Red, Green, or Murder

by Steven F Havill

  I looked at my watch. “Look, I need to eat,” I said. “Watching all you bears cleaning out the dumpsters is making me hungry. Breakfast is on me.” Linda Real wrinkled her nose, looking at her gloved hands.

  “Yuck,” she said. “Shower sounds better.”

  “That too,” I agreed, although as a bona fide sidewalk supervisor, I’d done nothing to work up a sweat or attract aroma. “What’s the deal now?” I asked Estelle, even though I knew perfectly well what the deal was. Her dogged determination wouldn’t be appeased by a token effort, one that left any dumpsters unturned.

  “It’s 8:55,” she said. “There are a couple places I’d like to check before we wrap it up.” She pulled a folded paper out of her pocket and consulted it. “I didn’t assign the dumpster out on County Road 19 just beyond the Hocking place.”

  “You know,” I reflected, “if the killer is driving around with a little bag of trash tossed behind his car seat, we’re wasting a lot of time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Estelle agreed. “And that’s just as much a possibility as tossing the trash in one of these.” She nodded at the dumpsters. “But in a few minutes, the trucks are going to collect all this, and the only chance to search goes out the window.” She started to say something else, but her phone chirped.

  “Reyes-Guzman,” she said, and then glanced at me as she listened. “Good morning, sir.” Silence followed for a moment, and then she asked, “What time was that, sir?” A lengthy dissertation followed, and Estelle closed her eyes—whether out of frustration or fatigue I couldn’t tell. “And you’re absolutely sure, sir?” she asked at last. Apparently the caller was. “We’ll be over in about five minutes, then,” she said. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this.” Something in her tone said that she didn’t. Snapping the phone closed, she looked askance at me.

  “Unbelievable,” she said.

  “Go ahead…I’m gullible.”

  The undersheriff laughed, but without much humor. “The histamine diphosphate is back on the shelf.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Despite Trombley’s astounding discovery, Estelle Reyes-Guzman was not ready to abandon her dumpster project altogether. I understood her persistence, unproductive as the search had been. Trombley may have made yet another mistake, or the contents of the original bottle could have been transferred into another—all sorts of bizarre scenarios were possible. Tom and Linda were sent out to the county to continue the checks, and other teams, all reporting nothing but garbage, continued from one site to another.

  Linda made a face at me when I mentioned that I sure wished that I could be with them every dumpster of the way. But sacrifices have to be made. Estelle asked me to ride along with her the few blocks to Trombley’s pharmacy to check the pharmacist’s discovery. One block into the trip, Estelle held up both hands, ignoring the steering wheel.

  “Why?” she said. I hoped that it was a rhetorical question, since I didn’t have any inkling why.

  “We may well be dealing with a quirk of human nature here,” I said, sounding more judicious than I actually felt. “Guy Trombley isn’t going to relish admitting that someone could just waltz into the drug store and swipe drugs off the shelf. It’s just like Fernando Aragon and his chile. You think he’s going to admit using canned ingredients? And Victor Sanchez doesn’t want his customers thinking that he talks with he cops. Silly ego is what it all is, sweetheart. And when both this case and Patrick’s come to trial, these guys can all keep each other company on the witness stand.

  “There’s that,” Estelle agreed. “You often talk about forks in the road during an investigation.”

  “We’re at one,” I said, not sure which of several forks she might be referring to.

  She swung the car into the alley behind the pharmacy. The single dumpster was neatly closed, not a sign of refuse on the ground. The back door of the pharmacy was tightly closed.

  “If Mr. Trombley found the histamine misplaced on the shelf, that’s one thing. But he wouldn’t put it back in the wrong place. I can’t imagine him misplacing something like that, as organized as he is. I mean, except for a trifle of dust, those shelves are arranged in perfect order. There’s no reason to make a mistake. But on the other hand, if the thief tiptoed back into the drug store to return the bottle, that’s way too clever. Too calculating.”

  “Maybe one and the same,” I said. “A clever calculator.”

