Time of the Wolves Read online

  “So am I, Sonny. So am I. You see him, you tell him I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’s in his room now. I could. . . .”

  “No.” I held up my hand. “I’ve got a lot of errands to do. I’ll talk to him later.”

  But I didn’t do my errands. Instead I went home to sit in my rocker and think.

  That night I didn’t light my kerosene lamp. I kept the house dark and waited at the front door. When the evening darkness had fallen, I heard a rustling sound. A tall figure slipped around the stone wall into the dooryard.

  I watched as he approached one of the giant saguaros in the dooryard. He went right up to it, like he had the first one he’d shot, turned, and walked exactly ten paces, then blasted away. The cactus toppled, and Hank ran from the yard.

  I waited. Let him think I wasn’t to home. After about fifteen minutes, I got undressed and went to bed in the dark, but I didn’t rest much. My mind was too busy planning what I had to do.

  The next morning I hitched up the buckboard and drove over to Hank’s ranch. He was around back, mending a harness. He started when he saw me. Probably figured I’d come to shoot him. I got down from the buckboard and walked up to him, a sad, defeated look on my face.

  “You’re too clever for me, Hank. I should have known it. ”

  “You ready to stop your foolishness and marry me?”

  “Hank,” I lied, “there’s something more to my refusal than just stubbornness.”

  He frowned. “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see, I promised Joe on his deathbed that I’d never marry again. That promise means something to me.”

  “I don’t believe in. . . .”

  “Hush. I’ve been thinking, though, about what you said about farming my ranch. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you farm it for me? I’ll move in over here, keep house, and feed you. We’re old enough everyone would know there weren’t any shenanigans going on.”

  Hank looked thoughtful, pleased even. I’d guessed right; it wasn’t my fair body he was after.

  “That might work. But what if one of us died? Then what?”

  “I don’t see what you mean.”

  “Well, if you died, I’d be left with nothing to show for all that farming. And if I died, my son might come back from Tucson and throw you off the place. Where would you be then?”

  “I see.” I looked undecided, fingering a pleat in my skirt. “That is a problem.” I paused. “Say, I think there’s a way around it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. We’ll make wills. I’ll leave you my ranch in mine. You do the same in yours. That way we’d both have something to show for our efforts.”

  He nodded, looking foxy. “That’s a good idea, Kathryn. Very good.” I could tell he was pleased I’d thought of it myself.

  “And Hank, I think we should do it right away. Let’s go into town this afternoon and have the wills drawn up.”

  “Fine with me.” He looked even more pleased. “Just let me finish with this harness.”

  The will signing, of course, was a real solemn occasion. I even sniffed a little into my handkerchief before I put my signature to the document. The lawyer, Will Jones, was a little surprised by our bequests, but not much. He knew I was alone in the world, and Hank’s son John was known to be more of a ne’er-do-well than his father. Probably Will Jones was glad to see the ranch wouldn’t be going to John.

  I had Hank leave me off at my place on his way home. I wanted, I said, to cook him one last supper in my old house before moving to his in the morning. I went about my preparations, humming to myself. Would Hank be able to resist rushing back into town to talk to Johnson, the land developer ? Or would he wait a decent interval, say a day?

  Hank rode up around sundown. I met him on the porch, twisting my handkerchief in my hands.

  “Kathryn, what’s wrong?”

  “Hank, I can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I can’t leave the place. I can’t leave Joe’s memory. This whole thing’s been a terrible mistake.”

  He scowled. “Don’t be foolish. What’s for supper?”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “What?”

  “How could I fix supper with a terrible mistake like this on my mind?”

  “Well, you just get in there and fix it. And stop talking this way.”

  I shook my head. “No, Hank, I mean it. I can’t move to your place. I can’t let you farm mine. It wouldn’t be right. I want you to go now, and tomorrow I’m going into town to rip up my will.”

  “You what?” His eyes narrowed.

  “You heard me, Hank.”

