Unfortunately, the possibility for the two women to have an intimate little chat disappeared the moment Marianne opened the door. She arrived with her two-year-old twins in tow.
Months earlier, Marianne and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had adopted Ruth Rachel and Esther Elaine from an orphanage in China. Ruth had quickly bounced back from the inhumane deprivations of her infancy, while Esther continued to suffer lingering health difficulties, one of which had placed her on the waiting list for a heart transplant. That painful subject was one Marianne and Jeff seldom discussed with anyone outside their immediate family, Joanna Brady included. It was easy to understand why. For one thing, doctors hadn’t held out much hope. Potential donors who might match Esther’s ethnic background were few and far between. Without the transplant, Esther would inevitably die, but a successful transplant for her would automatically mean a lifetime of heartbreak for some other devastated family.
Ruth’s plump arms and legs as well as her constant tornado of activity stood in sharp contrast to Esther’s wan lethargy. Crowing with joy at seeing Joanna, Ruth ran headlong into the restaurant and scrambled eagerly up onto the seat beside her. Marianne followed, carrying Esther, a purse, and an enormous diaper bag—one Joanna had given her on the day the twins arrived in Tucson.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Marianne apologized, slipping Esther into a high chair the busboy quickly delivered to the booth. He returned a moment later with a booster seat. Beaming up at him, Ruth climbed into that. “Jeff had to make a run up to Tucson to pick up some parts, and in this heat…” Marianne continued.
For years Jeff Daniels had served solely as househusband and clergy spouse to his full-time pastor wife. The arrival of the twins, along with Esther’s ongoing medical problems, had put an extra strain on the couple’s already meager finances. Faced with the real possibility of financial ruin, Jeff had taken his hobby of restoring old cars and turned it into a thriving business, Auto Rehab Inc. Most of the time he was able to keep the girls with him, but Joanna agreed with Marianne: in the scorching heat of mid-August Arizona, a two-hundred-mile round-trip jaunt in a vehicle without air-conditioning was no place for even healthy two-year-olds. For an ailing one, that kind of trip was absolutely out of the question.
Moderately disappointed at having her plan for an intimate chat scuttled, Joanna didn’t have to struggle very hard to put a good face on it. “Don’t worry,” she replied, pulling the irrepressible Ruth into a squirming hug. “Jenny’s been gone for over a week now. Being around the girls will help bring me back up to speed in the motherhood department.”
Gratefully, Marianne sank into the booth and began opening the cellophane wrapper on a package of saltine crackers. By the time the crackers were peeled, Ruth was demanding hers in a raucous squawk that sounded for all the world like a hungry, openmouthed nestling screeching for its mommy’s worm. As soon as Marianne put the crackers down on the table. Ruth scooped them up, one in each hand, and stuck them both in her mouth at once. But Esther’s lone cracker had to be placed directly in her hand. Even then, she sat holding the treat, watching Marianne with a wide-eyed, solemn stare, rather than putting the cracker into her mouth.
The lack of that instinctive gesture worried Joanna. So did the grayish tint to the little girl’s pale skin. Having missed church on Sunday, Joanna had gone more than a week without seeing either one of the girls. It shocked her to realize that Esther seemed noticeably weaker. Meanwhile, the usually well-composed Marianne appeared to be utterly distracted.
Daisy Maxwell, owner of Daisy’s Cafe, appeared just then with her towering, beehive hairdo as well as a long yellow pencil and an outstretched order pad. “What’ll it be today, ladies?” she asked. “We’ve got pasties, you know. They’ll probably go pretty fast.”
“They always do,” Joanna said with a smile. “Sign me up for one.”
“Me, too,” Marianne added, pulling two empty and spill-proof tippy cups out of her diaper bag. “And a grilled cheese divided into quarters for the girls. A grilled cheese and a large milk.”
“Sure thing,” Daisy said, slipping the pencil back into her hairdo.
Watching the woman walk away, Joanna struggled to find something inconsequential to say. “That’s a magic time to be a mommy,” she said finally. “You walk into a restaurant and all you have to know is how to order a grilled cheese sandwich. Believe me, once little kids get beyond their love for grilled cheese, it’s all downhill.”
