A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  “Vehicular homicide, at the moment.”

  “You mean there may be others?”

  “That’s a possibility.” Estelle patted the cover of the heavy book on her lap. “I have an ink question that I need to ask you,” she said. Pam disappeared, and in a moment Estelle could hear the keys of the editor’s word processor.

  “An ink question.” Dayan watched her open the book.

  “This is really trivia,” she said, eager to think about something other than Perry Kenderman. “But I need to know.”

  “It’s hard to imagine you spending your days with trivia,” Dayan said easily, and when Estelle glanced up at him, he smiled broadly.

  She spread the book open. “Why is it that when I mark this page with one of these Hi-Liters, the ink sticks to the image, but not the rest of the page?” She slipped the marker out of her pocket and uncapped it, then dashed a line of ink across the page, hitting a row of white pills as she did so. She immediately wiped off the excess ink with her thumb. The pills turned a perfect, even yellow.

  Dayan’s smile lingered. “Is this the way your day usually works?” He tapped his skull at the temple. “You must have some interesting tidbits filed away up there. It would make an interesting story.”

  “But why this?” Estelle asked doggedly, pointing at the page.

  “You know what four-color process is, right? When we run a color picture, it’s actually layered up out of four different plates-four different inks layered on top of the other?” She nodded. “Well, the slick, gray paper here in this book is actually five color. The gray tone of the paper is actually an ink wash, a fifth color. It isn’t just gray paper.”

  “The white pill has no ink on it?”

  “Absolutely correct,” Dayan said, impressed. “The white pills are actually the color of the original paper stock. They didn’t use white ink. Hardly anyone does.”

  “The ink from the markers beads up on the gray ink, then,” Estelle said.

  “Again, correct. The gray ink-any of the inks-is oil based. So it’s like asking the Hi-Liter’s ink to mark on oil. Doesn’t mix. It beads up. Leave it there long enough, and it would dry. But you wiped it off before it had a chance to dry.”

  “And the rest soaks into the white paper.”

  “Just so.” He folded his hands in his lap and grinned at the concentration on her face. “It looks like you had this pretty much figured out before you came here.”

  “I don’t know,” Estelle said, and snapped the book shut. “But thanks, Frank.” She started to rise, and he held up a hand.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said. “You can’t do this to me.” He affected a wounded expression, and Estelle smiled. “What’s going on?” he asked. “And don’t say, ‘investigation is continuing.’ Is this something with the Kenderman thing, or with Enriquez, or what? What’s going on?”

  “Investigation continuing would be the truth, Frank,” she said. She relaxed in the chair and rested both hands on top of the closed book. “When’s your deadline?”

  Dayan glanced at his watch. “If we had something within the hour, Pam wouldn’t scream too much. We go to press at one-thirty. Even at this point, we’d have to pull something.”

  “Okay.” She looked down at the book for a moment, then said, “The Posadas County Sheriff’s Department is investigating the apparent homicide of George Enriquez, Frank.”

  “So it is homicide, then.”

  “Apparent.” She watched him quickly jot notes. When he looked up, she said, “Enriquez died from a single gunshot wound, apparently from a magnum handgun. The revolver believed to be used in the shooting was recovered at the scene.”

  “You know, you should work for us.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “Motives?”

  “Enriquez was currently facing a grand jury investigation, as you know.”

  “Stemming from the insurance fraud thing.”

  “Alleged improper practices,” she said quietly.

  “And can I attribute all this to you, by the way?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I’d say ‘according to Sheriff Bob Torrez,’ but readers would never believe that.” He chuckled. “The grand jury proceedings were cancelled?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think somebody shot Enriquez because of some hanky-panky going on in his office, then?”

  “I won’t speculate, Frank.”

  “Suspects yet?”

  “No.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “As I’m sure you’ve already heard,” she said with gentle reproof, “one of his office staff discovered the body yesterday morning.”

  “Right there in the insurance office?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long had he been dead?”

  “We believe that Mr. Enriquez was killed sometime between Monday morning and Tuesday morning, when his body was discovered.”

  “Was it originally thought to be suicide?”

  “There was always that possibility,” Estelle said, and turned when she saw Pam Gardiner’s shadow appear at the partition again. The girl apparently preferred peering over the translucent barrier like some large gargoyle rather than simply taking a step to her left and using the doorway.

  “But that possibility was quickly dismissed?” Dayan pressed.

  “I’m not sure how quickly, but yes, that’s fair to say.”

  He looked down at his notepad, pursing his lips. “Where was he shot?”

  “In his office.”

  “No, I mean where in the body?”

  “A single gunshot wound through the head.”

  “While he was sitting at his desk?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Who does the revolver belong to? Was it his?”

  “It appears so.”

  Dayan regarded her in silence for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Wow. You’re heading up the investigation?”

  “Sheriff Robert Torrez is in charge,” Estelle replied.

  “And what’s he think about all this?” and Dayan immediately held up a hand to ward off the expected response. “I know, I know. I need to ask him. I’d get more out of this desk,” he said, rapping the edge of the desk with his knuckle. “Well,” and he took a deep breath, “this is going to help, don’t you think, Pam? We had a little bit that we put together but no details.” He nodded at Estelle. “We’ll plug this in. Many thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. As I know more, I’ll let you know.”