  Estelle shook her head. “But that bothers me, sir. If the thief crept in to return the bottle, he would have put it back where he got it, would he not? Why would he put it somewhere else, where it’s certain to draw attention?”

  “That’s the way we Monday quarterback it, sweetheart. He might have run out of time and just put it down in the first spot. A quick dart in and out, figuring that old man Trombley would just shake his head and wonder why he misplaced his inventory.”

  She drove around the store from the alley and turned into the small parking lot out front. Two other vehicles were parked there, including Trombley’s silver Cadillac. By the time we got out of the county car, Trombley stood in the pharmacy’s doorway, waiting.

  “You’re out bright and early,” he said affably. “Your deputy Mears and another guy were here earlier, sorting through the dumpster. You’re going to have to start paying those guys a living wage. I would have mentioned all this to Mears, but I got busy, and then they had already left before I found the bottle.”

  “We appreciate the prompt call,” Estelle said.

  “Well, I’m going to have to apologize.” The pharmacist held the door for both of us and then followed us inside. The gal at the front register—I should have remembered her name, but didn’t—smiled warmly.

  “We’re going to be in the back for a while, Gwen,” Trombley said, and the nickname activated my snoozing memory—Gweneth Barnes, a recent graduate of Posadas High School and the youngest daughter of Lester Barnes, the county highway department supervisor.

  “How are you doing this morning, Miss Barnes?” I asked as I passed the register. I wondered if, at age eighteen or whatever, she was in the first year of a fifty-year career behind that counter.

  “Hi,” she replied, and her smile brightened. Estelle had paused inside the front door to examine the racks that featured various pamphlets, flyers, the Posadas Register, and two of the metro dailies. The undersheriff dallied a bit, eyes roaming around a store that she’d seen a hundred times before.

  “Gwen, you’ve been putting in the hours,” Estelle said, and the girl shrugged agreement. “Are you working every day now?”

  “Sure am,” she said brightly.

  “Without Gwen, my world would come to a stop,” Trombley laughed. He waited for us at the back of the store, obviously impatient.

  “Did you work all day yesterday as well?” Estelle asked the girl.

  “Yes, ma’am. I worked all week.”

  “Nine to five?”

  Gweneth nodded. “Just half days on Saturdays, though.” Guy Trombley had returned down the aisle, as if to be close at hand should the interrogation of his young clerk turn serious.

  “Now, let me show you what I mean,” Trombley said, as Estelle turned her attention toward the rear of the store. We followed him back, past the bandages, laxatives, vitamins and whatnot. “I’m beginning to feel a little foolish,” he said over his shoulder. “You know, you didn’t mention when you were here earlier that all this had to do with George Payton’s death.” He stopped by the padded bench where customers could plop down to wait for their prescriptions. A small rack off to one side included magazines that were now closer to historical documents, as well as another selection of those ubiquitous folders touting area attractions that the Chamber of Commerce circulated.

  “What’s the deal, anyway?” Trombley asked, regarding us both critically.

  “I’m not at liberty to say at this point,” Estelle said, and her tone had taken on an edge that even Guy Trombley understood, reluctant as he
might be to admit to a woman’s authority.

  “No, I suppose not.” He shrugged and opened the door to a narrow hallway leading to the back of the store, then turned left into the compounding room. Sure enough, the small, dark bottle nestled in centered perfection in its assigned spot, label turned outward. Trombley started to reach for it again, but Estelle touched his arm. “I already touched it,” he offered.

  “This isn’t where you found it,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “No…no, of course not.” Guy would remember perfectly well that Estelle had taken meticulous photographs of the vacant spot, complete with the ring of dust visible on the shelf. “Now, I came in here not twenty minutes ago, and the bottle of histamine diphosphate was sitting right here.” He touched the front corner two shelves above, just inside the doorway, a small spot next to a white cardboard box. “Sitting right here. Completely out of order. No wonder I didn’t see it.”

  “Did you inadvertently leave it there after using it last time?” Estelle asked.

