by J. A. Jance
“Most likely,” Jaime agreed. “We saw no evidence of any kind of forced entry. So he might have used the keypad or he might have had a key.”
“That would mean someone Maggie knew.”
They walked up to where Dave Hollicker was finishing loading the Tahoe.
“That’s where the phone records will play a critical role,” Jaime said. “Fortunately, Judge Moore was one of the guests here tonight. We were able to get him to sign off on a search warrant for Maggie Oliphant’s telephone records. Dave says he’ll fax it in to her telephone provider first thing tomorrow morning.” Jaime paused long enough to glance at his watch. “Actually later this morning,” he corrected, “after we all get some sleep.”
It was after two o’clock in the morning when Dave dropped Joanna at High Lonesome Ranch. Tired and more than ready to hit the hay, she expected the house to be dark when she came home. Instead, she found Butch at the kitchen table with her father’s journals spread out on the table in front of him.
“Still awake?” she asked.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I can write about dead bodies, but I don’t usually look at dead bodies. How do you manage?”
Joanna shook her head. “I don’t really think about it; I just do it.”
She sat down across the table from him. “What are you doing with my father’s journals?”
“I remembered what you told me about Abigail Holder tonight as we were driving to Rob Roy Links. When I couldn’t sleep, I decided to look up the date you mentioned. Look at this. It’s your father’s journal entry from August 5, 1968.”
He slid the book over to Joanna. Joanna’s first venture into her father’s journal had turned up the unwelcome news that he had been romantically involved with his secretary, Mona Tipton. Eventually D. H. Lathrop had made the decision to stay married because he hadn’t wanted to lose his daughter. Learning those sordid details about a man Joanna had considered perfect had come as a shock. It had forced Joanna to readjust her long-held notions about who her parents had been. Since that jarring discovery, Joanna had mostly left the books alone. They sat, untouched except for occasional dusting, on the bookshelves in the home office that was currently Butch’s work space rather than hers. Now, though, looking down and seeing her father’s familiar scrawl on the page of his journal was almost like hearing his voice, speaking to her from across the years:
Freddy Holder died today, and it shouldn’t have happened. We were just finishing lunch. He went down into an old stope, one we weren’t using anymore. He went in by himself, and the whole damned thing came down on top of him. Just that one stope. Nothing happened in the main shaft, although it scared the hell out of all of us. It took more than an hour to dig him out. The way he looked, with his skull bashed in, it was probably already too late when we started to dig.
I asked our foreman, Mad Dog Muncey, what the hell happened, why’d he let Freddy go into one of those old stopes? He said Fred probably needed to take a dump and went into the stope to do it. I said, “Didn’t you tell him not to go?” He said, “Freddy Holder’s all growed up and he don’t have to ask nobody for permission to do nothing. Just because he was too damned lazy to walk his ass to the shit car don’t make it my fault.” Mad Dog is a crass asshole. Always has been; always will be. I hope he wasn’t the one who gave poor Abby the news. They’ve only been married a couple of months.
Joanna finished reading the entry. “That’s about the same story Abby recounted when Deb and I talked to her.”
“Right,” Butch said. “Now look at this.”
The entry was dated three days later:
The mine inspectors came through today. First time I’ve ever seen Wayne Stevens come into Campbell Shaft, or in any of the shafts, for that matter. They blew the whistle to let us know that bigwigs were coming down the hoist. He was wearing boots and coveralls and a hard hat on his head. The way he was glad-handing the guys, you’d have thought he was a regular politician out there hunting for votes, but what he was really doing was running interference and making sure that the only person the mine inspectors talked to was Mad Dog.
After they left, though, the shift bosses came around to have what they called a quiet word. It turns out they supposedly found evidence that Freddy was high-grading and that was why he went into the stope—to hide that day’s stash of turquoise and malachite. I don’t believe it for a minute. If somebody told Mad Dog to plant evidence on his own mother, I doubt he’d give it a second thought. So since Freddy is supposedly a thief, on Mad Dog’s say-so, word has come down from on high that Mr. Stevens will be looking for any possible accomplices, and that anyone who shows up at Freddy’s funeral will be considered suspect. That SOB! Freddy was his son-in-law, his daughter’s husband! I hope Wayne Stevens rots in hell.
