Satisfied, she got down on her hands and knees and surveyed the underside of the desk. The housekeeper whose payments were documented in the folder marked CLEANING LADY had done a meticulous job, discouraging all but one spider, whose tiny web clung to one desk leg.
The shelving that surrounded the room was equally tidy, with the flood of mementos and awards dusted and neatly arranged in echelons. George Enriquez had spent thirty years in Posadas as a member of virtually every service club that existed, holding offices in all of them, credited by all of them with continuing generosity. From 1985 through 1991, he had served on the Posadas Board of Education, acting as president in 1990. He had been cited by his own parent insurance company every year since 1978, including a shiny new Nambe tray dated less than two months before.
What George Enriquez apparently spent very little time doing was reading. The array of books was limited to a single shelf, mostly insurance manuals and five years’ worth of Posadas telephone directories. Estelle cocked her head, reading the title of each volume as she moved down the shelf, stopping with a raised eyebrow at two large volumes, Spurgeon’s Home Health Encyclopedia and the Physician’s Pharmaceutical Guide for 2001.
A bent ear of a yellow Post-it sticking out of the fat Pharmaceutical Guide’s pages caught her eye. The text was so fat and bulky that she used both hands to grasp the spine when she pulled it off the shelf. Lugging it to the desk, she thudded it down beside the walnut revolver case and flipped it open to the marker.
The Post-it marked one of the glossy pages of photographs of prescription drugs, arranged by manufacturer. On the tag were written a column of eight three-digit numbers, beginning with 311 and ranging up to 341. The obvious starting place was to assume that the numbers referred to pages, and sure enough, Estelle saw that the entire thirty-page series of numbers on the Post-it was included by the gray section of the drug identification guide.
She turned to page 311. Columns of little pills marched up and down the page, with a sprinkling of bottles, inserts, and inhaler systems. Nothing was checked and nothing was marked. Page 315 was a repeat, with no marks, no dog-ears. In each case, the number on the Post-it corresponded to a page of the photographic drug identification guide, with no additional marks. She frowned and fanned the rest of the pages, finding nothing. She closed the book, making sure the Post-it remained in place, and slid the bulky text into an evidence bag.
For another hour, Estelle poked into every nook and corner of George Enriquez’s den. Finally convinced that she had missed no hidden shelves, no floor safes, no locked cabinets, she repacked her briefcase. For a moment she stood by the desk, gazing around the room. George Enriquez had been a tidy man. For someone who worked with paper all day, he showed no inclination to allow the flood of paperwork from his office to assault his home.
Indeed, he kept so few papers that the single drawer of files in the desk evidently sufficed for all his needs; there was no other filing cabinet.
Estelle moved to the door and opened it. The same woman who had greeted her at the front door was just leaving the bathroom, and Estelle smiled warmly at her. “Would you do me a favor?” she asked.
The woman halted, uneasy.
“Would you see if Connie can break away for a few minutes?”
“I’ll see.”
“Thank you.”
Estelle retreated back inside the office and pushed the door closed without latching it. She walked back to the desk, popped a fresh cassette into the recorder, and placed the little unit conspicuously on her briefcase after making sure the reels were spinning.
Chapter Fifteen
When Connie Enriquez opened the door of her husband’s office, Estelle could see that either one of the guests had managed to say just the right thing, or the cat dander had been flying again. The woman’s eyes were puffy and red, and she was in the process of loudly blowing her nose.
She took a moment to organize the wad of tissue, then closed the door behind her.
“Here I am,” she said. “For better or worse.”
“Mrs. Enriquez, is the condition of this room pretty much the way your husband usually kept it?”
“Nobody’s been in here.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was impressed with how neat and uncluttered his personal papers were. I wish I could be so organized.”
“A place for everything, and everything in its place,” Connie said. “That was George. He hated ‘visual clutter.’ That’s what he called it. He could hold more stuff in his head than most people could fit in a dozen filing cabinets.” She glanced quickly around the room without much interest. “You know,” and she moved to the straight-backed chair, standing beside it for a moment before sagging down onto the cushion, “there are a lot of things I respected about my husband, and I guess I admired that talent.”
She fell silent, eyes focused somewhere off in the distance. “There was that, at least,” she said finally.
“He was an interesting man, Connie.”
The large woman heaved what might have been a sigh or a short chuckle. “Interesting is a nice word, isn’t it. Covers a multitude of things. Maybe I’m interesting, too.” She looked at Estelle and shook her head slowly. “Interesting. That’s the word. I guess this is about the time I’m supposed to profess that despite our interesting habits, we loved each other just the same.” She paused, and Estelle remained silent. “I don’t think we’ve loved each other for twenty years, Undersheriff. Maybe longer than that. Most of the time, I didn’t even like him very much, you know?” She looked at Estelle. “I’m sure there wasn’t a whole lot to like about me, either. Funny how that goes sometimes, isn’t it.”
“Have you talked with the children?”
“The children,” Connie repeated, as if she had forgotten that she had three of them. “The children have their own lives to lead. But, yes…I called two of them last night. I don’t know where the third one is, and she probably doesn’t want me to know. The others will get a hold of her.” She squinted across the room, looking at the shelf of photographs. “There’s a picture of them up there, the last time we were all together.”
“I saw that. It’s a nice looking family.”
“Bart’s the oldest. He wasn’t home when I called, but his wife said she’d give him the message when she saw him. She wasn’t sure when that would be.”
The woman’s gaze drifted off again, and Estelle waited patiently. “Debbie’s teaching school in Houston,” Connie said and shrugged. “She may come down on the weekend. I don’t know.” Her eyes found Estelle’s. “And I don’t know about Virginia. The last time we spoke, she was selling real estate somewhere in North Carolina. But she’s moved since then. We don’t see eye to eye on much of anything.”
She fell silent for a moment, then added, “Now tell me how that happens over the years. A family drifts apart so much that when the father dies, children don’t care enough to take time off from work to come to a funeral. That tells you something, doesn’t it.”
“I’m sorry, Connie.”
“You’re sorry.” She shook with one jolt that could have been a laugh or a sob. “Anyway, you didn’t want to hear me blather on about all that.” Her wide face softened. “You’re easy to talk to, my dear. I’m not just sure why that is. I suppose that’s what makes you good at what you do.” She heaved a huge sigh. “Now, what did you need?”
Estelle hesitated. “I’d like to take a couple of items with me, Mrs. Enriquez. I’ll write a receipt for them, and you’ll have them back fairly promptly.”
“Take anything you like.”
“I’d like to take this book,” she said, placing her hand on the prescription drug guide. “Do you happen to know why your husband had it?”