A Discount for Death pc-11

by Steven F Havill

  “Had you seen George during the past few weeks?”

  “Sure. I see him all the time.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  Tones shook his head. “Well…you know. He had his share of troubles, with that grand jury thing hanging over his head. I know that worried him.”

  “He talked to you about that?”

  “Yeah, sure he did. Some.”

  “Were the two of you planning to go elk hunting some time this fall?”

  Tones jerked his head in surprise and frowned at Estelle. “I was the one who told George that it’d do him good to get away for a little bit, especially before…before, you know. That damn jury thing. Christ, that hung over his head like some big cleaver.”

  “George wasn’t much of a hunter, was he?”

  “No.” Tones managed a tight smile. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  “How’d he come to decide on an elk hunt, then? That’s a pretty rugged undertaking, isn’t it?”

  “Not the way we do it,” Tones said. “The four of us have reservations at one of those fancy game ranches north of Chama.” He smiled. “It isn’t exactly roughing it, if you’ve ever seen their lodge.”

  “This is a captive elk herd we’re talking about?”

  Tones nodded. “That ranch is big enough, so you’d never know it. Guides take you as close to the herd as you want…or you can hike or ride horseback all day, if that’s what you’re after. George was pretty excited about the idea.”

  “Had you actually made reservations, or was all this just in the dream stages?”

  “Oh no. No dream. Once George decided that this was something he wanted to do, bingo. He made all the arrangements with the lodge up there. We were originally going to use that big camper of George’s, but then we decided that was kind of dumb, the lodge being available and all. George…he took care of it.” He sighed. “I don’t know now. I guess we’ll cancel out.”

  “Who’s the we, Mr. Tones? You said that four of you planned to go.”

  He looked askance at Estelle. “How’s all this related to George’s death, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure that it is, Mr. Tones.”

  He adjusted the rack of pens in his pocket protector. “It was me, George, and Glen Archer. I guess you know him.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “And Owen Frieberg, from Salazar’s.” Tones glanced past her shoulder at the same time that she heard soft footsteps behind her. She turned and saw the girl who had been grinding the key for Leona Spears.

  “Joe, I can’t find the right blank for this.” She held up the key. From six feet away, Joe Tones glanced at the key and shook his head. “That’s a Yale security lock, Donnie. We don’t have blanks for them. Who’s it for?” He peered around the counter. “Oh. Tell Leona she needs to see a locksmith.”

  Donnie nodded and turned away.

  “Let’s find some privacy before that crazy woman corners me,” he said. “We can use John’s office.” He led Estelle through the fencing and garden tool section, and ducked into a large back workroom. They wound their way through stacks of boxes and rolls of wire, finally finding a cubbyhole in the distant back of the store. John Hildebrand’s office was a study in things fresh and new in 1950. The old man, sole owner of the hardware business, came to work when he felt like it-as much as ten hours a week at times.

  Tones dumped a load of catalogs off a small swivel chair and scooted it toward Estelle. “Sit,” he said, and pulled out the captain’s chair behind the desk. It groaned when he sat down. The sleeves of the jacket that had been thrown across the arm dragged on the floor as he leaned back. He immediately picked up a pencil and drilled the point into the remains of the desk blotter.

  “Fire away,” he said.

  “I understand that the chamber of commerce organizes a couple of trips to Mexico each year.”

  “Yes, we do. One about the first week of Christmas, one on the Cinco de Mayo. Fifth of May.”

  “Is this part of the sister-village project?”

  “Yep.”

  “And that’s with…”

  “Acambaro. It’s a little place about a two hours’ drive south of the border crossing at Regal.” He grimaced. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I’m sure you know Mexico far better than I do.”

  “Actually, I’ve never been to Acambaro, Mr. Tones.”

  “Well, you haven’t missed much. It’s a lot like Palomas, only smaller. Maybe two hundred people on a good day. More like Tres Santos. Poor as dirt.”