“Your father had no strong opinions about that guy,” Butch said sarcastically as Joanna finished reading and looked up from the page.
“Right,” Joanna agreed. “None at all.”
“Do you want to keep reading?”
“Why not?” Joanna said. “I had so much coffee tonight that I’m tired but not sleepy yet, either. What else have you got?”
“Read the next entry.”
Obligingly, Joanna turned to the next page.
Ellie and I went to Freddy’s funeral today. It was held at Higgins Funeral Chapel on Main Street. Almost nobody came. Abby was there, crying her eyes out, and so was Freddy’s family—his dad, Daniel; his mother, Elaine; his older brother, Mickey; and his baby sister, Emily. That was it. As the service was about to start, his mother turned in her chair, looked around the room, and then turned back to her husband. “Why isn’t anyone here?” she asked. “They must have gotten the time wrong in the paper,” Daniel told her.
Daniel knew that wasn’t true, and so did I. People didn’t come because they were scared. After being on strike for seven months, most of the miners in town are hanging on by a thread. They can’t risk losing their jobs because of something Fred Holder may or may not have done, and so they stayed away.
After the ceremony, while they were loading the flowers into the hearse, Freddy’s older brother, Mickey, came over to where I was having a smoke. He asked me straight out what the deal was. Said he’d asked his father and Daniel wouldn’t say. I told him about the rumored high-grading, and about the word Wayne Stevens had put out, warning people to stay away. “How come you’re here?” Mickey wanted to know. “Because I think Wayne Stevens is a jackass,” I told him.
Ellie spent some time with Abby. She was there all by herself. How her parents could be so heartless is more than I can understand. She’s barely turned eighteen and already a widow. She looked so lost and alone. Made my heart ache just looking at her.
“What strike?” Butch asked.
“People always talk about that one as the big one,” Joanna answered. “It happened in 1967 and 1968. It was a nationwide, industry-wide strike that lasted for seven months. Most of the families here in town were single-wage-earner families back then. I have no idea what kind of settlement was negotiated, but I can’t imagine that anything in the contract made up for those seven months of lost wages.”
“Which Mr. Stevens, as company management, didn’t lose?”
“Correct.”
“He also knew that people wouldn’t dare cross him by going to the funeral,” Butch surmised.
“True,” Joanna said.
“I think your dad had it right,” Butch said. “I hope Abby Holder’s father is rotting in hell.”
He said it as though he meant it, and Joanna couldn’t help but laugh. She stood up then.
“I’ve got to go to bed and at least try to sleep,” she said. “When morning comes, my department will be knee deep in two homicide investigations instead of just one.”
She kissed Butch on her way by, stripping out of her jumpsuit as she went. When she climbed into bed and turned out the light on her nightstand, Butch was still in the kitchen, wading through D. H. Lathrop’s journals.
CHAPTER 19
JOANNA HAD NO IDEA WHEN BUTCH CAME TO BED. HE WAS STILL asleep and snoring in the morning when she intercepted Dennis on his way to bounce on the bed.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing her son and leading him out of the room. “Let’s go make some breakfast. What do you want?”
“Oatmeal” was his one-word answer.
“Oatmeal, please,” she corrected.
Joanna didn’t often cook these days, but when it came to breakfast, oatmeal was one of her few strong suits. She cut up some honeydew melon for Dennis to munch on while she busied herself starting a pot of coffee and rattling the pots and pans.
“You’re cooking?” Jenny asked disbelievingly when she appeared in the doorway.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Joanna said. “We survived on my cooking for a long time before Butch and Carol came on the scene. We’re having oatmeal. Do you want some?”
“I guess,” Jenny said.
“Your show of enthusiasm is overwhelming. If you’ll get out the milk and brown sugar and start some toast, it’ll speed things along.”
When Joanna finished dishing up the oatmeal and set the dishes down on the table, she found a folded sheet of paper sitting propped against her juice glass. She looked at Jenny questioningly. “What’s this?”
