Skeleton Canyon (9780061752216)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I guess so. Her mother was always leaving home. About twice a year she’d go away for two weeks or so, sometimes even longer. She told Bree she was doing some kind of mission work, but Bree found out that wasn’t true.”

  “You mean Katherine wasn’t off doing medical mission work when she told Brianna that’s what she was doing?”

  “Right.”

  “Where was she, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Ignacio replied. “If Bree ever found out, she never told me.”

  Joanna recognized the wary reluctance in Ignacio’s voice. “She did find out something, though, didn’t she?” Joanna prodded. “What?”

  “That her mother couldn’t have gone off on any medical missions. She wasn’t a nurse anymore. She didn’t have a license.”

  “Thank you, Ignacio,” Joanna told him. “That’s all I need to know.”

  Minutes after talking to Ignacio Ybarra, Joanna had Kristin Marsten fax an official inquiry to the Arizona State Department of Licensing. The reply returned with an alacrity that Joanna found astonishing. Katherine V. Ross had lost her right to be a nurse at the request of her former employer—Good Samaritan Hospital. Her license had been permanently revoked.

  She had been implicated in the wrongful death of a patient—one Ricardo Montaño Diaz—who had died as a result of an accidental overdose of medication. The hospital had settled the resultant legal suit by making a sizable monetary payment to the dead man’s family. There was no mention of criminal charges being brought against the nurse. However, as her part of the settlement with the Diaz family, she had agreed to give up the practice of nursing. Just to make sure, however, the hospital had gone to the extraordinary measure of making sure her license was revoked.

  Having gleaned that much information from the first page of the multipage fax, Joanna almost put it aside without glancing at any of the subsequent pages. Halfway down the second page, though, the words dust storm leaped off the page.

  Mr. Diaz, it turned out, had been critically burned in a fiery, dust storm-related accident on Interstate 10 when the loaded semi he was driving had plowed into another vehicle, trapping and killing a woman and two children. David O’Brien’s first wife and his first two children.

  Outside her window, a long fork of lightning streaked across the darkening sky, followed immediately by the crack and rumble of nearby thunder. Joanna barely noticed. She turned loose the pages of the fax and let them flutter onto her desk.

  “My mother is a liar,” she said to herself. And probably much worse besides.

  The words wrongful death could conceal a multitude of sins, everything from involuntary manslaughter to aggravated first-degree murder. How had this death happened? Joanna wondered. And who was ultimately responsible?

  The hospital had paid the claim, or at least the hospital’s insurer had. Katherine O’Brien, nee Ross, had lost her nursing license as a result of what had happened, so presumably she had been held primarily accountable. Had she acted alone? What about David O’Brien, her future husband, who most likely had been a patient in the same hospital at the time of Mr. Diaz’s death?

  While Joanna stared off into space, her mind kept posing questions. What if, after all these years, while trying to figure out where to send her mother’s birthday card, Brianna O’Brien had somehow stumbled across the same information? What if she had confronted her parents about the roles they had both played in the other man’s death?

  With a storm in her heart that very nearly matched the one blowing up outside her window, Joanna sat at her desk and considered. To everyone who knew them, Katherine and David O’Brien appeared to be a fine, upstanding couple. Supposing Bree, having discovered bits and pieces of their darker past, had threatened to expose them. Would they have killed their own daughter to keep that secret from becoming public knowledge?

  After all, if the simple disobedient gesture of wearing a forbidden pair of earrings had merited a slap in the face, how would David O’Brien have responeded to something much more serious?

  TWENTY-THREE

  SITTING THERE thinking the unthinkable and wondering whether or not the O’Briens were capable of murdering their own daughter, Joanna was startled out of her terrible reverie a few minutes later when the intercom buzzed once more. “Detective Carpenter is on the line,” Kristin announced.

  “What gives?” Joanna asked, picking up the phone. “Are you bringing Nettleton in?”

