The Lovely Pines Page 7

  “Yeah, yeah. I know all about your heroism. Shooting a murderer dead at the same time he shot you in the groin.”

  “It was the thigh, and that’s the first time I’ve heard the word ‘heroism’ connected to it. I don’t expect that to buy me anything except some respect. Ray and I have an understanding, and I wanted to do you the courtesy of offering the same to you. He won’t give me access to your investigation records. Until they become public record, that is. But he has asked me to keep him abreast of anything I learn on my client’s behalf and promised to apprise me of anything he feels he can share.”

  “So that means you intend to stick your nose in.”

  “It means I will continue to do what I was hired to do. Look into the break-in at the Lovely Pines Winery. That’s not interfering in your investigation, but it does run parallel since last night’s victim was returning from the winery after pulling a shift guarding against that intruder.”

  Her manner eased. She leaned back in her chair and tapped the eraser end of a lead pencil against her cheek. Her big brown eyes watched me closely. “Okay, I’ll buy that. I want you to give me whatever you share with Ray. In return, I’ll go easy on you.”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. I’m fulfilling my civic responsibilities by reporting whatever I learn to the state police. If you want simultaneous information, it has to be a two-way street. I want access to you and the freedom to ask questions. You’ll have the right to decide which ones to answer. But I want your word you won’t withhold out of cussedness. Just out of necessity.”

  She grinned, revealing large white teeth with a mouth generous enough to accommodate them. “I think we might get along after all. Deal.”

  As I shook the hand she offered, I asked, “What was the so-so info you heard about me? I thought my reputation as an investigator was spotless.”

  She laughed aloud, a good sound. “It’s not that you’re gay, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t give a rat’s ass about that… well, except it’s a shame when a good-looking guy is out of the game. You don’t act gay, Vinson. Are you sure?” Devilment sparkled in those eyes now.

  “Pretty sure. There’s a guy by the name of Paul Barton in Albuquerque. You can ask him, if you want. But you can call me BJ. That’s how most of the world addresses me.”

  “Great. You can call me Sergeant Muñoz.”

  I left the SCSO and headed for Valle Plácido relatively certain the relationship with the Sandoval County deputy contained some shoals but was navigable.

  Ariel Gonda had recovered some of his aplomb by the time I joined him on the patio of the Bistro where he was having an espresso. Margot was with him. I accepted the offer of a vanilla coffee and took a seat.

  “You seem a little better centered now. Have you thought of anything my office ought to know about Zuniga?”

  He shook his head. His brow creased. “No. I have nothing to add. And his name was Bascomb… Bas.”

  “Yes, it was. And that leads me to the next matter at hand. You’re not leveling with me about something, Ariel.” I deliberately used his name to make certain he knew what was coming was specifically addressed to him. “And when a client lies to me, I walk away.”

  He started, his fear evident. “But I have not lied to you, BJ.”

  “Holding out on me is the same as lying.” I met his stare. “And you are holding out on me. How did you come to hire Zuniga, anyway? You must have known him in Las Cruces. Nothing else makes sense.”

  “There are a lot of people in Las Cruces. Why do you say I must have known him?”

  “Because Zuniga—Bas—told me his mother called you about a job for him. Zuniga was born January 24, 1989, to a widowed mother named Barbara Cortez Zuniga. She named the father as her then deceased husband, Arnoldo. Frankly, given your reaction to Bas’s death, I would suspect a blood relationship between you and the boy, except you didn’t arrive in the US until that year… 1989.”

  Ignoring his stricken look, I continued. “The kid lived with his mother and grew up in Las Cruces. He enrolled in New Mexico State in 2007 on some sort of anonymous scholarship—we’re looking into that right now—but he dropped out of school the following year. There was some sort of trouble. Something about a series of fights with some locals. After that, he seemed to wander around the area working for various pecan farms, vineyards, and lettuce fields. He was a virtual migrant worker until you hired him.”

