Mexican Hat Read online

  “I was hoping your daddy would sell out to me when the time came.”

  “I don’t think my father started that ranch from scratch to see it wind up in the hands of his brother’s son. Is that why you’ve been such an attentive nephew over the years? So you can get the Triple H at a family discount?”

  “You’re still as sarcastic as ever.”

  “Maybe if you fed me breakfast like you promised, I wouldn’t be so testy. My stomach is demanding some food.”

  “Best to wait until the crowd thins out,” Phil said. “Looks like everybody from town is inside, talking about the Elderman Meadows murder.”

  “What murder?”

  “Some Mexican was killed. The police think a poacher was responsible.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So, I might get to start my new job with a murder case,” Karen said. “That would be interesting. Why did you want to see me, Phil? Surely you can’t want to talk over old times.”

  “I don’t. Your daddy paid my daddy a visit yesterday morning.”

  Karen searched Phil’s face with disbelieving eyes. “That’s not likely.”

  “It’s true,” Phil confirmed.

  “Were you there?”

  “No. By the time I saw Edgar’s truck and left my house, he was driving away like a bat out of hell. Pop wouldn’t talk to me about it, of course. He didn’t say a word.”

  “Such a sweet old man,” Karen said.

  “Don’t start, Karen. Pop’s hard to deal with, I’ll grant you that, but he is my father.”

  “Horseshit,” Karen replied. “He never was a father to you. The day your mother left him, he just got meaner. He’s a nasty old man. If you hadn’t held it all together and busted your ass for the last twenty years the ranch would have gone to hell.”

  “I don’t need you ragging on my daddy,” Phil shot back. “And I don’t need a family history lesson.”

  “Maybe you do.”

  “Let’s stay on the subject. Until yesterday, our fathers haven’t spoken to each other in sixty years. What changed that?”

  Karen took a long minute before replying. “I’m not sure.”

  “Has anything unusual happened recently?”

  “Daddy got a letter yesterday. A man dropped it off at the house while he was in Silver City with Mom. Dad read it and then left for town. When I asked him about it, he said it was nothing to worry about, but he seemed upset.”

  “Who was the letter from?”

  “I don’t know. But the man who delivered it said he was Hector Padilla.”

  Phil looked surprised. “Hector Padilla is the name of the man that was killed at Elderman Meadows.”

  Karen smiled vaguely at an older couple as they left Cattleman’s, then frowned. “That’s a little more than strange. There was an old man with Hector Padilla. Daddy’s age, a little older perhaps, but the same generation. He stayed in the truck. Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Jim Stiles and a temporary ranger named Kerney found him near the foothills of Mangas Mountain. In shock, from what I’ve heard. He’s hospitalized in Silver City.”

  “This fellow Kerney gets around. He stopped at the house yesterday to ask Dad about a black bear poaching.”

  “Yeah, that’s how I met him, too. PJ and I found the bear.”

  Karen faced her cousin squarely. “Didn’t the family know some people named Padilla back in the thirties?”

  “Padilla is a pretty common name in these parts. At least, it used to be.”

  “Maybe the old man knew Daddy and Uncle Eugene.”

  “Isn’t that stretching it a bit?” Phil rebutted.

  “No,” Karen replied. “It doesn’t seem like a stretch at all. Dad gets a letter, goes to see his brother he hasn’t talked to in sixty years, and the man who delivers the letter turns up murdered.”

  “I don’t think what happened sixty years ago has anything to do with the murder of some Mexican national.”

  “Do you know what happened sixty years ago? I sure don’t. I’d love to know what it was.”

  “Ask your father,” Phil snapped.

  “Is that what you did?”

  Phil shrugged.

  “Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t dare.”

  Phil threw back his head and laughed.

  “What’s so funny, Phil?”

  “You are, cousin. You don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”

  Karen closed her eyes, and sighed. “We’re bickering, Phil. Just like old times. Let’s give it a rest, okay?”