  “Sending him,” Carpenter replied. “Nettleton, that is. Detective Carbajal picked him up for transport just a while ago. We arrested him on suspicion of possession of stolen property.”

  “Stolen property?” Joanna echoed.

  “That’s right. We found a ’92 Honda that was reported stolen two days ago in Tucson. It was hidden in a shed at the very back of his lot. It hadn’t quite made it through his on-prem chop shop. Once we get around to tracking VINs on some of the other pieces of vehicles we found out on Sam’s back forty, there may be more besides.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joanna interrupted. “You’re talking Vehicle Identification Numbers? I thought this was about Freon. What’s going on, Ernie? Why is Jaime bringing in the suspect instead of you?”

  “Because I’m on my way to Willcox,” Ernie answered. “Along with the boys from DEA. Adam York is going to meet us there.”

  “Willcox?”

  “The DEA guys put the fear of God in Nettleton. He gave us a name,” Ernie explained. “Aaron Meadows.”

  “Who’s he?” Joanna asked.

  “He’s the guy who’s supposedly selling the stuff to Nettleton. He’s an ex-con lately out of Florence. He grew up just outside Willcox. You probably don’t remember this. It’s before your time, but his grand-parents once ran a combination gas station/cattle rest east of there.”

  “What’s Meadows’s connection to all this?”

  “He went to prison for smuggling years ago. Drugs back then. Chances are, that’s what he’s doing again—smuggling, only now the payload is Freon rather than drugs. I’m in the process of having Dick Voland issue an APB. Meadows drives an ’89 Suburban. With any luck, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  Joanna considered for a moment. With Ernie Carpenter totally focused on the Freon situation, it seemed like a bad time to bring up anything more about the O’Briens. Mentioning an almost-twenty-year old wrongful death case in Phoenix would simply muddy the waters for an officer who was already neck-deep in a complicated joint operation. There would be plenty of time to discuss the Diaz case with Ernie once the dust had settled and the damned Freon situation had finally come to a head.

  “Keep me posted,” Joanna said at last. “What about deputies? Will you need more?”

  “That’s handled. Dick Voland’s already put out the word for all uncommitted deputies to head for Willcox. With them and the guys from the DEA we should have a full contingent.”

  “Be careful,” Joanna warned. “You’re wearing body armor?”

  Ernie laughed. “Are you kidding? After what we paid for this outfit, Rose won’t let me out the front door without it. She’s determined we’re going to get our money’s worth.”

  “If nagging is all it takes to get you to wear it, good for Rose,” Joanna returned.

  She put down the phone and looked outside just as a storm-spawned dust devil tore through the parking lot. Wind-driven rain came moments later, slanting down to the ground with such ferocity that for a few minutes even Joanna’s Crown Victoria, parked right outside the window, was totally obscured from view.

  Ernie was right. If the storm lasted for very long, it would indeed be another gully-washer. All her life, Joanna had delighted in these spectacular downpours. But as sheriff, she couldn’t help seeing them through the nagging prism of her fiscal and budgetary responsibilities. What had once been a welcome summertime diversion now meant nothing more than another hit in the overtime department. She didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to gaze into the next morning’s briefing and see exactly what would happ
en. Both her chief deputies would be there, and Frank Montoya would be pitching his usual fit.

  She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, shutting out the tumult outside her window and deliberately turning off the turmoil within. Reinforcements were headed for Willcox, which meant there was no need for her to go traipsing up there. Besides, by staying behind, she would be on hand when Detective Carbajal brought Nettleton in for questioning.

  Opening her eyes again, she glanced at her watch. Five of four. In a while she’d call Doc Winfield and ask him about the medical missionaries. Jaime wouldn’t arrive with his prisoner for the better part of an hour. Before then, maybe Joanna could finally make some progress on her paperwork.

  Resolutely reaching for the stack, she forced herself to handle the first thing she touched—the board of supervisors letter. Next came a governmental treatise—a thick, bound notebook of bureaucratic double-speak containing the latest federal mandates and guidelines concerning the care and feeding of prisoners.

