Summer Snow (8 page)

“Do you mind if I leave you and Toño to go shopping?” he asked when they were well away and walking down the Calle Mesones.

Elena shook her head. “No. We’ll be fine. Why?”

“I wanted to find out about Rosalia’s will. Her lawyer’s offices should be around here.”

“How do you know that?”

Tejada’s mouth twisted briefly. “Don Pablo’s my godfather. He’s the one who thought I should go to law school.”

Elena would have replied, but a sudden weight on her hand made her look down. Toño was still clinging to her hand, but he was inclined at a forty-five-degree angle to the sidewalk, like a sailor leaning into a high wind. His head was turned away from his mother and his mouth was slightly open. Elena followed his gaze and saw the toy store. “I think that’s where we’re going,” she said and compassionately lengthened her stride so that Toño could get to his destination more quickly.

The little boy let go of her hand when he was a few steps from the store window, and hurried to press his nose against the glass. The store was not very big or very grand, but Toño had never seen a toy store before. He knew that the carpenter, Quico in the village next to Potes, made fine wooden toys, and he had dimly imagined a toy store was a place like a carpenter’s workshop, only with more toys and fewer chairs and tables. He had never imagined a picture window with a carefully modeled landscape, populated by tin soldiers. Behind the soldiers sat a row of little metal trucks and—Toño’s breath caught in his throat—a locomotive sitting on a tiny, perfectly scaled track. A model airplane hung suspended from wire above the landscape. His parents were still talking above him, but he did not listen, and barely noticed when his father patted him on the head and said that he would see them soon. His attention was focused on the tiny figures, and he was delighted to recognize the uniform of the Guardia Civil.

“Papa, look, there are little guardias!” He looked around, and saw that his father was missing. “Where’d Papa go?”

“He’s going to meet us for ice cream in a little while,” Mama explained. “Would you like to go in now?”

“In
there
?” Toño asked, to make sure he had not misunderstood.

“Why not? It’s only two months until Christmas.” Elena smiled, glad that her husband had thought to ask if she needed extra cash.

Tejada, turning the corner toward the Plaza Bib-Rambla, caught a last glimpse of a small figure marching determinedly into the door of the toy store, with a slender, dark-haired woman trailing in his wake. The lieutenant smiled also and then quickened his steps. He did not think that Toño would become bored with the toy store anytime soon, but he wanted to conduct his business in enough time to share at least ice cream with his son.

It took him a few minutes to find Pablo Almeida’s offices. He had not wanted to ask his father for the address, and it had been many years since he had visited the lawyer. He was about to give up when a doorway next to the
churrería
at one end of the square struck him as vaguely familiar. As he went over to investigate it he saw that the colored floor tiles and the gleaming bar of the
churrería
were the same as ones he remembered from his childhood. It was the establishment that had always stood next to Almeida’s office, where the lawyer took his breakfast on weekdays. He had not recognized it because the canopy and the tables outside had changed in the intervening years.

Encouraged, he went up to the familiar archway and scanned the names next to the bell. Almeida and Berrios, Attorneys, were listed on the first floor. He pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened for some time, and he was about to press the bell again when a shadow appeared in the darkness leading to the interior courtyard. The shadow approached haltingly, until the lieutenant made out a white-haired man on a crutch. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”

Tejada blinked as the old man came face to face with him and began to fumble with the lock of the outer door. The crutch clamped under the left elbow, the wispy white hair, and the sharply swallowed consonants of Andalusian dialect all belonged to a past he had thought long dead and buried. He squinted at the doorkeeper again. “Nilo?”

The man looked up at him, startled. “Yes, sir?”

Tejada felt suddenly awkward. “I’m Carlos Tejada. I suppose you don’t remember me. I used to come here as a kid sometimes to visit Don Pablo. You . . . you were very kind to me.”

“Señorito Carlos!” The old man beamed and pulled back the gate with enthusiasm. “Of course I remember you! Always wanting to hear stories about the bandits and how I got stuck with this blessed stick.” He thumped his crutch and took Tejada’s elbow with his free hand. “Come in, come in. You’ll be wanting to see Don Pablo, I suppose, like old times?”