  Dayan leaned forward conspiratorially. “So I’ll ask again…what’s with the ink thing?” He watched her get up, hefting the book. “How’s that related to Enriquez-or is it?”

  She nodded. “It’s just one of those investigation continuing things, Frank.”

  “Oh, sure.” He leaned back in his chair, face a study in skeptical resignation. “If anything crops up in the next hour and a half, you’ll let us know?”

  “Yes, sir.” She nodded her thanks at both Dayan and Pam Gardiner. As she was making her way back toward the front of the office, she heard the publisher in hushed conversation with his editor. Estelle knew that District Attorney Daniel Schroeder’s phone would be ringing in the next few minutes, and she knew exactly what Schroeder would tell the Posadas Register without the least bit of concern about when their deadlines might be.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The west wall of Teresa Reyes’ bedroom had been painted a soft, muted rose, called “sunset hue” on the color chart at the hardware store. The elderly woman had been adamant in her choice of colors when she and Estelle had discussed it. Estelle had been impressed but not surprised when Joe Tones had been able to find the perfect match.

  Joseph Tones’ world was the mind-boggling inventory of Posadas Lumber and Hardware, an impressive old-fashioned hardware store whose floors were still the dark and dented, oil-soaked pine that had been laid down before World War II. The
hardware and its modest lumberyard took up half the block across from Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way on Grande. In that vast barnlike building with its sagging roofline, Tones moved among the crowded displays and vast bin arrays with effortless ease. He knew, always, where the most esoteric bit of hardware might be located.

  Estelle parked the county car toward the rear of the hardware’s lot, beside the white pickup truck with the store’s logo on the door. She sat for a moment, letting her mind drift back over the conversation she’d had with Connie Enriquez. Connie had said that Tones had worked with her husband on chamber of commerce projects, that they had been friends for years.

  Across the street, a group of five high-school students walked toward Portillo’s store across Grande, enjoying the sunshine, enjoying their lunchtime escape from the confines of school. Estelle watched them and let the unhappy picture of Connie Enriquez bleed from her mind. As she watched, Estelle found herself wondering what Francisco and Carlos would be like when they were teenagers about to tackle the world. Let that be a long time coming, she thought.

  Connie and George Enriquez together on the beach. The image in the photograph crept into Estelle’s consciousness unbidden. A young couple enjoying the sun, water, sand, and each other, spared the agony of a crystal ball that would show them where their lives were headed. Estelle watched the five high-school kids until they disappeared inside the convenience store.

  She opened her briefcase and put a fresh, labeled cassette in the recorder, then slipped it into her pocket.

  As she was closing and locking the briefcase, an orange pickup truck with state highway department emblems on the doors pulled into the slot beside her county car. She glanced up and saw the large woman who got out, hard hat and all. Estelle had been reaching for the door handle but paused. There was always a chance that Leona Spears hadn’t recognized her…but then that didn’t count for much. She’d be ambushed inside the store instead.

  Leona smiled brightly and twiddled her fingers at the undersheriff. A robust woman, she stood nearly six feet tall, broad through the shoulders and thick waisted. Her amazingly thick blonde hair was pulled into a tight Heidi braid that could be tucked up under the aluminum hard hat if necessary.

  Estelle got out of the car and smiled pleasantly at Leona, who waited by the low parking barrier.

  “Hi there,” Leona said cheerfully.

  “Good afternoon, Leona,” Estelle replied. She turned to make sure the county car was locked, giving Ms. Spears a final chance to find something else to do. When Estelle turned away from her car, Leona smiled again, in no hurry to move on. Just as quickly, the smile faded, her thick blonde eyebrows gathered, and she stepped toward Estelle.

  “I heard about Mr. Enriquez,” Leona said.

  And what did you hear, Estelle almost said but settled for a neutral nod.

  “And that right on top of the incident with the Parker girl,” Leona added, making it clear there was more to the incident than was apparent through the rumor mill. “What an awful week it’s been.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Estelle said. Leona had managed to position herself to effectively block the undersheriff’s path, and Estelle knew exactly what the woman wanted.

  “Did Matt White call you?”

  Estelle frowned, startled by the question since, on the surface at least, it had nothing to do with prying into the sheriff’s department’s business-Leona’s principal hobby both before November 7, when she had been campaigning for the sheriff’s position, and even after that, when she had been digging out from under Robert Torrez’s landslide.

  “You mean today?” Estelle asked. She had spoken with Highway Department District Manager Matt White on numerous occasions in past months.

  Leona nodded. “He was going to call you folks about the gravel we’ve been losing,” Leona said.

  “Ah,” Estelle said. “If he called, he didn’t talk to me.”

  “He was going to. I told him that he should ask for you specifically if he wanted something done.”

  “I haven’t seen the inside of my office very much this week,” Estelle said. “Someone’s been stealing gravel from the state yard, you mean?”

  “No. From the roadside stock, down near the intersection of County Road Fourteen. From the tire tracks it looks like somebody just backs a trailer right up to the pile and helps themselves.”