  With the very best of intentions, Joanna opened it and began to read. Halfway through page five, she nodded off and fell fast asleep.

  Getting off the phone at noon, Angie Kellogg had turned to find her customers hanging on her every word. All afternoon she faced a barrage of good-natured teasing about her car’s going for a ride without her. The jokes were made easier to endure, however, by the fact that Angie’s loyal customers were also determined to do something about it. She was surprised and touched to see that while her back had been turned, someone had placed an empty gallon jar on the end of the bar with a label affixed to it reading “Let’s fix Angie’s Omega.” By two that afternoon the jar already contained several crumpled bills and a collection of loose change.

  The Blue Moon’s easy camaraderie made those unsolicited donations possible. It also gave rise to teasing of a more personal nature. All afternoon, Archie McBride and Willy Haskins kept up a running interrogation about what had gone on with Angie’s “Boy Scout.”

  “Are you gonna see him again?” Willy asked.

  Angie, wavering between hoping Dennis Hacker would call and never wanting to see him again, shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “He seemed like one of those real gentlemen. Was he nice to you?”

  Angie considered for a moment before she answered. Yes, Dennis Hacker had been nice to her—right up to the time he hurt her feelings. Now, mulling over his phone call, which had obviously been an apology, she didn’t know what to think. It was stupid for her to believe that Dennis Hacker had actually fallen for her after seeing her only one or two times. And yet, those things did happen. Or did they? Was that kind of instant romance something that happened only in the movies?

  “He didn’t try to take advantage of you, now, did he?” Archie pressed solicitously. “‘Cause if’n he did, me an’ ol’ Willy here’ll take care of him the next time he walks through the door. Right, Willy?”

  “What?” Willy asked.

  “Never mind,” Angie said with a laugh. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  Feeling better, Angie went back down the bar to serve another customer. It was nice to have champions even if they were nothing more than a pair of broken-down, toothless old miners.

  About three o’clock the Blue Moon’s swinging door banged open and in walked the last person Angie Kellogg ever expected to see there—the Reverend Marianne Maculyea. “What are you doing here?” Angie asked.

  “I brought you something.” Marianne reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of car keys, which she deposited on the bar directly in front of Angie.

  “What are those?”

  “The keys to the truck,” Marianne answered. “The International may not be a thing of beauty, but it’s totally dependable. Jeff and I talked it over. He’ll borrow a car from one of his clients until we can get your Omega back on the road. In the meantime, it doesn’t make sense for you to be stuck walking. This way you can come and go as needed.”

  For Angie, this latest kindness was almost over-whelming. “But what about—”

  “No buts,” Marianne interjected. “This is how it is. It’s parked right outside the door.”

  “Thank you,” Angie said. That was all she could manage.

  From then on, the rest of the afternoon seemed to crawl by. Customers came and went. By four o’clock, Angie was sneaking periodic checks at the clock behind the bar. Would Dennis Hacker call or not? Finally, when the phone rang at four-fifty, she leaped to answer. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Angie,” he said. “I’m back.”

  Angie had been waiting eagerly for the call. Now that he was on the line, she found herself drowning in confusion with no clue as to what to say. “How was the meeting?” she stammered.

  “Fine,” Dennis said. “First rate. How about you? And what about dinner?”

  Angie glanced down the bar to where Archie and Willy were listening to her every word. “I guess that’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Great,” Hacker responded cheerfully. “I came back to the house to wash up. Unfortunately, it’s been raining like crazy out here, which means the washes are probably up again. The Hummer will make it through just fine, but it may take a little longer—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence. The phone seemed to clatter onto some hard surface. When Dennis Hacker spoke again, he sounded angry. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  “Who are you talking to?” another voice, a male one, returned just as angrily. “Get your hands up in the air. I heard you talking. Who else is in here with you? Where are they?”

