Paradise Lost jb-9

by J. A. Jance

  “I didn’t say I liked it,” she corrected. “I said I loved it. In my book, love is better than like.”

  “Oh,” Butch said. “I see. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  After breakfast, Joanna and Butch had to hang around Peoria until the tux shop opened at ten, then they headed for Bisbee. With Joanna driving, Butch sat in the passenger seat and read his manuscript aloud, pausing now and then while he changed a word or scribbled a note. Joanna continued to be intrigued by the fact that the story was funny—really funny. There were some incidents that seemed vaguely familiar and no doubt had their origins in events in and around the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, but just when she would be ready to point out that something was too close to the mark, the story would veer off in some zany and totally unpredictable fashion that would leave her giggling.

  “This is hilarious,” Joanna said after one particularly laughable scene. “I can’t get over how funny it is—how funny you are.”

  Butch looked thoughtful. “When I was a kid,” he said, “I was usually the smallest boy in my class. So I had a choice. I could either get the crap beaten out of me on a regular basis or I could be a clown and make everybody laugh. I picked the latter. Once I grew up and went into business, it was the same thing, I could let things get to me or have fun. I don’t like serious, Joey. I prefer off-the-wall.”

  Joanna looked at him and smiled. “So do I,” she said.

  Listening to him read the story made the miles of pavement speed by. Traffic was light because most Memorial Day travelers were not yet headed home. It was a hot, windy morning. The sum­mer rains were still a good month away, so gusting winds kicked up layers of parched earth and churned them into dancing dust devils or clouds of billowing dust. Near Casa Grande Joanna watched in amusement as long highway curves made the towering presence of Picacho Peak seem to hop back and forth across the busy freeway. They had sped along at seventy-five, and just before noon they pulled into the parking garage at University Medical Center in Tucson.

  “Are you coming up?” she asked before stepping out of the car.

  Butch rolled down his window. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You go ahead. If you don’t mind, I’d rather sit here and keep on proofreading.”

  With her emotions firmly in check and trying not to remember that awful time when Andy was in that very hospital, Joanna made her way into the main reception area.

  “Yolanda Cañedo,” she said.

  The woman at the desk typed a few letters into her computer keyboard. Frowning, she looked up at Joanna. “Are you a relative?”

  Joanna shook her head. “Ms. Cañedo works for me,” she said.

  “She’s been moved into the ICU. You can go up to the waiting room, but only relatives are allowed into the unit itself.”

  “I know the drill,” Joanna said.

  “The ICU is—”

  “I know how to get there,” Joanna said.

  She made her way to the bank of elevators and up to the ICU waiting room, which hadn’t changed at all from the way she remembered it. Two people sat in the tar corner of the roost, and Joanna recognized both of them. One was Olga Ortiz, Yolanda’s mother. The other was Ted Chapman, executive director of the newly formed Cochise County Jail Ministry.

  Ted stood up and held out a bony hand as Joanna approached. He was a tall scarecrow of a man who towered over her. After retiring as a Congregational minister, he had seen a need at the jail and had gone to work to fill it. His new voluntary job was, as he had told Joanna, a way to keep himself from wasting away retire­ment.

  “How are things?” Joanna asked.

  “Not good,” he said. “Leon’s in with her right now.” Leon Cañedo was Yolanda’s husband.

  Joanna sat down next to Mrs. Ortiz, who sat with a three-ring notebook clutched in her arms. “I’m so sorry to hear Yolanda’s back in here,” Joanna said. “I thought she was doing better.”

  Olga nodded. “We all did,” she said. “But she’s having a terri­ble reaction to the chemo—lots worse than anyone expected. And it’s very nice of you to stop by, Sheriff Brady. When I called to ask you to come, Yolanda wasn’t in the ICU. I thought seeing you might cheer her up, but then . . .” Olga Ortiz shrugged and fell silent.

  “They moved her into the ICU about ten this morning,” led Chapman supplied.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Joanna asked. “Anything my department can do?”

  Olga Ortiz’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the notebook she was still hugging to her body. “Mr. Chapman brought me this,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to show it to Yolanda yet. She’s too sick to read it now, but it’ll mean so much to her when she can.” Olga offered the notebook to Joanna, holding it carefully as though it were something precious and infinitely breakable.

  Joanna opened it to find it was a homemade group get-well card. Made of construction paper and decorated with bits of glued-on greeting cards, it expressed best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery. Each page was from one particular individual—either a fellow jail employee or an inmate. All of the pages were signed, although some of the signatures, marked by an X, had names supplied in someone else’s handwriting, Ted Chapman’s, most likely.

  Joanna looked at the man and smiled. “What a nice thing to do,” she said.

  “We try,” he returned.

