A Discount for Death

Chapter Twenty-four

The west wall of Teresa Reyes’ bedroom had been painted a soft, muted rose, called “sunset hue” on the color chart at the hardware store. The elderly woman had been adamant in her choice of colors when she and Estelle had discussed it. Estelle had been impressed but not surprised when Joe Tones had been able to find the perfect match.

Joseph Tones’ world was the mind-boggling inventory of Posadas Lumber and Hardware, an impressive old-fashioned hardware store whose floors were still the dark and dented, oil-soaked pine that had been laid down before World War II. The hardware and its modest lumberyard took up half the block across from Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way on Grande. In that vast barnlike building with its sagging roofline, Tones moved among the crowded displays and vast bin arrays with effortless ease. He knew, always, where the most esoteric bit of hardware might be located.

Estelle parked the county car toward the rear of the hardware’s lot, beside the white pickup truck with the store’s logo on the door. She sat for a moment, letting her mind drift back over the conversation she’d had with Connie Enriquez. Connie had said that Tones had worked with her husband on chamber of commerce projects, that they had been friends for years.

Across the street, a group of five high-school students walked toward Portillo’s store across Grande, enjoying the sunshine, enjoying their lunchtime escape from the confines of school. Estelle watched them and let the unhappy picture of Connie Enriquez bleed from her mind. As she watched, Estelle found herself wondering what Francisco and Carlos would be like when they were teenagers about to tackle the world. Let that be a long time coming, she thought.

Connie and George Enriquez together on the beach. The image in the photograph crept into Estelle’s consciousness unbidden. A young couple enjoying the sun, water, sand, and each other, spared the agony of a crystal ball that would show them where their lives were headed. Estelle watched the five high-school kids until they disappeared inside the convenience store.

She opened her briefcase and put a fresh, labeled cassette in the recorder, then slipped it into her pocket.

As she was closing and locking the briefcase, an orange pickup truck with state highway department emblems on the doors pulled into the slot beside her county car. She glanced up and saw the large woman who got out, hard hat and all. Estelle had been reaching for the door handle but paused. There was always a chance that Leona Spears hadn’t recognized her…but then that didn’t count for much. She’d be ambushed inside the store instead.

Leona smiled brightly and twiddled her fingers at the undersheriff. A robust woman, she stood nearly six feet tall, broad through the shoulders and thick waisted. Her amazingly thick blonde hair was pulled into a tight Heidi braid that could be tucked up under the aluminum hard hat if necessary.

Estelle got out of the car and smiled pleasantly at Leona, who waited by the low parking barrier.

“Hi there,” Leona said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Leona,” Estelle replied. She turned to make sure the county car was locked, giving Ms. Spears a final chance to find something else to do. When Estelle turned away from her car, Leona smiled again, in no hurry to move on. Just as quickly, the smile faded, her thick blonde eyebrows gathered, and she stepped toward Estelle.

“I heard about Mr. Enriquez,” Leona said.

And what did you hear, Estelle almost said but settled for a neutral nod.

“And that right on top of the incident with the Parker girl,” Leona added, making it clear there was more to the incident than was apparent through the rumor mill. “What an awful week it’s been.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Estelle said. Leona had managed to position herself to effectively block the undersheriff’s path, and Estelle knew exactly what the woman wanted.

“Did Matt White call you?”

Estelle frowned, startled by the question since, on the surface at least, it had nothing to do with prying into the sheriff’s department’s business-Leona’s principal hobby both before November 7, when she had been campaigning for the sheriff’s position, and even after that, when she had been digging out from under Robert Torrez’s landslide.

“You mean today?” Estelle asked. She had spoken with Highway Department District Manager Matt White on numerous occasions in past months.

Leona nodded. “He was going to call you folks about the gravel we’ve been losing,” Leona said.

“Ah,” Estelle said. “If he called, he didn’t talk to me.”

“He was going to. I told him that he should ask for you specifically if he wanted something done.”

“I haven’t seen the inside of my office very much this week,” Estelle said. “Someone’s been stealing gravel from the state yard, you mean?”

“No. From the roadside stock, down near the intersection of County Road Fourteen. From the tire tracks it looks like somebody just backs a trailer right up to the pile and helps themselves.”

Estelle managed to keep a straight face. Leona would know about the tracks. She would climb out of her state truck, tape measure and sketch pad in hand, and draw her version of the crime scene, ready to file a report.

“That’s easy to do,” Estelle said. “With those unfenced piles, it’s sort of an invitation. Unless a deputy just happens by and catches them in the act, there isn’t much chance that they’ll be caught.” That wasn’t the answer Leona wanted to hear, Estelle knew. Better to create a gravel profile and match it to freshly spread evidence in someone’s driveway.