  She opened her eyes, looked at Phil, and forced a smile. Jim Stiles and Kevin Kerney were standing next to Phil’s truck. Both men looked dragged-out. They had day-old beards and weary eyes and wore dusty, wrinkled uniforms. “Hi, Jim,” she said.

  “Karen. Phil,” Jim said, greeting both with a nod of his head. “If you folks came to town for breakfast, the waitress is just now cleaning off our table.”

  “Thanks,” Karen said.

  “Do you two know Kevin Kerney?” Jim asked.

  “Sure do,” Phil said.

  Karen nodded in agreement.

  Kerney nodded back. “Mr. Cox,” he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion, “I’d like to stop by and see you this evening. Would that be convenient?”

  “Sure, drop by,” Phil replied. “We’ll set out an extra plate, you look like you could use a home-cooked meal.”

  “Good enough.”

  “What about me?” Stiles asked jokingly. “Don’t I get an invite?”

  “Come along,” Phil replied. “I guess we can feed you, too.”

  “Just kidding,” Jim responded. “Besides, I don’t see the fun in spending time with two old duffers like you and Kerney.”

  “Watch what you say there, youngster,” Phil shot back with a smile.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Cox, sir,” Stiles said solemnly. He slapped his hand on the truck hood. “Gotta go. See you, guys.”

  Karen leaned across Phil to the window and smiled sweetly. “Wrong gender, Jimmy. Are you still confused about sex, girls, and the birds and bees?”

  “I’m slowly working it out.”

  “God help her, whoever she is.” She switched her gaze quickly to Kerney. “It nice to see you again, Mr. Kerney.”

  Her directness caught Kerney off guard. He’d been staring at her without realizing it. She was a damn fine-looking woman.

  He smiled self-consciously. “My pleasure.”

  As the two men walked away, Karen studied Kerney for a minute, a vague memory tugging at her consciousness. It faded without expression. She returned her attention to Phil, told him to get off his butt, take out his wallet, and buy her breakfast.

  “You won’t pick another fight?” Phil inquired.

  “It’s a deal. No more fights. You can fill me in on Doris and the kids.”

  “WHAT’S THE STORY on the woman?” Kerney inquired. He and Stiles were at their trucks. The overflow from Cattleman’s Café had spilled across the street to Griffin’s Bar, a long building done up with a slat-board facade, a porch with a railing covered by a sloping roof, and a wooden walkway, designed to give it a frontier appearance.

  Stiles waited until a logging truck rumbled by before answering. “Real good-looking for an older babe, isn’t she?”

  “She doesn’t look like an older babe to me.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. Her name is Karen Cox. Phil’s cousin. She used to be my baby-sitter. Left years ago for college up in Albuquerque. Dropped out. Stayed in the city. Got married, went back to college, and taught school for a while. Then she got herself a law degree, and a divorce, and took back her maiden name. She’s our new ADA. Starts tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I thought you’d met her.”

  “I did, but not officially,” Kerney answered.

  “Wait until you meet old Gene Cox, Phil’s daddy.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s a tough old son of
a bitch. Got himself crippled up in a shooting accident when he was a boy. He’s been almost completely paralyzed from the waist down ever since. It didn’t slow him down much when he was younger. He even got married and sired two sons.

  “Until Phil took over the ranch, Gene worked it with a truck and a golf cart that were fixed up with special controls. For a long time he kept riding—he even trained a horse to respond to hand and rein signals. He installed a winch and hoist on the truck so he could cut and haul wood. Used a walker to pull himself around when he was working outside.”

  “He does sound tough.”

  “And then some. What’s next?” Jim asked.

  “I need some rack time,” Kerney replied. “Meet me at my trailer in six hours. You can go with me to see José Padilla.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stiles said, giving Kerney an offhand salute.

  Kerney got to his trailer, gathered up every bath towel he could find, and soaked them in hot water. He stripped out of his uniform and wrapped the hot towels, one at a time, around his bad knee. One full and one partial ligament held the leg together. He sat in the living-room chair and let the heat work on the pain. Through the open door of the trailer he could see the forested mountains east of Reserve that squeezed against the open fields and forced the San Francisco River into a confined, fast-running channel at the end of the valley. At the high school, children from a nearby subdivision were playing a softball game on the athletic field.

