TANGLED WEBS

by Margaret Tessler

CHAPTER 4

Where was Erica? She'd promised to come to Los Mareados at 6:00. By then it would be dark, and she thought everyone would be home eating dinner.

When she hadn't shown up by 7:00, my imagination had concocted such unbearable scenarios, I couldn't sit still any longer. I drove down Mockingbird Avenue, as if I could make her materialize by driving past her old house. The lights inside reminded me that someone else was living there now.

As I slowed down, dogs began barking, setting off a chain reaction for six blocks around. Someone came to the door to see what had agitated them. Since my little white Honda wasn't going to turn dark and blend into the night, I slouched down as far as I could without slipping below the steering wheel and drove on.

I figured I might as well swing by Laura's old house too, although it was several blocks away. Unlike Erica's, Laura's house was totally dark, and there were no watchdogs to care whether I came or went.

I considered driving down Ryan's street. Come on, Sharon, act your age, I chided myself as I pushed that thought from my mind. I circled by the plaza instead, then drove back to Los Mareados. I hoped Erica might have arrived while I was gone. Instead I found a note from Mrs. Pirtle Scotch-taped to my door:

"SOMEBODDY was snooping around your place, so I called Mr. Lopezz. Bafore he got here, they left. Mr. L said it was only Ernie GRIEGO, but I don't know why HE'D be sneeking around. I thout you said you din't have any boyfrends."

Well, Mrs. Pirtle was plainly miffed. I walked over to her apartment and found her glued to the window, binoculars pressed to her face. I wondered if she felt it her duty to keep track of all her tenants, night and day.

I knocked on her door and waited.

"Go away. I ain't home. Come back in the mornin'."

"I don't have any boyfriends," I told the closed door, "and I was worried about the prowler you saw."

"It wasn't any prowler. It was Ernie Griego. He won't come back."

"How do you know?"

"Don't bother me now."

And what will you do if I keep bothering you? I muttered to myself as I walked back to my apartment. Conk me with your binoculars? Call Mr. López, whoever he is? Kick me out of this classy establishment?

Erica had called while I was out and left the briefest of messages on my cell phone: "Sorry about tonight. Tomorrow, same time." I kicked myself for not taking the phone with me instead of leaving it on the night stand. We had agreed before I came down here that it would be safe for Erica to use that number as long as we kept our conversations brief and innocuous. I wished more than ever she'd left a number where I could reach her.

Nothing to do but wait another day. Erica, where are you? I hope that was you Mrs. Pirtle mistook for a burglar.

* * *

The next morning I dressed in a gray no-nonsense sweatsuit and stomped over to the office. The sky was overcast and gloomy. I had slept poorly and was hardly in the mood to play games with Mrs. Pirtle. I was definitely not in the mood to watch birds, much as I might have enjoyed it otherwise.

I banged on the door more loudly than necessary and wondered what idiocy awaited me today.

Mrs. Pirtle hadn't cleaned her glasses since yesterday, and they were almost opaque. She pushed them to the end of her nose and glared at me. "What do you want?"

What happened to "dearie"? I took a deep breath, tried a different tack. "I came to apologize for knocking on your door so late last night." If 7:30 was unreasonably late. "You must have been upset."

She nodded, pursing her lips. She pushed her glasses up, then down again when she realized she still couldn't see me.

"There was quite a commotion, Missy."

"I'm sure there was. I'm sorry Mr. López had to be called. Is he the sheriff?"

"Ha! Mr. Raymond López, sheriff? Ha! No, that's Julio. Julio Gallegos, to be exact, but ever'one just calls him Julio."

I hesitated, wondering how far my tact could stretch. "You must have had a good reason for calling Mr. López instead of Julio."

She bristled. "Those were his orders."

"Mm."

She reached under the desk, pulled out a box of Kleenex, took a tissue and wiped her glasses, spreading the smudge around. "He tells me, always call him first. That old weasel."

"You don't like Mr. López?"

She fussed with her glasses again.

"Is he the owner?"

"No, he just thinks he is. I use to like him. But not after last night."

"What exactly happened last night?"

"He tells me there's no need to call Julio, that it's just Ernie Griego. Well, let me tell you, it was NOT Ernie Griego. He thinks my eyes ain't good enough to tell the difference. Well, maybe I got poor eyesight, but I ain't stupid, and I know Ernie Griego, and that wasn't him."

"Mr. López should give you more credit."

She leaned forward. "I always mind my own business, but this ain't the first time. Somethin's goin' on. Wicked things." She shook her finger at me. "I could tell you . . . ."

The door creaked open and she switched gears. "Mornin', Mr. Bigelow, can I help you?"

"No, no. Just came in to pay my rent."

I was wondering if I should outwait Mr. Bigelow, but he didn't seem in a hurry to leave. Darn the luck-just when Mrs. Pirtle was on a roll.

