by J. A. Jance
“Do you own any property other than your place here, something Andy might have liquidated without your knowledge?”
“No. None at all.”
“Did a relative of his die recently?”
“No. Why?”
“Mrs. Brady,” Ernie Carpenter said slowly, “Andy was a colleague of mine. I’d like to find some legitimate source for the nine-thousand-five-hundred-dollar cash deposit he made into your joint checking account on Monday of this week. Do you have any idea where that money might have come from?”
Joanna was astonished. “How much?”
“Nine-thousand-five-hundred even,” Carpenter repeated. “Sandy, down at the bank, said he brought it all into the branch in a stack of cash on Monday afternoon. He showed up with it just before closing time.”
Shaken, Joanna found it difficult to speak. “But that’s almost ten thousand dollars. I can’t imagine where Andy would lay hands on that kind of money.”
“Could he have borrowed it from his parents?”
“No. The Bradys don’t have it, and he wouldn’t have borrowed it from them even if they did.”
“So you have no idea where this money came from?”
“None at all.”
“Have there been other occasions when unexplained money has turned up in your account?
“No. Absolutely not.” Joanna turned to Dick Voland who had maintained a strict silence during the entire interview process.
“How can you sit here and let him ask questions like this?” she stormed. “You worked with Andy, Dick. He wasn’t like this, and you know it. He never did anything crooked in his life.”
Voland shook his head but without offering any consolation. “Let him go on, Joanna. It’s the only way we’re ever going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Did Andy ever mention Lefty O’Toole’s name to you?” Ernie asked. “Were you aware of any ongoing relationship?”
“No!” Joanna answered.
“Had you two suffered any financial reverses lately?” he continued. “Were you behind in your mortgage payments?”
“No, not at all. We were doing fine.”
“How did he act the past few weeks? Was he depressed for instance, anxious or upset?”
“No. Exactly the opposite. If anything, he was excited. He enjoyed campaigning, and that surprised him. It surprised us both. He wasn’t depressed at all.”
“Did he leave anything here that might have explained what happened? Any kind of note, a message?”
“There was a note with the flowers and ring, but that wasn’t a suicide note if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Could I see it?”
For the first time, Joanna remembered that Andy’s forgotten roses had been left in the ICU waiting room, but she had stuffed the note in a pocket of the dress where she had discovered it when she finally slipped off her soiled clothing.
“It’s in the bedroom,” she said. “I’ll go get it.”
Joanna retrieved the note, handing it over to Ernie Carpenter who studied it for some time. “What’s this about ten years?” he asked.
“We couldn’t afford a ring when we got married,” she answered.
“You didn’t mind him spending three thousand bucks on one now?”
For the first time that morning, Joanna looked down at the glittering diamond on her finger. “He didn’t ask me Ernie,” Joanna told him. “It was a surprise.
Carpenter nodded. “All right. According to Hiram Young, Andy paid for it on Tuesday afternoon with a personal check written on your joint account.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?” Joanna asked. “If it were dishonest money, wouldn’t he have hidden it from me, put it somewhere else rather than in our joint account?”
“That’s one interpretation, I suppose,” Carpenter admitted.
“Give me another one,” Joanna retorted, her temper rising. Up to now, she had been patient, but now she was fast losing it as the questions moved away from mere intrusion to violation. She understood full well what another possible interpretation might be.
Carpenter was busily closing his notebook and putting it back in his pocket. “I’d rather not say at this time,” he said.
“You don’t have to mince words with me, Detective Carpenter,” Joanna said coldly. “Adam York of the DEA already spilled the beans. Whatever it is, all of you seem to think I’m in on it, don’t you.”
“Joanna,” Dick Voland put in, “nobody said anything like that.”
“But everybody’s hinting, and I’m damned sick of it.”
Ernie Carpenter was studying her face with undisguised interest. “One more thing, Joanna. This may be painful for you, but I have to ask. Has there been any prior difficulty with other women in Andy’s life?”
Joanna stared hard at the detective’s impassive face, and her eyes narrowed when she finally understood the full implication behind the question. Her voice lowered.
“Whatever makes you think there’s one now, Detective Carpenter? Get the hell out of here, both of you, and don’t come back. I’ve had enough.”
They stood up, headed for the door, and let themselves out. Joanna had planned on asking Dick Voland to be a pallbearer at Andy’s funeral, but right then, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Twelve
STILL OUTRAGED at Detective Carpenter’s blunt insinuation of infidelity, Joanna churned gravel in the yard as she headed for town. Navigating as if on rails, the Eagle followed its usual route straight to her office with Joanna so engrossed in inner turmoil that she barely glanced at the now-empty wash as she sped along High Lonesome Road.
The Davis Insurance Agency, originally a father-and-son operation, had been a fixture on Arizona Street for thirty years, and the latest in Milo Davis’ long succession of Buicks always occupied the front corner parking place. As office manager, Joanna usually parked in the spot next to his, but today that place was taken by a silver Taurus with government plates.
