Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Thirty-two

The neat brick ranch house on East Fairview Lane was manicured to the hilt, ready for a magazine photo-shoot. Neither Phil nor Maggie Borman would call their place a “house,” of course. That word was taboo in their circle. The Bormans’ home cried out to me that the owners would rather be somewhere else…nothing about the place said Posadas County to me.

Only heavy, diligent watering could produce such a verdant yard, coupled with endless mowing, aerating, fertilizing, and fussing. The lawn would make a golf course envious. I had no doubt that the Bormans had a water treatment system, since Posadas water was hard enough to break with a hammer. On top of that, the soil held enough alkali that the upward leaching deposited white ghosts on the surface when the water evaporated.

I knew the Bormans’ aging yardman, a sober guy who rarely spoke and even more rarely smiled. His customer list included several similar owners, and I guess he had the touch that assured business. The busy Bormans’ perfect lawn, perfect cosmos and chrysanthemums, perfect token cacti, perfect everything-all flourished.

It made my yard seem like a bramble pile…but then again, I considered my yard an authentic bramble pile, and that saved me a lot of time and energy. I had no desire to be reminded by a perfect green lawn that I had at one time lived somewhere else, or that I wanted Posadas to somehow morph into something it wasn’t. The thought occurred to me that if I had hired Maggie Payton Borman to handle my real estate deal with the Guzmans, she would doubtless have had a fit about my brambles, perhaps even arguing me into doing something about them. Well, by and large, the bulldozers had taken care of that.

The Bormans’ driveway was empty, the front drapes pulled against the afternoon sun. Estelle slowed the county car, but drove past without stopping. “Nice place,” I said. “So southwesterny.” Estelle didn’t reply, not acknowledging my cynicism. “You know, it nags at me,” I added.

“What does, sir?”

“Gweneth Barnes said that Phil Borman came into the pharmacy with Guy Trombley first thing this morning.”

“Yes, she said that.”

“Phil could have palmed that little bottle easily enough. Suppose he went back to the restroom, way in the back of the store, past the prescription counter, out behind Trombley’s office. If the door to the compounding room was open, or even just unlocked, he could have just reached around and put the bottle back on the shelf. It would only take an instant. Clumsy as I am, I could even do that.”

“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.

“Sir,” Estelle said, “our records show that you called 911 at 12:58 p.m. yesterday to report that your father-in-law had suffered an attack of some kind.”

Phil nodded. “The minute I saw him all slumped there, I knew he was gone.”

“You called Maggie shortly thereafter?”

“Sure,” Phil said. “I told you yesterday. The instant I hung up from 911, I called Maggie and told her that she needed to come over.”

“Where was she at that time?”

“I…I have no idea, really. Her cell, you know. But…” he held up a hand while he gathered his thoughts. “I think she was with a couple from Lordsburg. She had said earlier that she was going to be tied up with them.” He hunched his shoulders. “If not with them, then with any one of a dozen other projects. That’s why I went over to George’s in the first place. She wasn’t going to be able to make it. He hadn’t been feeling real perky lately, and like I’d told you, we’ve been keeping close tabs. For one thing, he ignores his meds about half the time. He won’t call Dr. Perrone, and I tell ya…” He smiled in resignation. “He got mad as hell if we meddled.” Phil cleared his throat and glowered a pretty good imitation of George Payton. “’I don’t need a goddamn nursemaid.’” At that moment, I liked Phil Borman even more.

Phil held out both hands toward Estelle. “Look, I knew he had ordered lunch from the Don Juan, and he said that they were going to deliver for him. I figured to help him clean up afterward. That’s all. Maggie suggested that, too, but I had already planned to do it.” He looked quizzically at the undersheriff. “That’s what I told you yesterday.” He frowned as Estelle opened her cell phone. Its vibration had alerted her, and she didn’t apologize for the intrusion.

“Reyes-Guzman.” She listened for about the count of five, and then said, “Thanks, Jackie. That’s all I need.” She folded the phone back into her jacket pocket.

“Had Mr. Payton mentioned to you that Bill Gastner was planning to have lunch with him yesterday?” she asked.

“Yep. He told me about that a day or two ago. And then yesterday Bill got busy and had to cancel.”

I felt as if I’d become invisible, but resisted the temptation to dive into the conversation.

“When did Mr. Payton tell you that?”

Phil hesitated. “Well, he didn’t. He called Maggie and told her. Look, she knew that she was about to get busy, so she offered me. You know, to get his lunch, but George said that it was all taken care of. I mean, I would have done it gladly. So she didn’t have to worry about it.”

“And when was that call?”

“Good God, I don’t remember. All I know is that at one point in a zoo of a morning, Maggie was on the phone with her dad. She stuck her head into my office and reminded me to go over and pick up the casserole dish after lunch.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember. “Late morning, I suppose.”

How did it become so important to pick up a food delivery dish, I thought, thinking of the usual, casual routine.

“Did George ask you to pick up some wine for him?” Estelle asked.

“No,” Phil replied, showing no surprise at the question. “But it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had. He goes through that stuff like water. Maybe he asked Maggie, but she didn’t say anything to me about that.” He leaned forward and rested both hands on his desk, fingers intertwined. “I don’t get this.”

“We realize that this is a painful process for you, but bear with me.” She studied her small notebook. “Did your father-n-law ever talk to you about any allergies he might have had? Serious ones, like to medications, that sort of thing?”

“Allergies?” He laughed weakly. “That would be the last thing George needed. No, he never mentioned that. How’s that related to all this? You think that he had an allergic attack or something?”

“He may have,” Estelle said. “It will be a number of days before we have the toxicology reports back, but it’s an avenue we’re exploring.”

“Wow,” Phil said in wonder. “Now that’s a curveball. Allergic to what, I wonder? All I know about is cats. He’s always grousing about the neighborhood cats in his yard, but I don’t think that had anything to do with allergies. They use his yard as a kitty litter box, and he said nothing stinks worse than a cat.” He pointed his fingers like a handgun. “He always said the damn things made his trigger finger itch.”

“It’s just an avenue to explore,” Estelle said. “Are you expecting Maggie back here in the office this evening?”

“No. She was going over to her dad’s place for a few minutes, and then over to the house. I was going to take her out to dinner.” He grimaced. “God, about time, too. Christ.” He rubbed his face in exasperation. “Try to relax a little. We’ve got an appointment with Salazar tomorrow for the services. George didn’t want anything done, but Maggie and I both decided that we had to do something. Some kind of simple memorial.”

Just a little something to make George’s ghost furious, I thought. I changed the subject. “Had George ever talked to you about his properties? It was my impression that he had land all over the county.” Estelle didn’t fire one of her dark looks my way, so I knew the questions wasn’t out of order.

The question caught Phil by surprise, and for a second or two he looked at me as if I were a stranger. “His property,” Phil muttered as he pulled his thoughts together. “What a mess that is going to be. But yes, he does. Little stuff, I think. A few acres here, a few there. But we haven’t pursued it with the county. You know, he even owns that little nuisance lot behind the county building itself.” He waved a hand in dismissal. I had never thought of property worth seventy or eighty grand as a nuisance, but then again, I wasn’t in real estate.

“But no,” Phil continued, “we never talked about that. I mean George and I didn’t. Now, Maggie mentioned his land holdings now and then,” and he smiled. “With some frustration, too, I might add. You might talk to her about that if you need more information.”

“Probably not,” I said easily. We still knew nothing about a possible will. Among her other challenges in cleaning up after her father, Maggie Payton Borman would have something to look for over at George’s house.