“It’s that thing I had to write about Ms. Highsmith for Dad. I thought maybe you could proofread it for me before he sees it.”
Joanna sat down, covered her oatmeal with brown sugar and milk, and unfolded the paper.
Ms. Highsmith was my principal at Bisbee High School. I didn’t know her well, but she was a good principal. Some principals only know the bad kids’ names—the ones who get in trouble. She knew everybody’s name. Some kids thought she was mean. I thought she was fair.
I don’t think Ms. Highsmith had any kids of her own. That’s why she spent so much time with us. If there was a football game, she went. She went to baseball games and track meets and basketball games. Once when I was barrel racing at Rex Allen Days in Willcox, she was there. I took second place. She came up to me afterward and told me I should run for rodeo queen, and this year that’s what I did.
I’m sorry she’s dead, and I’m sorry for taking the picture.
Joanna was taken aback. Yes, she’d had a somewhat prickly relationship with Debra Highsmith, most notably over the zero-tolerance firearms policy, which, it turned out, Debra Highsmith herself didn’t observe. Still, how was it possible then that it had been Debra Highsmith’s encouragement that made it possible for Jenny to win the title of rodeo queen? The rodeo in Willcox hadn’t been a school athletic event. Even so, with one or more of her students involved in the competition, Debra Highsmith had made the effort to go there, put in an appearance, and be supportive.
“Well,” Jenny asked, “what do you think? Is it okay? Will her family like it?”
“It’s great, honey,” Joanna said, “and yes, I’m sure her family will like it. The only thing I would change is that last sentence. We’ve located Debra Highsmith’s next of kin now, so what I was worried about—that they’d learn about her death from the photograph—didn’t happen. Just delete it.”
“You really think it’s okay?” Jenny asked.
Joanna got up from her place at the table, went around to Jenny’s chair, and gave her a squeeze.
“I think it’s terrific.”
Jenny beamed with pride, and Joanna was struck by that. Jenny was as pleased by her mother’s unconditional praise as Joanna had been by her mother’s compliment the night before.
Memo to self, Joanna thought as she returned to her chair. More praise and less criticism.
“What’s terrific?” Butch asked, stepping into the doorway.
“Jenny’s eulogy for Ms. Highsmith, sleepyhead,” Joanna answered. “If I were grading that paper, I’d have to give it an A plus.”
Butch strolled over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I saved some oatmeal for you,” she said. “It’s in the microwave, but I don’t think it’s cold enough that you’ll need to zap it. How late did you stay up?”
“Late,” he said. “I’ve got some passages bookmarked for you. I think you’ll find them interesting.”
He brought his cup of coffee and bowl of oatmeal to the table, kissing the top of Dennis’s head on the way by. Once seated, he picked up the piece of paper and read through the eulogy.
“Your mom’s right,” he said to Jenny when he finished reading. “This is top-drawer stuff.” He turned to Joanna. “Will you be seeing any of the family members today?”
Joanna nodded. “Debra’s grandmother is due to show up anytime now.”
“Would you mind if your mother gave this to her?” Butch’s question was aimed at Jenny.
“To Ms. Highsmith’s grandmother?” Jenny asked. “Do you really think she’d want to see it?”
Butch nodded. “I have a feeling something like this from one of her granddaughter’s students would mean the world to her.”
“Okay,” Jenny said. “If you think she won’t mind.”
“But do delete that last sentence and print a new copy,” Joanna suggested.
Leaving Butch to finish overseeing breakfast and getting the kids ready for Sunday school and church, Joanna took off for the shower. With two homicides on the books, there was no question about her going to church that day. Forty-five minutes later, when she headed out the door, a fresh copy of Jenny’s eulogy was safely stowed in her purse. Much to her surprise, however, Butch walked her out to the car.
“What your father wrote is interesting stuff,” he said. “You’ll never guess who went out and bought himself a brand-new Pontiac in October of 1968.”
“Who?”
“Mad Dog Muncey. Your dad wrote about seeing it in the parking lot during shift change. According to him, nobody else in town was buying new cars that year. Not only did Mad Dog buy it; he paid cash.”