Joanna had meant the comment as nothing more than lightweight conversational filler. She was dismayed when her friend’s gray eyes clouded over with tears, which Marianne quickly wiped away.
“Esther’s worse, then?” Joanna asked.
Marianne nodded wordlessly. Joanna reached across the table and grasped her friend’s wrist. “It’ll be all right,” she said comfortingly. “I know it will.”
“I hope so,” Marianne murmured.
Daisy chose that moment to reappear, bringing with her the girls’ milk and an extra glass of iced tea. “You didn’t order this,” she said, setting the tea in front of Marianne. “I figured you probably just forgot, but if you don’t want to drink it, there’ll be no charge.”
Instantly Marianne’s tears returned. This time they came so suddenly that one of them raced down her cheek and splashed onto the tabletop before she had a chance to brush it aside.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Think nothing of it, honey,” Daisy Maxwell told her. “Believe me, if I had anything stronger back there in the kitchen, I’d give you some of that. Just looking at you, I’d say you could use it.”
TWO
DRIVING TOWARD Benson after lunch, Joanna called in to the department to let the staff know where she was going and when she’d be back. For the rest of the fifty-mile drive, she thought about Marianne and Jeff and Esther. Compared to her friends’ life-and-death struggles, her concerns and conflicts about Butch Dixon seemed downright trivial. She felt guilty for even thinking about bothering Marianne with something so inconsequential.
Between Tombstone and St. David, Highway 80 curves through an area of alkaline-laced badlands. To Joanna, that stark part of the drive usually made her think of what she had once imagined the surface of the moon would be. But this year the summer’s record-breaking rainy season had made moisture so plentiful that even there a carpet of wild, stringy grass had caught hold and sprouted, softening the harsh lines and turning the rugged desert green—a mirror and a metaphor for the miracle of life itself—clear, visible evidence of an unseen Hand at work.
“Look, God,” Joanna Brady said aloud, as if He were right there in the Blazer with her—a concerned civilian, maybe, doing a ride-along. “Surely, if You can make grass grow here, You can figure out a way to save Esther Maculyea-Daniels. Please.”
Beyond that, there was nothing Joanna could do but let go and let God.
A few miles later, at the traffic circle in Benson, she turned east off Highway 80 and followed the I-10 frontage road until she reached the turnoff for Pomerene. There, crossing the bridge across the San Pedro, she slowed enough to observe the awesome effect of water in the desert. Over the hum of the Blazer’s powerful engine, she could hear the chatter of frogs. And above that, she heard the water.
Since an earthquake in the late 1800s the modern San Pedro usually carried little more than a trickle of mossy water in a wide expanse of dry and sandy riverbed. On that hot August day, however, the rushing tumult below the bridge was running almost bank to bank in a reddish-brown, foam-capped flood. Unfortunately, people accustomed to the river’s usually placid guise often failed to give this transformed San Pedro the respect it deserved.
Summer rains had come early and often that year, starting in the middle of June. In the course of the past two months the renewed San Pedro, with its deadly change of personality, had claimed four separate victims. One carload of Sunday-afternoon picnickers had been washed away up near Palominas in the middle of July. That incident alone had resulted in th
ree fatalities. A mother and two preschool children had died, while the father and two older children had been hospitalized. Then, in early August, a seventeen-year-old St. David youth had bet his buddies ten bucks that he could swim across the rain-swollen flood. He had lost both the ten-dollar wager and his life.
Joanna could see why. More than twenty-four hours after the last rain, a torrent of silt-laden water still churned northward. Seeing it reminded her of the stories she had heard at her father’s knee—stories D. H. Lathrop had heard from Cochise County old-timers. They had claimed that before the earthquake, there had once been so much water running in the San Pedro, they could float on rafts from Palominas north all the way to Winkelman, where the San Pedro River met up with the Gila. For years Joanna had privately scoffed at what she regarded as nothing more than tall tales on the order of Paul Bunyan’s blue ox, Babe. Now, though, the raging river made those claims seem much more plausible.