  I glanced at Margot before putting the final nail into Gonda’s coffin. “I’m gay, Ariel, so my suspicions are preprogrammed. Were you having a relationship with the man? Your reaction to his death this morning went far beyond the pale.”

  I expected him to become angry, but he fooled me. His shoulders slumped. He hand-brushed the beard that wasn’t there and then put a knuckle to his lips.

  Margot stood abruptly. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  He caught her hand. “No. Do not go, my dear. I—I want you here. By my side.” He turned to me. “Are our conversations confidential? Legally, I mean? Are they the same as discussions with one’s attorney?”

  I watched the man as his body language opened. The tenseness left him as he made what was apparently a difficult decision for him. Everything now depended upon my answer to his question.

  “My situation is not the same as an attorney. My records can be subpoenaed. Now, if I were working for a lawyer and not a private individual, that would change. As his agent, I could not be forced to reveal information gathered in his behalf. I know a good attorney you can call if that protection is needed.”

  He was silent for an entire minute as he considered my offer. “That will not be necessary.” Gonda sighed and patted Margot’s hand. “I was withholding not only from you but also from my wife… my family. It has nothing to do with what you are investigating, but it is time I set the record straight. Margot, my dear, I must confess something to you. Bas was my son.”

  She touched his cheek fondly. “You old fool. I’ve known that for years.”

  His eyes widened. Then he smiled at her lovingly. “That should not surprise me, but it does.” He turned to me. “Let me explain. I came to Las Cruces in the spring of 1988 to meet the local management of the European Wine Consortium prior to joining the firm as comptroller at the beginning of the following year. While I was there, I met a young recently widowed secretary at the firm who was helpful in showing me how things were done on this side of the pond. I asked her to dinner in return. I—I swear I did not intend it to happen, but we ended up spending the night together.”

  Gonda returned to Switzerland with his guilty secret. He considered sharing it with his wife but did not. When they moved to New Mexico in early 1989, Gonda got a shock when he found he had a new heir. Fighting an even greater guilt now, he agreed to provide for his unacknowledged son.

  “Barbara quit the firm,” he said, “and stayed home to raise her… our child, supported by funds provided by one of the Gonda family trusts in Europe. She and the boy wanted for nothing.” He paused to look at his wife. “I saw Bas occasionally when Barbara was invited to company picnics and the like, usually as an invited guest of one of the other employees. That same family trust provided the scholarship funds for Bas to attend NMSU.”

  Gonda reached tentatively across the table and took one of Margot’s hands, looking as if he expected her to reject his touch. He sighed gently when she did not. “I was bitterly disappointed when the boy dropped out of university. The cause was not scholastics, but rather Bas’s adverse reaction to a fraternity hazing that flared into minor violence. The boy was not expelled, but he was no longer comfortable at the school.”

  Both Gonda and Zuniga’s mother lost contact with him for a period while he bummed around New Mexico and Arizona working the vegetable fields. The young man returned to Las Cruces about the time Gonda was hiring for the Lovely Pines. Barbara contacted him, and he hired Zuniga.

  “Part of your story doesn’t work,” I said when he finished. “According to the birth cert
ificate on file with the state, her husband had been dead for a year and a half by the time he was born.”

  “Ah, that.” He stole a glance at Margot. “It was a bit of subterfuge. Barbara and I created a phony birth certificate for her records that altered the year of birth to read 1988. This fit her claim that her dead husband was the father. Frankly, that worked to my benefit as well. We couldn’t alter the official record, but we had an altered certificate to present upon demand. Most people accept that little piece of paper without ever bothering to check the state’s archives.” He gave Margot a pained look. “I am sorry, dear.”

  “No wonder Bascomb looked younger than his age,” I said. “He was.”

  “When did you learn about him?” Gonda asked his wife.