  Under the floor of the trailer the mice were busy. There were fresh rodent droppings on the carpet by a window. The threat of hantavirus registered in Kerney’s mind. It was a pulmonary illness, spread by deer mice, that killed people. He tried to remember the precautions, but he was too damn sluggish to think straight. He would let his landlord deal with the problem.

  Kerney put the soggy towels in the kitchen sink, took four aspirin, closed the front door, set the alarm clock, and fell on the bed, asleep almost immediately.

  KAREN SAID GOODBYE to Phil at Cattleman’s and walked down the street to the county courthouse, an ugly two-story red brick building with aluminum-clad windows. The front office of the sheriff’s department, a single-story annex, was manned by a radio dispatcher who sat at a console behind a long counter. Karen asked to see Sheriff Gatewood.

  Gatewood came out of a rear suite of offices. A burly man in his late fifties with a slight potbelly, he wore an off-white straw cowboy hat and civilian clothes. His badge of office was clipped to his belt next to the high-rise holster that contained a four-inch .357 revolver.

  “Miss Cox,” Gatewood said. His voice was raspy and his face looked haggard.

  “Why are you being so formal, Omar?” Karen said, shaking Gatewood’s hand.

  “Well, you aren’t just Edgar Cox’s little girl anymore, are you?” he said with a smile. “I sure don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the new assistant district attorney.” He gestured to the open door behind him. “Come on in. I was just about to call you anyway. Figured you might want a rundown on the Padilla homicide.”

  “I do,” Karen answered.

  It took half an hour for Gatewood to finish his briefing. He sat behind his oak desk, made by inmates at the state penitentiary, and answered Karen’s questions.

  “No leads on any suspects?” she inquired. Gatewood’s office was a small cubicle with one window that looked out on an empty lot.

  “Not a one. Until Dr. Padilla recovers enough to be interviewed, we don’t even know if we have a witness.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  Gatewood shrugged and rubbed the corner of his eye with a finger. “Don’t know. The state police aren’t releasing any information to us. That’s typical. They know I don’t have anybody on staff who’s worth a damn as an investigator. We’ll do whatever grunt work they decide to throw at us,” he added unhappily.

  “From what you told me, it was Kevin Kerney and Jim Stiles who found Padilla, discovered the murder victim, secured the crime scene, and located the camper trailer.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Happenstance?”

  “You could chalk it up to that,” Gatewood responded, “but I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Until he got shot and had to retire, Kevin Kerney had a reputation as one of the best criminal investigators in the state. He was chief of detectives up in Santa Fe. There was even some talk that he was going to be the next police chief.”

  “When did he get shot?”

  “Three or four years ago.”

  “Tell me about Jim Stiles.”

  Gatewood sighed. “I’d hire Jim in a flash, if I had the money and could pry him away from Game and Fish. He’s smart and well trained. Carol Cassidy over at the Luna station has put Kerney on the poaching case full-time and arranged with Game and Fish for Stiles to work with him. Don’t know how much good they can do with limited police powers.”

  Karen considered the information. “Can you arrange to have them meet us early tomorrow morning?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. What do you have in mind?”

  “If we can get some free talent, why not use it? Running a murder investigation out of Socorro, a hundred and thirty miles away, isn’t going to get the job done, no matter what the state police say. I’ll appoint Kerney a special investigator and you deputize Jim Stiles.”

  The frame squeaked as Omar Gatewood leaned back in his chair. He had come up through the ranks before getting elected and needed one more term in office to qualify for a full pension. His opponent in the June primary was a former sheriff with a lot of support who wanted his old job back. Gatewood didn’t give a damn about the dead Mexican, but if he could show the good people of Catron County that he was using every possible means to solve the case, it might make a big difference come election day.

  He looked at Karen Cox with a new appreciation. “Now that’s an idea that warms my heart.”

