by J. A. Jance
Marliss Shackleford and Dick Voland lived on a steep street in Old Bisbee. Once Joanna left her mother’s place, she headed straight there. Driving up Tombstone Canyon, however, she spotted Marliss’s Toyota RAV4 parked on Main Street, just down from the offices of the Bisbee Bee. It may have been Saturday, but Marliss was evidently hard at work.
Joanna got out and hiked up the narrow stretch of Main Street with its wall of brick-fronted buildings on either side. Storefronts that used to house clothing or furniture or jewelry or hardware stores had morphed into art galleries or antiques shops. The Bisbee Bee still had offices in its original location, but the hulking press that used to rumble away in the back had been removed. The paper’s layout and printing functions were now handled in a newer facility in Sierra Vista, while circulation, advertising sales, and reporting were still done out of the old office in Bisbee.
The door was unlocked, but when Joanna let herself in, there was no one at the reception desk. Instead, she found Marliss alone in the back of the office and hunched over a computer on an old-fashioned wooden desk where the printing press had once stood. She looked up in surprise when she saw Joanna walking toward her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Not ‘How are you?’ or ‘How can I help you?’” Joanna asked. “Is that any way to treat someone who’s come to call?”
Had they been in a public venue, Joanna had no doubt that Marliss would have exuded charm. In private, however, she didn’t bother.
“What do you want?”
Without waiting for an invitation, Joanna took a seat on the chair next to Marliss’s desk. “You knew the identity of our victim before there was any public announcement,” Joanna said. “I want to know how you gained access to Jenny’s photo.”
“So you admit it was Jenny’s photo? You gave her open access to the crime scene?”
“Jenny found the crime scene,” Joanna corrected. “Yes, taking the photo and sending it to someone didn’t show very good judgment on her part, but she’s a teenager, after all. Occasionally teenagers do stupid things. So do grown-ups.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Masquerading on the Internet as somebody else isn’t smart, either,” Joanna said. “I’d guess that some of the kids you’ve been fooling by pretending to be your granddaughter would be upset if they found out who their trusted correspondent really is.”
“Who told you that?” Marliss demanded. “Your mother?”
“I may not be an official detective,” Joanna said, “but I’m smart enough to put two and two together. When you came out to the crime scene yesterday morning, you knew more than you should have. Then when you were leaving, you asked about Jenny. That seemed out of character. So later in the day, when I found out about the photo, it wasn’t difficult to make the connection.”
“I haven’t broken any laws,” Marliss said. “It’s not like I’m a child predator or something.”
“A court of law might have a different take on that,” Joanna said. “But since you’re married to a former cop, you probably already know all about that, and you’ve decided it’s worth running the risk.”
Marliss said nothing.
Joanna had come here for the express purpose of lighting into Marliss and setting her straight. Now, however, it dawned on Joanna that having access to what the town’s teenagers were up to through Marliss’s involvement in their social networks might prove beneficial to both Joanna and her department in the long run. Rather than threatening Marliss Shackleford with arrest, Joanna decided to back off and attempt to enlist the woman’s help.
“As far as the kids at school are concerned,” Joanna said, “my investigators are running into a brick wall. The kids know stuff, but they won’t talk to us. With your unique access to that particular community, you might be able to help us.”
“I’m a journalist,” Marliss objected. “I’m supposed to report what’s going on. I’m not supposed to be involved in it.”
Joanna shrugged off her concern. “Journalists have confidential sources,” she said. “Cops have confidential informants. That’s what I’m asking you to do—to use your granddaughter’s identity to function as a CI and give me some access to a few of those kids’ private lives. I’d consider it a huge personal favor. I’d owe you one, and you might even help keep one of those kids from being wrongly accused of murder.”
Joanna knew that Marliss was into power trips in a big way. The idea of being one up on Eleanor’s daughter would be tempting. Being able to consider herself the hero of the piece would be more than she could resist.
“What do you want me to do?” Marliss asked guardedly.
“I want you to go online and see if anyone has posted anything about Martin Pembroke’s whereabouts the night Debra Highsmith was murdered.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I might be tempted to let it be known around town what you’ve been pulling all this time.” She had more ammunition than that, but for the time being, she held on to it.
“Isn’t that blackmail?”
“It’s more like exerting pressure than it is blackmail,” Joanna said. “Sort of like what you’re doing is investigative journalism rather than identity theft, but you might want to be a little more careful. When you let the cat out of the bag about someone’s upcoming divorce, you were leaking private information a troubled young woman was confiding to what she thought were a few close friends. She didn’t expect that one of those supposed friends would broadcast news about her parents’ upcoming divorce to the whole world. Come to think of it,” Joanna concluded, “that shows almost as bad judgment as Jenny did in passing along the crime scene photo.”
For several moments, Marliss stared at her computer screen without replying. Joanna knew from the look on her face that she had landed a telling blow.
“All right,” Marliss said finally. “What do you want to know?”
“Because of his Web postings about Debra Highsmith, Martin Pembroke is high on our list of suspects. He may have an alibi for that night, but when we asked about it, he lawyered up instead of just coming out and telling us. If he’s got a verifiable alibi, he’s off the list.”