“I was thinking that maybe a deputy could watch from either the parking lot of the saloon across the way or from a little ways up Fourteen. It’d be easy to spot them from either place.”

Estelle smiled despite her best effort. “That’s not going to happen, Leona.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not going to assign a deputy to baby-sit a gravel pile. Most of the time, we only have one deputy working the entire county. At night, anyway.”

“I heard that Perry Kenderman was arrested,” Leona said.

“But not for gravel theft,” Estelle said and instantly regretted the amusing remark, prompted as it was by the abrupt change in subject. Predictably, Leona’s eyes narrowed with that characteristic are-you-making-fun-of-me expression. “You’re right. Officer Kenderman was arrested last night,” Estelle said, keeping her expression sober.

“So…” Leona said and as abruptly stopped while the mental gears ground and then meshed. “Bring me up to speed on this Enriquez thing,” she said, wonderfully unaware that the “Enriquez thing” was none of her business.

“Other than that he’s dead, I really can’t tell you much, Leona.” Estelle reached out a hand and touched the woman on the arm, moving her gently out of the way so she could squeeze past. “And I really need to go. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Leona said, turning in perfect synchronization to follow Estelle, “how’s that new clinic going?”

“Wonderful,” Estelle said.

“You know, that pharmacy is amazing.” She fell in step, reached for the front door, and opened it for Estelle. “I have to take a couple things, you know? I bet the prescription prices are twenty percent lower than old Trombley’s.” She reached out and touched Estelle’s shoulder. “Now I have to admit, I haven’t been in all that often.” She made a face. “I’m one of those loyalists, I guess. It’s hard to change my ways.” Leona leaned a little closer. “I think old Guy Trombley understands me, so I don’t mind paying his prices, you know? For one thing, I have this absolutely horrible memory. I run out of something, and he’ll just shrug and keep me going until I can have my physician call from Deming.”

“I’m sure he’s most understanding,” Estelle said.

“But I’m so pleased the new place is doing well. It’s needed, you know. It’s needed. And it may be my imagination, but I think that maybe I’m already paying a little less for some things at Trombley’s. The competition is a good thing…although I suppose Guy would argue that.”

“Well, perhaps,” Estelle said with considerable resignation. “I’m glad things are working out for you, Leona.”

“Hi, ladies,” the pudgy girl at the front counter said. “What can we help you find today?”

Loath to say anything in front of Leona, Estelle scanned the store, hoping to see Joe Tones. As she did so, Leona said to the girl, “I just need a key made.” She dug the sample from her front pocket and handed it to the girl.

“Leona, nice seeing you,” Estelle said, taking advantage of the distraction. She strolled away from the front register, putting as many aisles between herself and the front desk as she could.

Back by the toilet repair kits, she found Joe Tones down on his hands and knees, pliers in hand. He glanced up, saw Estelle, and pushed himself up to a more dignified position.

“Somebody stepped on the front of this bin and broke it, would you believe that?” he said. “Can I help you find something?”

“Actually, I was looking for you, Mr. Tones.”

“Oh. Well, how delightful.” His smile was snaggle toothed and quickly vanished as he grunted first to one knee, then to his feet. “Take my advice, and don’t get old,” he said.

The first time that Estelle had entered Posadas Lumber and Hardware, she had been a junior in high school, less than a month in the United States, and accompanied by her great uncle Reuben. She didn’t remember what Reuben had purchased that day, but it seemed to her that the Joe Tones standing in front of her now was unchanged from the man who had waited on them then, unchanged except for a bald spot that had expanded over the years.

He thrust the pliers in his back pocket and dusted off his hands. “What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about George Enriquez,” she said.

Something flashed across Tones’ face and was gone so quickly that Estelle couldn’t tell if it was sorrow, anger, or irritation. Tones leaned an elbow against the front lip of a bin holding short lengths of threaded galvanized pipe. He appeared to be studying the price tag on the front of the bin.

When he turned to look at Estelle again, his expression was guarded. “What did you want to know? This hasn’t been an easy thing to deal with, I can tell you that for a fact.”

“Mrs. Enriquez said that you and George worked together in various chamber of commerce ventures. Is that correct?”

“Sure, over the years. All the time. He did a lot for this community. A lot of folks are going to miss him. I don’t care what anybody says.”

“Did you know him really well, sir?”

“I thought I did. But we know how that goes, don’t we.”

“Meaning?”

“It kind of threw me for a loop, you know…hearing about him shooting himself that way.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’m hiding back here. Easier than trying to talk to folks who come in.”

“Had you seen George during the past few weeks?”

