“Yes, he could have done that, sir.”
I regarded her with interest. “And that’s just part of it.”
“An interesting part, though.”
“Why did Phil come to the pharmacy in the first place? He just had coffee and donuts with Guy and the town fathers. Why not just head back to the realty office and go to work?”
“He needed to buy something…a bottle of aspirin, a tube of lip balm-who knows.”
“The cash register knows,” I said. “But Gwen didn’t say that he did buy anything. She said he used antacids all the time, but she didn’t actually say that he bought any. He came back with Guy because he knew that he’d be able to find the opportunity to return the histamine bottle. He either somehow heard on the grapevine that we’re looking for something related to George’s death, or he put two and two together all by himself. Somebody assumed that you’d never figure out that George’s death was anything other than a natural event, but when they heard that you had suspicions, there was no time to waste getting rid of that little bottle.”
“That’s possible, padrino.”
“You don’t think that he did? That would explain why the bottle ended up out of place, at the end of the shelf. It was a spot easy to reach in a hurry. Just reach around the corner. You wouldn’t even have to look.”
“Assuming he’d spent time back there and knew the layout of the room.”
“A single casual visit would have accomplished that part of it,” I insisted.
“It’s interesting that it would be so easy for him to do that,” Estelle said. “For anyone to do it. Mr. Trombley does not run a tight ship.”
“Bet that the ship will tighten just a bit?” I laughed. “And there’s this. With his sister’s illness, Phil would have known about histamine diphosphate.”
Estelle tipped her head sideways at that notion. “That’s not necessarily true, sir. It may be likely, if he was close enough to his sister to discuss her treatment with her. But…”
“But?”
Estelle glanced at the dash clock. “He didn’t purchase the wine, sir. Unless Mr. Pierson is imagining things, but I don’t think that even he could confuse Maggie with Phil.”
“Well, maybe she did buy it,” I insisted. “Pierson wouldn’t be wrong about that. But then, she might have given the wine to Phil to deliver. Maybe she got busy. Remember, Phil was the one who found George after lunch. He might have actually gone over there a few minutes earlier. There would have been opportunity. In fact,” and I held up a hand. We were galloping too fast toward an indictment with all this painful stuff. “In fact, yes, Phil could have brought the wine over to the house. And then left. And then someone else came into that kitchen and helped George Payton with his histamine tonic.”
“Perhaps so.” She pulled the car out onto Bustos and turned east, toward what passed as the downtown of Posadas. “We already know what Maggie told me yesterday. She had not seen her father Thursday morning-she was busy with business. She claims that Phil called with the bad news about her father right after he dialed 911. And as anyone would expect, she dropped everything and dashed right over. If all that were the case, we wouldn’t have found the bag from Town and Country Liquor, with the receipt inside, in Mr. Payton’s kitchen trash under the sink. If Maggie was telling the truth, the bottle of wine would still be in her car, or at her house.” She thumped the steering wheel. “If she bought the wine and then gave it to Phil to deliver, then Phil is lying.”
“We need a decent, readable fingerprint,” I said. “This is goddamn frustrating.”
“Yes, sir,” Estelle agreed readily. “In this case, we may have to settle for the lack of one.”
“The wine bottle, you mean?”
“Yes. If that were an innocent bottle, there would be clear prints of the person who purchased it, almost certainly…unless that person always handled it by that crinkly foil wrapper around the screw cap-but who does that? You take off the foil, and when the bottle is opened, one hand holds the bottle while the other turns the cap and breaks the seal. When it’s poured, at least one hand clamps the bottle. There’s all kinds of smooth, shiny surface for a perfect set of prints. It’s just impossible to handle it without leaving a record, sir.”
“An ‘innocent bottle.’ What a concept.”
“There’s just no reason to wipe it off,” Estelle said. “Just no reason at all. Unless the handler knew that there was a question of incriminating prints.” She eased the car to a stop in front of the small, neat Posadas Realty building. “I want to talk with them both.”
Through the large front window with its lace curtain trim, I could see Phil Borman standing by the receptionist’s desk, telephone to his ear. His Lexus SUV was parked in the narrow driveway between the realty and the empty building next door, but I didn’t see Maggie’s fancy Cadillac sedan. If one judged by vehicles alone, then the real estate business was booming.
Nine o’clock was but minutes away and the realty office staff had long since gone home. Phil appeared to be alone, and when he turned and saw the county car, he stepped closer to the window. His bland face offered nothing but greeting when he recognized us, and he beckoned us inside.
Whether it was just his gregarious nature or whether he actually had something to tell us, I couldn’t imagine. Estelle left the car running, but before she got out, dialed her cell phone.
“Brent,” she said to the young dispatcher who responded, “who do we have on the road?” She listened for a few seconds. “Will you have her swing by 1228 Ridgemont for me? I need to know if Maggie Borman is over there. Have him call me.” Estelle had her little notebook open, and in response to a question, she added, “Negative contact, Brent. Just the information. Mrs. Borman is driving a metallic gray Cadillac CTS, license Paul Robert Edward One. Thanks, Brent. Make sure Jackie uses the phone, not the radio. I’ll be out of the car for a few minutes at the Borman Realty on Bustos. Bill Gastner is still with me.”
“Do you want me to wait here?” I asked, and the undersheriff shot me a sideways glance of amusement as she snapped the phone closed.
“You’re my backup, sir,” she said. “My moral support. Even if you keep trying to avoid the logic here.”
“I’m not trying to avoid anything, sweetheart. I’m just trying…to avoid it.”
By the time we were out of the car and on the sidewalk, Phil Borman had opened the front door of the office and greeted us pleasantly. “Another thirty seconds and you would have missed me,” he said. “You know, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Just about the time we could really stand some peace and quiet, we’re up to our necks in all kinds of things. These twelve-hour days are killing me.”
“Real estate is hopping, eh?” I said.
“Well, hopping is relative, I suppose. But fits and spurts. Just enough that we can’t ignore the place for a few days, which is what we should do. Come on in.” He stopped and looked up and down the street. “I assume you were stopping by here?”
“We were,” Estelle said agreeably and shut the front door behind us, the chimes jangling an irritating, cheerful greeting.
“Come on back,” Phil said. “Coffee? I can make some in a jiffy.”
“No, thanks, sir.” Estelle was always faster on the draw than I was, but I deferred. Hell, a nice cup would have been welcome, since the promised dinner hadn’t materialized. Borman slumped down in the big leather chair behind his desk and waved us to the comfortable seats where he normally placed his victims. Estelle took one of the guest chairs, but I roamed the back of the office, looking at Phil’s art, his diplomas and various licenses. “This whole business with George,” he said, and let the thought trail off.