“I have no idea. But nothing would surprise me at this point.”
“Was he taking medication for anything?”
“I know that he had a prescription for Somdex. I saw the bottle in the bathroom. He had a bad back for a while. I don’t know if that’s what it was for or not.”
“That’s all?”
“He could have been taking the entire drugstore, for all I know.”
“Had you noticed any changes in his behavior recently?”
“No.” Connie managed a tight smile, a thinning of the lips. “Undersheriff-that really does sound silly, doesn’t it? Estelle,” and she paused, looking down at the floor’s polished parquet. “Let me put it this way. George and I shared this house. We slept in separate bedrooms. We went our own way. On rare occasions, we managed to eat a meal at the same time, at the same table. Our relationship was like two strangers who give each other a pleasant nod when they pass on the street.” She cocked her head expectantly. When Estelle didn’t respond, she added, “Make of that what you will.” She pushed herself out of the chair.
“The obvious question that you’re too polite to ask,” she said, “is why in holy hell we didn’t just go our separate ways. Get a separation, a divorce…something.” She smiled, showing her fine teeth once more. “And if you asked, I wouldn’t know how to answer. Hell, even murdering each other would have taken more initiative than both of us had put together. That’s an awful thing to say, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Enriquez…”
The woman interrupted her. “You obviously think that someone killed George, am I right? I mean, otherwise you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.”
“Whenever there are unanswered questions, Mrs. Enriquez.”
“I’m not sure I’m even curious enough anymore to hear the answers, my dear.”
Estelle reached across the desk and picked up the walnut box. “This was in your husband’s desk.” She turned the box toward Connie and opened the lid. She saw the woman’s head jerk back a fraction.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she said with disgust, as if the empty case still carried the effluvium of the weapon that normally lay on the velvet.
“That and a single cartridge,” Estelle said, holding up the plastic evidence bag containing the shell.
“You’re kidding.” Connie leaned forward a bit, like someone fascinated by a snake. “Do you suppose someone gave this to him?”
“There’s a receipt inside indicating that George purchased the revolver four years ago from a dealer here in town. Maybe it just struck his fancy at the time.”
Connie’s eyes shifted to the bagged cartridge. “Is this the old ‘save the last bullet for yourself’ story?” she said, and Estelle was surprised at the venom in her voice. She didn’t give the undersheriff time to answer. “And it was in his desk?”
“In the center drawer, rolled to the back.”
“And the gun that was in the case? That’s down at his office?”
“I think so.”
“Secrets, secrets,” Connie said. She waved a hand in regal dismissal. “Take the damn thing, please. And don’t return it. Add it to the sheriff department’s museum. Or, hell, bury it with George.” She rose and straightened the enormous salmon-colored muumuu that tented over her vast body. For just a moment, her shoulders slumped, and she reached out for the comer of the desk.
“I sound terrible, I know, Estelle.” She turned and looked at the undersheriff, and Estelle could see the misery in the woman’s eyes. “I would like to know what happened to George. Will you keep me posted?”
“Yes, I will.” Estelle extended the receipt toward her, with her business card on top.
“Maybe when all the circus is over, you’d like to come over and we could have a chat. You’re from Mexico?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How old were you when you came to this country?”
“Sixteen.”
“For heaven’s sakes. Is Dr. Guzman an import, too?”
Estelle smiled. “Actually, he was born in Flagstaff. But he has family in Mexico.”
“Well, then, maybe you can give me the inside scoop on where to go and who to see.”
“I’ll mention it to Francis,” Estelle said.
“Be kind,” Connie Enriquez said, and when she saw the puzzled look cross Estelle’s face, she added hastily, “I didn’t need to say that. I’m sorry.” She extended her hand for the receipt and the card, then took Estelle’s hand in hers. “Thanks.” She smiled, and this time Estelle saw tears well up. “I’m glad it was you that came over to talk to me.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Estelle said.
“And you will be, too, won’t you. You’re not the kind who makes promises that she doesn’t keep,” Connie said. She held the office door for Estelle and then waved a hand at one of the faces in the kitchen. “Get the front door for the undersheriff, please,” she called.
With briefcase in one hand and the tome and revolver case tucked under the other arm, Estelle nodded her thanks as Father Bertrand Anselmo scuttled to open the front door for her.
“Why don’t you let me take some of that,” he said.
“Thanks, Father. I’ve got it all.”
“Don’t be such a stranger,” he said, and she knew exactly what he meant.
Chapter Sixteen
“The paperwork is the easy part,” Estelle said. She looked again at the arrest warrant for Perry Lawrence Kenderman before tucking it into her briefcase.
Sheriff Robert Torrez shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said. As she expected, he didn’t ask her to elaborate. That was fine with Estelle, since her own mind was a mish-mash of mixed emotions.
Two minutes took them from the county building to Perry Kenderman’s apartment on Sylvester Street, behind the high school’s football field and track complex. Posadas HomeStyle Apartments included eight units, nothing more than rooms in what had once been a ’50s-era cinder-block motel before the interstate had eclipsed the business and the rooms were lumped together with minimal remodeling.
“Nice place,” Torrez said.
“Oh, yes,” Estelle said. No response followed their knock on the door to unit three, and when Estelle glanced through the window of the first apartment, the one with MANAGER written in black marker on the turquoise door, she saw that the room was vacant. “Absentee landlord, I guess,” she said. “And I don’t see Perry’s truck.”
“At the Parker’s, maybe?” Torrez asked, already heading back toward the county car.
Estelle nodded.
“He might be halfway to Wichita Falls by now,” Torrez said and slammed the door of the Expedition so hard the vehicle rocked.
“Or Mexico City,” Estelle said.
“His relatives are in Wichita Falls,” the sheriff said. “Mother, an aunt and uncle, one sister.”
“And brother Richard in Las Cruces,” Estelle said. Torrez turned the vehicle onto Bustos and then headed one block west to loop around Pershing Park. A quarter block later, they turned onto Third Street. Parked directly in front of 709 was an older-model Ford Mustang, jacked up on enormous back tires so wide that part of the fender wells had been hacked away for clearance. As they coasted up behind it, they both saw the Dona Ana County sticker on the license plate.
“Except Brother Richard is now in Posadas,” Estelle said. “This could be really interesting.” She picked up the cell phone, pressed two buttons, and waited. “Gayle,” she said when the sheriff’s wife answered the phone in Dispatch, “have Collins swing around to seven oh nine Third Street.”
“He’s serving a set of papers in Regal at the moment,” Gayle said. “He just left about ten minutes ago, so he’s a fair ways out. Jackie’s sitting here doing some paperwork. Can I ask her to go?”
“Even better,” Estelle said. “Bobby and I will be at that address. And run a plate for me, please. Ida Mike Baker Alpha Delta.”
“That’s cute.”
“Uh huh. I can’t wait.”