Summer Snow (41 page)

“Even if it meant another mouth to feed?” Tejada asked. Elena gave him a reproachful look and he added defensively, “Well, why should
I
pay for her to run off to be with a bunch of subversives?”

“Because you promised,” his wife retorted.

Tejada shook his head, the strain of the day starting to tell on him. He was tired of people twisting his words into false meanings, and his voice was sharp as he said, “Absolutely not. I promised to take care of her, and I’ll see her raised a good woman and a good Spaniard. That
is
taking care of her, whatever her family might think.” He made an emphatic gesture, and the hidden will rustled.

Elena caught the noise of the folded envelope and frowned. There was something Carlos was not telling her about his morning, she guessed. Something that made his temper short and his eyes tired. “Never mind,” she said soothingly. “Come on, we’re late for lunch.” She retrieved Toño from Alejandra on her own, unwilling to rouse her husband’s demons by having him cross paths with the girl. The lieutenant waited for them docilely, and they headed for the dining room together.

Tejada met his father across the table wondering why he did not feel more triumphant. Andrés Tejada greeted his younger son graciously. “Is your investigation making any progress, Carlos?”

“A little. Not nearly as much as I had hoped.” Elena, watching her husband, saw his hand stray toward the hidden will and clutch briefly at his chest as he spoke. “But I believe I’ve found something of interest to you, Father.”

“I’m always interested to hear about your work.” Andrés Tejada might have spoken in the same voice to Toño about electric trains.

“We know you’ve always encouraged him.” Doña Consuela’s tone made it clear that her son’s current plight was the fault of his father’s reckless encouragement.

The lieutenant looked at his plate. “I know. I’ve always been grateful.”

Only until Friday
, Elena thought.
Only three more days until
Friday
. Carlos sometimes annoyed her by his arrogance. But it was painful to watch the self-assured man she knew dwindle into a quiet shadow. He ate quickly, speaking only when he was spoken to, like a well-brought-up little boy. Fortunately, Toño had learned a new story about El Cid and was anxious to tell it to his father. The lieutenant listened intently to the child’s careful recitation of “
Afuera, afuera Rodrigo
” and even managed to sound like himself in some of his responses.

When the meal was over, Tejada stood and turned to his father. “If I could see you in your study, Father?”

Andrés Tejada raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

The lieutenant silently followed his father out of the room, uncomfortably aware of the last time he had demanded a similar audience. Andrés Tejada obviously shared his awareness. He sat at his desk and opened a cigarette case without offering one to his son. “You’ve found Aunt Rosalia’s killer?” he demanded without preamble.

Tejada shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But we have found this.” He opened his jacket and drew out the will. “I believe it’s what you were looking for,” he added, with the lightest tinge of sarcasm.

Andrés opened the envelope, frowning, scanned the document, and then smiled, suddenly cordial. “It certainly is! Well done, Carlos! How did you find it? And where was it?”

Tejada shrugged and explained in some detail, although the explanation gave him no pleasure. His father was warmly sympathetic and eager, prodding him frequently with questions. “Well,” he said finally. “That puts any question of Amparo and Felipe’s marriage to rest! I always thought Fernando and Bernarda were fools to push it anyway. Felipe’s so crazy there’s no telling what he’d do if he married the chit.”

“I don’t think he’d marry her under any circumstances,” Tejada said, feeling an obscure desire to defend his cousin.

“No, he never had the sense he was born with,” Andrés agreed amicably. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a girlfriend stashed away somewhere and thinks marriage would interfere with his little friend.” He remembered, too late, that he was speaking to his son and added hastily, “Of course, any decent man treats his wife with consideration. . . .”

“Which doesn’t mean he’s a stone-cold saint,” the lieutenant finished.

“Exactly,” Andrés agreed with relief, privately thinking that it was rather nice to finally be able to treat Carlos as a grown-up, and that it was a shame the boy had not arrived at this realization in time to escape from a disastrous marriage. He did not notice the faint curl of the lieutenant’s mouth or guess that the words were anything other than completely sincere.