Mr. Bigelow studied me without blinking. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so." But I had the same vague impression. A not very pleasant impression. I searched for some childhood memory, but nothing came. All I saw now was a balding man with purplish skin, a large nose, and bulgy eyes.

"You look familiar," he persisted.

"Really? Must be someone else. I've been told I look like Meg Ryan."

"Nope. Not her. She's much prettier."

And I wasn't even in my disguise. Which reminded me, I needed to get back to Plan A. I went back to the apartment and set up my laptop on the kitchen table. There were too many loose ends floating around in my head, and I needed to commit them to my computer's memory before they got any looser.

First on my list were my worries about Erica. What was she so afraid of? And where was she?

Then of course there was Laura. Judging from the conversation I'd overheard at Super S, Erica wasn't alone in disbelieving the suicide verdict.

And who was "that whore Bernice" the ladies had been discussing? I felt the hackles rise on my neck, and rose to get a Dr. Pepper. I poured it into a glass and watched it fizz. I hadn't thought of Bernice Peralta since we were kids. After all this time my dislike seemed childish, and I was surprised I still felt so much resentment.

For years I'd spent every summer visiting my great-aunt Amanda, who lived next door to Erica Montoya and her family. Erica and I became fast friends during that very first visit, when we were only seven years old. Every summer after that we simply picked up where we'd left off.

In fact, since she had four older brothers and I was an only child, we'd declared ourselves to be sisters to each other. Apparently her brothers considered it a package deal and enjoyed having both of us to boss around.

I loved Erica's parents, who were like second parents to me. Mrs. Montoya even became my godmother-my nina-when I was confirmed. And it was Mr. Montoya who presented me at my swearing-in ceremony after I passed the bar ten years ago. The whole family had flown in from California for the occasion-including Erica's brothers, their wives and children-which made it all the more special.

The only fly in my relationship with Erica had been Bernice Peralta. She was one of Erica's "year-round" friends up until seventh grade. By then Bernice had become more interested in boys than in us, and we ran with different groups.

Up till then she constantly tried to drive a wedge between Erica and me. She won over Aunt Amanda with her phony good manners, and loved to drop hints of misbehavior on my part. I could hear my great-aunt now:

"Sharon, don't give that nice Bernice such dirty looks. What an impolite child you can be!"

This lasted until the day Aunt Amanda caught Bernice unawares and realized she'd been smirking behind her back all along. After that I never had to hear any more comments about how nice Bernice was.

Laura's abuelita had never been conned, by Bernice or anyone else. Abuelita made the sign of the cross whenever she caught sight of Bernice, and insisted that Erica, Laura, and I wear garlic around our necks in case Bernice "les haga el ojo," should give us the evil eye. Aunt Amanda put a stop to the garlic, saying it was a silly superstition. I wonder . . . .

The last time I'd seen Bernice had been at Erica's quinceañera 20 years ago. My mind veered. That memory could stay buried.

Well, this wasn't getting anywhere. The question wasn't whether or not "esa puta Bernice" of Super S gossip was someone I knew and disliked, but whether or not she had something to do with the mystery surrounding Laura.

I finished my Dr. Pepper and resumed my list. Who is Mr. López, and why did he brush off Mrs. Pirtle's report of a prowler? Why did he insist it was Ernie Griego, when Mrs. Pirtle seemed so sure it wasn't? Who IS Ernie Griego? What was Mrs. Pirtle about to tell me before Mr. Bigelow came in? Why does Mr. Bigelow look familiar? Does it matter?

I stood and stretched, rubbing my neck. Maybe Erica would show up tonight. In the meantime, I'd go crazy if I didn't do something constructive. I made a quick change into rose-colored sweater and slacks, then swiped a comb through my butchered hair. As I stepped out the door I saw Mrs. Pirtle waving me down. Good. Maybe Mr. Bigelow had gone home and she was ready to continue airing her grievances.

No such luck. "There's a young man askin' after you," she sniffed. "Fella from up to the Axion."

"The Axion?"

She glared at me. "The Axion gas station up to the crossroads."

Oh, the Exxon station. Not that I was any less confused.

"I thought you said you din't have any boyfriends."

"I DON'T have any boyfriends."

"Why not? You're not one of them Libyans, are you?"

"No, I can honestly say I'm not." I'm not even a Lesbian, Mrs. Pirtle. Are you a homophobe?

"Did this person leave a message?" I asked.

She flung a scrap of paper at me. "Call RYAN imedeatily at the Exon-756-9504." The cramped handwriting and poor spelling were obviously Mrs. Pirtle's. They matched the note I'd found last night.

I could think of only one Ryan, and thinking of him made me smile. Ryan Salazar was the first boy I'd ever loved-and a part of me would always love him. It had been so many years since I'd given myself permission to think about him, I'd even avoided driving down his street last night. But suddenly his memory danced before me, and the memory was sweet.