  “What’s the main objective of the Christmas trip?”

  “Party time,” Tones said. “We work with the middle school, you know. It’s really a student-council project, and the chamber tags along and gives what we can. We take bags of groceries, toys, clothes, anything we can scrounge. Then we have a hell of a Christmas party in the little gymnasium next to the school.” He leaned back and rubbed the bald spot on his head, closing his eyes as he did so. “I use the term gymnasium advisedly. It’s a cinder-block barn. Last time we were there, they were trying to raise money to close in the one end they haven’t finished.”

  “Who goes on the trip? Just the chamber and the school?”

  “Posadas Middle School Student Council. They’re the main drive behind it. I always go, representing the chamber, since we’re the ones who raise a lot of the money for the kids’ gifts. A couple of years ago, I told George that he needed to go along, that it’d be good for his soul.” Tones grinned. “I didn’t think he would. But you know, he did. He even talked his insurance company’s home office out of about a thousand pencils and pens to take along. He went over and hit up the Forest Service for a couple hundred of those wooden Smokey Bear rulers-all that kind of thing is big stuff if you don’t have it. We got another case of pencils from the Bureau of Land Management. It’s quite a bash.” He leaned forward, the chair protesting every move. “You should go with us sometime. It’s something to see the kids’ faces-from both sides of the border. Most of our kids have never seen poverty like that. It’s an eye-opener.”

  “When the boys are a little further along in school, I’m sure I’ll be doing all sorts of things like that,” Estelle said. “And that’s it? You, the school kids, George Enriquez…anyone else?”

  “Well, the superintendent always goes, like I said. When they start dancing, Glen’s the biggest kid of all, I think. This year we took down about ten older-model computers that the school was surplusing out. I don’t know what the Mexicans will plug ’em into down there…in fact, I don’t even know if the electrical wiring is compatible, but Glen said they’d figure it out and make whatever adjustments were needed.”

  “Just him? From the school, I mean?”

  “Oh no. Let’s see.” Tones closed his eyes again and resumed stroking his bald spot. “The student-council advisor goes. What the hell’s his name.” He leaned forward and stared at the floor intently. “Barry something.”

  “Barry Vasquez?”

  “That’s him. Him and about twenty kids, I guess.”

  “And you mentioned Owen Frieberg.”

  “And Owen, right. His daughter’s in eighth grade. In fact he drove one of the buses.”

  “Buses? For twenty kids? How many did you take?”

  “Two full-sized buses, crammed to the gills. And we barely fit, too. All that junk, plus the computers, plus…” He waved his hands in the air above his head. “And in some ways, the buses make it easier. The guys at the border crossing all know us.”

  “Sounds like fun. What’s the purpose of the Cinco de Mayo trip?”

  “Turn about,” Tones said with satisfaction. “They throw us a party as sort of a ‘thank you’ for the December gig. Unbelievable. Where some of those kids come up with some of those dance costumes, I’ll never know. Out of thin air and dust, I guess. They can’t come to Posadas, so we go back down there.”

  “George went on that trip as well?”

  “Yes. Basically the same c
rew.”

  “Archer went along, too?”

  “He drove one bus and Frieberg drove the other, just like in December.”

  Estelle looked down at her notebook. “During the past few months, were you aware of any friction between George Enriquez and anyone else?”

  “Friction? I don’t think so. George was about as affable a guy as you could want. Good hearted.” He shrugged. “I still don’t understand all this shit that was being thrown up in the newspaper about insurance scams.”

  “Did you know Connie Enriquez, Mr. Tones?”

  “Sad, sad woman.” He shook his head slowly, his lips pressed tight. “George had the patience of a saint.”

  Estelle flipped several pages back in her notebook. “I’d like to return to the hunting trip for a moment, Mr. Tones. Do you happen to know what rifle George was planning to use? Did he own one?”