  “When he was about six. Barbara brought him to one of the company functions, a picnic, I think. She was Bill Burham’s date, do you remember? The child was obviously younger than she claimed. Or so it seemed to me, at any rate. I casually remarked how much his eyes reminded me of you, and she looked absolutely stricken. She tried to cover it, but at that moment, I knew in my heart Bascomb was your child. Later, I asked someone to look up the real birth certificate—the one on file with the state—and simply put two and two together.”

  Gonda shook his head. “You never said a word. Why?”

  “Because I know you. You have never allowed other women to come between us. So I knew this was a one-time thing. Barbara had lost her husband, and you are a compassionate man. It went further than you intended. Barbara is a fine person. She never tried to insinuate herself in our lives, and the child was innocent. Why should I make things uncomfortable for all of us?”

  “You are a wonder, my dear.” He patted her arm again before turning back to me. “So now you know. What will you do with the information?”

  “Nothing publicly. It gives me another place to look with respect to the break-in, but I suspect nothing will come of it. Were there any Zuniga brothers and sisters?”

  “Bas is… was an only child.”

  “Did the boy know the truth? That you were his father?”

  “Both Barbara and I decided he should continue to be comfortable believing his father was dead.”

  I mentally reviewed my interview with Zuniga and agreed the young man hadn’t known about his true parentage. “Did you intend to tell him at some point?”

  “I had not made my mind up about that. I liked the boy. Immensely. As he grew and became more important to the winery…? I don’t know.”

  “You need to inform Lieutenant Yardley.”

  “Is it really necessary?” Margot asked.

  “Yes. Withholding the information from him will merely raise his suspicions. I’ve learned enough to know the Gonda family fortune is quite impressive. He’ll have to consider the inheritance angle.”

  “So I must now cast suspicion on my own family.” Not a question—a lament.

  “I’m afraid so. I can do it for you if you wish.”

  “Please. I would appreciate it.”

  I made the call to Ray on my cell phone while both of them were still at the table. The state cop listened carefully and then requested an appointment with the Gondas. I arranged it and told him to bring Sergeant Muñoz with him.

  They arrived an hour later while we were having an excellent corned beef on rye with hot mustard, german potato salad, and kosher dill pickle spears. The wine was red, of course.

  The interview was thorough but not as rough as it could have been because neither of the Gondas had ever shared the secret of Bascomb’s birth with anyone else. Most of the questions were directed at determining how funds had been channeled to Barbara Zuniga over the years and how the scholarship was set up. Darkness approached before the two officers took their leave.

  Gonda gave a big sigh. “I am relieved everything is finally out in the open. How are you handling it, my dear?” he asked his wife. “Barbara will be here tomorrow, you know.”

  “Yes. And I shall act toward her as I always do. I am fond of her.” She paused. “But there is another step to take, you know.”

  “Yes. We must inform Auguste he has… had an older brother.”

  “He will take it well, I think,” she said. “He always got along with Bas, although they did not have a great deal of contact.”

  As they talked back and forth, I decided to revisit a question already asked and answered. “Ariel, are you absolutely certain Bascomb did not know you were his father?”

  “Barbara and I agreed from the beginning to tell no one. Frankly, after my exposure to Bas here at the winery, I suspect I would have confessed to him at some point. But first I wanted him to have more exposure to me. And to Margot.” He looked around the cozy room with an abstract look on his face. “He would have run this place someday. Auguste has little interest in it, so I was counting on my older son to step into my shoes.”

  “Good. We’ll have to confirm with Mrs. Zuniga that she shared your secret with no one. But if she does, that means Bas couldn’t have told anyone. I’d hate to think someone out there we don’t know about was aware of your blood relationship.”

  Ariel avoided looking at Margot. Were his thoughts mirroring mine? Was Margot concerned over sharing an estate between the two boys? One legitimate and the other born on the wrong side of the blanket? Had she tumbled to the fact that our inheritance laws and practices were quite different from the aristocratic European system of primogeniture? Despite myself, I frowned. Did Switzerland even have such a concept?

