by J. A. Jance
“Did she?”
“No, she said the damage was already done. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to the incident than it had already engendered.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t think the action she took with Marty Pembroke was out of line?” Joanna asked.
“By suspending him? No,” Abby said flatly. “Not at all. She was simply trying to hold him accountable for his actions.”
“Marty claims somebody else put the beer in his locker as a joke.”
Abby Holder shook her head. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Neither did Ms. Highsmith.”
Joanna looked at Detective Howell. “Do you mind seeing what you can do to track down Marty Pembroke’s Facebook page?”
“Not at all,” Deb said with a nod, jotting down a note to herself. “I’ll go to work on that once we get back to the office.”
“Wait,” Abby said. “Are you saying that you think Marty Pembroke might be involved in what happened to Ms. Highsmith?”
Abby Holder was at least twenty-five years older than Debra Highsmith. Joanna found it interesting that, although the two women had worked together as boss and secretary for years, they had never become friends and had never progressed to being on a first-name basis, either. Even in death, Abby continued to maintain a respectful distance. Was that due to Abby’s naturally subservient nature or was it something that had been enforced from the top down?
“It’s possible,” Joanna said. “The fact that there was a disagreement of some kind between them in the weeks leading up to Ms. Highsmith’s death means we need to take a look at those interactions and see if it leads us to anything useful. In the long run, that history may or may not be important, but at this point in an investigation it’s our job to follow up on every lead, no matter how small or seemingly unimportant. So tell us, were there similar problems with any other students?”
“No,” Abby answered. “Not that I remember.”
“All right, then,” Joanna said. “Tell me what you can about the Pembroke situation. When did it come to a head?”
“The locker infraction happened back toward the end of February,” Abby answered. “Because we’ve had problems with illegal substances showing up at school, Ms. Highsmith instituted a program of conducting unannounced but mandatory locker inspections. She maintained that having a locker on the school premises was a privilege, not a right, and that if students wanted a locker they had to sign a paper agreeing to periodic inspections.
“It was during one of those routine inspections that she found the can of beer. It was Marty’s first offense, but having alcohol on school property is grounds for an automatic ten-day suspension, and that’s what she did—she suspended him. Marty is a smart kid who’s used to getting good grades. During his suspension he missed several important tests that he couldn’t make up. He also wasn’t allowed to hand in papers. Those two things together meant his GPA was going to drop like a rock. Some grades that would have been solid fours would go to threes, and in one case to a two, and that’s when the phone calls started.”
“What phone calls?”
“First from Marty’s mother and later from his dad. When the phone calls didn’t work, Dr. Pembroke himself came to school complaining about the situation and demanding that Marty be allowed to make up the work. According to Dr. Pembroke, his son’s new GPA would put Marty’s entire future in jeopardy, starting with his not matriculating at the college of his choice.”
Abby took a deep breath. “Believe me, it was not a pleasant conversation, but Ms. Highsmith was adamant. She told him that the suspension stood. Since she wouldn’t back down, Dr. Pembroke appealed to the superintendent, who supported Ms. Highsmith’s position all the way. Dr. Pembroke’s next step was to go directly to the school board. All this backing and forthing took time. Dr. Pembroke’s appeal didn’t make it onto the school board agenda until the April meeting.”
“When was that?” Joanna asked.
“A few weeks ago. The school board meets the first Wednesday of every month. I have it on good authority that the Pembrokes are pals with several of the board members. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re all neighbors on the Vista. As a consequence, they attempted one of those King Solomon routines where you cut the baby in half. They let the suspension stand but with the proviso that Marty would be allowed to turn in any required papers and to make up any missed tests.”
“I don’t suppose Ms. Highsmith was happy about that,” Joanna suggested.
“No,” Abby agreed. “She said that the board’s action amounted to teaching kids that actions had no consequences. No, wait. What she really said was, ‘no meaningful consequences.’”
“It’s safe to say that between February and now, there were several contentious encounters between Ms. Highsmith and various members of the Pembroke family?”
“Yes,” Abby agreed. “Several, raised voices and all.”
“It might be helpful to know what went on during those discussions. Was any written record made of those meetings?”
“Not an official one,” Abby said. “Not a tape recording or anything like that, but Ms. Highsmith kept a leather-bound calendar, one of those with two pages for each day. She has a whole shelf full of them. After a meeting or a phone call, she’d usually make a few notes in that to serve as a reminder of what had been discussed and what if anything needed to be done.”
That resonated with Joanna. Her father had recorded the events of his life in a series of leather-bound volumes that Joanna had eventually inherited. In cleaning out the garage to make room for her new husband’s belongings, Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, had been prepared to dump them. Instead, George Winfield had bundled them up and handed them over to Joanna, who treasured them. They were a touchstone for her, a point of contact with a father who had died when she was only fifteen. In the years since, Joanna had sometimes been tempted to turn to her father’s record of events in his life to help unscramble something in her own. Maybe Debra Highsmith’s jotted notes would serve the same purpose in helping to solve her own murder.