  He whirled and went toward his horse. “You’ll never learn, will you?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think? Once your damned cactuses are gone, you’ll see the light. Once you can’t make any more of that wine, you’ll be only too glad to pack your bags and come with me.”

  “Hank, don’t you dare!”

  “I do dare. There won’t be a one of them standing.”

  “Please, Hank! At least leave my granddaddy cactus.” I waved at the fifty-foot giant in the outer dooryard. “It’s my favorite. It’s like a child to me.”

  Hank grinned evilly. He took the shotgun from the saddle and walked right up to the cactus.

  “Say good bye to your child.”

  “Hank! Stop!”

  He shouldered the shotgun.

  “Say good bye to it, you foolish woman.”

  “Hank, don’t pull that trigger!”

  He pulled it.

  Hank blasted at the giant saguaro—one, two, three times. And, like the others, it began to lean.

  Unlike the others, though, it didn’t lean backwards. It gave a great sigh and leaned and leaned and leaned forwards. And then it toppled. As it toppled, it picked up momentum. And when it fell on Hank Gardner, it made an awful thud.

  I stood quietly on the porch. Hank didn’t move. Finally I went over to him. Dead. Dead as all the cacti he’d murdered.

  I contemplated his broken body a bit before I hitched up the buckboard and went to tell Sheriff Daly about the terrible accident. Sure was funny, I’d say, how that cactus toppled forwards instead of backwards. Almost as if the base had been partly cut through and braced so it would do exactly that.

  Of course, the shotgun blasts would have destroyed any traces of the cutting.

  The Sanchez Sacraments

  I was in the basement of the museum unpacking the pottery figures Adolpho Sanchez had left us when I began to grow puzzled about the old man and his work. It was the priest figures that bothered me.

  Sanchez had been one of Mexico’s most outstanding folk artists, living in seclusion near the pottery-making center of Metepec. His work had taken the form of groupings of figures participating in such religious ceremonies as weddings, feast days, and baptisms. The figures we’d received from his estate—actually from the executrix of his estate, his sister, Lucia—represented an entire life cycle in five of the seven Catholic sacraments. They’d arrived by truck only yesterday, along with Sanchez’s written instructions about setting them up, and I’d decided to devote this morning to unpacking them so we could place them on display in our special exhibits gallery next week.

  The crate I’d started with contained the priests, one for each sacrament, and I’d set the two-foot-tall, highly glazed pottery figures at intervals around the room, waiting to be joined by the other figures that would complete each scene. Four of the five figures represented the same man, his clean-shaven face dour, eyes kindly and wise. The fifth, which belonged to the depiction of extreme unction—The Last Rites—was bearded and haggard, with an expression of great pain. But what was puzzling was that this priest was holding out a communion wafer, presumably to a dying parishioner.

  I’m not a practicing Catholic, in spite of the fact I was raised one, but I do remember enough of my Catechism to know that they don’t give communion during extreme u
nction. What they do is anoint the sense organs with body oil. Adolfo Sanchez certainly should have known that, too, because he was an extremely devout Catholic and devoted his life to portraying religious scenes such as this.

  There was a book on the worktable that I’d bought on the old man’s life and works. I flipped through it to see if there were any pictures of other scenes depicting extreme unction, but, if he’d done any, there weren’t any in this particular volume. Disappointed, I skimmed backwards through a section of pictures of the artist and his family and found the biographical sketch at the front of the book.

  Adolfo had been born seventy-seven years ago in Metepec. As was natural for a local boy with artistic talent, he’d taken up the potter’s trade. He’d married late, in his mid-thirties, to a local girl named Constantina Lopez, and they’d had one child, Rosalinda. Rosalinda had married late, also, by Mexican standards—in her early twenties—and had given birth to twin boys two years later. Constantina Sanchez had died shortly after her grandsons’ birth, and Rosalinda had followed, after a lingering illness, when the twins were five. Ever since the boys had left home, Adolfo had lived in seclusion with only his sister Lucia as faithful companion. He had devoted himself to his art, even to the point of never attending church.

