“Mrs. Enriquez, to the best of your knowledge, did your husband own any firearms?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I won’t have them in the house. And now you know why.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“George was no handyman, Estelle. He was one of those unfortunate guys who stabs himself with a screwdriver when he reaches into the toolbox to pick up a wrench. He once tried to change the oil on the Jeep, I think just to prove that he could. He dropped the thingie that plugs up the drain hole and then never could find it. He had to buy another one, which the dealer had to special-order, by the way, since no one else loses that sort of thing. That’s George and mechanical things.” She wadded the tissue and pressed it against her left eye. “If he had a gun, I could picture him trying to clean the damn thing and blowing his head off. Just like what you read about in the papers.”
“So to the best of your knowledge, your husband did not own a handgun. For that matter, a gun of any kind?”
“Not as far as I know.” She regarded the tissue, lips pursed. “I know for a while he was talking about going elk hunting, if you can imagine that. I saw one of those what do you call ’ems…game proclamations. And then I heard him talking on the phone about a hunt. Most ridiculous thing I ever heard. It would be just like George to huff and puff his way up a mountain and then drop dead from a heart attack. And elk? What would we do with one of those monstrous things?”
“He would need a rifle for that hunt.”
“I suppose. Maybe he was going to borrow one. Or buy one. I don’t know. As long as I don’t have to look at it in this house.”
She heaved a heavy breath.
“Do you know who he discussed the hunt with? Or whether he actually had firmed up plans about when to go?”
“No idea. You could ask Joe Tones. He’d probably know. You know Joe?”
Estelle nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“They work together with the chamber of commerce all the time,” Connie said. “I think the hunt was Joe’s idea. Or Owen’s. Owen Frieberg? He was here a bit ago. Who knows? Maybe he still is. I really don’t know whose idea the whole crazy thing was, but I would guess Joe. He’s the one who got my husband excited about Mexico, too-one of George’s other daring escapades.”
“Mexico?”
Connie raised a hand in mock surrender. “That sister-village thing?”
“Through the chamber, you mean?”
She tipped her head ever so slightly in agreement. “What’s the name of the place across the border? Aca something.”
“Acambaro?”
“That’s it.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “It sounds so pretty when you say it. Why another town would want a place as pathetic as Posadas as a sister village is beyond me. Sisters in misery, I guess. Anyway, the chamber goes there a couple times a year. Christmas for the kids is one time, I know. A group of students from the school goes down with ’em. That’s Tones’ big deal. Him and George. They liked working with the schools. I know that. Joe didn’t go on the trip with them last year. I don’t remember just what the reason was.”
“Do you recall anyone else associated with the hunting trip idea?”
“Some guy called here a few nights ago, but I don’t remember his name. It wasn’t Tones or Owen.”
“But several of them were going together? It wasn’t just Tones, Frieberg, and your husband?”
Connie nodded. “George was going to take the RV to use as a base camp. I heard him say that. And I think it was on one of those game ranches up north. A ‘boys night out’ sort of thing.” She tossed the tissue into a small brass trash can with unerring aim and pulled a fresh one from the box. “And wives weren’t invited, by the way, not that I would have gone anyway. I had visions of him getting drunk and then tripping over a fence while trying to carry a loaded rifle like in one of those hunter training films we used to see in school, or maybe one of his buddies would mistake him for an elk.” She grunted with amusement. “I’d end up having his head mounted on the wall.”
“Mrs. Enriquez, do you know why your husband was at his office downtown on the day of his death?”
“Why? No idea whatsoever, other than the obvious. That’s where he goes.”
“But he’d closed the office for the week, had he not?”
“I think so. But who knows.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“When he left the house yesterday morning. Monday morning.”
“Did he say anything when he left?”
“If he did, he was talking to himself. I was still asleep.” She regarded Estelle for a moment as if waiting for a comment. “We sleep in separate bedrooms. I snore, apparently,” she said finally, and then frowned. “So actually, no…I didn’t see him Monday morning. I heard him. I remember hearing his electric razor, and then I heard the front door when he went out.”
“Did he call you at any time during the day? Either late yesterday or early this morning?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else call?”
“Other than friends of mine, no.”
“Are you aware of any arguments that your husband might have had in the past few days with anyone?”
Connie Enriquez frowned and turned her head slightly sideways, skeptical. “Argue is a word that I wouldn’t have associated with my husband, Undersheriff. Once in a while I tried to bait him just a bit, to see if he knew I was still on the planet. That didn’t do much good. He’d give that cute little shrug of his and just walk off. But that’s with me. After hearing about the grand jury investigation, I guess it wouldn’t surprise me if he had arguments with half the planet. I didn’t know anything about them. That’s what I’m saying.” She pushed at the inside of her cheek with her tongue, thoughtfully. “Are you saying that my husband’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“We’re still investigating,” Estelle said quietly.
“I can picture my husband trying to struggle out of that Jeep and accidentally shooting himself, Undersheriff. That’s exactly the sort of thing that he’d do. I can’t imagine someone else wanting to shoot George, and I can’t imagine him trying to commit suicide. That’s my bailiwick, more likely.”
“Mrs. Enriquez…” Estelle started to say gently, but the woman waved a hand in dismissal.
“Not anymore. I went through a stage for a while until I just said to hell with it. Life goes on. And now…” she shrugged. “Now I’ll play the black veil bit for a little while, make all the friends feel better, and then we’ll see.”
“What will you do?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Connie said, “Promise not to laugh?” With a forward lunge, she pushed away from the chair, using a steadying hand on the corner of the desk. She waddled around to one of the bookshelves, one that wasn’t crowded with bowling trophies, various small awards and commendations, and a handful of books, mostly insurance references. From a sea of photos, she selected one in a gold frame that was no more than three inches square.
Estelle rose and met her at the corner of the desk, taking the picture. In it, a young couple stood hand in hand, up to their ankles in surf with pure white sand behind them, lava cliffs off to the right. She recognized George Enriquez, dressed in sunglasses and skimpy bathing suit. Only twenty years old or so, he was already beginning to show sleekness around the torso. With her free hand, the girl held a sun bonnet on her head. She wore a one-piece bathing suit the same color as the surf. Soaking wet, she might have tipped the scales at ninety pounds.
“I really loved him then,” Connie Enriquez said.
“The two of you on your honeymoon?” Estelle asked.