  Except for the rhythmic stroking of the top of his head, Tones might have been asleep. The hand came down, the pencil stopped tapping, and he regarded Estelle with curiosity. “It would be interesting to know which of the questions that you’re asking already have answers in that little book,” he said.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He held his hands about a foot apart. “It was a rifle involved in his death?”

  “Actually, no, it wasn’t. I was just curious about the hunt. His wife made it clear that firearms weren’t allowed in the house.”

  “Yeah, well,” Tones said, and shrugged. “I heard about that, more than once. George liked guns. It was one of those things, like a guy who wants a toy of some kind and can’t have one, because it’s his wife that doesn’t approve.”

  “Are you aware that at one time he purchased a.41 magnum revolver?”

  “Sure. From George Payton.”

  “You knew about that, then.”

  “Uh huh. He showed it to me once when I was over at the house. He had it in his desk, there.” Tones’ face sagged. “Is that what he used? The handgun?”

  “We think so.”

  “Geez,” he said wearily, and looked off into space. “Look. I don’t know what drove George Enriquez to shoot himself. If I did, well…I just don’t know.” He shrugged and held up his hands helplessly. “Detective, I don’t know. ”

  “I appreciate your talking with me, Mr. Tones.”

  He sighed heavily. “Anytime. Especially if it’s helping that wonderful mother of yours choose paint colors. That’s the sort of thing I like to do. Trying to figure out why old friends end up dead just isn’t up my alley.”

  Estelle stood up, pushing the old chair gently under the typewriter table.

  “I appreciate your help, sir.”

  Tones stood up and stretched his back. “That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to know…when you find something out,” he said. “Good luck with your investigation. God knows, George Enriquez sure deserved better than what he got. And that’s a fact.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  As she walked back down the center aisle, past the bin displays of two-dollar Taiwanese hammers and seven-buck sets of six pliers, Estelle saw that Leona Spears and the patient salesgirl were still lost in the world of key blanks. The highway engineer looked up and saw Estelle approaching. Immediately, she began to move away from the current key problem, homing in on the undersheriff.

  “Have you stopped for lunch yet?” Leona asked.

  “Lunch isn’t on the schedule for today, Leona,” Estelle answered with a rueful smile. The statement was perfectly true unless Francis could break free for a few minutes.

  Leona looked wistful. “Well, someday, then,” she said, and drifted toward the door after Estelle. “Would you please tell your husband how much we all appreciate his efforts with that new clinic and pharmacy?”

  Estelle nodded. “I’ll do that. He’ll be pleased to hear it.”

  She exited the store, feeling the warmth of the early afternoon October sun bouncing off the roof of her car. As her hand touched the door handle, her cell phone chirped as if car and phone had somehow made electrical contact. She slipped inside the sedan and closed the door.

  “Guzman.”

  “Estelle?”

  She didn’t immediately recognize the voice. “Yes.”

  “Listen, this is Owen Frieberg, over at Salazar and Sons Funeral Home. Are you going to be around this afternoon sometime? I tried to catch you at the office earlier, but I missed.”

  “I would think so, Mr. Frieberg. What may I do for you?”

  “Well…” and he hesitated. “There’s kind of a tricky matter that I need to discuss with you. Won’t take but a minute.” Even as he spoke, the radio barked. Estelle didn’t respond immediately but sat quietly, trying to imagine what kind of “tricky matter” a funeral director might have that would demand her attention.

  “Just a second, sir,” she said. Even as she reached for the mike, Sheriff Robert Torrez’s clipped voice broke through again.

  “Three ten, three oh eight.”

  She pulled the mike off the dash clip.

  “Three ten. Go ahead.”

  “Three ten, ten nineteen,” Sheriff Robert Torrez said cryptically.

  “Ten four,” she said. “ETA about two minutes.”

  “Interesting morning,” she said to no one in particular as she hung up the mike. “Mr. Frieberg, I’ll be back in the office in just a few minutes. Do you want to touch bases there, or do you want me to swing by your place later this afternoon? Would that work for you?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I’m not sure what time that will be.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be here most of the day. I’ll see you then.”

