“God damn it,” he murmured fervently. “What the hell is going on, Bill?”
“I honestly don’t know, Guy. I wish I could just present all the answers on a silver platter for you, but I can’t.”
He turned as Estelle emerged from the compounding room. “My prints will be on that container, obviously. Thanks to this business, the FBI has them on file, along with a dozen other agencies and bureaus. It’ll be easy to make a comparison. I’d be interested to know what other prints you find.”
“Yes, sir,” Estelle agreed, and Guy Trombley laughed at her reticence.
“You haven’t asked me how I found out you were looking into George Payton’s death,” he said.
“That’s true, sir.” Estelle didn’t add the obvious question.
“One of the lab techs over at the hospital told me when I called on another matter,” he said. “I hope she won’t get in trouble for that.”
“I don’t think so, as long as it went no further than you, sir.”
“I’m sure it didn’t. I’m sure it won’t.”
“Good. I need to talk with Gweneth, if that’s all right with you, sir,” Estelle said. Or even if it isn’t, I thought.
“I’m sure that she has had nothing to do with any of this,” Guy said quickly, sounding like a protective parent.
“No doubt not,” Estelle replied. “Is Mrs. Tomlinson working today?”
“She’ll be in right after lunch. You want to talk with her too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then there’s me,” Guy Trombley said. “What else can I tell you that I haven’t already?”
Estelle took a deep breath, looking down at the evidence bag. “I’d like you to take a moment and write down a list of every single customer you can remember from Wednesday through this morning.”
“Well, hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, sir. Right up to when you telephoned us a few minutes ago.”
“Do you have any idea how many customers we serve every day?”
“A goodly number, I’m certain.”
“Indeed, goodly. A lot, is what the number is, Undersheriff Guzman.” I did some mental computing and decided that, if the pharmacist was trying to find time to duck out for coffee and donuts, or a quick nine at the grubby Posadas links, then even ten customers would seem like a burden. Guy Trombley was not exactly running a big-box store pharmacy here.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Estelle said.
“You’ll let me know?” he said as we walked out into the store proper.
“Of course,” I said. “When we know, you’ll know.” I patted his bony shoulder.
“Okay, then. Gwen,” he said to his clerk, “these folks would like a few minutes of your time. That all right with you?”
The girl’s eyes opened a little wider. “Oh, sure.”
“You can use my office, if you like,” Guy said. “It’s that little room right across the hall from the pharmacy.”
“Outside is fine,” Estelle said pleasantly.
“Let me know, then,” he said. “Gwen, I’ll take care of things. Just go ahead.” It sounded as if maintaining that last bit of control was important to him.
Chapter Twenty-five
Listening to someone with a sharp memory is always a treat. Gwen Barnes was able to cruise through the humdrum memories of the previous Wednesday and Thursday, replaying the events of her days. I saw that, given not very much time in this job, she’d be the sort of employee who would greet each customer by name, probably remember what drugs they were taking, and always remember to ask how the grandkids were doing-and then the real trick, listen to the answers.
I knew most of the names that Gwen recited, and in her own eager way, the young woman seemed perfectly willing to divulge what she shouldn’t…the reason for each customer’s visit. She didn’t need to scour through the computer records to recall most of her day. As expected, the customers painted a cross-section of Posadas. Students dropped in for a candy bar or two, maybe hoping that Guy Trombley had relented and started carrying tobacco products in his pharmacy. The elderly chased blood pressure, blood sugar, and cholesterol. The high-school football coach came in with a purchase order for a dozen three-inch elastic bandages, and I reminded myself to cut out the Posadas Tigers game schedule from the paper. Late Thursday afternoon, Honor Gallegos had dropped off the usual twenty-five copies of the Posadas Register, tucking them neatly into the folding stand just inside the door.
Earlier this Friday morning, Maggie Payton had stopped by and purchased a newspaper, at the same time dropping off another supply of the brochures that touted her agency and current real estate bargains. I happened to be looking Estelle’s way when Gwen recited that bit of information and didn’t see as much as an extra blink of interest. My self-control wasn’t so finely honed.
“What time was she here?” I asked.
“Just about first thing,” Gwen said. “That’s when she always comes in.”
“Which reminds me that I’m supposed to have lunch with her and Phil today,” I said to Estelle, hoping that the creative fabrication might deflect Gwen’s curiosity.
“And Mr. Borman came in with Mr. Trombley,” Gwen added helpfully. “He keeps the stock of antacids rotating.”
“Real estate will do that to you,” I said. The day after George’s death, both of the Bormans were trying to live life as usual, I guess. Routine could be soothing.
“Was Mr. Trombley here when Mrs. Payton came in?” Estelle asked.
“No. He hadn’t come back yet.” She lowered her voice as if her boss might be able to hear her through the pharmacy’s cinderblock walls. “He opens up the store at eight, brings the cash drawer and stuff out of the safe for me, and then he goes for coffee and donuts with his group over at the SuperMart. He’s always back by nine or a little before, though.”
“And Mrs. Tomlinson doesn’t come in until nine or so?” I asked.
“Most of the time,” Gwen replied.
For another ten minutes, we chatted with Gwen, and a few more names were added to the list. We went back inside, and Guy Trombley held up a hand in salute.
“Anything more we can do, you just say so,” he called. He ambled out from behind the register, hands massaging as if he’d just lathered on hand cream. He nodded toward the rear of the store, obviously wanting us to follow. Once out of earshot from Gwen, he relaxed with one elbow propped on the edge of the prescription counter. “You know, I had a chat with Phil Borman this morning that was a little upsetting.” He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head as if the memory was painful. “A few of us meet every morning over at the SuperMart, and Phil and I had a private moment. Sad time for them.”
“A rough time,” I said, and Trombley waited as if expecting me to add more to my noncommittal response.
“He says it looked like a full-fledged homicide investigation over at George’s place,” Trombley prompted. When neither Estelle nor I replied, the pharmacist persisted. “Well? Was it? Is it? Is that what all this interest in the histamine is all about? How’s that all tied in?”
I thought of several undiplomatic replies as I counted to ten, but the undersheriff could read my mind, and cut me off.
“Sir, I hope you’ll give us a chance to do our jobs,” Estelle said. “I know this is a hard time for people who knew and respected Mr. Payton.”
“If this is homicide,” Trombley said, “then it affects us all.”
“Indeed it does,” I said. “Homicide or not, as a matter of fact.”
“This investigation isn’t community property.” Estelle’s tone was both pleasant and patient. “If there was a problem, it’s not going to be resolved over coffee at the SuperMart.”
Trombley seemed to relax a bit, and flashed a smile of genuine amusement. “Well, now, you never know. We cover a lot of ground every morning. If there’s anything I can do to help…”