shuddered. “She had violent hysterics when we asked to search her room.”

“I trust she’s over them?” Tejada opened the flap of the envelope and slid out the will.

“I believe so, sir.” Rivas coughed. “All things considered, I thought it best just to inform Señor Villalobos that we had found what we were looking for and leave him to . . . er . . . comfort her.”

“She may have to prolong her hysterics for a while then,” Tejada said absently. “Villalobos has a reputation for having a temper.”

After a moment’s thought, Rivas decided he was grateful the lieutenant had withheld that information about Villalobos. He shifted from foot to foot as Tejada silently scanned the will. The lieutenant seemed absorbed. After a moment, Rivas coughed again. “Is there anything unusual in it, sir?”

“No,” Tejada said slowly, although the first page confirmed Doña Rosalia’s spleen against her daughter and Felipe. “Nothing that was unexpected.” He skimmed through the vitriolic condemnation of Felipe’s irresponsible and immoral lifestyle and tried as best he could to take comfort in Doña Rosalia’s final disposition of her liquid assets: “To my nephew and executor, Juan Andrés Tejada León, who maintains the honor of the Tejadas and has ever behaved with the consideration and kindness that my own children have never shown me.” He wondered how much money the will was worth to his father.

“I suppose we’d better take it over to her lawyer then,” the sergeant said, after an awkward moment. “After all, it’s really nothing to do with the Guardia.”

Tejada nodded and slid the will back into its envelope. The dry paper resisted his touch for an instant and then slipped downward so fast that it gave his index finger a paper cut. He pinched the envelope between thumb and forefinger, leaving a tiny smudge of blood on one corner.
I’ve got it
, he thought.
This
is what Father called me from Potes to get, and I’ve found it. I can go
home now and be proud
. “I’ll take it over to Don Pablo,” he said aloud.

If he had been less preoccupied, Tejada would have noticed that Rivas was looking a little sour. In the sergeant’s opinion, sending other men to search a place like the Villaloboses’ and then hogging the credit for finding what other men had looked for, was a pretty shabby trick, and bad for esprit de corps to boot. Typical of a señorito. “I hope
your
morning was productive,” Rivas said with a touch of malice.

Tejada shrugged. “Not very. I went through the files and managed to cross a few names off the list, I think.” He summarized his research and his trip to Arturo Perea’s home.

Rivas softened a little during the lieutenant’s recital. Señorito or no, Tejada was genuinely conscientious, and at least he didn’t shirk boring work. He nodded when Tejada mentioned his opinion about a servant’s collusion. “Maybe we should just pull them in and question them until one cracks,” he said.

Tejada nodded. “Might not be a bad idea.”

“You think we should go now?” Rivas glanced at his watch.

Tejada saw the glance and guessed what it meant. “After lunch,” he said. “I told my family I’d be home for the meal. I’ll drop the will off on my way, and we can meet back here.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. At your orders.”

The sergeant coughed. Tejada raised his eyebrows. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Lieutenant. It’s just . . .” Rivas hesitated.

“You had other work to do this afternoon,” the lieutenant guessed.

“Of course, if you think there’s any risk of flight we can go right away,” Rivas said quickly. “But I did wonder if perhaps tomorrow morning . . . “

“Fine.” Tejada tucked the will under his arm, said farewell to the sergeant, and left the post, mildly astonished at his success and wondering why he did not feel more cheerful. Another quick glance at his watch made him decide to go directly back to his parents’ house. He could drop the will off with Don Pablo on the way back to the post. And his father would be happy to see it. Tejada walked home, imagining his father’s relief, and carefully not remembering that he would have to pass Nilo on his way to Pablo Almeida’s office.

Chapter 21

T
ejada was at a loss as to what to do with the will when he reached home. He did not want to walk into the dining room brandishing it, but he was wary of putting it down lest it get lost again. He headed for his bedroom and then, after a moment’s thought, unbuttoned his jacket and slid the envelope along his chest. Elena entered the room as he was rebuttoning his coat. “Carlos? What are you doing?”

He explained, a little shamefaced, and Elena laughed. “So that’s what you wear next to your heart instead of the Virgen del Pilar? I should tell Father Bernardo!”

“Stop!” Tejada protested, his chest crackling slightly. “If you make me laugh I’ll crumple the envelope.”

“Why can’t you just leave it here?”

“Because I’m not taking responsibility for it getting lost
again
.”

