by J. A. Jance
Burton looked at Marianne Macula. “Surely, this is some kind of joke,” he asked helplessly.
Marianne shook her head. “It’s no joke. I spent all morning trying to talk her out of it, but she changed her mind back to going ahead with it just a few minutes ago.”
“But with your father not even…”
“Don’t tell me one more word about my father,” Ivy Patterson warned. “I don’t want to hear any more. You already told me enough, the other day.”
“Ivy, I’ve already told you how sorry I am about that. I was drunk and way out of line. Shooting off my mouth like that was a terrible breach of ethics. I never should have mentioned a word about it.”
“But the point is, you did. I figured if Dad was going to give away half of what I’d worked for, then I wasn’t going to wait around any longer. Yuri and I started making plans right then. That very day. On such short notice, we haven’t found anyone to come look after the stock, so we’re going to spend the night in Tombstone. The motel will probably have a banner over the door-Welcome Old Maids of America. Besides, you don’t need me to talk to Norm Higgins. You can do it yourself, or Holly can.”
“But, Ivy,” Burton argued. “Getting married like this isn’t right. It’s not… seemly. Think what people will say.”
“I don’t give a damn what they say. They can say whatever they like.”
“But your father just died. People around here, especially those who knew Uncle Harold, aren’t going to like it. It shows a terrible lack of respect, of propriety.”
“You expect me to respect the man?” Ivy raged. “After everything he did? Forget it. I did respect him for forty years, and you can see how far that got me. When he decided to throw me to the wolves in favor of dividing this place up between Holly and me, he didn’t hesitate, not for a minute. Maybe he didn’t change his will, but only because he ran out of time. He didn’t give a damn about all the years I worked here. I poured my whole life into this place. If Holly’s portion and mine are exactly the same, then what I did for him and with him all those years didn’t mean a thing.”
“Ivy, you’re being too hard on the man.”
“Hard? No I’m not. Not only did he turn on me, he destroyed Mother, Burton. Maybe you don’t see it the same way I do. I was here every day taking care of her. He even made me help him do it to her, damnit. That’s something I’ll never forgive. Never.”
She paused long enough to take a ragged breath, and then a strange look passed over Ivy’s face, look of terrible comprehension. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What now?” Burton asked wearily, as though he were too exasperated to care anymore.
“Don’t you see? That must be why he swore she was lying and why she insisted that we stay away from the glory hole.”
“What are you talking about, Ivy?”
“The other body. The skeleton. I know now who killed that other person.
“Who?” Joanna asked.
“My father, of course,” Ivy Patterson said matter-of-factly. “Don’t you see? Why else would he have covered it up all these years?”
Why else? Joanna thought with her own heart constricting in her breast. Why else indeed?
Ivy cut off all further discussion by getting up, taking Yuri’s hand to pull him off the couch, and leading him out the door. The other three people were left in the living room, trapped in their own stunned silence.
“I don’t understand what’s going on with that woman,” Burton grumbled as the front door closed behind Yuri and Ivy. “Who the hell is that guy? Where’s he from?”
“Yuri Malakov,” Marianne answered. “He’s from someplace in Russia, of course. Or from someplace in what used to be Russia. You mean you don’t know him?”
“I’ve never laid eyes on the man, and yet Ivy says they’re engaged? They’re getting married? What kind of craziness is this?”
“From the way Ivy brought it up to me this morning, she sounded as though it was all decided long ago. I would have thought for sure you’d know all about it.”
“Well I don’t. Not a word,” Burton said. He shook his head. “What did he say his name is? Malakov? What kind of name is that and what’s he doing in this country? How’d he get here? And how did he meet up with Ivy?”
“He’s an immigrant,” Marianne explained. “And a very nice man. It’s part of our national church mission to help newcomers to this country. Jeff and I actually helped him find sponsors. Hale and Natasha Robertson, from just up the road.”
“You and your husband helped bring him here?” Burton asked reproachfully.