Of course he was probably married by now with a house full of kids. No need to get my hopes up. Besides, the person who called me could be someone else named Ryan.

Whoever it was, why would he want me to call him at a service station? I was reluctant to use my cell phone, figuring Mrs. Pirtle probably used a scanner along with her binoculars. Gosh, I was getting paranoid along with everyone else. Maybe it was contagious.

In any event, I preferred to go "up to the Axion" to find out what this was all about.

CHAPTER 5

The only person I saw manning the checkout at the Exxon convenience store was a dumpy boy bent over a copy of The National Instigator that he'd spread out across the counter.

"Excuse me," I said, drawing him reluctantly from his immersion in some juicy scandal.

He placed his finger on the point in the page where he'd been interrupted and looked in my general direction.

I wanted to knock on his forehead and shout, "Anybody home?" Instead I stepped into his line of vision and smiled sweetly. "I'm looking for Ryan. Is he here?"

"Ryan?"

"Yes. Ryan. Does someone named Ryan work here?"

He blinked as if registering that a real live human being was standing before him. He scrunched his face into a puzzled frown. "Ryan? Nope." He apparently considered the matter closed and returned to his reading.

"But I had a message to call him here," I persisted, raising my voice in annoyance.

Dumpy rolled his eyes, then yelled over his shoulder, "Oye, Rique, esa loca quiere saber . . . ."

Enrique, the boy who'd waited on me earlier, sprang with the alacrity of Superman from behind the Slurpee machine that he'd apparently been cleaning. Wiping his hands on a paper towel, he reached the counter in a few quick strides and squelched Dumpy with a look.

"If this NICE LADY wants to know something, let's see if we can help her."

A pretty brunette about my age or a little older appeared beside Enrique. "Ms. Meléndez-asst. mgr." according to her nametag. Something about that name rang a bell-something just beyond my reach.

"Yes, Oscar," she said. "Helping customers is our job."

I marveled at her ability to speak so softly and still sound so icy.

"Glad to hear that," said a customer who'd come in to pay for his gas.

Enrique stepped behind the counter to take over for Dumpy, who was trying rather unsuccessfully to fold up The Instigator.

Ms. Meléndez sighed resignedly and turned to me. "Let's sit down over here." She led us to a small eating area near the Coke machine.

"This place has everything," I said, glancing around.

"Some people like to grab their breakfast burrito and run. Others like a place to sit."

"It's nice to stop awhile."

"But you didn't do that yesterday."

I realized she was studying me and not just making conversation. Her face was impassive. "You don't remember me, do you?" she said.

She looked so familiar, just on the edge of memory, but out of context. I couldn't connect her with someone I'd known over 20 years ago. "No. I'm embarrassed to say I don't."

She smiled then, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm glad you're honest. To be truthful, I didn't recognize you either. But my brother did."

Her brother. Ryan Salazar. Of course. "You're Alana Salazar," I blurted out.

She smiled. "Meléndez now."

"You married Beto?"

She nodded.

"I'm glad. I always liked him." Beto and Alana seemed completely unmatched when they started going together in high school. Alana, "the Salazar twins' big sister," was pretty and popular and could have dated anyone she wanted. She was still attractive, her once-long hair now short, curving gently around her oval face, emphasizing her deep brown eyes.

I wondered how time had changed Beto. I remembered him as wearing "high-waters" and owlish glasses. He wrote poetry and probably couldn't have caught a football if it was rolled to him. A lot of people considered him nerdy, but I thought he was nice because he was nice to us younger kids.

"You remember after all," she said.

"Yes, but I'm confused." Getting back to the reason I was here. "How come . . . ?" I stopped, trying to think of Dumpy's real name before asking why he'd never heard of Ryan.

"How come Ryan was able to recognize you?" she asked, misinterpreting my hesitation.

"Well, that too. I've only seen him once since eighth grade. I'd like to think I've changed since then."

"You had your 15 minutes of fame around here when you graduated law school and got your picture in the paper."

Aunt Amanda. She would want everyone to know her great-niece had amounted to something after all. But that was 10 years ago, and even then I suspected there were no more than a handful of people who'd been remotely interested. On the other hand, Ryan had noticed.

I wasn't sure how to take Alana's teasing. I'd held her somewhat in awe when we were growing up. The difference in our ages seemed so much greater back then. I wondered if she knew about all the smooching that had gone on between her brother and me in the park behind the Dairy Queen.

"I'm sure my fleeting fame was quickly forgotten." I waved my hand, banishing my 15 minutes into thin air. "But I can't understand why what's-his-name doesn't know who Ryan is."

"Ryan's a high-school teacher. He's Mr. Salazar to these kids."

"A teacher!" All I could imagine was a skinny 14-year-old with braces on his teeth teaching high-schoolers to play a drum. Obviously I wasn't very good at visualizing my old boyfriend as an adult.