The lieutenant’s voice was still light, but Elena did not press the question. She wondered for a moment if he realized that his excessive caution suggested he did not trust his own parents’ integrity. “How did you find it?” she asked.

Tejada summarized his morning briefly, avoiding his encounter with Nilo.

“I
knew
Amparo Villalobos was a sneaky little hussy.” Elena spoke with satisfaction. “Did you arrest her?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“We recovered the will,” Tejada pointed out. “There’s no harm done, after all. And she didn’t kill Doña Rosalia.”

Tejada suspected that Elena was not perfectly satisfied with this information, but she was intent on other matters. She sat down and gestured for him to sit as well. “I visited Cristina’s mother again today.”

“Oh?” With a victory of his own to enjoy, Tejada was less pleased with his wife’s tendency to visit the relatives of convicted criminals, but he was unwilling to condemn her.

“She says that Félix hadn’t told Baldo anything because he wasn’t sure who Montrose was. He and his wife had known about Dr. Beltrán’s transfer order, you see, but they didn’t know he’d escaped.”

Tejada nodded. “Transfer order” had been a euphemism for taking prisoners out into the country and shooting them “while trying to escape.” It had been logical to assume that Esteban Beltrán was dead. “They didn’t think it was odd that Beltrán’s mother received money also?” he demanded.

“They didn’t know about it. They haven’t been in contact with her. With Señor Encinas in prison it’s—well, it looks bad for them to meet.”

“Well, I’m glad you took good news to Señora Rosado,” Tejada said, preparing to dismiss the subject.

“She was
very
happy,” Elena assured her husband. “She couldn’t stop thanking me. And she told me to thank you as well, when I explained how I’d found out.”

“Did she?” Tejada raised his eyebrows, wondering how genuinely grateful a Red’s wife would be to any guardia civil.

“Oh, yes.”

There was a little pause, and then Elena cleared her throat and said. “Actually . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, actually, she wondered if you’d be willing to do the family a favor.” Elena saw her husband frown and hurried on before he could stop her. “The thing is, Baldo’s parents want him to go on with his education, and they feel that he’s been marked out here, being from a Red’s family, you know. They say there aren’t many opportunities for him, and he’s a bright boy. He’s sixteen now, and his parents were hoping that if Esteban— or Cristina—were alive and doing well enough to send money, that maybe they could get Baldo to France to stay with them. It would be such an opportunity for him.”

“They would have to get in touch with the Montroses, wouldn’t they?” Tejada demanded.

“Of course,” Elena agreed. “Baldo’s father has already asked the bank to find the address of M. Montrose, and he’s got a letter all ready to send. But if Cristina and Esteban—if it
is
Cristina and Esteban—agree to take the boy, he’ll need a passport. So his grandmother was wondering if perhaps you could help with that. You know, with the avowal that he’s not politically suspect? And if you knew any priests here, to find one to vouch for him as well?”

Tejada relaxed. Nobody received a passport without a declaration from the police and the parish priest stating that they were politically and spiritually healthy. Practically speaking, no one received a passport without intervention of some kind. “Sure,” he said. “He should fill out the application now, before he gets any nearer the age for military service. They might not even like to give it to someone who’s already sixteen.”

Elena nodded, both relieved and grateful. “Shame he isn’t a couple of years younger,” she commented.

“He’s lucky to have relatives abroad,” Tejada said. “I’ll ask Felipe about a priest to sign the declaration. I take it he hasn’t been in any kind of trouble?”

“Oh no. Señora Rosado says that his parents have been sending him to mass and communion every week since they got the wire transfer.”

Worth it to attend mass for the sake of a passport
, Tejada thought.
Of course, if he gets to France, his people there won’t make him go. A
shame, really. That’s the age when you really need to be forced
. The lieutenant remembered his own horror of confession at sixteen with nostalgic amusement. It was always most agonizing when you did not have any really grave sins to confess.
At least we can make him
go through the rites for a few more months for the sake of his future
. “It’s a pity we can’t send Aleja with him,” he said lightly. “That would solve her problems with school too.”

He had meant the words as a joke, but Elena sat up, shocked. “So far from her mother!”

“I wasn’t serious. Besides, why should Encinas and Beltrán want to take on another kid who’s no relation of theirs?”

Because that’s what being a Red means: being closer to strangers than you are to your own brother, Elena did not answer. And because Cristina’s father made taking on strays his life’s work. Because they only got to France due to a lot of strangers who risked their lives to help them and now they’ll help a stranger as payment. “No reason, really,” she admitted. “But I think they’d do it.”