Rattlesnake Crossing : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061766183)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “What ‘things’ do you mean?” Scorsby asked.

  The Ten Commandments, Joanna thought. Starting with “Love thy neighbor.” She said, “I don’t want this to escalate into a range war.”

  “A range war!” Scorsby exclaimed. “Are you kidding? Didn’t those go out with High Noon?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Joanna said. “As sheriff of Cochise County, I can tell you that as long as weapons—particularly high-powered weapons—are involved, people can still die.”

  “When it comes to weapons, I don’t have anything much stronger than a cue stick,” Scorsby said. “That’s what I shoot mostly—pool. Guns aren’t my style.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said guns aren’t my style,” Scorsby insisted. “And if you’re still determined that I had something to do with what went on, I can assure you that I was right here in the house all night long. If you don’t believe me, ask my wife. We were never apart for even a moment, except for maybe the time I was in the bathroom. She wasn’t with me then. Would you like me to call her?”

  Joanna might have missed the snide put-down in the comment had not Scorsby’s tone of voice made his superior attitude blatantly clear.

  “No, thanks,” Joanna replied, matching her tone to his. “That won’t be necessary. Not just now, anyway. Let me suggest, however, that in the meantime, until we clear up this matter, you stay away from the Triple C.”

  “Believe me,” Scorsby told her, “that’ll be my pleasure. The last thing I need to do is to get into some kind of beef with Alton Hosfield or one of his hired thugs—excuse me, I mean one of his hired hands.”

  Turning, Joanna stepped back into her Blazer.

  “And Sheriff Brady?” Scorsby added.

  Closing the car door behind her, Joanna opened the window. “Yes?”

  “As I said to Deputy…What’s his name again?”

  “Deputy Sandoval,” Joanna answered.

  “As I told Deputy Sandoval earlier, if this matter requires any further discussion, my attorney is Maximilian Gailbrathe with Gailbrathe, Winters and Goldman in Tucson.”

  “Of course, Mr. Scorsby,” she said sweetly. She gave the window control button a forceful jab. “Like hell,” she added to herself once the window was safely closed, shutting him out of earshot.

  If it turned out that Martin Scorsby had indeed had something to do with Alton Hosfield’s dead cattle and wrecked irrigation pump, Scorsby’s attorney would be doing a whole lot more than simply handling “incident” discussions.

  Plea bargains would be a lot more like it, Joanna thought. With that she threw the Blazer into gear. In the process of driving away from Scorsby’s yard, she caused the speeding Blazer to leave behind a rooster tail of fine red dust that powdered the man’s spotless white tennis outfit. The last glimpse she had of him in the mirror was of his arms flailing in a futile attempt to brush himself clean.

  “Pardon my dust,” Joanna muttered to herself.

  Despite that little bit of deliberate revenge, she was still seething from the encounter with Scorsby some twenty minutes later when she drove up the entrance to Alton Hosfield’s Triple C Ranch. She stopped long enough to read an almost billboard-sized sign that had been erected next to the cattle guard marking the boundary line.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY, the sign announced in no uncertain terms. ENTRANCE IS PERMITTED TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC, BUT THAT PERMISSION MAY BE WITHDRAWN AT ANY TIME. NO SMOKING. NO HUNTING. NO FISHING. NO TRESPASSING IS ALLOWED FOR EMPLOYEES OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, SUBCONTRACTORS OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, OR ANYONE GIVING INFORMATION TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT. NO EXCEPTIONS.

  At the last meeting of the Arizona Sheriffs’ Association, several of the law enforcement officers gathered there had spoken of hairy encounters with their own particular jurisdiction’s version of the tax-and-government-protesting Freemen Movement. Most of the run-ins with Randy Weaver wannabes had ended peacefully, but that wasn’t always the case. Especially not when the protestors had weapons readily available.

  At the time of the meeting, Joanna had been only too happy to have nothing to report in that regard. Now, though, seeing the sign, and in light of all the weapons missing from Clyde Philips’ gun shop, she wondered how much longer that would be the case.