Marianne nodded. “Jeff’s actually more involved with that part of our outreach program than I am. You’ve met Natasha Robertson, haven’t you?”
Burton nodded. “Years ago. I remember when Hale brought her home as a G.I. bride right after World War II. They moved into a place a few miles down the road.”
“Hale’s in a wheelchair now,” Marianne continued. “He was in a car accident years ago. He’s turned himself into an accountant, keeping books for various ranchers. For a long time, Natasha looked after their place all by herself, but she’s getting up in years now, too. It finally got to be more than she could handle. Jeff was the one who came up with the idea of putting them together with Yuri. And it’s a perfect match. Natasha speaks Russian and needed somebody to help her with chores. Yuri needed a job and a place to stay, and he didn’t speak much English. It seemed like a match made in heaven.”
“You still haven’t told me how he and Ivy got together,” Burton Kimball objected. “And just what kind of man is he? You can sit there and blithely tell me what a nice man he is, but for all you know he may be taking Ivy for all she’s worth.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Marianne assured him, “Yuri Malakov is totally on the up-and-up. Ivy started out tutoring him in English. The two of them just hit it off. Right from the start. Actually,” she added, “I like seeing them together. I think it’s sweet.”
“I hope you’re happy then,” Burton said sarcastically. “I suppose holding the wedding tonight was your idea?”
“Absolutely not. Having the wedding now is a terrible idea. I already told you I tried my best to talk Ivy out of it, but, as you can see, her mind’s made up.”
“And what was that I saw peeking out from under Lothario’s shirt?”
“His shirt?” Marianne asked. “What are you talking about?”
“The top button of his shirt was open. I saw something that looked a whole lot like a tattoo.”
Marianne looked puzzled. “I wouldn’t have any idea about that.”
“I would,” Joanna said. “It was a tattoo. Why?”
“Joanna,” Marianne said, “how did you…?”
“I’ve read about Russians with tattoos,” Burton Kimball went on. “In The Wall Street Journal.”
“What about them?” Joanna asked.
“It was in an article about Russian prisons. It talked about how Russian prisoners cover them selves with tattoos as a way of showing defiance of authority. Any kind of authority. It’s a variation on a theme of The Red Badge of Courage.”
With rising excitement, Burton Kimball sat up straighter and continued. “What if this man is an ex-con? Or maybe he’s an escaped criminal or a member of the Russian mafia. I’ve read about them, too. They’re all over here in the States these days. They’re into everything from drugs, to money laundering, to arms smuggling. What if Ivy’s being dragged into something like that?”
Kimball got up and started toward the door.
“Wait a minute, Burton,” Marianne said. “You’re being ridiculous, jumping to all kinds of crazy conclusions.”
Burton paused at the door. “Maybe I am,” he said. “But you don’t know Ivy the way I do. She’s totally naive. He probably… Wait a minute. Maybe that’s what happened.”
“What?” Joanna asked.
“Maybe Yuri was here when I called to tell Ivy about what was going on with Harold. Maybe she told him what was goi
ng on, and he decided to do something about it.”
“What exactly did you tell Ivy?”
Burton shrugged. “That Uncle Harold had decided to settle Holly’s lawsuit out of court. He told me that morning that he was going to give Holly everything she wanted. I was worried Ivy would be left out in the cold, with very little to show for all her hard work and with no one to take care of her. It makes perfect sense now. That gold-digging bastard was worried about the same thing, so he killed Uncle Harold before he had a chance to change the provisions of his will.”
“No way,” Marianne objected. “I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong. These are two fine, upstanding, honorable people.”
But Burton Kimball was on a roll. “Oh, yeah?” he snarled back at her. “What do you know about him, really? About where he comes from, about what kind of background he has? If you ask me, he’s nothing but a glorified wetback. Everybody knows getting married is a surefire way of turning a green card into U.S. citizenship. With what she was due to receive from Uncle Harold, Ivy must have looked like a sure thing.”