  I saw a little flush travel up Trombley’s neck. “Come now. Why would I do that,” he snapped. “In the first place, as I told you earlier, the last time I compounded histolatum was nearly six months ago. Sometime along the way, I would have noticed that the bottle was out of place and returned it. Second, when I do compound, I work in that area over there,” and he pointed at the far end of the small room. The Formica countertops were spotless, with one area that was completely enclosed. The pharmacist would have to work with his arms inside rubber access gloves, much like a mechanic’s sandblaster booth.

  “Why would I formulate there, and then return the bottle here,” and he rapped the shelf, “when where it belongs is even closer, down there.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “I just don’t understand any of this,” Trombley said. “Now you’re saying that someone first took the histamine, and then, when they finished with it, returned it to the pharmacy—good heavens, why would anyone do such a thing? Why not just throw it away?” His eyebrows lifted at his own brainstorm. “That’s why the dumpsters, then.”

  “It’s the ‘how’ that’s interesting,” I said. “It’s not like this store is left untended.”

  The flush shot up Trombley’s neck again. “Of course it’s not left untended,” he snapped. “I’m here, or Harriet is, or Gwen, out front. There are two other girls who work for me as well, part-time.”

  “I need to take the bottle of histamine with me for a short time,” Estelle said. “I hope that won’t put you out.”

  “Of course not,” Trombley said. “I’ll dial in and get another, just in case. I don’t expect a call for it, but you never know.” He reached out toward the bottle, but Estelle beat him to it.

  “I’ll get it, sir.” If he was surprised to see that she already had an evidence bag with her, he didn’t say anything, watching in silence as she first filled out the short label and then nudged the bottle into the bag with the tip of her pen. Next in hand was the small digital camera, and she snapped several shots of the spot where the bottle had been stashed upon its return. I ambled out of the compounding room, admiring the view of mops and buckets by the back door.

  I could see that it wasn’t closed tightly, and as if reading my mind, Trombley said, “The door to the alley is always locked, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I rested my boot on the bottom corner and pushed a bit, and the door slid open. “Most of the time it’s locked, anyway,” I said. The pharmacist had reached his own fork in the road, where he could either continue to bluster his way through this, or give in and join us. Apparently he chose the latter, because he let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall.

  “God damn it,” he murmured fervently. “What the hell is going on, Bill?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Guy. I wish I could just present all the answers on a silver platter for you, but I can’t.”

  He turned as Estelle emerged from the compounding room. “My prints will be on that container, obviously. Thanks to this business, the FBI has them on file, along with a dozen other agencies and bureaus. It’ll be easy to make a comparison. I’d be interested to know what other prints you find.”

  “Yes, sir,” Estelle agreed, and Guy Trombley laughed at her reticence.

  “You haven’t asked me how I found out you were looking into George Payton’s death,” he said.

  “That’s true, sir.” Estelle didn’t add the obvious question.

  “One of the lab techs over at the hospital told me when I called on another matter,” he said. “I hope she won’t get in trouble for that.”

  “I don’t think so, as long as it went no further than you, sir.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t. I’m sure it won’t.”

  “Good. I need to talk with Gweneth, if that’s all right with you, sir,” Estelle said. Or even if it isn’t, I thought.

  “I’m sure that she has had nothing to do with any of this,” Guy said quickly, sounding like a protective parent.

  “No doubt not,” Estelle replied. “Is Mrs. Tomlinson working today?”

  “She’ll be in right after lunch. You want to talk with her too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then there’s me,” Guy Trombley said. “What else can I tell you that I haven’t already?”

  Estelle took a deep breath, looking down at the evidence bag. “I’d like you to take a moment and write down a list of every single customer you can remember from Wednesday through this morning.”

  “Well, hell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, sir. Right up to when you telephoned us a few minutes ago.”

  “Do you have any idea how many customers we serve every day?”

  “A goodly number, I’m certain.”