  Chapter 7

  PAUL LEFT for a seven thirty class the next morning, so I arrived at the office earlier than usual. I spent the time before Hazel and Charlie arrived by bringing my time and expense tickets up-to-date, dictating a few thoughts on the events of yesterday, and dumping all of it on Hazel’s desk. Then I read reports of their efforts so far.

  It hadn’t taken long for Charlie to determine what was at the bottom of Parson Jones’s reluctance to talk about his family. The man had been married and sired a child—a boy—by his wife, Zerise. He took his little family with him across the Southern states working as an itinerant farmer—cotton this season, lettuce another, beans yet another. They had been in Georgia picking cotton when he lost his family to a fire. The farmer he’d been working for provided a few tumbledown shacks for workers, and everyone fought hard to rent one because lodgings in town were more expensive—in time as well as money.

  Zerise usually worked alongside her husband, but on this day the boy, Willie, was ailing, so she stayed behind to take care of him. A fire of unknown origin originated in the shanty next door, and before anyone was aware of what was happening, swept through two more cabins. One had been Parson’s temporary home. His entire family burned alive that day and kicked off the young black man’s battle with alcohol. Alcohol to forget and perhaps as a way of joining his wife and son.

  Charlie also gathered a good deal of biographical information on the C de Baca family and laid it out in a written summary in his usual clear, concise way.

  Ernesto C de Baca, born in Palomas, Mexico, came to El Norte as a migrant worker in 1951 at the age of fifteen. A physically small man who was nonetheless a good worker, he married Esmerelda Vasquez in 1955. His new wife’s family had deep New Mexico roots and a share in a large Spanish land grant long since confirmed by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. The couple produced two children: German and Consuela. When Esmerelda died of breast cancer in 1960, Ernesto inherited her share of the land grant and promptly sold it to other members of the Vasquez family. That was the source of the funds to build the Lovely Pines.

  That was as far as I got before Hazel and Charlie arrived, full of questions about what went on at the chateau yesterday.

  “I was just starting to read your data on Ernesto C de Baca,” I said to Charlie after finishing my verbal update. “I got to the part where he started the winery. Give me the rest in a nutshell.”

  Charlie took a breath. “Things were difficult the first few years, but
he survived, mostly because the business was virtually debt-free. His dead wife’s land-grant share financed almost all of it. Of course, it wasn’t so grand as it is now. No chateau, just an old adobe house. But he owned the entire 125-acre tract free and clear. Ernesto’s immediate family was involved in the business with him. His older brother, Arnoldo, was viticulturist. The brother died in 2002. Both Ernesto’s son and daughter were also active. The old man was a widower for twenty-six years. Then in 1986 he married Maria Candelaria. It was a May-December thing. He was fifty, and she was thirty-three. She gave birth to a son, Diego, and shortly thereafter died in a boating accident.”

  “Did the boy survive?”

  “Yes. His mother was the only casualty. Diego was raised at Lovely Pines.”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “Ernesto’s daughter married a banker named Braxton Simpson and left the business. Shortly thereafter, Diego entered the Army. But German stayed with his father right to the end. Ernesto died suddenly in November 2008. The death certificate gives the cause of death as SCD—that’s sudden cardiac death. It’s often unexpected and is the largest cause of natural death in the US. And in Ernesto’s case, it came on suddenly and unexpectedly, I’m told.”

  “Suspiciously sudden?”

  He shrugged. “He was seventy-two but was in good health as far as anyone knew. I’ll do some more checking.”

  “Is the younger son still in the Army?”

  “I’ll have to check.”

  “Hazel, what did you find out about our victim… Zuniga?”

  “I know why he dropped out of NMSU. And it wasn’t because of grades. It was because of a woman. He got his high school girlfriend, Lucia Dayton, pregnant in their senior year. He went to college, and she went into labor. It was long and hard. After the birth, the girl suffered serious health problems and committed suicide.”

  “Was it a live birth?”

  “Apparently so,” she said. “A boy.”