Page 25 of In a Far-Off Land
Santo cielo.Police. What were they doing here? And the hearse. He crossed himself just like Mamá would have done. It couldn’t be Francesca. They wouldn’t call a hearse for a housekeeper. He pushed on the throttle and crept past the vehicles to the long garage behind the house. He parked the Ford and turned off the ignition but didn’t move. So who was dead?
Whoever it was, he couldn’t sit here all day.
Oscar took a deep breath and walked to the back door, feeling like he’d swallowed a cactus. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Then why was his heart pounding like he was being chased by a pack of dogs?
He opened the door to the kitchen. It was a big room, with white tile and a large table, cabinets made of dark wood, and every modern appliance from an electric icebox to a gas-powered stove with five burners and two ovens. Two men in suits had their backs to him. Francesca stood near the sink. She saw him and ran stumbling into his arms. “Oscar,gracias alDios.”
What was this? Francesca was as white as a ghost. Panic squeezed his heart like a fist. “Qué pasó, Francesca?”
The man closest to the door turned to regard him with sharp, flint-gray eyes. He was shorter than Oscar, with a barrel chest and a neatly pressed camel tweed suit. A few tufts of sandy-brown hair sprouted from an almost-bald head, but a luxurious mustache and unruly eyebrows made up for the lack. The second man was tall and thin, with neat blond hair and a blandgringoface.
“Oscar Dominguez?” the short man asked, consulting a notebook in his hand.
Oscar’s mouth dried to dust. He nodded, snatching off his cap and clutching it at his side. His heart pounded in his ears. Was it a deportation? Francesca wasn’t a citizen, and neither he nor Alonso nor Lupita had papers to prove they were born here. But a hearse? It had to be something else.
“Speak English?” the man asked, his gray eyes skimming over Oscar’s rumpled work clothes.
“Yes,” Oscar answered.
He nodded, then stuck out a broad hand. “Good. I’m Detective Brody.”
The hand reaching out to him was as big as a dinner plate,thenails well cared for and clean. Oscar couldn’t remember agringoever offering to shake his hand before, least of allpolicía. He switched his cap to his other hand and shook with Brody. The man had a firm grip.
“This is Officer Adams.”
Adams didn’t offer to shake.
“Do you know why we’re here, son?” Brody asked.
First question and he didn’t have an answer. “No, sir.”
Francesca put her head on his chest.“Ay, ay,Oscar.Está muerto...”
Who was dead? His stomach clenched.
“Mr. Dominguez,” Brody said, his face a grave mask. “Your employer, Roy Lester, was found dead this morning.”
Señor Lester? Oscar’s legs went weak and he found himself holding on to Francesca. But he... It couldn’t be.
Brody pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, please.”
Oscar sat, trying to take in a breath. Señor Lester dead.Qué?
Brody watched him, smoothing his fingers along his bushy mustache. After Oscar had taken a few breaths, Brody spoke. “If you don’t mind helping me out, I have a few questions for you and the rest of the staff. Routine stuff. Nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about? They could do anything to him. Arrest him, get him fired, deport him. They didn’t even need a reason. He kept his face neutral. “I don’t think... I don’t know anything.” He waved a hand weakly. “I just got here.”
“Sometimes people know more than they think. And I’d like you to help me talk to Señora—” he checked his notes—“Garcia. If you don’t mind.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You were both working here last night?”
“For the party, yes.”
“Anybody else?”
Oscar hesitated. He didn’t want to say, but he couldn’t lie. “Alonso and Lupita, they work here. And Señor Feng.”
“Feng?” Brody raised his brows. “A Chinaman?”
“Sí. At the door.” Oscar’s mouth twisted. Lester couldn’t have a Mexican opening the door for his guests. Feng Li had been hired for the night and had done nothing that Oscar could tell, other than opening the door and looking down his nose at the rest of them.