By then, Marianne Macula was as outraged as Burton was. “I’m telling you you’re wrong about Yuri, Mr. Kimball,” she insisted. “I will personally vouch for him. He’s a fine man who will make Ivy Patterson very happy.”
“Like hell he will!” Harold returned. “You god damned preachers are all alike. Little Miss Goody Two-shoes. You ought to come down off your high horse and your pulpit and grub around in the real world for a while. Come on up to the courthouse someday and just hang around, Reverend Macula. Maybe you can afford the luxury of taking everyone at face value, but the rest of the world can’t. I can’t. And I’m going to do my best to talk Ivy out of marrying him until we can find out more about him.”
With that, Burton Kimball stormed out of the house. Left alone in someone else’s living room, Joanna Brady and Marianne Macula stared at one another in subdued silence.
“I guess I’d better go,” Marianne said. “If Jeff and I are having a wedding at the parsonage tonight, he may need help getting the place ready. It’s a good thing I vacuumed before you conked me on the head.”
Joanna ignored Marianne’s small attempt at humor, “Doesn’t it seem odd to you?” Joanna asked.
“For Ivy to be getting married like that, in such a rush?”
Marianne stopped to consider the question. “Actually, the older I get, more and more strange stuff is starting to seem normal.”
“Is that because the world is getting weird, or because we are?”
“Maybe both,” Marianne replied. “Most likely both.”
They stepped outside onto the porch in time to witness the end of a fierce shouting match between Burton Kimball and Ivy Patterson.
Finally, Burton slammed himself into his Jeep Cherokee and raced out of the yard, sending Ivy Patterson’s normally placid flock of chickens and peacocks scattering in all directions.
“It looks to me,” Marianne observed, “that the voice of sweet reason didn’t prevail, and the Wedding March marches on.”
Joanna shook her head. “Maybe the whole gang has flipped out. Actually, speaking of that, do you know if anyone’s called Holly to tell her what’s happened? She’s also Harold’s daughter, you know. She has as much right to be notified as any one else.”
“I don’t remember anyone mentioning it to me,” Marianne returned.
Joanna shook her head. “Then maybe I’d better take a crack at that one, too. Better me than Marliss Shackleford.”
“By all means,” Marianne agreed, “but you’d best get a move on. If I know Marliss, she won’t miss a trick. In fact, she may already be there by now.”
As Joanna drove toward Cosa Viejo, she was once more conscious of her hopelessly ill-fitting clothing. What worked for a crime scene wasn’t appropriate for paying an official call. Her mother would have had a fit to think her daughter would show up at a place like Cosa Viejo dressed as she was.
of all the houses in town, the venerable old mansion at the top of Vista Park was by far the most ostentatious. Two stories tall and massively built, the place was constructed out of thick brown stucco and accented by decorative strips of hand carved wood moldings. The yard was surrounded by a low-slung stucco wall backed up by an interior barrier of fifteen-foot-high oleanders, giving the place an impenetrable, secretive look.
Definitely out of my league, Joanna thought, driving up to the gate in her Eagle.
It hadn’t always been that way. For instance, during the time Cosa Viejo was carved up into apartments, Joanna’s favorite high school phys-ed teacher had lived there. In fact, her sophomore year, she had even attended a tennis-club barbecue that had been held on the wide veranda overlooking Vista Park.
But that was long before Cosa Viejo had been made over once again. According to Eleanor Lathrop, very few locals, even upscale neighbors from the immediate area, had been invited inside the refurbished place since its purchase by either the former owners-purported drug dealers - or this new one, who was supposedly someone important out in Hollywood. That stray thought caused Joanna to smile. By her mother’s lights, everyone in Hollywood - no matter how obscure - was important.
Joanna pushed the bell fastened on the gatepost.
“Who is it?” a disembodied voice asked.
“Joanna Brady,” she answered. “Sheriff Joanna Brady to see Holly Patterson.”