  Estelle managed to keep a straight face. Leona would know about the tracks. She would climb out of her state truck, tape measure and sketch pad in hand, and draw her version of the crime scene, ready to file a report.

  “That’s easy to do,” Estelle said. “With those unfenced piles, it’s sort of an invitation. Unless a deputy just happens by and catches them in the act, there isn’t much chance that they’ll be caught.” That wasn’t the answer Leona wanted to hear, Estelle knew. Better to create a gravel profile and match it to freshly spread evidence in someone’s driveway.

  “I was thinking that maybe a deputy could watch from either the parking lot of the saloon across the way or from a little ways up Fourteen. It’d be easy to spot them from either place.”

  Estelle smiled despite her best effort. “That’s not going to happen, Leona.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not going to assign a deputy to baby-sit a gravel pile. Most of the time, we only have one deputy working the entire county. At night, anyway.”

  “I heard that Perry Kenderman was arrested,” Leona said.

  “But not for gravel theft,” Estelle said and instantly regretted the amusing remark, prompted as it was by the abrupt change in subject. Predictably, Leona’s eyes narrowed with that characteristic are-you-making-fun-of-me expression. “You’re right. Officer Kenderman was arrested last night,” Estelle said, keeping her expression sober.

  “So…” Leona said and as abruptly stopped while the mental gears ground and then meshed. “Bring me up to speed on this Enriquez thing,” she said, wonderfully unaware that the “Enriquez thing” was none of her business.

  “Other than that he’s dead, I really can’t tell you much, Leona.” Estelle reached out a hand and touched the woman on the arm, moving her gently out of the way so she could squeeze past. “And I really need to go. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Oh, and by the way,” Leona said, turning in perfect synchronization to follow Estelle, “how’s that new clinic going?”

  “Wonderful,” Estelle said.

  “You know, that pharmacy is amazing.” She fell in step, reached for the front door, and opened it for Estelle. “I have to take a couple things, you know? I bet the prescription prices are twenty percent lower than old Trombley’s.” She reached out and touched Estelle’s shoulder. “Now I have to admit, I haven’t been in all that often.” She made a face. “I’m one of those loyalists, I guess. It’s hard to change my ways.” Leona leaned a little closer. “I think old Guy Trombley understands me, so I don’t mind paying his prices, you know? For one thing, I have this absolutely horrible memory. I run out of something, and he’ll just shrug and keep me going until I can have my physician call from Deming.”

  “I’m sure he’s most understanding,” Estelle said.

  “But I’m so pleased the new place is doing well. It’s needed, you know. It’s needed. And it may be my imagination, but I think that maybe I’m already paying a little less for some things at Trombley’s. The competition is a good thing…although I suppose Guy would argue that.”

  “Well, perhaps,” Estelle said with considerable resignation. “I’m glad things are working out for you, Leona.”

  “Hi, ladies,” the pudgy girl at the front counter said. “What can we help you find today?”

  Loath to say anything in front of Leona, Estelle scanned the store, hoping to see Joe Tones. As she did so, Leona said to the girl, “I just need a key made.” She dug the sample from her front pocket and handed it to the girl.

  “Leona, nice seeing you,” Estelle said, taking advantage of the distraction. She strolled
away from the front register, putting as many aisles between herself and the front desk as she could.

  Back by the toilet repair kits, she found Joe Tones down on his hands and knees, pliers in hand. He glanced up, saw Estelle, and pushed himself up to a more dignified position.

  “Somebody stepped on the front of this bin and broke it, would you believe that?” he said. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Actually, I was looking for you, Mr. Tones.”

  “Oh. Well, how delightful.” His smile was snaggle toothed and quickly vanished as he grunted first to one knee, then to his feet. “Take my advice, and don’t get old,” he said.

  The first time that Estelle had entered Posadas Lumber and Hardware, she had been a junior in high school, less than a month in the United States, and accompanied by her great uncle Reuben. She didn’t remember what Reuben had purchased that day, but it seemed to her that the Joe Tones standing in front of her now was unchanged from the man who had waited on them then, unchanged except for a bald spot that had expanded over the years.

  He thrust the pliers in his back pocket and dusted off his hands. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about George Enriquez,” she said.

  Something flashed across Tones’ face and was gone so quickly that Estelle couldn’t tell if it was sorrow, anger, or irritation. Tones leaned an elbow against the front lip of a bin holding short lengths of threaded galvanized pipe. He appeared to be studying the price tag on the front of the bin.

  When he turned to look at Estelle again, his expression was guarded. “What did you want to know? This hasn’t been an easy thing to deal with, I can tell you that for a fact.”

  “Mrs. Enriquez said that you and George worked together in various chamber of commerce ventures. Is that correct?”

  “Sure, over the years. All the time. He did a lot for this community. A lot of folks are going to miss him. I don’t care what anybody says.”

  “Did you know him really well, sir?”

  “I thought I did. But we know how that goes, don’t we.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It kind of threw me for a loop, you know…hearing about him shooting himself that way.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’m hiding back here. Easier than trying to talk to folks who come in.”