  She reread the sign once more, paying particular attention to the places where it referred to the federal government. Maybe Dick Voland was right, she thought. Maybe the best thing for all concerned is to leave the ATF out of this.

  SIX

  THE DIRT road leading onto the Triple C Ranch was almost as badly washboarded as the one leading to Martin Scorsby’s Pecan Plantation, but compared to the Scorsbys’ almost palatial digs, Alton Hosfield’s house was far more modest. The gingerbread-frame construction topped by a steep tin roof had Joanna wondering if this larger house and her turn-of-the-century bungalow on High Lonesome Ranch weren’t closely related cousins. As she studied the exterior, it seemed to her that, like hers, this was a mail-order Sears Roebuck kit-house that had been shipped west from Chicago by train. Some assembly required.

  The woman who came to the gate to meet Joanna’s Blazer was a plain-faced blonde with streaks of blatantly untinted gray showing in a utilitarian ponytail. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, but under a ruffled apron was a youthfully trim figure in a pair of snugly fitting jeans. Her single best feature—bright blue eyes—sparkled out of a face lined as much by laughter as by the sun.

  She smiled, holding out a hand in welcome. “I’m Sonja Hosfield,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  The woman’s firm handshake as well as the unfeigned friendliness in her welcome immediately put Joanna at ease. She held up her badge. “I’m Sheriff Brady,” she said. “Joanna Brady. I was hoping to speak to your husband.”

  “He and my stepson are still out working in one of the fields,” Sonja said. “They’re cutting hay. It’s dry right now, and they need to get it cut, baled, and stacked before it rains again, but it’s just about time for them to come in to supper. If you don’t mind waiting, I could send my son to tell Alton you’re here. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you.”

  Sonja pulled open the gate. “Come on in,” she said. “We can have some iced tea while we wait.”

  Inside the house, she went to the bottom of a flight of stairs. “Jake?” she called. “Are you up there?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I’m here.”

  “Come down, then,” she said. “Somebody’s here to see your dad. I need you to go get him for me.”

  Sonja Hosfield was old enough for Joanna to expect a hulking twenty-something son to come down the creaking stairway. Instead, the red-haired boy who bounded down into the entryway was scarcely older than Joanna’s Jenny. He started to dart straight past them and out through the front door, but Sonja stopped him.

  “Just a minute, young man,” she said. “Where are your manners?”

  Jake Hosfield stopped in mid-flight, turned, and skulked back into the house, blushing sheepishly as he came. “This is Sheriff Brady, Jake,” his mother said.

  Flushing to the roots of hair that was almost as red as Joanna’s, he wiped one hand on his pant leg, then reached out awkwardly to shake hands. “Glad to meetcha, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m glad to meet you, too,” Joanna returned.

  With the obligatory handshake over, Jake stood for an awkward moment or two and then backed away. “I’ve gotta go now,” he said. “See you later.”

  “That’s better,” Sonja called after him. “Hurry, now. Tell your father supper’s almost ready, too.”

  She turned back to Joanna. “He’s a little shy,” she said. “That’s what happens when you raise kids out in the country. Now, I hope you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen. You caught me right in the middle of cooking dinner. I was just chopping up some tomatoes and onions to put in the salsa.”

  As they started away from the entry, Joanna heard the whine of what sounded like a motorcycle starting up outside. “Don�
�t worry,” Sonja said over her shoulder. “That’s only Jake’s ATV. He prefers that to horses, and he only rides it when he’s on our property. As far as helmets go, believe me, he knows that if he doesn’t wear one, I’ll kill him.”

  Following Sonja Hosfield into her warm and fragrant kitchen, Joanna found the combination of smells utterly tantalizing. There was no mistaking what was for dinner—roast beef, a vat of simmering pinto beans, and a slab of freshly baked corn bread cooling in a thirteen-inch cast-iron skillet.

  “Sit right here,” Sonja said, shifting aside one of the four place settings already laid out on a pillared round table made of solid, well-worn oak. “Help yourself. The tea’s right there in the pitcher,” she added, “and here’s a glass with ice. Supper isn’t going to be anything fancy, but you’re welcome to join us if you like.”