Tejada held out his hand. “I told the sergeant I’d take the will over to Pablo Almeida this afternoon, on my way back to the post.” He held his breath, half wondering if he would have to invoke the power of the Guardia to retrieve the document. He relaxed as his father readily returned the envelope to him.

“Well done, Carlos. I’m sure that you’ll find poor Aunt Rosalia’s murderer soon, too. We can’t let people get away with murdering family members.” Andrés spoke with genuine warmth.

Tejada nodded, made a respectful reply, and escaped. It was odd, thought Andrés Tejada as the door closed behind his son, that Carlos could be so competent in many ways and such a fool in others. But after all, the boy was still young and could learn. And he had apologized properly for his initial disrespect.

The lieutenant headed for his own room. There was a bad taste in his mouth, compounded of the sour remains of his lunch and something that tasted like bile or grief. He wanted a cigarette and he wanted to hide and to hold Elena and pour out his foolishness about Nilo, and he wanted more than anything to go home, to where the problems were simple and clean-cut: maquis vs. guardias, Reds. vs. forces of law and order. His room was empty and he guessed that Elena was reading to Toño before the boy’s nap. There was a cigarette pack lying on the night table by the bed, but to his annoyance he discovered that it was empty and remembered, too late, that he had smoked the last one the preceding evening. All the tobacconists would be closed for the siesta already. He had three days before he could go home. Three days to find a killer.

Desperate to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth, he turned to the pitcher of water and glasses sitting on the side table. He picked up the handsome cut-glass pitcher and poured himself a drink with relief. A few chips of ice tinkled into the glass, and he took a long swallow with relief.
Fresh from the wells of the Alhambra
, he thought, remembering the cry of the water carriers in his childhood. He smiled a little, wondering if there were still water carriers anywhere in the city. Perhaps up in the Albaicín, where Felipe and Lili lived. He himself could only vaguely remember a time when his family had not had running tap water during their winters in the city. He had a faint memory of his father lifting him up and saying, “Look, Carlito, turn the faucet,” and being startled by a noisy rush of liquid, but the novelty had worn off too quickly to leave a lasting impression. He wondered if Alejandra was the one responsible for leaving a fresh pitcher of water in his room every day. He had noticed it on his first day back in Granada and thought ruefully that his parents were treating him as they treated guests. It was a piece of foolishness, to provide a pitcher of water when you could walk down the hall to the bathroom and get a glass from the tap yourself. A waste of good ice and water, too, to have to change it every day regardless of whether it was used. Today was the first day he had used it and he doubted that he would finish the pitcher, but still it would be emptied out and replaced fresh tomorrow. Something to keep poor Alejandra busy.

Tejada frowned at the thought of Alejandra. He would have to speak to her again before they left and explain to her that he would not allow her to throw away her future for the sake of some idiot desire to remain a true member of the
lumpen proletariat
. Perhaps, he thought dryly, he should simply let Alejandra try to become a maid for a few months and bear the pious injunctions of charitable ladies like Amparo Villalobos who concerned themselves with the morals of orphaned servant girls. It might make her more eager to return to school with the Sisters.

The thought of a confrontation between Alejandra’s monumental sullenness and Amparo’s relentless sweetness made the lieutenant smile for a moment. He took another swallow of water, still smiling, and then choked suddenly. Did you arrest Amparo? Elena had asked. Why not? Tejada had assumed that Amparo had neither the skills nor the temperament for murder. But if she had been only the one giving the orders . . .

He settled himself at the table and began to write out his suspicions in his notebook. They gained form and clarity as he scribbled. There was no proof, but for once proof would be easy enough to come by. He had covered half a page by the time Elena entered the room. “I was just talking to Carmen—,” she began.

“Read this,” the lieutenant interrupted, handing her his notes.

Elena glanced at her husband’s face, and read. “It’s weak.”

“It makes more sense than anything else.”

