John Edwards’s eyebrows rose. “No, but he might not have. That would be a private thing, not to be shared with a family friend like me.”
A private thing Hector Perez might feel obliged to deal with on his own? With a kitchen knife in the morning before anyone else appeared? With the break in the fence, he wouldn’t have needed a key.
“How long have you known Hector Perez?”
“Oh, a few years,” was the answer.
“And what do you think of him?”
“He’s the most kind-hearted man I’ve ever met.” John Edwards gave me an affectionate smile.
“Well, thank you,” I said.
“Why don’t I walk you around to the front?” he asked. “It’s getting dark and there are some tricky spots in the lawn.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. He offered me his arm, and I could feel the strong muscles there. I thought for a moment about Kurt and how much I missed him.
When we got to the front of the house, he stopped. “Good night, Linda,” he said.
“Good night,” I echoed.
I wished I’d learned more from him, but at least I did know that Stephen had come to visit. I stepped up to the porch and took a few moments to orient myself.
I noticed that the Perez house was smaller than any of Stephen Carter’s homes and looked like it had been built long before them, with old red brick and white trim that hadn’t been updated in decades. The windows and the door were tiny and I suspected the house had been built in the 1800s by people who were much smaller than we were now.
I rang the bell and after a long minute, the porch light flicked on and the elderly Hispanic man I’d seen at the funeral answered the door. He was only about five foot five and had a thick, gray-flecked handlebar mustache. He sported cowboy boots and a cowboy shirt over Wrangler jeans, and I wondered if he thought they were actually comfortable to wear in this heat or if he was trying to fit in with some perceived cowboy dress code in Utah.
“Mr. Perez?” I asked. Even setting aside what John Edwards had said about Hector Perez being the kindest man he knew, the idea of this man killing Stephen now seemed ridiculous, considering his size and age. But he had been one of Stephen’s last phone calls. Maybe he had something to tell me that would help.
“Yes. How can I help you?” he said with a noticeable accent. His tanned skin was spotted with age, and his head was nearly entirely bald with a few white wisps around the ears.
I put out my hand and introduced myself again. “Linda Wallheim. I’m a friend of the Carters.” I nodded up the hill. “I think we saw each other at the funeral just now.”
He looked more carefully at me. “Ah, yes. I remember now.” I wasn’t sure that he really did remember. How old was he? Seventy? Eighty? He could be a hundred, for all the wrinkles on his face. “Very terrible, what happened, Stephen dying and leaving so many grieving behind,” he said.
“Yes. Terrible,” I said, then quickly added, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Rebecca thought that you might have talked to Stephen the day he died. She was hoping that there might be some last message he had given to you.” I was working wildly to come up with a reason for what were sure to be intrusive questions.
“Stephen spoke to Maria on Monday morning,” Mr. Perez said. He turned around and called for Maria quite loudly. He took a step back into the house and gestured for me to enter. “Come in, come in.”
I wasn’t going to wait for a second invitation.
Inside, the house smelled heavily of perfume, and of a stale mustiness. The couches he led me to were covered twice, once in plastic, and a second time in crocheted blankets of red and orange and yellow flower patches. They looked very worn, but I could see the beauty in the pattern, the petals standing up as if to greet the morning sun.
In a few moments, the young woman I’d seen at the funeral came down the stairs. Up close, she looked even younger than she had before. Her skin was perfection, without a mole or freckle, without a line anywhere, and she had that willowy figure of youth. Her long dark hair was very straight, though it might have been flat-ironed that way. She wore heavy black eyeliner. She was possibly the last person I would have imagined might have been interested in a man of Stephen Carter’s age or situation in life.
“Abuelo?” she said in a low voice.
“Mrs. Wallheim has come to ask you about Stephen. Rebecca sent her,” said Mr. Perez.
Her mouth tightened into an “Oh,” but there was no sound.
“I understand that Stephen was here on Monday,” I said.
“He was in a hurry, yes, Maria? He said that he had visitors coming and he had to prepare for them,” said Mr. Perez.
“I think so, yes,” she agreed.
On Monday Kurt and I must have interrupted Stephen’s visit here, which was why he had been late when we arrived.
“You must be very upset,” I said to Maria.