Marliss didn’t have to go online to give Joanna her answer. “Dena Carothers,” she said.
“One of the cheerleaders?” Joanna asked.
Marliss nodded. “According to what Dena posted, she and Marty were going at it hot and heavy down at the Rifle Range until the wee hours.”
“In the middle of the night on a school night?”
Marliss nodded again.
“What do you mean, hot and heavy?” Joanna asked.
“What do you think I mean?” Marliss returned.
“Dena’s only a junior,” Joanna objected. “That means she’s underage. They both are.”
“Well, duh!” Marliss said. “Why do you think he didn’t want to tell you?”
Now that Joanna had the information, it was something she really didn’t want to know. Certainly, she had no room to talk, other than to pass along the old saw “Do as I say, not as I do.” She herself had gotten pregnant at seventeen and had married at eighteen. When Eleanor learned about the pregnancy, she could easily have had Andy charged with statutory rape. Instead she had given Andy the choice of doing the right thing—or else. Once he did so, Eleanor had taken charge of putting together a hurry-up shotgun-style wedding.
Now Marty Pembroke was faced with a similarly complex choice. If he and Dena had been together doing whatever at the Rifle Range, then he might have an alibi that would remove him as a suspect in the Debra Highsmith homicide. If that information somehow got leaked to Dena’s parents, he ran the risk of being charged with statutory rape and spending the rest of his life labeled as a sex offender. Joanna wondered if Dr. Pembroke knew about that. It could explain why he had opted for an attorney.
“What are you going to do now?” Marliss asked, breaking into Joanna’s reverie.
“I’m not sure,” Joanna
said, “but thank you. I appreciate the help.”
As she walked out of the Bee’s office, she should have felt proud of herself, but she didn’t. Yes, Joanna had talked her way around Marliss Shackleford. Yes, she was going away with the information she needed, but if Marliss was in the wrong for having the information, didn’t that make Joanna even more wrong for using it?
Her former father-in-law, Jim Bob Brady, was forever talking about “the pot calling the kettle black.”
If Marliss was the kettle, that made Joanna the pot. Unfortunately, for someone who liked to think of herself as being on the side of the angels, it felt uncomfortably close to being a hypocrite.
CHAPTER 15
JOANNA WAS SITTING IN HER YUKON, WONDERING WHAT SHE WAS going to do next, when someone tapped on her passenger window. Her best friend, Reverend Marianne Maculyea, was standing on the sidewalk, grinning at her.
“Hey,” she said when Joanna opened the window. “Your eyes were open, but you were a million miles away.”
“I was,” Joanna conceded. “It’s been a tough couple of days.”
“You are going to the gala tonight,” Marianne said, “aren’t you?”
“How’d you know that?”
“A little bird told me. One of our parishioners bought tickets and now can’t attend, so she gave her tickets to Jeff and me. I called out to the house, hoping to hire Jenny to come babysit, only to be told that she’s already taken.”
“Sorry,” Joanna said. “Did you find someone else?”
“Yes, Jeff called one of the ladies from church. Is Butch really going to wear a tux?”
Joanna nodded. “My mother would wring his neck if he didn’t.”
“I told Jeff that since he doesn’t own a tux and since the invitation says ‘black tie optional,’ he should take them at their word and do optional. Is there assigned seating?”
“Not as far as I know,” Joanna said.
“Good,” Marianne said. “Maybe the four of us can sit together. I know Jeff will be happier being at a table with the two of you than at a table full of strangers.”
“We’re committed to being at my mother’s table,” Joanna countered.
Marianne grinned. As Joanna’s friend and pastor, she knew where the bodies were buried in Joanna’s challenging relationship with her mother.
“I’ll check with her, then. Your mother doesn’t bother me,” Marianne added. “I can handle her a lot better than I can my own mother. Are you working, or do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
“Working,” Joanna said. “I’d better pass. See you tonight.” Because while Joanna had been talking to Marianne, she had also reached a conclusion. She drove a short way up the canyon, made a legal U-turn, and then stopped her Yukon directly outside the door of the Bee. With her flashers on, she hopped out and poked her head in the front door. Marliss was still alone in the room and still seated at her desk.
“Any idea where I’d find Dena Carothers today?” Joanna asked.
Marliss didn’t have to surf through any Web pages to answer the question. “The cheerleading squad is having a car wash to raise money for camp.”
“Where?”
“At the new fire station.”
The “new fire station” on Highway 92 wasn’t really new, but it was a lot newer than any of the other firehouses in town.
“Dena will be there?”
“She’s supposed to be.”
It was as though the kids from the high school were pawns laid out on a chessboard, while Marliss, working behind the scenes, kept track of them all. For the first time Joanna began to wonder. Jenny’s crime scene photo had been posted, but how much of what she and Butch thought of as their private lives was also being bandied about on the Internet? The thought flashed through Joanna’s head, but she forced herself to not focus on it.
“What about Marty Pembroke?” Joanna asked. “Will he be there, too?”
“Trust me,” Marliss said. “If Dena’s there, Marty will turn up eventually.”