  EDGAR COX found Margaret in the kitchen with Elizabeth and Cody, busily preparing Sunday breakfast. The Silver City paper was folded neatly on his place mat along with a steaming cup of coffee. A vase of fresh-cut flowers formed a centerpiece. From the aroma in the room, he knew Margaret had cooked up apple pancakes, one of her specialties.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked, smiling at his wife and grandchildren.

  “A beautiful morning,” Margaret replied, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, the way she always did when she was cooking. She walked to her husband, gave him a warm kiss, and stroked his cheek with her hand.

  Edgar studied her face. She wasn’t hiding anything from him as far as he could tell, and she looked fine. He loved the tiny over-bite to her mouth. And her long, elegant neck was as flawless as it had been forty years ago. Margaret wore her hair in a bun the way he liked it, which was usually reserved for very special occasions.

  He asked the gnawing question anyway, his worry a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach. “How are you feeling?”

  Margaret’s expression changed to mild reproof. “The question is, how do I look?” she asked, her head held high.

  Margaret at sixty-five amazed Edgar. With soft brown eyes that didn’t miss a trick, full lips above a strong chin, high cheekbones, and pale skin, Margaret Atwood Cox was still a beauty.

  “Gorgeous,” he admitted.

  “That’s the right answer,” she said, patting him on the cheek. “Now, go sit down, read your paper, and drink your coffee. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Where’s Karen?”

  “Meeting Phil for breakfast in Reserve.”

  “Any particular reason?” he asked cautiously.

  “No,” Margaret said, turning back to the stove. “Just to visit and catch up, I imagine.”

  With Cody and Elizabeth to distract him, Edgar didn’t get to read the Sunday paper until breakfast was over and the dishes were washed and put away. When Margaret went to dress for church, he sat in his favorite chair in the living room and unfolded t
he paper. The front page blazoned the story of a murder on Elderman Meadows. Edgar read it with interest. His curiosity quickly changed to apprehension. He didn’t know the victim, Hector Padilla, but he sure as hell knew José Padilla.

  He got up from his chair and walked rapidly to the bedroom. Margaret stood in front of the full-length mirror, fastening her brassiere. He prayed she wouldn’t need a mastectomy and that the lump was benign. And he hoped to God José Padilla was dead in the Silver City hospital.

  Margaret saw her husband’s face reflected in the mirror and turned. A small twitch at the corner of one eye telegraphed Edgar’s anxiety. “What is it?”

  “I have to go to Silver City.”

  “Why?”

  “Business.”

  Margaret slipped into her blouse, her eyes locked on her husband. “What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said,” he replied. “Take yourself to church. Karen should be back before you need to leave.”

  “Edgar?”

  “Yes?”

  “What kind of business?” she demanded.

  “Old family business.”

  Margaret took a deep breath. Edgar’s phrase was the euphemism he used to talk about Eugene. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t want you involved.”

  Margaret tucked her blouse into her skirt and walked to her husband. “It’s forty years too late for that. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Edgar told her, and when he finished, Margaret wrote a note to Karen and left it on the kitchen table, so her daughter would know the clan was off for an impromptu Sunday drive and lunch in Silver City.

  CHURCH BELLS TOLLED for late Sunday services as Kerney got up and dressed. He had time before Stiles was due to arrive. He walked the quarter mile to his landlord’s house, and asked if it would be possible for the mice to be removed from in and under the trailer. Doyle Fletcher, a man who looked about Kerney’s age, with a suspicious, stingy face, stood in the partially open doorway, grunted in agreement, and said it would take him a day or two to get around to it. Kerney thanked him, went home, and waited for Jim, wondering why Doyle Fletcher seemed so put out.

  He shrugged it off and passed the time listening to a Haydn concerto, trying not to think too much about Karen Cox. He’d gone back to his solitary lifestyle after Sara Brannon, the Army officer who had worked with him on the White Sands case, left for her new duty station in Korea. That was more than a while back, and he found himself missing her.