Adam York from the DEA. What the hell is he doing here? Joanna wondered. She pulled into the nearest parking place, several spaces away, and stormed into the office.
Lisa Connors, the receptionist, looked up in surprise when Joanna appeared at her desk. “Joanna, I’m so sorry about Andy, but I didn’t expect to see you today. What are you doing here?”
Joanna ignored the question. “Where is he?” she demanded.
“The guy from the DEA?” Joanna nodded. Lisa rolled her eyes and gestured toward Milo’s private office. “He’s been in with Mr. Davis for half an hour or so. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” she continued. “Mr. Davis said you’d be out for at least a week.”
“I just stopped by for a few minutes,” Joanna answered. “There are at least three applications that should have gone out yesterday, and they all need special underwriting memos. I’ll be leaving again as soon as those are taken care of.”
The phone rang. While Lisa answered it, Joanna hurried to her own desk, picked up the files, and quickly began keying the necessary memos into her computer, all the while conscious of the unintelligible rumble of voices emanating from behind Milo’s closed door. She completed writing the memos and was printing the last of the three when the front door opened and Eleanor Lathrop burst into the room. She rushed past Lisa’s desk and came straight to Joanna, reproach written on her face.
“I was driving past and saw your car outside. What in the world are you doing at work today?” Eleanor demanded. “What will people think?”
“I have a job,” Joanna returned evenly. “People will think I’m doing it.”
Through the years Joanna had learned to shrug off most of Eleanor’s constant criticism. She had trained herself to disregard her mother’s steady barrage of pointed remarks which covered everything from Joanna’s poor choice of husbands to the fact that her daughter insisted on working outside the home. Oblivious to current economic reality, Eleanor Lathrop made no bones about disapproving of working mothers—al
l working mothers. She maintained that God intended for families to live within their means, and “means” meant whatever the husband brought home, regardless of how much or how little that might be.
This time Joanna wasn’t quite strong enough to simply ignore the jibe, and her cool reply left Eleanor flustered. “Well, if you’re here, where’s Jenny? With the Bradys, I suppose?”
“She’s at school,” Joanna answered.
The look of aghast dismay that flashed across Eleanor’s face was almost worth the 210 price of admission. Joanna bit back a smile while Eleanor clutched dramatically at her throat.
“No. That can’t be.”
“It is. I gave her a choice,” Joanna returned. “I told her she could either go to school or stay home, it was up to her. She chose to go.”
“Children Jenny’s age aren’t old enough to have good sense. They have no business making choices like that. How could you…”
Just then the door to Milo’s office opened and Adam York emerged, walked briskly through the reception area and out into the street.
“Excuse me, Mother,” Joanna said. Abandoning Eleanor to her uncharacteristic shocked silence, Joanna trailed York out the door, catching up with him in the parking lot when he stopped to unlock the Taurus.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. York?” she asked.
He turned toward her with a startled expression on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.
“Neither did anyone else,” she returned crisply. “What I want to know is, why are you here? Are you here checking on me or my husband?”
“We’re conducting an investigation,” he said in an answer that was less than no answer at all.
“What exactly is it about us you’d like to know, Mr. York? Maybe, if you asked me directly, I could tell you what you want to know. You’d get your information right from the horse’s mouth instead of sneaking around behind my back.”
“It’s no big thing really,” York acknowledged with a shrug. “Routine inquiries about your insurance situation, although I must say your friend Mr. Davis wasn’t particularly helpful.”
Joanna squared her shoulders. “There is such a thing as client confidentiality,” she declared. “It’s no wonder Milo wouldn’t tell you anything. He can’t, but I can. What would you like to know, Mr. York? That I’m the owner and beneficiary of a $150,000 policy on my husband’s life? I am. The policy is seven years old, five years beyond the two-year contestability period. In other words, the death benefit is payable regardless of cause of death.”
York looked at her under raised eyebrows. “Including suicide?”
She nodded. York removed a small notebook from his coat pocket and made a quick notation. “What about accidental death?” he asked.
“That too,” Joanna replied. “The accidental death benefit doesn’t apply in the case of suicide but it does for homicide.”
“Oh, I see,” York said. “How interesting.” He acted as though that bit of information was new to him, although Joanna was certain he knew better. For a long moment they stood together in the parking lot while York seemed engrossed in studying what he’d written in the notebook. Finally he glanced up at her.
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” he mused shrewdly. “That seems like a considerable amount of insurance for someone in your financial situation, isn’t it, Joanna?”
Her green eyes narrowed dangerously. “Mr. York,” she said tersely. “I work for a company that sells life insurance. If I sold Tupperware, I might own more Tupperware. If I sold Mary Kay Cosmetics, I might wear more makeup. There’s also a policy on me that would have gone to Andy had our situations been reversed.”
York shook his head and pocketed the notebook. “If you’ll pardon my saying it, Joanna, I’m somewhat surprised you can talk about all this in such a cold-blooded manner.”