“Sure. I see him all the time.”

“How did he seem to you?”

Tones shook his head. “Well…you know. He had his share of troubles, with that grand jury thing hanging over his head. I know that worried him.”

“He talked to you about that?”

“Yeah, sure he did. Some.”

“Were the two of you planning to go elk hunting some time this fall?”

Tones jerked his head in surprise and frowned at Estelle. “I was the one who told George that it’d do him good to get away for a little bit, especially before…before, you know. That damn jury thing. Christ, that hung over his head like some big cleaver.”

“George wasn’t much of a hunter, was he?”

“No.” Tones managed a tight smile. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

“How’d he come to decide on an elk hunt, then? That’s a pretty rugged undertaking, isn’t it?”

“Not the way we do it,” Tones said. “The four of us have reservations at one of those fancy game ranches north of Chama.” He smiled. “It isn’t exactly roughing it, if you’ve ever seen their lodge.”

“This is a captive elk herd we’re talking about?”

Tones nodded. “That ranch is big enough, so you’d never know it. Guides take you as close to the herd as you want…or you can hike or ride horseback all day, if that’s what you’re after. George was pretty excited about the idea.”

“Had you actually made reservations, or was all this just in the dream stages?”

“Oh no. No dream. Once George decided that this was something he wanted to do, bingo. He made all the arrangements with the lodge up there. We were originally going to use that big camper of George’s, but then we decided that was kind of dumb, the lodge being available and all. George…he took care of it.” He sighed. “I don’t know now. I guess we’ll cancel out.”

“Who’s the we, Mr. Tones? You said that four of you planned to go.”

He looked askance at Estelle. “How’s all this related to George’s death, anyway?”

“I’m not sure that it is, Mr. Tones.”

He adjusted the rack of pens in his pocket protector. “It was me, George, and Glen Archer. I guess you know him.”

“Indeed I do.”

“And Owen Frieberg, from Salazar’s.” Tones glanced past her shoulder at the same time that she heard soft footsteps behind her. She turned and saw the girl who had been grinding the key for Leona Spears.

“Joe, I can’t find the right blank for this.” She held up the key. From six feet away, Joe Tones glanced at the key and shook his head. “That’s a Yale security lock, Donnie. We don’t have blanks for them. Who’s it for?” He peered around the counter. “Oh. Tell Leona she needs to see a locksmith.”

Donnie nodded and turned away.

“Let’s find some privacy before that crazy woman corners me,” he said. “We can use John’s office.” He led Estelle through the fencing and garden tool section, and ducked into a large back workroom. They wound their way through stacks of boxes and rolls of wire, finally finding a cubbyhole in the distant back of the store. John Hildebrand’s office was a study in things fresh and new in 1950. The old man, sole owner of the hardware business, came to work when he felt like it-as much as ten hours a week at times.

Tones dumped a load of catalogs off a small swivel chair and scooted it toward Estelle. “Sit,” he said, and pulled out the captain’s chair behind the desk. It groaned when he sat down. The sleeves of the jacket that had been thrown across the arm dragged on the floor as he leaned back. He immediately picked up a pencil and drilled the point into the remains of the desk blotter.

“Fire away,” he said.

“I understand that the chamber of commerce organizes a couple of trips to Mexico each year.”

“Yes, we do. One about the first week of Christmas, one on the Cinco de Mayo. Fifth of May.”

“Is this part of the sister-village project?”

“Yep.”

“And that’s with…”

“Acambaro. It’s a little place about a two hours’ drive south of the border crossing at Regal.” He grimaced. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I’m sure you know Mexico far better than I do.”

“Actually, I’ve never been to Acambaro, Mr. Tones.”

“Well, you haven’t missed much. It’s a lot like Palomas, only smaller. Maybe two hundred people on a good day. More like Tres Santos. Poor as dirt.”

“What’s the main objective of the Christmas trip?”

“Party time,” Tones said. “We work with the middle school, you know. It’s really a student-council project, and the chamber tags along and gives what we can. We take bags of groceries, toys, clothes, anything we can scrounge. Then we have a hell of a Christmas party in the little gymnasium next to the school.” He leaned back and rubbed the bald spot on his head, closing his eyes as he did so. “I use the term gymnasium advisedly. It’s a cinder-block barn. Last time we were there, they were trying to raise money to close in the one end they haven’t finished.”

“Who goes on the trip? Just the chamber and the school?”

