The priest held the door wide open. He gripped it tightly with one hand as if the excitement of the moment might slam it shut. “It is who I think it is. Look at this.” He released the door and advanced, both arms held wide. “Blessed saints, but it’s good to see you.”
“Father,” Estelle said, and patted him on the back until he released her. His black shirt smelled musty.
“Oh, my goodness, look at you,” he said, and for a moment it appeared as if he was going to launch into the ritual how’s-the-family grilling. But the ebullient expression faded, replaced by an awareness of the sad day in the home behind him. “There’s quite a mob scene in here,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I would think so,” Estelle said. Brunch with the widow.
“Do you have any news for us?” the priest asked, and for a moment he sounded as if he were more from Dublin than Deming.
Estelle shook her head. “Actually, Father, I need to talk with Mrs. Enriquez. Is she home?”
“Surely, surely,” he said. “Won’t you come in?”
Estelle stepped inside and stopped on the tiled foyer. Off to the left was what appeared to be a well-appointed game room where at least fifteen people milled about, all talking at once. Another mob had taken over the kitchen. Through an archway to the right, Estelle saw three elderly women in the living room, coffee cups in hand, deep in conversation.
“Ay,” Estelle whispered to herself, and despite Father Anselmo’s hand on her elbow, she remained firmly rooted in place, fascinated by the spectacle. One way to take the widow’s mind off the deceased husband was to make her life miserable in every other way. After a day or two, that would wear off. The people would leave, and the house would become a big, silent mausoleum.
“Father,” Estelle said quietly, “I can’t talk with her here.”
Anselmo’s face hardened a bit with resolve, his shaggy eyebrows lowering until they rested on the rims of his glasses. “What do you need? You just tell me, and I’ll see to it.”
Estelle drew a card from her badge case and handed it to the priest. “Maybe…” she started to say, when one of the most enormous women she had ever seen appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Ah, Connie,” the priest said, and held out a hand. “You know the undersheriff?”
“No, I don’t. Heard of you. We’ve never met,” Constance Enriquez said. She didn’t take the priest’s hand. Two inches shorter than Estelle’s five foot seven inches, the woman’s massive weight ballooned from a frame that, judging from the fine hand she extended to accept the business card, could barely cope. She walked with a slight roll, as if having to hitch each step along with protesting hips.
Plump cheeks, wet from recent tears, crowded her eyes in a broad face. Thinning hair had been chopped into a sort of modified pageboy, keeping it from being buried in the folds of fat at the back of her neck. She regarded the business card for a long moment, and when her glacial eyes flicked back up to Estelle’s, they were hard and unwelcoming.
“What can I do for you?” she said. She extended the card back toward Estelle.
“Mrs. Enriquez, I need to talk with you at some length. That’s going to be very difficult to do here. I wonder if there’s someplace that we might…”
The woman waved a hand, the curtains of fat that hung from her upper arms undulating. “We’ll use his room. That’s easiest.” She turned away. “Come on,” she said, and Estelle followed, Father Bertrand Anselmo trailing behind. Connie Enriquez ignored the glances and murmurs as they navigated past the kitchen. At the end of the long hallway, Connie Enriquez pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a spacious den.
“This’ll do,” she said.
“Father, excuse us,” Estelle said when Anselmo started to enter.
“Oh, certainly. Connie, if you need anything…” he said.
“What I need is for the circus to be over,” she muttered and reached past Estelle to latch one side of the doors. “You gotta hook this, or they’ll drift open,” she said, stretching up to push the small brass bolt into the jamb. She forcefully pushed the other side shut. “There.” She beckoned toward a leather-covered chair near a bookcase. “Sit yourself.”
She chose a stout, straight-backed chair that looked up to the challenge, reached over to the large walnut desk, and pulled the box of tissues closer. She extracted one and wadded it into a ball, dropping her hands to her lap.
“So,” she said. “You’re a very attractive young woman. How’d you happen to fall into such an awful job?”
“Thank you. And that’s a very long story, Mrs. Enriquez.”
“Call me Connie.”
“Connie. I know this is going to be painful for you, but there are some things I need to know concerning your husband and the circumstances of his death. You may be able to help us.”
“Is this all standard procedure? I mean, is this what you normally do, with things like this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right.” She shifted her bulk on the chair.
Estelle pulled the microrecorder from her jacket pocket and held it up. “I need to use this. Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
The undersheriff pushed the Record button and gently rested the gadget on the corner of the desk. “Mrs. Enriquez, in the past few days, did your husband discuss his difficulties with you?”
For the first time, something akin to a smile ghosted across the woman’s face, not enough to show teeth, but enough to touch the creases.
“Undersheriff,” the woman said. “That’s an interesting title.” Her hands folded around the tissue. “Do I call you that? Or is it officer, or what?”
“Estelle would be fine.”
“Estelle. Doesn’t that mean star or something like that in Spanish?”
Estelle smiled. “No, ma’am. You may be thinking of estrella, with an ‘r.’ ”
Connie nodded and pursed her lips. The half smile reappeared. “Let me tell you how I first learned of my husband’s antics, Estelle,” she said. “A neighbor across the way met me out in the driveway with the local paper in hand.” As she talked, Connie Enriquez’s hands remained motionless. “Nice little front-page story about my husband’s arraignment.” She paused for a moment. “Now isn’t that wonderful? A thoughtful neighbor shows me a front-page newspaper story.”
Estelle didn’t respond, and Connie continued, “Tell me how that could have happened without my knowing about it, Mrs. Undersheriff.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “My husband’s business was investigated, charges were brought against him by your office and the state insurance board, and he was arraigned before the local judge. And when did I hear about it? When it’s splashed on the front page of the local newspaper.” Her mouth twisted in a tight-lipped smile.
“I’m not complaining, mind you,” she said. “Not knowing probably spared me some moments with George that we both would have regretted. You asked me if my husband discussed his business life with me? He didn’t. In spades.” She dabbed at her left eye. “How well do you know your husband, Estelle?”
When the undersheriff didn’t answer, Connie Enriquez leaned forward just a bit, the tissue still grubbing into her left eye. “Someone out in the kitchen is a cat lover,” she said. “Damn things drive me crazy. The dander’s all over my clothes now.” She shook her head and examined the wad of tissue. “Your husband’s the one who opened the new clinic with Alan Perrone, right? The coroner? Alan’s the dapper little guy; Dr. Guzman’s the big hunk, am I right? Great big guy with a nicely trimmed beard?”
Estelle nodded.
“If I asked you to sit down and tell me what the good doctor does all day long-and I mean in detail-I don’t think you could tell me. Am I right? And he couldn’t tell me what you do. Now maybe the two of you discuss your days with each other when you get home.” Her eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared when Estelle didn’t offer an answer. “Maybe you do. I certainly wouldn’t know. George and I didn’t discuss his days, Estelle. Or mine. Never. Ever.”