"What does he teach?"

"Spanish and Freshman English."

"I wish I'd seen his teacher-picture in the paper."

Alana laughed. "You are at a disadvantage."

"Why would he want me to call him here?"

"I doubt that he did."

"But this message . . . ." I pulled Mrs. Pirtle's illiterate scrap of paper from my purse and handed it to Alana.

She bit her lip, dimples appearing in her cheeks. "My, my. How quaint. Well, God only knows what this person thinks he . . . she? . . . heard."

"She."

"Ryan was probably trying to explain that he'd seen you here, but the number he left is his home phone. And I also doubt that he wanted you to call him 'imedeATily'. Though he obviously wanted to get in touch."

"If I had only called 'imedeATily' instead of simply showing up here, I could have saved you a lot of trouble."

"No trouble. Actually, it was nice to see you. But I do have to get back to work."

I looked at my watch. "Ryan's probably still at school right now."

"Probably. Try calling him around 3:30."

* * *

A few blocks northwest of El Tigre Exxon was the Catholic Church. A larger church had replaced the original building since I'd been here last. The new church, graceful in its simplicity, reminded me of mission churches from an earlier era.

I knocked on the rectory door and was greeted by Father Lucero, a middle-aged man with intelligent eyes in a gentle face. Once seated in his office, I explained that I was an old friend of Laura Velásquez and was distressed to learn she had died. "I've heard rumors," I said truthfully, "that don't make sense, and I was hoping you could shed some light on things."

Father Lucero seemed to turn this over in his mind before speaking. "Laura Velásquez. Yes. You say you were a close friend of hers?"

"Old friend is more like it. We were friends when we were kids, but we'd lost touch over the years. I just found out about her death a couple of days ago."

"I see. And you're here now because you're concerned about the rumors you've heard." Father Lucero shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid I haven't been here long enough to be of much help."

"You're new to this parish?"

"Yes, I came here in November after Fr. McNaughton retired."

"I don't suppose Laura-I know you can't break a confidence, but can you tell me if she ever came to you for counseling, or if you had any reason to think she was depressed?"

"No. No to both questions. If she was disturbed about something, I regret that I didn't pick up on it. Unfortunately, I simply hadn't gotten to know her very well. And I didn't meet Mrs. Velásquez-Laura's mother-till she came down from Laredo to make funeral arrangements."

"Do you think Mrs. Velásquez had any-I mean, did she say anything about Laura's state of mind?"

"It's interesting that you ask that. Ordinarily I wouldn't say anything myself, but . . . I believe you are a friend, 'old' or not. To answer your question, I thought at first it was just something a mother would naturally want to believe-a defense mechanism perhaps. Mrs. Velásquez vehemently denied that Laura took her own life."

"Laura did get a Catholic burial then?"

"Oh yes. Even if it were suicide, the Church would give her the benefit of the doubt. There's always the possibility-probability really-that a suicide victim is acting irrationally."

"You say 'even if,' Father. You aren't sure it was suicide yourself, are you?"

Father Lucero shifted uncomfortably. I waited.

"Rumors can be so ugly. But maybe some gossip does bear repeating," he said at last.

"Yes?"

"From what I hear, a lot of people-not only her family, but others-thought it out of character for Laura to do such a thing." He paused. "Also, nearly everyone seems to have loved her."

"Nearly everyone?"

His kind face was troubled. "I wish I could help you. But I'm afraid there's nothing more I can say. I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Father, I'm sorry, but if I keep trying to read between the lines, I might come up with the wrong conclusions."

"Or the right ones. But I've said enough. No more cross-examination."

His words caught me up short. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you off."

"You didn't, my dear. Not at all. I like your straightforward approach. But if you're going to be asking anyone else questions, it would be wise to be less direct. In fact, you need to be very careful."

I wished he would be more direct, but perhaps he'd said all he felt free to say.

I rose to leave. "Well, thank you, Father, for your time and your patience. I would follow your advice about being careful if I knew where to follow it. Right now, I'm not sure where to go from here."

Father Lucero led me to the door, then stopped before opening it. "Have you talked to Laura's husband?"

Her husband! Why hadn't Erica mentioned anything about a husband?

Father Lucero nodded. "You look surprised. I wondered. When you called Laura by her maiden name, I wondered. Still, it's natural to call someone by the name that's more familiar. Especially someone you haven't seen in a while. I knew her as Laura Salazar."

If he was trying to put me at ease, it wasn't working. "Salazar!" No wonder Ryan had been trying to call me. How could Erica have failed to tell me this!

Strange that Alana didn't mention anything either. And why had Laura's mother been the one to make funeral arrangements? The more answers I got, the more questions I had. And the more unsettled I felt.

Tangled Webs by Margaret Tessler

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