“Yes.” Tejada nodded, staring at the crutch as if mesmerized, with the old feeling that his stare was rude.

“So, I imagine you’re a lawyer yourself now, Señorito?” Nilo was saying cheerfully as he hopped toward the stairs. “I heard you were going away to Salamanca to study.”

“No.” Tejada shook his head. “No, I’m visiting family, on vacation at the moment, but actually I’m . . . a guardia civil.”

Nilo swung around, his face split by a broad smile. “No!”

Tejada nodded and grinned, pleased at the doorkeeper’s expression. “I joined the corps in ’32. Made lieutenant nearly six years ago. I’m stationed in Cantabria. My own command.”

“Sir!” Nilo saluted, his entire face alive with gratification. “Congratulations. But by now you must have some stories about bandits yourself!”

Tejada bowed his head, half pleased and half embarrassed. “One or two. Nothing as dramatic as yours.”

“Ahh, I probably lied to impress you kids.” The ex-guardia laughed. “How’d you end up in the Guardia, anyway? Don Pablo told me you’d gone to study law.”

Tejada shrugged. It was a question he seldom asked himself anymore, but when it did come up, the lack of a simple answer always made him uncomfortable. He turned aside the question with a compliment. “I guess I admired all the old guardias I knew.”

“What, an old cripple?” Nilo scoffed, but his eyes were still slits of pleasure in a weather-beaten face. “There must have been more to it than that.”

“A little more,” Tejada admitted. They had reached the staircase that led to the first floor and he put one hand on the banister, unwilling to offend the old man by turning away, but feeling guilty about postponing his meeting with Almeida. “But it’s a long story.”

“You come and have a drink with me this evening and tell me all about it,” the porter invited. “I get off at eight. Can your parents spare you for a few hours?”

Tejada hesitated. “Yes. But . . . .”

Nilo’s eyes twinkled. “You have a family of your own?”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Kids?”

“One. He’ll be five in April.” Tejada’s voice was warm with pride.

“Make it a café then, and bring them along,” the doorman offered. “I’d love to meet them. That is,” he added, “if you don’t mind spending time with a nosy old man.”

“Of course not,” the lieutenant replied.

Nilo named a café on the other side of the square, and suggested a time. Tejada agreed with genuine pleasure and asked if Don Pablo was free. “He’ll likely be free to see
you
,” the doorman said, patting the lieutenant on the back paternally. “We’ve all missed you, you know, while you’ve been off doing great things in the north.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight-thirty, God willing.” Tejada once more turned toward the stairs.

“God willing.”

Tejada managed to get up the stairs with only one more pat on the back and a handshake. He was smiling as he knocked on Almeida’s door. A secretary his own age let him in. “Can I help you, Señor?”

Tejada identified himself as a family friend and asked to speak to Don Pablo. The secretary, recognizing his surname, hurried into the lawyer’s office and returned a moment later, followed by Pablo Almeida himself. “Carlos!” Almeida held out his hand, smiling. “How long has it been?”

“Too long.” He submitted to a quick embrace with a better humor than he might have without Nilo’s greeting downstairs. “It’s good to see you, Don Pablo.”

“Likewise.” the lawyer ushered Tejada into his office, speaking in a continuous flow of commonplaces.

Tejada answered Almeida’s questions with the slight awkwardness that comes of trying to summarize a decade of living in a few polite phrases. After three minutes that covered the lieutenant’s war record, his promotions, his job prospects, his marriage, his son, and whether he would like a cup of coffee, Almeida seemed at a loss. “Well,” he repeated. “Well. Doesn’t time fly. And your parents, are they well?”

It occurred to the lieutenant that since his parents saw Don Pablo far more frequently than he did, this was a slightly ridiculous question. “They’re fine,” he replied. “Although of course we’re in mourning now, you know.”

Don Pablo adjusted his expression. “A great loss. May she rest in peace.”