“Are those calendars at school?” Joanna asked. “I don’t remember anyone mentioning something like that yesterday during the search at Ms. Highsmith’s house.”
“Yes, she keeps them in her office.” After a pause Abby changed the wording slightly to “kept.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at them,” Joanna said.
Abby seemed to draw back. “I’m not sure I should show you. Those are private. Shouldn’t you have a search warrant or something?”
Abby was right, of course—a search warrant was a very good idea—but she was right for the wrong reason. No doubt Abby’s main concern was protecting Debra Highsmith’s privacy. Joanna’s was making sure that any evidence found would be usable when it came time to bring the perpetrator to court.
The previous day, when officers from the Bisbee Police Department had arrived at Debra Highsmith’s home for that first welfare check, no warrant had been necessary. Later, however, when they returned for the missing person call, they had come armed with a search warrant. Joanna thought it possible that, at the time they obtained a search warrant for the house, they had also obtained one to search Debra Highsmith’s office at school. Had such a search been executed, however, it seemed likely that Abby Holder would have known about it.
Laying hands on a properly drawn search warrant was essential, but Joanna didn’t want to walk away from Abby Holder long enough to get one. Up till now, Abby had been nothing but cooperative. Left to her own devices, however, it was possible the school secretary might have second thoughts about that. Joanna had seen plenty of instances in which witness interviews, once interrupted, never got back on track.
Joanna glanced at Deb. “Would you mind taking care of the warrant?” she asked.
“Right now?” Deb asked, rising to her feet.
Joanna nodded. “I’ll call Judge Mo
ore and let him know you’re coming.”
When it came to search warrant requests, Judge Cameron Moore was Joanna’s go-to guy, and she had all of his numbers—work, home, and cell—stored in her phone. When Joanna called his office, she was told he was gone for the day. She tried his home number next.
“Looks like old Arlee hit the DeLong case out of the park for you,” Judge Moore said when he came on the line.
Managing to restrain herself, Joanna didn’t say, “For a change.”
“Yes,” she said. “He certainly did, but that’s not why I’m calling. Have you heard about the Debra Highsmith homicide?”
“Did,” Judge Moore replied. “Just a little while ago. I went up to the Copper Queen for lunch, and the whole place was abuzz with all kinds of talk about the murder. It’s too bad. A real loss to the community. From everything I’ve heard about the woman, she was doing an outstanding job. So what’s up?”
“When the Bisbee PD requested the search warrant for her home yesterday, did they ask for one that included Ms. Highsmith’s office at school?”
“No, but considering the circumstance, I assume you need one.”
“Yes,” Joanna said.
“When?”
“ASAP. I’m sending Detective Howell to bring you the paperwork right now. She has blanks in her trunk, and she’ll fill them out before you see them.”
“Have her get right on it, then, and have her stop by the house,” Judge Moore said. “It turns out today is our anniversary. The little woman and I have dinner reservations at McMahon’s, in Tucson. We’re leaving shortly so we can run a few errands in Tucson before dinner.”
“Okay,” Joanna said, nodding toward Deb and pointing her out the door. “Deb Howell is on her way to your house right now.”
The fact that the judge was at home was a stroke of luck. Driving out to the Justice Center would take at least twenty minutes. Judge Moore’s house at the bottom of Arizona Street was only a few blocks away.
“More tea?” Abby asked.
“Please,” Joanna said, but when Abby went to pour it, the pot was empty.
She rose and headed for the kitchen. The moment Abby walked through the swinging door into the kitchen, her mother came rolling down the hallway. She parked her chair just inside the living room and turned her glare on Joanna.
“Just because my father was a doctor doesn’t make me a doctor,” Elizabeth Stevens said sourly, “and just because your father was a sheriff doesn’t make you a sheriff.”
Joanna Brady had never been any good when it came to turning the other cheek.
“You’re right,” she said. “The people of Cochise County are the ones who made me sheriff. They elected me to the office, not once but twice. Did you want to be a doctor, Mrs. Stevens?”
Elizabeth seemed surprised to have her mean-spirited comment pointed back in her direction.
“Well, no,” she stammered. “Not really.”
“If you had wanted to, you could have gone to school and studied and made that happen, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose, although back in those days, not many women studied medicine.”
“I’ve attended the Arizona Police Academy,” Joanna said, ignoring Elizabeth’s self-serving excuse. “My firearms rating is one of the best in my department. I maintain that by practicing on the shooting range each week. I’ve attended any number of law enforcement continuing education seminars to update my skills and to keep my department apprised of the latest advances in forensics and law enforcement technology. So you see, Mrs. Stevens, my being sheriff has almost nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with me.”
Abby returned from the kitchen and stopped short when she saw her mother’s frowning countenance. “What’s going on?”
“Your mother was just telling me that she believes that the only reason I’m a sheriff now is because my father was a sheriff,” Joanna answered. “I was explaining to her why that’s not true.”
Abby was aghast. “Mother!” she exclaimed.