  “There’s nobody here. I’m alone,” Dennis answered.

  In the background Angie could hear some shuffling and banging as though someone were searching the trailer.

  “Dennis?” she asked hesitantly after a moment. “Can you hear me? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  “Oh, it’s the phone,” the unidentified voice said. “Hang it up.”

  She heard a noisy crash. “Dennis?” Angie said after that. “Are you there? Are you all right?”

  In answer, there was nothing but silence.

  Joanna, awakened from her momentary snooze and still unable to contact Doc Winfield, was back plowing through the federal mandate when her private phone rang. It was a line that came directly through to her desk, bypassing both Kristin and the switchboard.

  Like working mothers everywhere, Joanna had worried about Jenny’s being able to get through to her quickly in case of some pressing emergency. Emergencies aside, the sheriff had been self-conscious about nonemergency calls as well. It was embarrassing when a phone call asking what was for dinner came through departmental channels. That went for the social calls that came to Joanna’s office as well.

  Not many people had that private number—notably Jenny, both sets of grandparents, and Marianne Maculyea. In addition, there was that solitary male friend up in Phoenix—Butch Dixon. As she reached for the ringing phone, Joanna found herself hoping he might be the one who was calling now. She hadn’t spoken to Butch for several days—not since the day she’d driven Jenny to camp. It surprised her to realize how much she had missed talking to him.

  “Joanna?” Eleanor Lathrop announced curtly. “It’s me.”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice, Joanna felt a flash of disappointment followed almost immediately by a spurt of anger. She had meant to have it out with her mother—to have a real coming to God about what Eleanor and George had been up to behind Joanna’s back. But she had wanted to have all her emotional ducks in a row beforehand. Unfortunately, Eleanor had the drop on her.

  “Hello, Mother,” Joanna said guardedly. “How’re things?”

  “I’ve been waiting by the phone all day long, hoping you’d call.”

  Going on the offensive was one of Eleanor’s typical ploys. Why should I do the calling? Joanna wondered. After all, since Eleanor had been sitting on news of her recent elopement, it made sense that her fingers should h
ave been doing the dialing.

  “I haven’t had a chance to call anyone,” Joanna lied. “It’s been a zoo around here.”

  “Well,” Eleanor returned, “it hasn’t been any too pleasant for me, either.”

  Joanna closed her eyes and steeled herself for one of Eleanor Lathrop’s infamous tirades. It didn’t come. “I’ve been afraid to call you,” Eleanor continued, her voice sounding suddenly tentative and tremulous. “I didn’t know if you’d even be willing to speak to me.”

  Joanna’s eyes popped open in astonishment. “You were afraid to call me?” she asked.

  “Well, yes,” Eleanor allowed. “I was worried about what you’d think. Of George and me. Of what we’ve done. I was afraid you’d be furious.”

  Now that Eleanor had brought up the topic, Joanna’s emotions came to a swift boil. Of course Joanna was furious! Why wouldn’t she be? How could Eleanor get married, for God’s sake, without even letting her own daughter know? Once again, though, the very fact that Eleanor expected anger and recrimination was enough to force Joanna into sweetness and light.

  “Furious?” Joanna repeated innocently. “Why on earth would I be furious?”

  It was Eleanor’s turn to sound surprised. “You mean you’re not? George said you were fine about it, but I didn’t believe…”

  “I’m disappointed maybe,” Joanna conceded. “Hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to share the good news, but I’m certainly not furious. You’ve lived alone for a long time. You’ve more than earned whatever share of happiness you can find.”

  Eleanor gave an audible sigh of relief. “You don’t mind, then?”

  “George Winfield’s a nice man,” Joanna said, remembering the compassionate way he had dealt with Katherine O’Brien. “A considerate man. Not half bad, for a snowbird.”

  “A snowbird,” Eleanor replied. “Why, I don’t know what you mean—” She stopped. “Joanna Lee Lathrop Brady,” she added indignantly. “I believe you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”