  Joanna closed the notebook and handed it back to Olga, who once again clutched it to her breast. “What about Yolanda’s boys?” Joanna asked. “Are they all right? If you and Leon are both up here, who’s looking after them?”

  “Arturo,” Olga said. “My husband. The problem is, his heart’s not too good, and those boys can be too much for him at times.”

  “Let me see if there’s anything we can do to help out with the kids,” Joanna offered. “We might be able to take a little of the pres­sure off the rest of you.”

  “That would be very nice,” Olga said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  Just then Joanna’s cell phone rang. Knowing cell phones were frowned on in hospitals, she excused herself and hurried back to the elevator lobby. She could see that her caller was Frank Mon­toya, but she let the phone go to messages and didn’t bother calling back until she was outside the main door.

  “Good afternoon, Frank,” Joanna said. “Sorry I couldn’t answer a few minutes ago when you called. What’s happening?”

  “We found Dora Matthews,” Frank replied.

  “What do you mean, you found her?” Joanna repeated. “I thought Dora Matthews was in foster care. How could she be missing?”

  “She let herself out through a window last night and took on. Once the foster parents realized she had skipped, they didn’t rush to call for help because they figured she’d cone back on her own, No such luck.”

  The finality in Frank Montoya’s voice caused a clutch of concern in Joanna’s stomach. “You’re not saying she’s dead, are you?”

  Frank sighed. “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  Joanna could barely get her mind around the appalling idea. “Where?” she demanded. “And when?”

  “In a culvert out along Highway 90, just west of the turnoff to Kartchner Caverns. A guy out working one of those 4-H highway cleanup crews found her. Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal are on the scene here with me right now. We’re expecting Doc Win field any minute.”

  “You’re sure it’s Dora?” Joanna asked. “There’s no possibility it could be someone else?”

  “No way,” Frank replied. “Don’t forget, I saw Dora Matthews myself the other night out at Apache Pass. I know what she looks like. There’s no mistake, Joanna. It’s her.”

  Joanna sighed. “I forgot you had met her. What happened?”

  “Looks like maybe she was hit by a car and then dragged or thrown into the ditch.”

  “What about skid marks or footprints? Anything like that?”

  “None that we’ve been able to find so far.”

  “What
about Sally Matthews? Any sign of her yet?” Joanna asked.

  “Negative on that. We’re looking, but we still don’t have a line on her.”

  “Great,” Joanna said grimly. “When we finally get around to arresting her for running a meth lab out of her mother’s house, we can also let her know that the daughter we took into custody the other night is dead. ‘Sorry about that. It’s just one of those unfor­tunate things.’ “

  “Dora Matthews wasn’t in our custody, Joanna,” Frank reminded her. “CPS took over. They’re the ones who picked her up from High Lonesome Ranch, and they’re the ones who put her in foster care.”

  “You’re right. Dora Matthews may not have been our problem legally,” Joanna countered. “When all the legal buzzards get around to searching for a place to put blame for a wrongful-death lawsuit, Child Protective Services is probably going to take the hit. But that’s called splitting hairs for liability’s sake, Frank. Morally speak­ing, Dora was our problem. You know that as well as I do.”

  Frank’s dead silence on the other end of the phone told Joanna he knew she was right. “Butch and I are just now leaving Univer­sity Medical Center,” she added. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She sprinted from the front door to the garage. “What’s wrong?” Butch demanded as she threw herself into the car. “Dora Matthews is dead.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I just talked to Frank. Someone ran over her with a car. A Four-H litter patrol found her out on Highway 90 by the turnoff to Kartchner Caverns.”

  “But I thought she was in a foster home,” Butch said. “How can this be?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” Joanna returned grimly.

  178

  They drove through Tucson with lights flashing and with the siren wailing. They were passing Houghton Road before Hutch spoke again.

  “What if they’re related?” he asked.

  Turning to look at Butch’s face, Joanna ran over the warning strip of rough pavement that bordered the shoulder of the freeway. Only when she had hauled the car back into its proper lane did she reply. “What if what’s related?” she asked.

  “Dora’s death and the murder of the woman Dora and Jenny found in Apache Pass. What if whoever killed Connie Haskell thinks Dora and Jenny know something that could identify hint? What if Dora’s dead because the killer wanted to keep her quiet?”

  Without another word, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed High Lonesome Ranch. Eva Lou answered.

  Joanna willed her voice to be calm. “Hi, Eva Lou,” she said casually. “Could I speak to Jenny, please?” she asked.

  “She’s not here right now,” Eva Lou answered.

  Joanna’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. “Where is she?”

