Page 27 of In a Far-Off Land
“Ay, caramba.”Oscar’s stomach twisted as he thought of the girl in his auto this morning. Surely she couldn’t have done this? The man had been stabbed. A long blood-covered knife lay beside him. Francesca murmured a prayer under her breath. Perhaps he should offer a prayer as well, but Oscar couldn’t bring himself to ask God’s mercy on Señor Lester’s soul. He had no sorrow for the man, and his only thought as he looked at him was that Señor Lester had got what he deserved. He supposed Mamá would be shocked—and Padre Ramirez would be disappointed—but he couldn’t help it.
Two uniformed police officers leaned over the body. A suited man stood nearby, his camera clicking in one hand, a flashbulb held high in the other.
Brody barked at the photographer, “You forensics?”
The man took another photo. “Just finishing up.”
“Any idea on time of death?”
The man rubbed his chin, his eyes distorted behind thick glasses. “At least eight hours from what I can tell. Maybe more.”
Eight hours. A prickle ran down Oscar’s spine. The girl. He’d picked her up—what?—just two hours ago? Had she stayed beside a dead body through the night?
“Get the photos to me by end of day today.” Brody looked at another man in a tan suit. “What about the weapon?”
The man frowned. “It came from there.” He pointed to a wall of swords and daggers. Some looked like they’d been around forhundreds of years, others like they’d come from halfway around the world. Toward the top, there was a gap where the knife had hung.
The officer wasn’t done. “And this.” He held up a leather wallet. “On the bedside table.”
“Any cash?” Brody asked.
The officer raised his brows. “Couple hundred dollars.”
Brody stared at the wallet as if it could tell him something he didn’t know.
Two officers brought in a stretcher. “Can we get him out of here, boss?”
Brody pursed his lips and shook his head. “Give me a few minutes, boys. Take a break.” The room emptied faster than a public square in a rainstorm. The crease between his brows deepened. “Señora Garcia, I’d like you to tell me if you see anything... out of the ordinary.”
Oscar translated. As if a dead body wasn’t out of the ordinary. Francesca looked around the room, her eyes wide. “I cleaned before the party. All was in order.”
Oscar told Brody, and they took in the broken vase, the strewn pillows, the overturned chair. Through a doorway Oscar could see another room with gleaming silver fixtures, plush white towels, and a sleek black-enamel toilet—nothing like the outhouse he and his brothers used. Beside a mirror, a wall sconce hung crookedly, the bulb shattered, the silk shade knocked sideways. The window over the sink was open, curtains lifting in the breeze.
Francesca tsked loudly over the mess. “I clean,” she said in English and lurched toward the washroom.
Brody stopped her with a hand on her arm, “Not yet, Señora ...”
Brody waited, his eyes on a picture hanging between the bedroom and the lavatory. Señor Lester and his beautiful young wife. “Adams, bring in Mrs. Lester, please.”
Oscar’s jaw clenched, and he wished for nothing more than to get away from this opulent room, these men, and now, Señora Victoria Lester. She was all he detested aboutgringos.
She walked into the room sheathed in a silky black dress that looked better suited to a bedroom than a grieving widow. Her short hair was an unnatural shade of platinum and her lips a charlatan red. She clutched the arm of the young man beside her and dabbed a handkerchief at black-lashed eyes that Oscar was sure hadn’t shed a genuine tear that day, or maybe ever.
“Mrs. Lester, again I’m sorry for your loss,” Brody said. “Just a few more questions and then we’ll leave you in peace.”
If Oscar had to guess, he’d say the young man was Señora Lester’s agent, Grant Manchester. They’d heard his name plenty in the screaming matches that went on between Señor and Señora. She and Grant were in love. She hated this estate and everything in it, including Roy. She wanted a divorce.Over my dead body,Señor Lester had roared. Oscar felt a chill roll over him.
Señora Lester put a hand over her lips. “Oh, if only I’d been here. My dearest Roy...” She choked out a ladylike sob.
“This must be difficult, Mrs. Lester, but it will only take a moment.” Brody sounded like he’d had about enough of her melodrama.
She pulled herself together with a sniff.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband?” Brody didn’t beat around the bush.
She shook her head, her eyes as wide as a frightened doe’s. Oscar figured she’d used that look a dozen times in her films. “I can’t imagine, Officer Brody. Everyone loved Roy.”
Oscar had to hold back a snort. Roy Lester wasn’t the kind of man everyone loved.