“That woman was rude to me,” Elizabeth said, pointing an accusing finger in Joanna’s direction. “Make her leave. I want her out of the house, now.”
Joanna didn’t doubt that previously Abby Holder might have knuckled under to all of her mother’s demands, no matter how outrageous, but somehow, today, the dynamics of their situation had changed slightly, shifting in Abby’s favor.
“Sheriff Brady is a guest in my home, Mother,” Abby said firmly, “and so are you—a guest. You should probably remember that from time to time. Now, if you’d like more tea, I’ll be glad to get you some.”
“That’s no way to speak to your mother!” Elizabeth said petulantly.
“If you don’t wish to be spoken to in that fashion, then don’t be rude to my guests,” Abby told her. “So, do you want more tea or not?”
“Not,” Elizabeth replied. Again, she spun her wheelchair around and sped away down the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “She’s a little difficult at times.”
A supreme understatement, Joanna thought.
“Yes,” she said. “I can see that.”
She was also realizing that, compared to Elizabeth Stevens, when it came to being troublesome, her own mother, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, was a rank amateur.
This time, when Abby retreated into the kitchen to the whistling summons of the teakettle, Joanna followed her. It was a tiny place, old-fashioned but spotlessly clean. Instead of a dishwasher under the counter, a dish drainer sat on top of it, stacked with what was most likely a collection of washed and drying breakfast or lunch dishes. The cabinets had been built for someone far taller than Abby Holder, whose height matched Joanna’s own five feet two. To help make up for the height deficit, a kitchen stool was stationed in the corner next to the stove. Trying to stay out of Abby’s way in the confined space, Joanna perched on the stool while Abby poured boiling water over a strainer filled with tea leaves.
“You were saying earlier that you sometimes wondered if Ms. Highsmith was in the witness protection program. Were you serious about that or were you just kidding?”
“A little of both, I suppose,” Abby Holder admitted. “She never talked about where she lived when she was growing up or how they celebrated Christmas or where they went on vacation. When people started talking about things like that, she just clammed up or else left the room. I never asked her about it, though. She was my boss. I wanted to keep my job, and it seemed to me that I was better off minding my own business.”
Joanna’s cell phone rang. When she answered, Deb was on the line.
“While the judge was going over the paperwork for the warrant, I went online to Marty Pembroke’s Facebook page. We’ll be sending you the YouTube link for the video clip. You might want to take a look at it as soon as you get it.”
“Why?” Joanna asked.
“Because I’m worried that it might be taken down any minute.”
Joanna’s text message warning sounded. “Okay,” she said. “It’s here.”
She opened the message. Once loaded, the film images were a little blurry, but she could still make them out. There was a video of a furious Debra Highsmith leaving the board meeting. Underneath the film a ticker ran a message: DIE, BITCH!
Joanna called Deb Howell back. “Okay,” she said. “Once we execute the search warrant, we both know where we need to go next.”
CHAPTER 8
WHEN THE TEA FINISHED STEEPING, ABBY LED THE WAY BACK INTO the living room and poured the next round. “At the time Ms. Highsmith had her various dealings with the Pembroke family, did you ever overhear anything that might be construed as a threat?” Joanna asked.
Abby clearly found the question offensive. “I’m a secretary, not an eavesdropper,” she said.
“But if there were raised voices …” Joanna objected.
“Raised voices I heard,” Abby conceded. “What those raised voices were saying? No, I didn’t hear that.”
“What abo
ut the gun?” Joanna asked.
“What gun?”
“Were you aware that Ms. Highsmith had obtained a concealed carry permit and that she had a loaded weapon in her purse?”
“Oh, no,” Abby Holder said, shaking her head. “Definitely not Ms. Highsmith. She wouldn’t have had one of those on a bet. You must be mistaken.”
“What about her dog?” Joanna asked.
“What dog?” Abby responded. “Ms. Highsmith never mentioned having a dog. At least she never mentioned it to me.”
“I have it on good authority that she did have a dog. His name is Giles.”
“Amazing.” Abby shook her head. “I don’t remember hearing one word about him.”
That seemed odd. Every time a dog had come into the Brady family’s life, the new addition was a constant topic of conversation. For the seven years since Debra Highsmith had been hired as the high school principal, she had worked with Abby on a daily basis. Yet she had never confided in her secretary that she was carrying a loaded weapon in her purse or that she had acquired a dog. Maybe there had been some kind of difficulty between the two women that had yet to surface.
Before anything more could be said on that subject, however, Detective Howell turned up, search warrant in hand. It had taken her just under half an hour, which, in Joanna’s view, had to be an all-time record. She handed the warrant over to Abby Holder, who read through the whole thing.
“Do you need me to come along to let you in?” she asked, handing the warrant back to Deb.
“That would be a huge help,” Joanna said.
“I’ll just go get my purse and my car keys.”
“You’re welcome to bring your purse,” Joanna said, “but we’ll be glad to give you a ride to and from.”
“I’ll still need my keys to get into the school,” Abby said, “and I’ll let Mother know that I’ll be out for a while.”