“Did Dad seem to think the money for the car came from Wayne Stevens?” Joanna asked.
“He certainly did,” Butch answered with a nod. “As a payoff for taking out Freddy. That was your father’s theory, anyway, but he couldn’t find any evidence to back that up. At least he didn’t find enough evidence that would hold up in court.”
“Wasn’t Freddy’s death ruled an accident?”
“Officially, yes,” Butch answered. “The mine inspector gave the company a clean bill of health on the incident. They said Fred Holder had ventured into an unsafe area on his own and against his supervisor’s direct orders. I’m going to keep reading, because I think there’s more to the story than that, and I’m guessing your father did, too. By the way, in what I’ve read so far, after Fred Holder’s death Muncey wrote your father up on phony safety violations three different times. Sounds like he was on a mission to push your father out.”
“Again at Wayne Stevens’s request?”
“That’s what your dad thought,” Butch answered.
“I guess what goes around comes around,” Joanna said.
“What do you mean?”
“Wayne Stevens, who spent his years in Bisbee lording it over people he thought of as lowly peons—Dad included—ended up dying broke. He left his widow, Elizabeth, completely penniless and living off the kindness and charity of the daughter they had both once disowned for marrying Fred Holder. Abby has spent the past seven years working as Debra Highsmith’s secretary.”
They had been carrying on this conversation in the garage, with the garage door open and her car running. Now her phone rang.
“It’s the grandmother,” Joanna said, looking at the caller ID. “She’s on her way to the office. I’d better get going, but let me know if you find out anything more.”
“Will do,” Butch said. He leaned in the window and kissed her good-bye. “Be safe,” he said. “No matter what, be safe.”
Joanna answered the phone.
“I know I was supposed to call from the tunnel, but I must have dozed o
ff. I’m already at your office,” Isadora Creswell said in a tone that brooked no nonsense. “I told you I’d be here bright and early. I am, but it wasn’t easy. It’s been twenty years since I’ve had occasion to rent a vehicle. When I got to the car rental counters at the airport, they were all set to rent me a car until they took a look at my driver’s license, which is still valid, by the way. Then they said I was too old, which seems like age discrimination to me. I made it here, but I had to hire a limo and a driver to make that happen.”
“I’m sorry you had so much trouble,” Joanna said, shifting out of reverse and closing the garage door. She headed for High Lonesome Road leaving a billowing rooster tail of dust behind her. “I had expected to be at the office by now,” Joanna explained, “but we had another homicide last night. I didn’t get in until very late.”
“That’s all right,” Isadora said. “I’m perfectly fine waiting here in the lobby. Someone was kind enough to bring me a cup of coffee, and I’m enjoying the photographs.”
The display cases in the lobby contained a collection of all the previous sheriffs of Cochise County. Most of the photos showed serious-looking men dressed in Western attire and glaring fiercely at the camera as if it were some kind of villain. There was only one female in the bunch—Joanna Brady. Her photo showed a red-haired child, grinning happily and dragging a Radio Flyer wagon loaded to the gills with Girl Scout cookies.
“I was a Girl Scout leader years ago,” Isadora said. “The girls in my troop sold those cookies like crazy. I think they cost twenty-five cents a box back then. I wonder what they cost now?”
Two-fifty a box last I checked, Joanna thought. She said, “With two homicides on my plate, I’ll need to have a short staff meeting with my people before I’ll be able to speak to you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Isadora said. “I’ll be fine. I’m also enjoying the view. Quite different from Altoona, especially all the red and gray hills. What’s this huge flat thing that’s right across the road from here? Is that what they call a mesa?”
“Mesas are natural formations. What you see in front of you is a man-made tailings dump,” Joanna explained. “It’s all the boulders and dirt the miners hauled out of the open pit mine you drove past as you came through town. At the time, the material stacked there was considered worthless because there wasn’t enough copper in it to make it worthwhile processing down at the smelter in Douglas. Now they have a whole new system. They run water through the waste, and leach the copper out of it that way.”