“It could as well be Felipe, by this logic.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The lieutenant spoke sharply, although the unpleasant thought had occurred to him, too.

Elena sighed. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Tejada grimaced. “Rivas said he had other work this afternoon. But he wants to pull in the servants tomorrow and question them. We may get something that way.”

Elena never really forgave herself for what she said next. But the leaden unhappiness of Alejandra and the Encinas family were gnawing at her self-possession, and she knew that her husband would not focus his attention on their plight until he had finished the case, and that he would feel no compassion for them as long as he looked so drawn and miserable. She wanted desperately for him to finish the case successfully so that he could offer his help to the families of her student and friend. And perhaps even more than that, she wanted to go home and forget about their nightmarish time in Granada. An extra day loomed large in her mind, so she encouraged him to hurry. “Why don’t you go over this afternoon and see if you can find anything out? Rivas won’t mind.”

Chapter 22

E
lena’s words might have had no effect if Tejada had not been restless also. He nodded. “After the siesta then.”

The next few hours had the feeling of killing time. The lieutenant sat and doodled because he had nothing to write but was too tense to rest. Elena reread a book she had read before. The clock ticked, and Tejada longed for a cigarette. They spoke little, each hoping that the other was relaxing. Finally, at five, the lieutenant started up. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said, leaning over to kiss his wife on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck to whoever’s cause is best.” Elena gave him the ritual response she used in Potes, and he laughed, a brief snort of recognition of the formula rather than a genuine response to the joke.

It was a cool, windy evening, and the low sun turned one side of the buildings gold, leaving the other side of the street in shadow as he left his parents’ house and headed toward the Casa Ordoñez. Fire-trimmed clouds scudded across the sky, and the air smelled incongruously of spring. Tejada glanced at the side-lit buildings and then frowned. He hated the shortened hours of light around All Saints’ Day.

There was a pair of bored guardias on duty outside the Casa Ordoñez. They were standing on opposite sides of a door directly across the street, a few yards away from the doorway on either side. They were widely spaced enough to be inconspicuous, too widely spaced to chat easily with each other. Tejada mentally gave Sergeant Rivas credit for good discipline and training. The pair saluted when they saw him. “Can we help you, Lieutenant?” one of them asked.

“I just wanted to interview the servants again. Are they in?” Tejada asked.

“The women, sir. The cook went out a few minutes ago. Medina and Soler are tailing him.”

“Fine.” Tejada thought for a moment. “Stay alert. I’ll call if I need backup.”

“At your orders, sir.”

The lieutenant crossed the street and knocked on the door. An elderly woman in a maid’s uniform opened it. “Can I help you, Señor Guardia?”

Tejada inspected the woman in front of him and remembered the cobbler’s family on Recogidas. “María José García?” He watched her nod, her expression open and friendly, and wondered if she knew—or cared—that her husband was in prison. “I wanted to speak to Fulgencio and Luisa.”

“Fulgencio went out to dinner with friends.” She stepped backward as she spoke, admitting him to the house. “But Luisa’s here, and he should be back soon. Is it about poor Doña Rosalia?”

“Yes.” Tejada remembered that Rivas had said María José was genuinely grieved by her mistress’s death. “We hope to find her killer soon.”

“God willing,” María José said. She led him across the courtyard into the kitchen without nervousness or deference. “You’re new to the post?” She spoke over her shoulder casually, as she would have spoken to an equal, and the lieutenant guessed that she did not know his surname.

“A temporary transfer,” he said, simplifying.

The kitchen was a cavernous, old-fashioned room. The huge sink in a corner was the only concession to modernity, and the single tap proclaimed the absence of hot water. Cabinets and cooking implements hung along the walls like the trophies and spears adorning a hunter’s great hall. There were no chairs around the long central table of much-nicked wood, but María José dragged a tall stool from the corner for the lieutenant. “Luisa’s probably up in her room,” the maid explained. “But I can go and get her if you’d like to see her now.”