coming to Santa Fe sometime soon.'
'I'll have a detective update the file,' Tafoya said. 'At least the family will have some peace of mind about what happened to the victim.'
'Yeah, there's that,' Clayton said. 'Once I get a positive ID, will your department notify the family?'
'Ten-four.'
'I'll need to talk to the detective who handled the case.'
'If he's still around,' Tafoya said.
'Can you find out?' Clayton asked.
'Give me a minute.'
In the receiver Clayton heard movement, footsteps, silence and then paper shuffling followed by Tafoya's breathing.
'Well, what do you know about that?' Tafoya said into the telephone.
'What?' Clayton asked.
'The original primary investigator on that case was our new police chief.'
Clayton grunted in surprise. 'Could you have Chief Kerney call me?' He rattled off his phone number.
'You got it,' Tafoya replied.
Clayton hung up and walked to the sheriff's office. Paul Hewitt looked up from some paperwork on his desk and wondered why Clayton, who'd been relieved of patrol duties to work the homicide, had decided to wear a black cowboy shirt on a day that was going to be much too warm for such a garment.
'Would you like an update on the cases, Sheriff?' Clayton asked.
Hewitt gestured at a chair. 'Have a seat and fire away.'
Clayton left Sheriff Hewitt's office with authorization to conduct his investigation in Santa Fe, as needed. He was given a travel, meals, and lodging allowance and told to stay within budget or make up the difference out of his own pocket. He found Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham in the small staff lounge, inventorying evidence and doing paperwork.
'The county clerk's records show that the fruit stand is owned by Hiram Tully. He's got a Glencoe address,' Quinones said, handing Clayton the information.
'I'll go talk to him,' Clayton said.
'Are any autopsy reports in yet?' Dillingham asked.
'Not yet. Shorty Dawson thinks Humphrey died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he's not sure.'
'Shorty loves to play pathologist,' Quinones said, logging an evidence bag on an inventory sheet. 'We're almost done here. What's next?'
'Field interviews,' Clayton said. 'Find out if anyone who lives near the fruit stand saw or heard anything before the fire broke out. I'll be back to assist as soon as I can.'
'Roger that,' Quinones said, turning his attention to the bagged and tagged evidence.
Clayton left the office and drove the state road that took him past the burned-out fruit stand, through the ranching town of Capitan, and on to the historic hamlet of Lincoln, where rows of lovely old territorial buildings along a narrow pastoral valley drew tourists in search of the Billy the Kid legend.
Where the road ended at the Highway 70 junction, Clayton swung west toward Glencoe and found his way to the Tully place. A small valley settlement on the Ruidoso River surrounded by national forest, Glencoe consisted of farms and orchards, a post office, and a few businesses along the highway that funneled traffic east and west over the Sacramento Mountains.
The Tully ranch house was a beautifully maintained, low-slung, whitewashed adobe hacienda with a deep veranda. Several hundred yards behind the house the river wandered against the base of the mountains. On either side of the ranch house, apple orchards in early bloom fanned out and rolled down to the riverbank, putting a sweet scent into the air.
Early-to-leaf mature poplar trees overhung the residence, branches shimmering in the midmorning sun under a gentle breeze. Large ornamental evergreens bracketed carefully tended flower beds that bordered a semicircular driveway.
Clayton parked his unit, walked the gravel path to the veranda, and knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her late twenties, close to his own age. Attractive in a wholesome way, she had short-cut blond hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly straight white teeth.
Grace had already warned Clayton that Hannah would need braces. How she knew that with Hannah still years away from losing her baby teeth was a mystery to him. He identified himself to the woman and asked to speak to Hiram Tully.
'My grandfather recently had a stroke,' the woman said. 'He's in the hospital in Roswell.'
'And you are?' Clayton asked.
'Page Seton,' she said. 'Why do you need to speak to my grandfather?'
'He's listed as the owner of an abandoned fruit stand on Highway three-eighty. It burned down last night.'
'Really?' Seton said. 'Was anyone hurt?'
'Two bodies were found inside.'
Seton's eyes darkened. 'That's terrible. Were they killed in the fire?'
'We're still investigating the cause of death,' Clayton answered.
'That place has been boarded up for years. I drive by it all the time.'
'Do you or any members of your family ever stop to inspect the property?'
Seton's expression tightened. 'There's been no reason to. Whoever those poor people were, they trespassed. That property is posted with a keep-out sign. Are you suggesting negligence?'
'That's not the focus of the investigation.'
Seton's look darkened. 'I'd better contact our lawyer anyway.'
'Maybe you should,' Clayton said. 'Who has access to the property?'
'Just the family, and the realtor who has it listed for sale. We've been trying to sell it, but nobody is interested in an acre of highway frontage outside of town without water or electricity.'
'Have you rented it out in the past twelve years?'
'Not to my knowledge. But my father would know for certain.' Seton pulled her chin back and gave Clayton a chilly look. 'Why twelve years? The stand has been there longer than that.'
'I'm just gathering information, Ms. Seton. Who's the listing agent?'
Seton gave Clayton the name of a Carrizozo realtor.
'How long has it been up for sale?' Clayton asked.
'Ten years or more,' Seton replied.
'Are you aware the fruit stand had a cellar?' Clayton asked.
Page Seton nodded. 'The cellar served as cold storage for our apples and fresh cider.'
'When was the last time it was used to sell fruit?' Clayton asked.
Seton paused. 'Twenty years. Grandfather shut it down the year I turned seven.'
'Has anyone-family, employees-been there since then?'
'It's impossible for me to answer that question,' Seton replied. 'We have seasonal workers. Some of them return every year, others will pick one crop for us and never come back, and there are always a few we have to let go. As far as family goes, you'll have to ask, and it's a pretty big clan, Deputy.'
'The names and phone numbers of family members involved in the business will do for now,' Clayton said.
'What exactly are you investigating, Deputy?'
'Unattended deaths, at this point, Ms. Seton. Has the fruit stand been used for any other purposes?'
'Such as?'
'Parties, beer busts, a make-out place?'
Page Seton looked upward as if to seek divine relief from stupid questions. 'Not by me, Deputy, and certainly not by any member of the family that I know of.'
'I'll need those family names and phone numbers,' Clayton said.
While Seton assembled the information, Clayton asked a few more questions. He left knowing that the Tully ranch and farm had been a family business for over a hundred and twenty years, that Page Seton was the financial