  “Indeed, goodly. A lot, is what the number is, Undersheriff Guzman.” I did some mental computing and decided that, if the pharmacist was trying to find time to duck out for coffee and donuts, or a quick nine at the grubby Posadas links, then even ten customers would seem like a burden. Guy Trombley was not exactly running a big-box store pharmacy here.

  “We appreciate your cooperation,” Estelle said.

  “You’ll let me know?” he said as we walked out into the store proper.

  “Of course,” I said. “When we know, you’ll know.” I patted his bony shoulder.

  “Okay, then. Gwen,” he said to his clerk, “these folks would like a few minutes of your time. That all right with you?”

  The girl’s eyes opened a little wider. “Oh, sure.”

  “You can use my office, if you like,” Guy said. “It’s that little room right across the hall from the pharmacy.”

  “Outside is fine,” Estelle said pleasantly.

  “Let me know, then,” he said. “Gwen, I’ll take care of things. Just go ahead.” It sounded as if maintaining that last bit of control was important to him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Listening to someone with a sharp memory is always a treat. Gwen Barnes was able to cruise through the humdrum memories of the previous Wednesday and Thursday, replaying the events of her days. I saw that, given not very much time in this job, she’d be the sort of employee who would greet each customer by name, probably remember what drugs they were taking, and always remember to ask how the grandkids were doing—and then the real trick, listen to the answers.

  I knew most of the names that Gwen recited, and in her own eager way, the young woman seemed perfectly willing to divulge what she shouldn’t…the reason for each customer’s visit. She didn’t need to scour through the computer records to recall most of her day. As expected, the customers painted a cross-section of Posadas. Students dropped in for a candy bar or two, maybe hoping that Guy Trombley had relented and started carrying tobacco products in his pharmacy. The elderly chased blood pressure, blood sugar, and cholesterol. The high-school football coach came in wit
h a purchase order for a dozen three-inch elastic bandages, and I reminded myself to cut out the Posadas Tigers game schedule from the paper. Late Thursday afternoon, Honor Gallegos had dropped off the usual twenty-five copies of the Posadas Register, tucking them neatly into the folding stand just inside the door.

  Earlier this Friday morning, Maggie Payton had stopped by and purchased a newspaper, at the same time dropping off another supply of the brochures that touted her agency and current real estate bargains. I happened to be looking Estelle’s way when Gwen recited that bit of information and didn’t see as much as an extra blink of interest. My self-control wasn’t so finely honed.

  “What time was she here?” I asked.

  “Just about first thing,” Gwen said. “That’s when she always comes in.”

  “Which reminds me that I’m supposed to have lunch with her and Phil today,” I said to Estelle, hoping that the creative fabrication might deflect Gwen’s curiosity.

  “And Mr. Borman came in with Mr. Trombley,” Gwen added helpfully. “He keeps the stock of antacids rotating.”

  “Real estate will do that to you,” I said. The day after George’s death, both of the Bormans were trying to live life as usual, I guess. Routine could be soothing.

  “Was Mr. Trombley here when Mrs. Payton came in?” Estelle asked.

  “No. He hadn’t come back yet.” She lowered her voice as if her boss might be able to hear her through the pharmacy’s cinderblock walls. “He opens up the store at eight, brings the cash drawer and stuff out of the safe for me, and then he goes for coffee and donuts with his group over at the SuperMart. He’s always back by nine or a little before, though.”

  “And Mrs. Tomlinson doesn’t come in until nine or so?” I asked.

  “Most of the time,” Gwen replied.

  For another ten minutes, we chatted with Gwen, and a few more names were added to the list. We went back inside, and Guy Trombley held up a hand in salute.

  “Anything more we can do, you just say so,” he called. He ambled out from behind the register, hands massaging as if he’d just lathered on hand cream. He nodded toward the rear of the store, obviously wanting us to follow. Once out of earshot from Gwen, he relaxed with one elbow propped on the edge of the prescription counter. “You know, I had a chat with Phil Borman this morning that was a little upsetting.” He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head as if the memory was painful. “A few of us meet every morning over at the SuperMart, and Phil and I had a private moment. Sad time for them.”