“May she rest in peace,” Tejada agreed, with only the faintest hint of irony in his tone. “You knew Doña Rosalia, too, of course.”

“Of course. I remember her scolding me as a boy.” Don Pablo attempted to make his voice hearty, but he winced slightly as he spoke, as if he remembered more recent scoldings from Doña Rosalia.

“You were her lawyer?”

“Yes.” Don Pablo shifted uncomfortably. “Speaking of that, what is the situation of the legal profession like in Cantabria? There used to be some very fine attorneys in Santander.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” the lieutenant said. “We’re up in the Picos de Europa.”

“A shame.” Don Pablo shook his head. “You had talent, you know.” He recollected himself and added, “But I’m sure you’re doing very valuable work in the Guardia.”

Tejada reminded himself that many men would be glad merely to be patronized in the line of duty instead of shot at. But his smile was a little stiff as he said, “Thank you. I suppose you’ve heard that the Guardia here are investigating my aunt’s death.”

“Well, naturally, they have to,” the lawyer agreed. “Although, in all honesty, Carlos, I think her time had come.”

“You don’t think anyone would have any reason to kill her?” Tejada asked, reflecting that his father’s opinion appeared to be a minority of one.

“Oh, no.” Almeida was emphatic.

“She left a will, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

Tejada waited. Doña Rosalia’s lawyer coughed, shifted in his chair, and said nothing more. The faintest flicker of suspicion, no stronger than a butterfly’s kiss, wafted over the lieutenant. “Her children inherit everything, I suppose?”

“Fernando gets all the real estate, of course,” Don Pablo confirmed.

Tejada raised his eyebrows. “You mean it was hers to give? I thought he would have inherited it from his father?”

“He inherited the land in the Vega and the sugar refinery from your great-uncle in trust, with the stipulation that the profits would go to his mother’s support while she lived,” Don Pablo admitted. “But Doña Rosalia also purchased some lands in the Alpujarras that pass to Fernando as well. She felt very strongly about keeping the estate together, too.”

Something nibbled at the edge of Tejada’s consciousness. “Was the land a good investment?” he asked.

The lawyer shrugged. “As good as anything, in these times.”

“She must have had liquid assets, too, if she was investing?”

“Yes. She was comfortably provided for.”

“I imagine she divided those between her two other children?” Tejada said, waiting for the lawyer to lay his suspicion to rest.

“Now, Carlos, you know I can’t speak about an unpublished will to a third party.” Don Pablo smiled, to show that he was being conciliatory. “It’s a violation of confidentiality. But since you’re family, I’ll tell you that your father’s her executor. Why don’t you ask him about it?”

Tejada smiled back, ready to repay Don Pablo for being patronizing. “I was only asking because I
am
family,” he answered softly. “But the Guardia can seize your records, of course.”

“Carlos!” Almeida was shaken. “You can’t be serious.”

“Who were her heirs?”

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“I understand.” The lieutenant stood and held out his hand. “It was nice to see you, Don Pablo.”

“Likewise.” The lawyer stood as well, looking relieved.

“I’ll speak to Sergeant Rivas this afternoon,” Tejada continued as he shook the lawyer’s hand. “He’ll send someone over to go through your offices tomorrow.”

“Carlito, for the love of—!” Don Pablo refused to let go of the lieutenant’s hand, tightening his clasp into an almost frantic grip. “Listen to me. Talk to your father tonight. Ask him about the will. Tell him what you’ve told me, and if he
doesn’t
answer all your questions you can come and speak to me again tomorrow. But for goodness’ sake, don’t drag the Guardia into a private matter. You don’t want to upset your cousins and your parents.
Please
, Carlos. How much difference can one day make?”

“I’ll talk to my father,” Tejada agreed finally, prying his hand out of his godfather’s. “But . . .” He hesitated, weighing his words. Don Pablo’s reaction had convinced him that something was drastically wrong. “But, Don Pablo, I’m not exactly an outsider. Why can’t you just tell me? There’s nothing startling about the will, is there? Nothing that would make someone think Doña Rosalia was murdered?”