“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.”
Chapter Twenty-five
As she walked back down the center aisle, past the bin displays of two-dollar Taiwanese hammers and seven-buck sets of six pliers, Estelle saw that Leona Spears and the patient salesgirl were still lost in the world of key blanks. The highway engineer looked up and saw Estelle approaching. Immediately, she began to move away from the current key problem, homing in on the undersheriff.
“Have you stopped for lunch yet?” Leona asked.
“Lunch isn’t on the schedule for today, Leona,” Estelle answered with a rueful smile. The statement was perfectly true unless Francis could break free for a few minutes.
Leona looked wistful. “Well, someday, then,” she said, and drifted toward the door after Estelle. “Would you please tell your husband how much we all appreciate his efforts with that new clinic and pharmacy?”
Estelle nodded. “I’ll do that. He’ll be pleased to hear it.”
She exited the store, feeling the warmth of the early afternoon October sun bouncing off the roof of her car. As her hand touched the door handle, her cell phone chirped as if car and phone had somehow made electrical contact. She slipped inside the sedan and closed the door.
“Guzman.”
“Estelle?”
She didn’t immediately recognize the voice. “Yes.”
“Listen, this is Owen Frieberg, over at Salazar and Sons Funeral Home. Are you going to be around this afternoon sometime? I tried to catch you at the office earlier, but I missed.”
“I would think so, Mr. Frieberg. What may I do for you?”
“Well…” and he hesitated. “There’s kind of a tricky matter that I need to discuss with you. Won’t take but a minute.” Even as he spoke, the radio barked. Estelle didn’t respond immediately but sat quietly, trying to imagine what kind of “tricky matter” a funeral director might have that would demand her attention.