called at 4:45 P.M. I had been in the middle of a nap at that time, and if Willit had managed to find out my home phone and had rung the house, my daughter Camille hadn’t admitted to fielding the call.
I got up and walked out to the newly designed skylight area that included the dispatcher’s console, electrically controlled access doors to the rear lockup area, the sheriff’s office, and the personnel lounge.
“I thought you were going home,” I said. “But as long as you’re here, this Willit person…” Gayle nodded. “Is he related in some way to the Apodacas? Holman mentioned that he’s been calling.”
“I think so,” Gayle said. “I think he’s actually Mrs. Apodaca’s stepson from a previous marriage. I think that’s what Sergeant Torrez said.”
“That makes as much sense as anything, I suppose,” I said. “And Bob would know.” Gayle smiled. Bob Torrez kept track of things like family trees. He had plenty of practice with his own. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”
“He didn’t say, sir. He just called a little while ago. I guess maybe it’s because it’s your land that’s somehow involved.”
“Well, let’s call him and find out,” I said. “Maybe he wants some kind of memorial marker erected, or some such.”
Gayle nodded.
“Or a neon-lighted mausoleum,” I added, and Gayle nodded again. “This is an interesting world we live in,” I said, and walked back to my office.
I settled back in my leather chair, pulled the telephone within reach, and dialed. A male voice answered on the fifth ring.
“Yello?”
“Stanley Willit, please. This is Undersheriff William Gastner from Posadas County, New Mexico.”
“This is Willit.”
I waited for a couple of seconds, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts, since he’d been the one who had called first. The line stayed dead, though, so I said, “Mr. Willit?”
“Yep. This is Willit.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Who’d you say you were?”
I took a deep breath and repeated myself, adding, “I’m returning your earlier call.”
“Oh, good.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Say, can I call you back in just a couple minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, and started to give him the number. Before I’d gotten through the area code, I’d collected a dial tone. With a shrug, I punched another line and dialed Marjorie Davis’s home number. She answered on the second ring.
“Marjorie? This is Gastner.”
“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d return my call.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Can I be direct with you?”
I chuckled. “Do you mean there are times when you’re not?”
“Well,” she said, then let it drop. “Was there some special reason why Estelle had her little boy with her up on the mesa this morning?”
“You’d have to ask her that, sweetheart,” I said. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d think it’s because they’re related, somehow. They hang out together a lot, she and the kid.”
“Come on, sir. Please.”
“Marjorie, let me suggest the obvious. Give Estelle a call, and ask her.”
“I did. Erma Sedillos wouldn’t let me talk with her.”
I chuckled again. “I guess I could have predicted that. And by the way—not that it’s any of my business—what are you planning to do with the pictures you took of my daughter and the youngster? Is that front-page stuff?”
“Frank wants to use it.”
“Well, then, far be it from me to suggest to you and Frank how to do your jobs.” I kept my tone gentle and even jocular, but an uneasy feeling settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
Gayle Sedillos appeared in my doorway and held up two fingers, and I nodded. I covered the receiver with my hand and mouthed, “Go home!” She waved a hand in agreement.
“Marjorie,” I said into the phone, “Estelle will be here in about half an hour. I need to take another call, so why don’t you either ring back or, better yet, come on down in person.
I got up and walked out to the newly designed skylight area that included the dispatcher’s console, electrically controlled access doors to the rear lockup area, the sheriff’s office, and the personnel lounge.
“I thought you were going home,” I said. “But as long as you’re here, this Willit person…” Gayle nodded. “Is he related in some way to the Apodacas? Holman mentioned that he’s been calling.”
“I think so,” Gayle said. “I think he’s actually Mrs. Apodaca’s stepson from a previous marriage. I think that’s what Sergeant Torrez said.”
“That makes as much sense as anything, I suppose,” I said. “And Bob would know.” Gayle smiled. Bob Torrez kept track of things like family trees. He had plenty of practice with his own. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”
“He didn’t say, sir. He just called a little while ago. I guess maybe it’s because it’s your land that’s somehow involved.”
“Well, let’s call him and find out,” I said. “Maybe he wants some kind of memorial marker erected, or some such.”
Gayle nodded.
“Or a neon-lighted mausoleum,” I added, and Gayle nodded again. “This is an interesting world we live in,” I said, and walked back to my office.
I settled back in my leather chair, pulled the telephone within reach, and dialed. A male voice answered on the fifth ring.
“Yello?”
“Stanley Willit, please. This is Undersheriff William Gastner from Posadas County, New Mexico.”
“This is Willit.”
I waited for a couple of seconds, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts, since he’d been the one who had called first. The line stayed dead, though, so I said, “Mr. Willit?”
“Yep. This is Willit.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Who’d you say you were?”
I took a deep breath and repeated myself, adding, “I’m returning your earlier call.”
“Oh, good.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Say, can I call you back in just a couple minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, and started to give him the number. Before I’d gotten through the area code, I’d collected a dial tone. With a shrug, I punched another line and dialed Marjorie Davis’s home number. She answered on the second ring.
“Marjorie? This is Gastner.”
“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d return my call.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Can I be direct with you?”
I chuckled. “Do you mean there are times when you’re not?”
“Well,” she said, then let it drop. “Was there some special reason why Estelle had her little boy with her up on the mesa this morning?”
“You’d have to ask her that, sweetheart,” I said. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d think it’s because they’re related, somehow. They hang out together a lot, she and the kid.”
“Come on, sir. Please.”
“Marjorie, let me suggest the obvious. Give Estelle a call, and ask her.”
“I did. Erma Sedillos wouldn’t let me talk with her.”
I chuckled again. “I guess I could have predicted that. And by the way—not that it’s any of my business—what are you planning to do with the pictures you took of my daughter and the youngster? Is that front-page stuff?”
“Frank wants to use it.”
“Well, then, far be it from me to suggest to you and Frank how to do your jobs.” I kept my tone gentle and even jocular, but an uneasy feeling settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
Gayle Sedillos appeared in my doorway and held up two fingers, and I nodded. I covered the receiver with my hand and mouthed, “Go home!” She waved a hand in agreement.
“Marjorie,” I said into the phone, “Estelle will be here in about half an hour. I need to take another call, so why don’t you either ring back or, better yet, come on down in person.
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