  Maybe, I thought, he’d stayed away long enough that he’d forgotten exactly how things were done in the Catholic faith. But I’d stayed away, and I still remembered.

  Senility, then? I flipped to the photograph of the old man at the front of the book and stared into his eyes, clear and alert above his finely chiseled nose and thick beard. No, Sanchez had not been senile. Well, in any event, it was time I got on with unpacking the rest of the figures.

  I was cradling one of a baptismal infant when Emily, my secretary, appeared. She stood at the bottom of the steps, one hand on the newel post, her pale-haired head cocked to one side, looking worried.

  “Elena?” she said. “There are two . . . gentlemen here to see you.”

  Something about the way she said “gentlemen” gave me pause. I set the infant’s figure down on the worktable. “What gentlemen?”

  “The Sanchez brothers.”

  “Who?” For a moment I didn’t connect them with the twins I’d just been reading about. Sanchez is a common Mexican name.

  “They’re here about the pottery.” She motioned at the crates. “One is in your office, and Susana has taken the other to the courtyard.”

  Susana Ibarra was the Museum of Mexican Arts’ public relations director—and troubleshooter. If she had elected to take one of the Sanchez twins under her wing, it was because he was either upset or about to cause a scene.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Emily shrugged. “So far.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Which one do you want to see first?”

  “Can I see them together?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. They almost came to blows in the courtyard before Susana took over.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “Well, then, if Susana has the one she’s talking to under control, I’ll go directly to my office.”

  Emily nodded and went upstairs.

  I moved the infant’s figure into the center of the large worktable and checked to see if the other figures were securely settled. To break one of them would destroy the effect of the entire work, to say nothing of its value. When I’d assured myself they were safe, I followed Emily upstairs.

  Once there, I hurried through the folk art gallery, with its Tree of Life and colorful paper-mâché animals, and peered out into the central courtyard. Susana Ibarra and a tall man wearing jeans and a rough cotton shirt stood near the little fountain. The man’s arms were folded across his chest and he was frowning down at her. Susana had her hands on her hips and was tossing her thick mane of black hair for emphasis as she spoke. From the aggressive way she balanced on her high heels, I could tell that she was giving the man a lecture. And, knowing Susana, if that didn’t work, she’d probably dunk him in the fountain. Reassured, I smiled and went to the office wing.

  When I stepped into my office, the young man seated in the visitor’s chair jumped to his feet. He was as tall as Susana’s companion, and had the same lean, chiseled features and short black hair. In his light tan suit, conservative tie, and highly polished shoes, he looked excessively formal for the casual atmosphere of Santa Barbara.

  I held out my hand and said: “Mister Sanchez? I’m Elena Oliverez, director of the museum.”

  “Gilberto Sanchez.” His accent told me he was a Mexican national. He paused, then added: “Adolfo Sanchez’s grandson.”

  “Please, sit down.” I went around the desk and took my padded leather chair. “I understand you’re here about the Sacraments.”

  For a moment he looked blank. “Oh, the figures from Tia Lucia. Yes.”

  “You didn’t know they’re called the Sanchez Sacraments?”

  “No. I didn’t know anything about them. That is why I’m here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He leaned forward, his fine features serious. “Let me explain. My mother died when my brother Eduardo and I were only five . . . we are fraternal twins. My father had left long before that, so we had only Grandfather and Tia Lucia. But Grandfather wanted us to see more of the world than Metepec. It is a small town, and Grandfather’s village is even smaller. So he sent us to school and then university in Mexico City. After college I remained on there.”

  “So you never saw the Sacraments?”

  “No. I knew Grandfather was working on something important the last years of his life, but, whenever I went to visit him, he refused to let me see the project. It was the same with Eduardo . . . we were not even allowed in his workroom.”