  Gratefully sipping her tea, Joanna couldn’t help comparing Sonja Hosfield’s openhanded hospitality with Martin Scorsby’s lack of same. Much as she would have loved to sample some of Sonja’s cooking, Joanna knew that in order to maintain a sense of impartiality between the two families, she would have to decline the invitation. Only belatedly did she remember that she also had a date for dinner—with Butch.

  “Thanks just the same,” she said. “I’m sure I won’t be able to stay that long. I happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by to assure you and Mr. Hosfield that we’re taking last night’s shooting incident very seriously. My department is doing everything it can to find the culprit. The last thing any of us wants is for this situation to escalate out of hand.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!” Sonja exclaimed. “I know exactly what you mean. When Alton saw that wrecked pump this morning, I thought he was going to come unglued. By the way, Sheriff Brady, call him Alton. If you call him Mr. Hosfield to his face, he’ll blush deep purple, the same as Jake. Like father, like son, I guess. The two of them are two peas in a pod, although I tease Alton that his forehead seems to be getting longer these days.”

  She laughed then—in a gust of straightforward, bell-like laughter—that made Joanna want to laugh right along with her. Moments later, Sonja had to pause in her chopping long enough to dab at her eyes with one corner of the ruffled apron.

  “Onions,” she explained. “Crying’s the best part of making salsa. If there aren’t a few tears mixed in, it’s not real salsa.”

  Looking around the room, Joanna saw the usual kitchen clutter and homey counter stuff—a can opener and coffeepot; an aging toaster oven; an old gray-and-blue crock holding a selection of spoons and spatulas. Across the room sat an old Tappan gas range and a Frigidaire refrigerator, both of which looked like they belonged on the 1950s-era set of I Love Lucy. There was no dishwasher, only a drainboard with an empty wire dish rack sitting to one side of the double sink.

  On the ledge of the window stood a series of several handmade clay pitchers. Roughly formed and out of balance, they struck a familiar note—the kind of handiwork that childish hands might create in a Bible school arts and crafts session. Well-used pots and pans dangled from a metal framework attached to the high ceiling. Old-fashioned wooden cupboards complete with white knob handles went all the way to that same ceiling. A worn step stool in one corner of the room hinted that it might be the secret to making Sonja’s top shelves more accessible.

  Next to the cupboard at the far end of the table was a wall-mounted phone—the old-fashioned dial type. Next to that hung two framed diplomas from the University of Arizona. One listed the recipient as Sonja Marie Hemmelberg. The other had been issued to David Alton Hosfield. Both of them dated from the mid-sixties.

  Sonja glanced in Joanna’s direction and caught her studying the diplomas. “Looking at the artifacts, are you?” she asked with a smile.

  “Artifacts?” Joanna repeated, ashamed to have been caught snooping.

  Sonja laughed again. “I was a Home Ec major,” she said. “I don’t think they make those anymore. Since I was in Home Ec and Alton was an Aggie, everybody thought it was a match made in heaven. We met at a mixer between my dorm and his fraternity the first week of school our freshman year. I was in Pima Hall—sort of an honors dorm for poor but smart girls.” She shrugged. “What can I tell you? It was love at first sight.”

  They’ve spent more than thirty-five years together, Joanna thought. The stab of hurtful jealousy that passed through her might have been Sonja Hosfield’s paring knife plunged deep in her heart. She and Andy never had a chance to come near twenty-five years, much less thirty-five.

  The words burst out of Joanna’s mouth before she could stop them. “You’re lucky to have had so much time together. My husband died on the night of our tenth anniversary.”

  Sonja stopped chopping. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Joanna said guiltily. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “No, it’s fine. But you’re wrong about the timing—ours, that is. We haven’t had that many years together, either. Alton and I went together all through college, but then we broke up during spring semester of our senior year. We had a big fight over something stupid, and I gave Alton back his engagement ring. He wanted me to take birth control pills, you see. They were fairly new back then. He said he didn’t want us to, as they called it back then, ‘get in trouble and have to get married.’ But birth control pills were against my religion—or at least they were against my parents’ religion. I told him if he really loved me he wouldn’t even ask me to do such a sinful thing.”