He had started opening the door. In a burst of fury she slammed it shut under his hand. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry, if I offended you,” he apologized.
“The hell you’re sorry! You’re implying that I had something to do with Andy’s death, aren’t you.”
York looked at her in mock bemusement. “Did I say that? I don’t remember mentioning anything of the kind.”
Some women become shrill when they’re angry or upset. Joanna Brady’s voice dropped to an icy whisper. “I’d check with the Tucson police, if I were you, Mr. York. Check out the preliminary autopsy results. When you do, I believe you’ll find you owe me an apology.”
He frowned. “How is it that someone like you has immediate access to those kinds of reports?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter how,” she countered. “What matters is that I do!”
With that, she spun on her heels and marched back into the office where she found her mother standing by the window, peering through the blinds at the Taurus backing out of its parking place.
“Who’s that man?” Eleanor asked. “Is he really with the DEA?”
“That’s what he says,” Joanna answered grimly, “although I’m not so sure he’s telling the truth.”
“Why was he here? What did he want with you?”
“That I couldn’t say, but don’t be surprised if he comes back asking to talk with you.”
“Me?” Eleanor echoed. “What would someone from the DEA want from me?”
Suddenly aware of a pounding headache, Joanna pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “Listen to me, Mother. Do you remember telling me about a doctor, one who went into Andy’s room just before he died?”
“There were so many,” Eleanor responded dubiously.
Joanna shook her head. “No, you mentioned one in particular, one who came through the waiting room and told you everything was fine just minutes before the alarms went off.”
“Oh, him,” Eleanor breathed.
“Yes, him. What did he look like?”
“Margaret and I were watching television. I’m not sure I remember.”
“Try,” Joanna urged. “Did he introduce himself? Was he wearing a name tag?”
“How do you expect me to come up with those kinds of details? After all, I only saw him for a minute or so.”
“It’s very important,” Joanna said with dogged patience. “Can you tell me anything at all about him—what he looked like, what he was wearing? How did you know he was a doctor?”
Eleanor closed her eyes as if trying to picture the man. “He had on one of those long white coats, the kind all those doctors wear.”
“And a stethoscope? Did he have one of those?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Eleanor shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“What did he look like?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Joanna! I already told you. I only saw the man for a minute. What does it matter?”
“It matters a great deal, Mother,” Joanna insisted firmly. “Try to tell me what he looked like. I’ve got to know.”
“All right. He wasn’t very tall, and a little on the heavyset side. He looked like a Mexican to me. Dark hair, wavy dark hair.”
“Glasses?”
“No, but brown eyes. Definitely brown eyes.”
“Anything else?”
“Lots of gold in his teeth. You know, gold crowns. You don’t often see that kind of dental work in a man that young.”
“How young?”
“Forty, maybe even forty-five. It’s hard to judge men’s ages. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Mother,” Joanna said, “there’s a good chance that man wasn’t a doctor at all, that he was just pretending to be one to gain access to Andy’s room. He may have gone in there and given Andy something.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Like poison or something? You’re not saying that he killed Andy, are you? You mean I was actually carrying on a conversation with a murderer?”
“All I’m saying is if someone from the Tucson Police Dep
artment calls and asks you about this, tell them exactly what you told me.”
“Oh, I will. I certainly will.” Suddenly Eleanor stood up and started toward the door, moving with a whole new vigor and sense of purpose.
“And, Mother,” Joanna added, before Eleanor made it all the way out of the room. “It might be better if you didn’t talk to anyone else about this, unless it’s someone in an official capacity.”
“Of course not,” Eleanor agreed emphatically. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
Joanna shook her head as she watched her mother walk away. Cautioning Eleanor Lathrop not to gossip was almost as good as telling her not to breathe.
With her mother gone, Joanna quickly finished clearing off the top surface of her desk, then she stood up and went to Milo’s door. Apparently lost in thought, he sat with his back to his desk, staring out the window. At sixty-three, Milo Davis was completely bald. Only the very top of his perpetually sunburned head was visible over the top of his executive chair.
Joanna announced herself by tapping lightly on the door frame, then she stepped over the threshold into his office, pulling the door shut behind her. When he swiveled around to face her, Milo Davis’s usually engaging grin was missing.
“Hello, Joanna,” he said somberly. “Sit down.”
She eased herself into one of the two client chairs in front of his desk. “Please don’t say you didn’t expect to see me today,” Joanna began. “Three people have already given me that same line. I just stopped by long enough to complete those three underwriting memos.”
Milo nodded. “Thanks for taking care of them. You’re absolutely right. They shouldn’t have been left hanging for a whole week. Chances are I wouldn’t have remembered them, either. I’m so used to you taking care of those kinds of details that I just don’t think about them anymore.”
For a moment he examined her face. “How are you doing, really?” he asked.
“Really?” Joanna shrugged uncomfortably and bit her lower lip. “Okay, I guess. It’s all so sudden.”