Pomerene, a few miles on the other side of the bridge, seemed to have little justification for its continued existence. A few people—several hundred at most—seemed to live in the near vicinity, but for what reason, Joanna couldn’t fathom. Some of the houses were fine, but the good ones were interspersed with tumbledown shacks and moldering mobile homes surrounded by rusted-steel shells of wrecked vehicles. The cheerfully sparkling and still brand-new street signs, assigned with ironic artistry by some bureaucrat locked up in the county addressing department, were wildly at odds with the sad reality of their surroundings.
It seemed to Joanna that Pomerene should have been a ghost town—that it should have been allowed to die the natural death of fading back into the sandy river bottom. Instead, it stubbornly persisted, hanging on like some punch-drunk fighter—hurt badly enough to be beyond help, but too far gone to have sense enough to lie down and die.
The down-at-heels hovels on Bella Vista Drive and Rimrock Circle in particular made places in Bisbee’s Tin Town neighborhood seem prosperous by comparison. And Clyde Philips’ tin-roofed shack at the far end of Rimrock could easily have been thrown together by the same turn-of-the-century carpenters who had built the mining-camp cabins that still clung like empty, dry locust husks to the red-rocked sides of Bisbee’s B-Hill.
Climbing up onto the rickety front porch, Joanna knocked firmly on the grime-covered door. Even though she knocked several times, no one answered. Leaving the front door, she went to the side of the house past a dusty, faded blue Ford quarter-ton pickup. At the back door she knocked again—with similar results. No answer.
Trying to decide what to do next, Joanna glanced around. At the end of the driveway, in place of an ordinary garage, was a slump-block building that looked like an armed fortress. Or a jail. Rolls of razor wire lined the tops of the walls. The only windows were narrow slits on either side of a steel door, barred in front by a heavy-duty wrought-iron grille. Approaching the door, Joanna could tell that the slits were covered by one-way glass that allowed whoever was inside the building to see out without offering even a glimpse of what was on the other side of the wall.
Fastened to the grille was a hand-lettered sign that announced, NO TRESPASSING. THESE PREMISES GUARDED BY A LOADED AK-47. GO AHEAD. MAKE MY DAY.
Great, Joanna thought as she stepped forward and punched a doorbell that had been built into the casement of one of the windows. Just what we need. A gun nut with a Clint Eastwood complex.
Pressing the button, she strained to hear whether or not the bell actually worked. Up on the roof, an air-conditioning unit of some kind rumbled away. Over the din of that, it was difficult to tell if the bell did indeed function, but between the grille and the concrete-block construction, knocking on either the door or the wall wasn’t an option.
While waiting for someone to answer, Joanna studied her surroundings, expecting to find some kind of electronic monitoring equipment focused on the door. As far as she could see, however, Clyde Philips counted on old-fashioned armory kinds of protection rather than newfangled gadgets. She rang the bell a second time and waited once more. Still no one came to the door. She was about to give up and walk away when a woman’s gravelly voice startled her.
“Clyde’s pro’ly over to Belle’s. His truck’s here, so he musta walked.”
Joanna turned to see a sun-baked old woman standing on the sagging back porch of the house next door. “Where’s that?” she asked.
“Belle’s?” the old woman asked, and Joanna nodded. “It’s his ex-wife’s place. Uptown.” The woman pointed vaguely to the left with a gnarled cane. “Over on Old Pomerene Road.”
“Will I have any trouble finding it?”
“Hell’s bells,” the woman said. “Hardly. It’s the only restaurant in town. But you’d better hurry if you want to catch lunch or Clyde, either one. Belle closes her doors at three sharp. After that, people have to go all the way into Benson if they want a bite to eat.”
The woman was right. Belle Philips’ place on Old Pomerene Road wasn’t at all hard to find. Of the dozen or so storefronts on what passed for Main Street, only three still functioned as businesses. One of the three with lights on was the ground floor of a decrepit two-story building that looked as though a strong wind would blow it to smithereens.
At some time in the distant past, someone had gone to the trouble of covering the exterior with cedar shingles. Sun and heat had leached all the natural oils out of the wood, leaving it gray and brittle and almost charred around the edges. On the north and east sides of the building, the shingles sagged in crooked, weary rows. On the west side of the building—the one that took the brunt of the sun—most of the shakes were missing completely, revealing in their stead a ghostly layer of faded red tarpaper painted to look like bricks.