“Posadas Middle School Student Council. They’re the main drive behind it. I always go, representing the chamber, since we’re the ones who raise a lot of the money for the kids’ gifts. A couple of years ago, I told George that he needed to go along, that it’d be good for his soul.” Tones grinned. “I didn’t think he would. But you know, he did. He even talked his insurance company’s home office out of about a thousand pencils and pens to take along. He went over and hit up the Forest Service for a couple hundred of those wooden Smokey Bear rulers-all that kind of thing is big stuff if you don’t have it. We got another case of pencils from the Bureau of Land Management. It’s quite a bash.” He leaned forward, the chair protesting every move. “You should go with us sometime. It’s something to see the kids’ faces-from both sides of the border. Most of our kids have never seen poverty like that. It’s an eye-opener.”

“When the boys are a little further along in school, I’m sure I’ll be doing all sorts of things like that,” Estelle said. “And that’s it? You, the school kids, George Enriquez…anyone else?”

“Well, the superintendent always goes, like I said. When they start dancing, Glen’s the biggest kid of all, I think. This year we took down about ten older-model computers that the school was surplusing out. I don’t know what the Mexicans will plug ’em into down there…in fact, I don’t even know if the electrical wiring is compatible, but Glen said they’d figure it out and make whatever adjustments were needed.”

“Just him? From the school, I mean?”

“Oh no. Let’s see.” Tones closed his eyes again and resumed stroking his bald spot. “The student-council advisor goes. What the hell’s his name.” He leaned forward and stared at the floor intently. “Barry something.”

“Barry Vasquez?”

“That’s him. Him and about twenty kids, I guess.”

“And you mentioned Owen Frieberg.”

“And Owen, right. His daughter’s in eighth grade. In fact he drove one of the buses.”

“Buses? For twenty kids? How many did you take?”

“Two full-sized buses, crammed to the gills. And we barely fit, too. All that junk, plus the computers, plus…” He waved his hands in the air above his head. “And in some ways, the buses make it easier. The guys at the border crossing all know us.”

“Sounds like fun. What’s the purpose of the Cinco de Mayo trip?”

“Turn about,” Tones said with satisfaction. “They throw us a party as sort of a ‘thank you’ for the December gig. Unbelievable. Where some of those kids come up with some of those dance costumes, I’ll never know. Out of thin air and dust, I guess. They can’t come to Posadas, so we go back down there.”

“George went on that trip as well?”

“Yes. Basically the same crew.”

“Archer went along, too?”

“He drove one bus and Frieberg drove the other, just like in December.”

Estelle looked down at her notebook. “During the past few months, were you aware of any friction between George Enriquez and anyone else?”

“Friction? I don’t think so. George was about as affable a guy as you could want. Good hearted.” He shrugged. “I still don’t understand all this shit that was being thrown up in the newspaper about insurance scams.”

“Did you know Connie Enriquez, Mr. Tones?”

“Sad, sad woman.” He shook his head slowly, his lips pressed tight. “George had the patience of a saint.”

Estelle flipped several pages back in her notebook. “I’d like to return to the hunting trip for a moment, Mr. Tones. Do you happen to know what rifle George was planning to use? Did he own one?”

Except for the rhythmic stroking of the top of his head, Tones might have been asleep. The hand came down, the pencil stopped tapping, and he regarded Estelle with curiosity. “It would be interesting to know which of the questions that you’re asking already have answers in that little book,” he said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He held his hands about a foot apart. “It was a rifle involved in his death?”

“Actually, no, it wasn’t. I was just curious about the hunt. His wife made it clear that firearms weren’t allowed in the house.”

“Yeah, well,” Tones said, and shrugged. “I heard about that, more than once. George liked guns. It was one of those things, like a guy who wants a toy of some kind and can’t have one, because it’s his wife that doesn’t approve.”

“Are you aware that at one time he purchased a.41 magnum revolver?”

“Sure. From George Payton.”

“You knew about that, then.”

“Uh huh. He showed it to me once when I was over at the house. He had it in his desk, there.” Tones’ face sagged. “Is that what he used? The handgun?”

“We think so.”

“Geez,” he said wearily, and looked off into space. “Look. I don’t know what drove George Enriquez to shoot himself. If I did, well…I just don’t know.” He shrugged and held up his hands helplessly. “Detective, I don’t know. ”

“I appreciate your talking with me, Mr. Tones.”

He sighed heavily. “Anytime. Especially if it’s helping that wonderful mother of yours choose paint colors. That’s the sort of thing I like to do. Trying to figure out why old friends end up dead just isn’t up my alley.”

Estelle stood up, pushing the old chair gently under the typewriter table.

“I appreciate your help, sir.”

Tones stood up and stretched his back. “That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to know…when you find something out,” he said. “Good luck with your investigation. God knows, George Enriquez sure deserved better than what he got. And that’s a fact.”