  She switched off and saw Leona Spears push open the hardware store’s front door, and for a brief moment it looked as if she was headed toward Estelle’s car once again. Estelle lifted two fingers off the top of the steering wheel in acknowledgment, farewell, or however Leona wished to interpret it, and pulled the car into reverse.

  The Public Safety building was one block north on Grande, and one block east on Bustos. Well under the two-minute estimate, she thudded the county car’s door shut and entered the back door of the sheriff’s department.

  “Oh, here you are,” Gayle Torrez said. She was standing in the dispatch island and appeared to be trying to explain something to Dennis Collins, who held a thick envelope open for her. “Bobby’s huddling with Chief Mitchell,” she added, nodding toward the sheriff’s office.

  Estelle nodded, ignoring Collins’ slack-jawed gaze, recognizing the expression of a young man who found it hard to look women in the eye. Nothing above a woman’s neck seemed worthy of his attention.

  The sheriff’s tiny office looked like a transplant from a Marine Corps barracks, with neutral, institutional colors, metal desk, files, and a scarcity of chairs. Torrez was sitting behind his desk, one brown hunting boot across the corner, the other propped against the heating duct that ran up the wall. The back of his chair rested against the lower window frame behind him, and as Estelle entered he was thoughtfully rubbing the end of his nose.

  Chief Eddie Mitchell turned from his perusal of the county map on the wall and flashed a quick grin at Estelle.

  “Howdy,” he said.

  “Good afternoon,” Estelle said. She leaned her black briefcase against the nearest chair, an uncomfortable steel folding thing with a county inventory sticker on the back. Mitchell glanced at the sheriff, and Estelle read the you-tell-her expression accurately.

  Torrez frowned at his boot. “Some interesting things about the revolver,” he said after a long moment. His eyes clicked to Estelle’s and then to the door. “You want to make sure that’s shut?”

  She turned and nudged the door closed, curious. “You mean beyond its original purchase from George Payton’s gun shop?”

  “Way beyond. At one point, George Enriquez loaned the revolver to Owen Frieberg,” the sheriff said. He let the unadorned sentence hang there. His fingers finally abandone
d the problem on his nose, and both hands relaxed in his lap, fingers intertwined.

  Both Estelle’s eyebrows shot up, and the trace of a smile touched Torrez’s face.

  “Frieberg called me a couple of minutes ago,” Estelle said. “Just now, when you were on the radio.”

  “He beat me to it, then. Your phone was busy when I dialed,” the sheriff said. He swung his boot off the desk and let the other slide down the heating duct to the floor.

  “Did you talk with him, or what?”

  “The chief and I stopped by Salazar’s this morning, at Frieberg’s request.”

  “How did this connection come up?”

  Torrez looked across at Mitchell. The chief turned the other small chair around and sat down, his arms crossed over the chair back. “The kind of brilliant detective work from which legends are made,” he said dryly. He waited for the count of three. “Frieberg called me at home and told me that he had borrowed a handgun from George a while ago. He says that George had shown him the gun a time or two and even offered to loan it to Frieberg if he ever wanted to take it hunting. Frieberg says he did just that. He recalls offering to buy the revolver from George at one point, but George didn’t want to go for that. Frieberg took the thing javelina hunting a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And he called you this morning, just to tell you that?”

  Mitchell nodded. “That’s what he did.”

  “So how…”

  “He borrowed it quite a while ago, he doesn’t remember exactly when, and then returned it late last week. He thinks it was Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “That’s interesting,” Estelle said softly. “I can understand his eagerness to call, then. The revolver he used for who knows how long is returned, and then used in a crime. And guess whose fingerprints should have been all over it.”

  “Except they weren’t,” Mitchell said.

  “He cleaned it when he was finished,” Torrez offered. “No big deal.”

  “That’s interesting,” Estelle repeated. “They’d have to be pretty good friends.”