Red, Green, or Murder

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…”

“You’ve already been of great assistance,” Estelle said. “I appreciate both your and Gwen’s cooperation, sir.”

An impossibly elderly woman entered the store-probably at least ten years older than myself-and Guy greeted her with an outstretched hand into which she placed a prescription order. “George was a good friend of mine,” he added over his shoulder. “Let me know.” He turned his attention to Eva Sandoval and her prescription needs. We made our exit after a “Bye, guys,” from Gwen.

“So,” I said as we settled into Estelle’s car. I could see her mental wheels turning, her dark face sober as her dark, bottomless eyes searched the Posadas horizon. After a minute, she turned and regarded me.

“I’d like to know what you think,” she said.

“Well, I’m flattered,” I replied. “This is one time I don’t want to think.”

“But I can hear the gears working.”

“Smoking from disuse and under-oiling. You know, when Miss Gwen said that Phil Borman came back to the pharmacy this morning with Trombley, I couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to just duck into the back, maybe with the excuse that he was using the restroom. He reaches around the corner and puts the bottle back on the shelf.”

“Yes. That’s a logical scenario.” Somehow, she managed to make it sound as if the suggestion wasn’t logical.

“He had a talk with Trombley earlier,” I added. “What do you think the odds are that Trombley let it slip that we were investigating the use of histamine?”

“A hundred percent,” she readily agreed. “And word of dumpsters being searched spreads faster than wildfire. I have to wonder who else was within earshot when that discussion between Mr. Borman and Mr. Trombley took place at the supermarket.”

“The entire coffee and donut group,” I said. “All of them. And do you suppose that Trombley would mention to Phil about seeing police officers rooting through the dumpster behind his store, just in case there might be someone who didn’t already know?”

“A hundred percent chance of that.”

I nodded. “So let’s just suppose. Borman knows we’re looking. There are a dozen ways to get rid of the bottle, but he chooses to go cute. Return the bottle knowing that the only person that would implicate is Guy Trombley.” I hesitated. “And you know,” I said slowly, “if we put the light on Trombley, the whole thing is pretty easy. He’s not above suspicion, you know. Think about that. He has the drug right on his shelf, he knows all there is to know about its actions.”

“We have nothing that even hints that Guy Trombley was at Mr. Payton’s home,” Estelle said. “Phil Borman found the body, remember. That’s what he says. He could have stopped by any time after Ricardo Mondragon left the house. There’s the opportunity.”

“True enough. But there could easily be some little link that we’re missing with Trombley.”

Estelle frowned and thumped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Now why would Trombley do that, sir? What reason would he have to want to kill a man whose days were limited anyway?”

“I have no idea. But stranger things have happened. I…” A pickup truck pulled in beside us, and I looked up to see Herb Torrance’s worn, wrinkled face peering down at us. Trying to talk with my neck craned wasn’t going to work, and I hauled my carcass out of the car. “Herb, what’s the news?” From the passenger seat, Socks regarded me with disinterest. How soon they forget, I thought.

“Morning to you. Look, I was able to get a hold of Pat Gabaldon’s folks, and I guess the Sheriff’s dispatcher did, too. They’re on their way to the city. The hospital says that Patrick come through surgery okay.”

“He’s in good hands,” I said.

“You heard from the Mexicans yet?”

I glanced at my watch. Hell, we hadn’t even managed breakfast yet, let alone had the chance to follow up on international relations. “Naranjo said he’d call me when he knew something,” I said. “That’s all I can tell you. We can’t just go charging down there, Herb.”

“Yeah, I know that.” He lit a cigarette. “Just hopin’, is all. I was thinkin’ of drivin’ down and havin’ a word with Domingo. I’ve met him a time or two, and we get on all right.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure thing,” Herb said.

“Don’t do that. Not right now.”

“Well, I was thinkin’…”

“I know. You’re concerned, and so are we. You want to find out who whupped up on Pat, and so do we. You want your rig returned.” I leaned back and surveyed the dented, faded truck’s flank. “I didn’t think this thing was still on the road.”

“Almost isn’t.”

“Well, give us a little time,” I said. “I trust Naranjo. He’ll do what he can.” I saw the muscle in Herb’s cheek twitch with impatience. “And think about this, Herb. The officer at the border said that the driver of your rig mentioned Domingo’s ranch. That doesn’t mean that’s where they were really headed. It might just be a convenient ruse. Everybody down there knows the Domingo ranch. It’d be like someone headed northbound across the border telling one of our guards that they were headed for the Torrance H-Bar-T. Everybody knows where that is, too.”

The corner of Herb’s mouth wrinkled with amusement. “Yup,” he said.

“Give us a little time,” I said. There was no point in making promises, but it sounded good. “We’ll work this out.”

“Those sons-a-bitches ought to just end up as buzzard feed out in the desert somewheres,” Herb said. “That’s what ought to happen.”

“And it sometimes does, especially south of the border.” I reached out and tapped his shoulder with an index finger. “Don’t you go getting involved in something like that.”

Herb let out a great sigh, half air and half smoke. “Hell of a thing.” He ducked his head so he could see past me to Estelle, sitting in the county car. She’d been on the phone while we gabbed, not wasting a moment. “You two up to any good?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe.”

“You still workin’ that deal with George? Something going on with that?”

“I guess.” I didn’t ask Herb how he happened to know our business…I’d never seen him at the early morning donut conferences at the grocery store, but maybe he was a new member.

He shook his head ruefully. “Just goes to show,” he said. “You put things off ’til tomorrow, and sometimes you ain’t got it.” He took his time lighting another cigarette. “You know, I was going to buy that piece of property on the mesa.”

“From George, you mean?”

He nodded. “It ain’t much, but it’d solve a problem or two for us.”

“Where the drill rig is?”

“Up behind there. Just kinda that piece up top, there.”

“You’d already talked to George about that?”

“A while ago. When he was still gettin’ out and about. He said it wasn’t going to cost me much. But,” and he shrugged philosophically. “Didn’t get to it.” He reached over and stroked the dog’s round head, and then his hand sank to the gear lever. “I guess we thought we had time, you know.”

I thumped the door sill. “Isn’t that the way it is,” I said. “We’ll be in touch, Herb. Give my best to Annie.”

Estelle watched as I settled into the county car. Herb’s truck departed leaving behind a fine, oily potpourri. “He’s impatient,” I said.

“Of course,” the undersheriff replied. She held out her phone. “I wondered if you wanted to join me for lunch.”

I laughed. “You need to ask? As long as it’s early. We never had breakfast. I’m running on fumes.”

“With a guest, though” she added. “I just talked with Kevin Zeigler. And then maybe we should see Jack Lauerson. Give him his stapler back, for one thing. Kevin is in his office now. Grab a bite after that?”

“I’m your captive audience,” I said. “What’s the deal with Kevin?” Finding County Manager Kevin Zeigler in his office at all was something of a miracle. The county assessor, Jack Lauerson, was equally peripatetic.

“Herb was talking about that piece of land on the mesa?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I would guess it’s only a few acres. Herb would like to end up with it eventually. Either him or Waddell’s outfit.” I looked sharply at her as a number of possibilities started to brew in my undernourished mind, but Estelle had already started the car and was pulling out of the pharmacy parking lot for that long, two-and-a-half-block drive to the county building.