  “Did he tell you anything about it?”

  “No. Tía Lucia did not even know. All she said was that he had told her it was the finish of his life’s work. Now he is gone, and, even before Eduardo and I could get to Metepec for the funeral, Tia Lucia shipped the figures off to you. She won’t talk about them, just says they are better off in a museum.”

  “And you . . . ?”

  “I want to see them. Surely you can understand that, Miss Oliverez. I loved my grandfather. Somehow it will make his death easier to accept if I can see the work of the last ten years of his life.” Gilberto’s eyes shone with emotion as he spoke.

  I nodded, tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair. It was an odd story, and it sounded as if Gilberto’s aunt hadn’t wanted him or his twin brother to see the figures. To give myself time to order my thoughts, I said: “What do you do in Mexico City, Mister Sanchez?”

  If the abrupt switch in subject surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I am a banker.”

  That explained his conservative dress. “I see.”

  He smiled suddenly, a wonderful smile that transformed his face and showed me what he might be like without the pall of death hanging over him. “Oh, I am not totally without the family madness, as my grandfather used to call the artistic temperament. I paint in my spare time.”

  “Oils?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you talented?”

  He considered. “Yes, I think so.”

  I liked his candor, and immediately decided I also liked him. “Mister Sanchez, I understand you and your brother almost came to blows in our courtyard earlier.”

  The smile dropped away and he colored slightly. “Yes, we met as we were both coming in. I had no idea he was in Santa Barbara.”

  “What was your argument about?”

  “The Sacraments, as you call them. You see, Eduardo also came to Metepec for the funeral. He lives in Chicago now, where he is a filmmaker . . . television commercials mainly, but he also does other, more artistic work. The family madness passed down to him, too. Anyway, he was as upset as I was about the Sacraments being gone, but for a different reason.”

  “And what was that?”

  Gilberto laced his long fingers together and looked down
at them, frowning. “He thinks Tia Lucia had no right to give them away. He says they should have come down to us. And he wants them back so he can sell them.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “No, I don’t.” Quickly he looked up. “We were well provided for in Grandfather’s will, but he made Tia Lucia his executrix. She says it was Grandfather’s wish that the Sacraments go to a museum. And I feel a man has the right to dispose of his work in any way he chooses.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Only because I wish to see the Sacraments.”

  I decided right then that I had better contact Lucia Sanchez before I went any further with this. “Well, Mister Sanchez,” I said, “the figures just arrived yesterday and haven’t been unpacked yet. I plan to have them on exhibit early next week. At that time. . . .”

  “Would it be possible for me to view them privately?”

  He looked so eager that I hated to disappoint him, so I said: “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

  The smile spread across his face again, and he got to his feet. “I would appreciate that very much.”

  Aware that he would not want another run-in with his brother, I showed him the way out through the little patio outside my office, then started out to the central courtyard. Emily was at her desk, doing something to a ditto master with a razor blade.

  “Is Susana still talking to Eduardo Sanchez?” I asked her.

  “Yes. They seem to have made friends. At least they were sitting on the edge of the fountain laughing when I went past five minutes ago.”

  “Susana could charm the spots off a leopard.” I turned to go, then paused. “Emily, do we have a telephone number for Lucia Sanchez?”

  “Yes, I put it in my Rolodex.”

  “I’ll want to talk to her today.”

  “Then I’d better start trying now. Service to the Metepec area is bound to be poor.”

  “Right. If I’m not back here by the time the call goes through, come and get me.” I turned and went through the doorway to the courtyard.

  As Emily had said, Susana and Eduardo Sanchez were sitting on the edge of the blue-tiled fountain, and she appeared to be telling him one of her infamous jokes. Susana loved long jokes, the more complicated the better. The trouble was, she usually forgot the punch lines, or mixed them up with the endings of other jokes. Only her prettiness and girlish charm—she was only seventeen—saved her from mayhem at the hands of her listeners.