  Sonja scraped the pile of finely chopped onions across the cutting board into a mixing bowl. Then she absently stirred the contents of the bowl with the blade of her knife. “I’m not sure how I came to all those erroneous conclusions,” she said finally. “Here we were sleeping together—had been for years. It seems to me now that risking an unwed pregnancy should have counted as more of a sin than taking birth control pills, but then Home Ec majors always were strong on cooking and short on philosophy.”

  She stopped stirring and brought the dish of freshly made salsa over to the table. The combination of chopped tomatoes, onions, and cilantro was enough to make Joanna’s eyes water as well.

  “With everything that’s on TV and in the movies nowadays,” Sonja continued, “the whole thing sounds ridiculous—almost quaint, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t ridiculous back then. Not at all, and we broke up over it. Alton and I each married other people and spent the next eighteen or nineteen years in hell. I found someone who didn’t want a stay-at-home wife, and Alton married someone who wasn’t one. By the time we met again, at our twentieth class reunion, we were both divorced. In our case, it was re-love at first sight. So we haven’t been married very long, either. More tea?”

  As the jasmine-laced tea poured over Joanna’s partially melted ice cubes, she was astonished at the ease with which she and Sonja had fallen into this conversation. They were strangers, and yet they might have been friends forever. Joanna suspected that a good deal of Sonja’s volubility had to do with plain, ordinary loneliness. Stuck out here on the far fringes of civilized Cochise County, Sonja Hosfield probably didn’t have many people to talk to outside the confining circle of her own small family.

  “Do you have any children?” Sonja asked.

  Sipping her tea, Joanna nodded. “A daughter. Her name’s Jenny—Jennifer Ann. She’s eleven.”

  “So she’s not all that much younger than Jake,” Sonja said. “He just turned twelve this past March. He’s ours together, Alton’s and mine, but we both have other kids besides. He has a son, Ryan, and a daughter, Felicia, from his first marriage, and I have two boys—men now—Matt and Jason. When I divorced their father, the boys couldn’t understand why I was leaving. They opted to stay with the big bucks—with the house and the cars and the swimming pool. Living in a ratty little two-bedroom apartment wasn’t for them. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven me. Not for leaving then, and certainly not for being happy now.”

  Taking another knife from a wooden block on
the counter, Sonja began to slice up the cornbread. “What happened to your husband?” she asked. “Was he ill?”

  Joanna steeled herself to tell the story once again. “He was a police officer,” she said. “He was shot.”

  “In the line of duty?”

  Even though Deputy Andrew Roy Brady had been officially off duty at the time of the incident, the county commissioners had ruled his fatality as line of duty. “That’s right,” she said.

  Sonja nodded. “I remember now. He was running for office at the time, for sheriff.”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “After the funeral, some of his supporters asked me to run in his stead, and here I am.”

  “I’ve never been one of those women’s libbers,” Sonja said. “Being a woman in a man’s job must be difficult at times.”

  Joanna glanced around Sonja Hosfield’s old-fashioned and industrious but nonetheless spotless kitchen. It was Sheriff Brady’s turn to smile. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not so sure being a woman in a woman’s job isn’t just as hard.”

  Sonja shrugged. “Maybe it is.”

  For a little while it was quiet in the kitchen, except for the noisy hum of a teapot-shaped electric clock on the wall over the stove. The sound of it served as a reminder to Sheriff Brady that she was neglecting her responsibilities. “About last night…” Joanna began.

  “I heard them,” Sonja told her. “The gunshots, that is. There were several of them, one right after another. Then, after a pause, there were several more. They sounded like the M-80 firecrackers my boys used to like so much when they were kids. It’s not the first time I’ve heard them in the last few weeks. I figured they were just leftovers from somebody’s Fourth of July. Now, though, I’m thinking Martin’s not much of a shot and this was the first time he’s actually managed to hit something.”

  Noting that Sonja Hosfield immediately assumed that Martin Scorsby was the person responsible, Joanna let that slide for the moment. “You said you heard shots. Does that mean your husband didn’t?”