Privileged to Kill by Steven F. Havill Page B

snorted and toed the paint can with my black boot. “I must be quite a sight.”
    Diplomatic as always, Estelle didn’t respond to that.
    “So…what did you find out?” I asked. I pulled a second folding chair out of the pantry and snapped it open for Estelle. She settled into it with a grateful sigh.
    “Wesley Crocker left.”
    “What do you mean, he left?”
    “Sheriff Holman suggested to him that maybe he didn’t need to stick around the office after all. That maybe he could find himself somewhere else to stay. That’s what Bob Torrez told me earlier today.” Her mouth twitched slightly. “That’s one of the times I tried to call you, sir. The sheriff told Bob that we didn’t need to turn the place into a roach motel.”
    “For God’s sakes, what an idiot,” I snapped. “Where’s Crocker, then?”
    “He told Bob that he wanted to ride north of town a ways and investigate an old trail. He said you’d know.”
    I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the pleasure that strangling the sheriff would give me. “So he’s on the loose. What else? What’s the rest of the bad news? I hope Manny Orosco is still in custody, or did the sheriff send him somewhere, too?”
    Estelle took a deep breath and held it as she regarded me. “Orosco’s dead.”
    “Of what?” Somehow I wasn’t surprised, but the news irritated me even more. Drunks seemed perfectly capable of hanging around for years, until everyone was thoroughly tired of them. The day that they might have been of some concrete use, they crapped out.
    “Well, sir, that’s the interesting thing.” She leaned forward in her chair and clasped her hands together. “When we went through the truck, we bagged as evidence the liquor bottle that was lying near the head of his cot.”
    “The rotgut sherry,” I said.
    Estelle nodded. “There was no other evidence of liquor bottles near the bed. Up in one of the cabinets, I found a half bottle of that cheap fruit brandy, and a new bottle of peppermint schnapps. Unopened.”
    “Even Manny might have thought twice about drinking that stuff,” I said.
    “I don’t think so, sir. Anyway, Francis told me this afternoon that preliminary blood tests showed a blood-alcohol level that was right off the charts. Over point three-five. That’s enough to be toxic in anyone, sir.”
    I frowned. “How do you get that kind of blood reading from part of a bottle of cheap sherry, Estelle?” I could see by the look on her face that she hadn’t told me everything. The light of the chase was in her eyes, and I took a deep breath, determined to keep up with her this time.
    “You don’t, sir. The chem lab at the hospital helped me out. The sherry tested out at a hundred and sixty proof.”
    “That’s eighty percent alcohol. That’s not possible, unless someone spiked the sherry.”
    “That’s exactly what happened. There was enough sherry for a little flavor. The rest was pure grain alcohol. The stuff that kids like to buy to spike punch when they want a real nuclear buzz.”
    “Half a bottle of that would kill a person,” I said.
    “That’s exactly what it did, sir.”

13
    Estelle watched me rinse out the coffeemaker and waited patiently while I dumped the filter, added a new one, and spooned in the grounds. I felt as if I hadn’t had a decent cup all day, even though my blood had to be half caffeine. My stomach was growling that it was close to dinnertime. Still, dinner would have to wait.
    “Now, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said, and joined Estelle at the kitchen table. “And the first thing I want to know is what killed the girl. What’s Francis say?”
    “She choked to death, sir.”
    “Choked?” I turned and looked at Estelle. Then I raised my hands as if I were strangling someone. “You mean choked , as in strangled?”
    “No, sir. It appears that she choked to death on a piece of pepperoni pizza.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “No, sir.” Her face was sober. “And if that’s the