For an answer, the wrought-iron gate swung smoothly open, and Joanna drove in. Toward the back of the building was a garage where two open doors revealed both the fender-damaged red Cadillac and a stretch limo. The thought crossed Joanna’s mind that at least one Patterson girl seemed to have done all right for herself. A red Cadillac was a long way from Ivy’s battered Chevy truck. Several parking places had been marked on the pavement on the west side of the building. Joanna pulled into one of them. Before she had time to consider what entrance to use, a door on the side of the house opened, and an older Hispanic woman stepped out onto a small utility porch and began vigorously shaking a dust mop. Joanna walked several steps toward her before recognizing Isabel Gonzales, the grandmother of one of Jenny’s classmates.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Gonzales,” Joanna said, “I had heard you were working here.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Me and my husband both. He retired from P.D. up in Morenci. We came home to Bisbee, but he was driving me crazy at home all day. Now we’re both working again, and it’s better.”
“You’re lucky to have him around to drive you crazy,” Joanna said, hoping the twinge of envy she felt didn’t come across as bitterness.
“I know,” Isabel said, nodding and leaning on her dust-free mop. “That’s what I keep telling my self. Miss Baxter is out front.”
Joanna hurried the way she’d been directed. The sunny front patio, warm and sheltered from the wind, was far different from the way she remembered it. For one thing, it seemed smaller, but better, too. The once-bare edges of the terrace were lined with huge pots filled with exotic and unidentifiable growing things, plants Joanna had never seen before and whose origins she could only guess. The rough-hewn picnic tables and home grown barbecue were gone, replaced by patio furniture that looked too expensive to leave out in the weather.
A woman with a short-cropped pageboy under a large straw hat sat at the table reading a book.
“Miss Baxter?” Joanna asked.
The woman looked up without closing her book.
“That’s right. Amy Baxter,” she said curtly. “I must inform you, Sheriff Brady, that Holly’s attorney has been called out of town again this morning. Since he won’t be able to be in attendance, I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Holly. It simply wouldn’t be responsible of me to let you talk to her under those circumstances.”
“May I sit down?” Joanna asked, letting her hand fall on the back of one of the chairs.
“Certainly. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to seem rude. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you
. What circumstances do you mean, Miss Baxter? What exactly did you think I wanted to see Holly Patterson about?”
“The other night, naturally. I read the article in the paper, so I’m well aware of the part you played in averting a terrible tragedy, but still, with the possibility of litigation…”
“I’m not here about the other night,” Joanna interrupted. “I came to talk to Holly about her father. Harold Lamm Patterson has been found.”
Amy Baxter breathed a sigh of relief. “Really? You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear that. Holly’s been in a state of perpetual crisis ever since he turned up missing.”
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Joanna hastened to add. “He’s dead. I’m here to give her the benefit of an official next-of-kin notification.”
Amy Baxter’s face fell. “Oh, my God. That’s terrible. She’ll be devastated. She’s held herself some how responsible for his disappearance; now I’m afraid… What happened? Was it an accident? A heart attack? What?”
“If I could just speak to Holly, please.”
“of course. I’ll go get her right away.” Amy Baxter started toward the house. “Actually, if you don’t mind, it might be better if we went up to her room. She’s somewhat unstable at the moment, and I’m afraid…”
“I don’t mind,” Joanna said.
Amy Baxter stood up. “This way,” she said.
The interior of the house was magnificent. Outside of pictures in home-decorating magazine articles, Joanna had never seen a more beautiful home. polished hardwood floors, covered here and there by deeply luxurious Oriental rugs. The supple leather furniture blended subtly with the Mission-style interior details into a combination that was both elegant and comfortably inviting.
Discreet track lighting on the twelve-foot ceilings accented huge oil canvasses of boldly painted flowers, many of which resembled the plants growing in the pots outside on the patio.
“Pauli’s really very good, isn’t he?” Amy Baxter said, as Joanna admired a particularly vivid piece at the top of the winding staircase.
“Pauli?” Joanna repeated stupidly, thinking that must be the name of some artist or school of artists well known enough that she should have recognized the name on hearing it.