Let’s hope it’s later rather than sooner, Joanna thought.
Back in the Yukon, she drove straight to the car wash. Two cars were already parked, waiting their turns. Joanna pulled in behind them, even though the idea of getting the Yukon washed was a hopeless proposition. High Lonesome Road was dirt. By the time she got back to the house, the newly washed car would be covered by a thin film of dust. Besides, if she wanted it washed, the guys at the motor pool would do it for free. Having the car washed by the cheerleaders was a way of being a good citizen while offering her the possibility of having a quiet word with Dena.
Armed with a bucket of soapy water, Dena had drawn hubcap duty. When the girls tackled the Yukon, Joanna positioned herself by the right-rear wheel and waited for Dena to come to her.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Dena said.
“On whose orders?” Joanna asked.
Dena didn’t answer.
“Let me guess,” Joanna said. “The answer to my question is Marty Pembroke.”
“So?”
“So, you can talk to me, or I can go to your folks and tell them what you and Marty were doing out at the Rifle Range.”
Dena’s fair skin was already flushed from working in the sun, but now she blushed a bright crimson.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Oh?” Joanna said. “You need to wise up, Dena. If you don’t want your personal life to be public knowledge, you probably shouldn’t post all the gory details on the Internet. Marty Pembroke strikes me as a smart-ass, but that isn’t the same as being smart. You may be doing nothing ‘wrong’”—Joanna said, using her fingertips to signal quotation marks—“but the real question is this: Is he smart enough to use a condom?”
Still blushing, Dena bit her lip. “He doesn’t have to. We’re fine. I’m on the pill. He got them for me. From his dad. They’re like free samples or something.”
So either Marty was lifting medications from his father without Dr. Pembroke’s knowledge, or Marty was a cad and Dr. Pembroke was his enabler. Despicable? Absolutely! The very thought of it made Joanna furious, but her job right then was to investigate a homicide.
“Talk to me,” Joanna warned, “or I go straight to your parents. Did they know you were out of the house?”
“No,” Dena admitted. “I snuck out, after they were asleep.”
Joanna Brady knew all about sneaking out of the house. As a teenager she had been an expert at doing that very thing.
“So tell me about that night,” Joanna ordered. “All of it. I need the truth.”
“My parents go to bed after the news—about ten thirty. I waited until eleven. When I was sure they were asleep, I climbed out through my bedroom window. Marty was waiting in his car at the end of the street. We went to the Rifle Range and we … well … you know,” she finished with a shrug.
Joanna knew all about that, too. Dena Carothers and Marty Pembroke weren’t the first, second, or even the third generation of Bisbee kids to use the abandoned Rifle Range south of Warren for those kinds of romantic, sexually driven assignations.
“How long were you there?”
“He dropped me off about two, and I climbed back in the window. It was a school night, but I’m lucky. I don’t need much sleep.”
“What’s going on?” a male voice demanded from behind Joanna.
She turned to see that Marty had arrived on the scene. “Why are you talking to her, Dena?” he demanded. “I told you not to talk to anybody, but especially not to her.”
“Why is that?” Joanna asked. “Why shouldn’t she talk to me?”
Still blushing, Dena picked up her bucket and moved to the next vehicle in line, leaving Joanna and Marty alone.
“Because she’s underage and you could go to jail for statutory rape?”
Marty’s face twisted into a grimace. “I don’t know what she told you …” he began.
“Why don’t you tell me about Wednesday night?” Joanna sugges
ted.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you without the lawyer.”
“Then I suppose I have to go have a talk with Dena’s parents.”
That was really an idle threat on Joanna’s part. These were two nonadults, but they were consenting nonadults. They were also taking precautions. Already struggling with being a hypocrite based on her own history, Joanna knew that turning them in for what they were doing wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest. If the story came out, Dena’s reputation would be shot, and Marty would end up spending a lifetime labeled as a sex offender. In this case, abiding by the letter of the law would have made things even worse for Sheriff Joanna Brady. Fortunately, Marty Pembroke didn’t know that.
“We went to the Rifle Range,” he admitted, shamefaced about it rather than bragging. “It wasn’t anything serious. We were just messing around.”
“Really,” Joanna said. “I think the correct terminology would be ‘screwing around’ rather than ‘messing around.’ What time did you and Dena meet up?”
“Around eleven.”
“What time did you drop her off?”
“Around two, I guess. I got home about two thirty.”
“While your father was still at the ER?”
Marty nodded.
“Does your father know about this?” Joanna asked. “About your having sexual relations with Dena?”
Marty didn’t answer that question, and Joanna was convinced she knew why.
“What if she gets pregnant?”
“She won’t.”
“You seem surprisingly confident about that. Why?”
“Because she’s on the pill.”
“Courtesy of your father?” Joanna asked.
Again, when Marty didn’t answer, Joanna was able to sort the answer out for herself.
“I think I understand. Your father’s afraid that if you knock up some hick girl from Bisbee, that might stand in the way of your future, sort of like your school suspension from Ms. Highsmith might have lessened your chances of getting the education of your choice. Even if you’ve been accepted by a school, that decision could be rescinded. Isn’t that right?”
