Free Summer Snow by Rebecca Pawel Page A

legal profession like in Cantabria? There used to be some very fine attorneys in Santander.”
    “I really wouldn’t know,” the lieutenant said. “We’re up in the Picos de Europa.”
    “A shame.” Don Pablo shook his head. “You had talent, you know.” He recollected himself and added, “But I’m sure you’re doing very valuable work in the Guardia.”
    Tejada reminded himself that many men would be glad merely to be patronized in the line of duty instead of shot at. But his smile was a little stiff as he said, “Thank you. I suppose you’ve heard that the Guardia here are investigating my aunt’s death.”
    “Well, naturally, they have to,” the lawyer agreed. “Although, in all honesty, Carlos, I think her time had come.”
    “You don’t think anyone would have any reason to kill her?” Tejada asked, reflecting that his father’s opinion appeared to be a minority of one.
    “Oh, no.” Almeida was emphatic.
    “She left a will, I suppose?”
    “Yes.”
    Tejada waited. Doña Rosalia’s lawyer coughed, shifted in his chair, and said nothing more. The faintest flicker of suspicion, no stronger than a butterfly’s kiss, wafted over the lieutenant. “Her children inherit everything, I suppose?”
    “Fernando gets all the real estate, of course,” Don Pablo confirmed.
    Tejada raised his eyebrows. “You mean it was hers to give? I thought he would have inherited it from his father?”
    “He inherited the land in the Vega and the sugar refinery from your great-uncle in trust, with the stipulation that the profits would go to his mother’s support while she lived,” Don Pablo admitted. “But Doña Rosalia also purchased some lands in the Alpujarras that pass to Fernando as well. She felt very strongly about keeping the estate together, too.”
    Something nibbled at the edge of Tejada’s consciousness. “Was the land a good investment?” he asked.
    The lawyer shrugged. “As good as anything, in these times.”
    “She must have had liquid assets, too, if she was investing?”
    “Yes. She was comfortably provided for.”
    “I imagine she divided those between her two other children?” Tejada said, waiting for the lawyer to lay his suspicion to rest.
    “Now, Carlos, you know I can’t speak about an unpublished will to a third party.” Don Pablo smiled, to show that he was being conciliatory. “It’s a violation of confidentiality. But since you’re family, I’ll tell you that your father’s her executor. Why don’t you ask him about it?”
    Tejada smiled back, ready to repay Don Pablo for being patronizing. “I was only asking because I am family,” he answered softly. “But the Guardia can seize your records, of course.”
    “Carlos!” Almeida was shaken. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Who were her heirs?”
    “It’s a bit complicated.”
    “I understand.” The lieutenant stood and held out his hand. “It was nice to see you, Don Pablo.”
    “Likewise.” The lawyer stood as well, looking relieved.
    “I’ll speak to Sergeant Rivas this afternoon,” Tejada continued as he shook the lawyer’s hand. “He’ll send someone over to go through your offices tomorrow.”
    “Carlito, for the love of—!” Don Pablo refused to let go of the lieutenant’s hand, tightening his clasp into an almost frantic grip. “Listen to me. Talk to your father tonight. Ask him about the will. Tell him what you’ve told me, and if he doesn’t answer all your questions you can come and speak to me again tomorrow. But for goodness’ sake, don’t drag the Guardia into a private matter. You don’t want to upset your cousins and your parents. Please , Carlos. How much difference can one day make?”
    “I’ll talk to my father,” Tejada agreed finally, prying his hand out of his godfather’s. “But . . .” He hesitated, weighing his words. Don Pablo’s reaction had convinced him that something was drastically wrong. “But, Don Pablo, I’m not exactly an outsider. Why can’t you