The rest of the building didn’t look much better. In both grimy front windows, chipped gold letters announced “Belle’s Donuts and Eatery.” Under one sign was a three-by-five card. On the card along with a hand-drawn ballpoint arrow that pointed to the word “Donuts,” was the added notation “One hundred thousand two hundred served.”
When Joanna pushed open the wood-framed glass door, a bell tinkled overheard. A heavyset woman, wearing a faded bandanna babushka-style on frizzy gray hair, stood leaning against what looked like a soda fountain counter. Under a massive apron she wore a sleeveless tank top. Folds of loose flesh dangled from upper arms a good eighteen inches around. Stubbing out a cigarette in a brimful ashtray, she quickly stowed it under the counter.
“Howdy,” the woman said. “Saw you lookin’ at my sign. I make ’em all myself—the doughnuts, I mean—and keep track of every dozen, although I only change the card once’t a month or so.”
“That’s still a lot of doughnuts,” Joanna said.
The woman grinned, showing several missing teeth, both lowers and uppers. She nodded sagely. “Yup, you bet it is. Don’t just sell ’em here, of course. Take ’em to places like the county fair and Rex Allen Days and Heldorado over to Tombstone. That’s always a good gig, Tombstone is. Most likely ’cause it’s in October and colder’n a witch’s tit by then. I hire me a couple of young kids, good-lookin’ girls if I can find ’em, to do the actual sellin’. What can I get for you?”
Joanna was still more than pleasantly full from downing Daisy Maxwell’s Cornish pasty, but she knew that ordering something from Belle would help smooth things along. “How about a cup of coffee?” she asked.
When the coffee came, it smelled acrid and old—as though it had been sitting in an almost empty pot on the burner for the better part of the day or maybe even longer. Usually Joanna drank her coffee black, but this strong stuff definitely called for making an exception.
“Cream?” Joanna asked hopefully.
Belle nodded. “Sure. What kind of moo-juice you want? We got regular cream, half-and-half, canned, and cow-powder. Take your choice.”
In that dingy, fly-speckled place, Joanna worried about the age and possible contamination of anything requiring refrigeration. She opted for Coffee-mate. When Belle delivere
d the jar, the crust of dry powder lining the bottom was so old and hard that Joanna had to chip it loose with her spoon before she could ladle the resulting lump into her cup. Further examination of the almost empty jar showed no sign of any expiration date and no sign of a scanner barcode, either. Not good.
“You must be Belle Philips,” Joanna said, stirring the brackish brew to dissolve the lump.
“That’s right,” Belle said. “And who might you be?”
Joanna reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out her ID. “Whoee,” Belle exclaimed, holding the card up to the light and squinting at it. “Don’t guess I’ve ever met a sheriff before, leastways not in person. You’re not here on account of somethin’ I’ve done, are you?”
“I was actually looking for your former husband.”
Belle grimaced. “It figures,” she said. “Clyde’s always up to some fool off-the-wall thing. Me an’ him split the sheets about six years ago now, and I say good riddance. Best thing I ever done. If I’da known how things would work out, I would of done it a lot sooner. Still see him most every day, though. Comes in here and has me cook him his breakfast, but, by God, he pays me for it. Cash. Every day. None of this running-a-tab crap. If I’da had a brain in my head, I woulda done that the whole time we was married, too—charged him, that is. And not just for cooking his meals and washing his damned underwear, either.” She grinned slyly. “If you get my meanin’.”
Joanna nodded. She got it, all right. “So has he been in today? I tried stopping by both his house and his shop. His truck was there, but he didn’t answer at either place.”
Belle shrugged. “He hasn’t been in so far, and once I close the doors at three o’clock, he’ll be out of luck. Probably got himself a snootful last night and he’s sleeping it off today. He does that, you know—drinks to excess. That’s one of the reasons I divorced him—for drinking and carousing both.”
Rattlesnake Crossing : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061766183) Page 3