  “Out riding Kiddo,” Eva Lou replied. “She was still really upset about Dora this morning. When she asked if she could go riding, I thought it would do her a world of good. Why? Is something the matter?”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “I’m not sure. An hour or so, I suppose.”

  “Do you have any idea where she was going?”

  “Just up in the hills. Both dogs went with her. I understand she sometimes rides down toward Double Adobe to see . . . What’s that girl’s name again?”

  “Cassie,” Joanna supplied. “Cassie Parks.”

  “That’s right. Cassie. But as far as I know, Cassie’s still away on the camp-out. Joanna, are you all right? You sound funny.”

  “Something’s happened to Dora Matthews,” Joanna said carefully.

  “Not her again,” Eva Lou said. “What’s wrong now?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Dead! My goodness! How can that be? What happened?”

  “She evidently ran away from the foster home sometime overnight,” Joanna said. “She was hit by a car out on Highway 90, over near the turnoff to Kartchner Caverns.”

  “Jim Bob’s outside messing with the pump,” Eva Lou said. “I’ll go tell him. We’ll take your Eagle and go out looking for Jenny right away to let her know what’s happened.”

  “Go ahead,” Joanna said. “Butch and I will be there as soon as we can.

  She ended that call and then dialed Frank Montoya again. “I’m not coming,” she said. “I’m going home instead. What if whoever killed Connie Haskell also killed Dora Matthews? What if they’re coming after Jenny next?”

  There was a pause. “I can see why you’d be worried about that,” Frank replied at last. “If I were in your position, I’d be wor­ried, too. But remember, this could be just a hit-and-run. It wouldn’t be the first time a hitchhiker got run over in the dark.”

  “If Jenny were your child, would you settle for believing Dora’s death was nothing but a coincidence?” Joanna demanded.

  “No,” Frank agreed. “I don’t suppose I would. You go on home and check on her. We’ll handle things here and keep you posted about what’s going on at the scene.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

  Joanna put down the phone. She drove for another five miles without saying a word. Once again it was Butch who broke the silence.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” he said.

  Joanna gripped the steering wheel. “I am, too,” she said. “And what happened to Dora Matthews isn’t your fault.”

  “I know it isn’t my fault,” Joanna said, “but just wait till I have a chance to talk to Eleanor.”

  At two-fifteen they pulled into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch. Joanna’s Eagle was nowhere to be seen, which meant limn Bob and Eva Lou were probably still out searching. As Joanna and Butch stepped out of the car, Jenny came strolling out of the barn, with Sadie and Tigger following at her heels.

  Joanna went running toward her and pulled Jenny into a smoth­ering hug. “Mom!” Jenny said indignantly, pulling back. “Let go. I’m all dusty and sweaty. You’ll dirty your clothes.” Then, catching sight of her mother’s face, Jenny’s whole demeanor changed. “Mom, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

  “Dora’s dead,” Joanna blurted out.

  “Dead,” Jenny repeated as all color drained from her trice. “She’s dead? How come? Why?”

  “She must have run away from the foster home,” Joanna said. “Someone hit her with a car. When Grandma Brady said you were out riding Kiddo, I was so afraid . . . That’s where the Gs are now—out looking for you.”

  “But, Mom, I was just out riding, why should you ...” Jenny drew back. “Wait a minute. You think the guy who killed Dora might come looking for me next, don’t you!”

  Joanna and Jenny were mother and daughter. It wasn’t surprising that the thoughts of one should be so readily shared by the other, although, in that moment, Joanna wished it weren’t true. Saying nothing, she merely nodded.

  “Why?” Jenny asked.

  “Because of what happened in Apache Pass,” Butch said, stepping into the fray. “Your mother and I are afraid that whoever killed Connie Haskell may have targeted you and Dora.”

  “But why?” Jenny repeated. “Dora and me didn’t see who did it or anything. All we did was find the body.”

  For once Joanna resisted the temptation to correct her daugh­ter’s grammar. “You know that,” she said quietly. “And so do we. The problem is, the killer may believe you saw something even though you didn’t.”

  Just then Joanna’s Eagle came wheeling into the yard, with Jim Bob Brady at the wheel. The car had barely come to a stop before Eva Lou was out of it. With her apron billowing around her, Eva Lou raced toward Jenny.

  “There you are, Jenny,” she said. “I’m so glad to see you! When we couldn’t find you, I was afraid—”

  “She’s fine, Eva Lou,” Joanna interjected. “Jenny’s just fine.”

  That’s what she said, but with Dora Matthews dead, Joanna wasn’t sure she believed her own reassuring words. Neither did anybody else.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a grim f
amily gathering that convened around the dining room table at High Lonesome Ranch. Joanna began by briefly summarizing what Frank Montoya had told her about Dora Matthews’s death.

  “Supposing what happened to Dora and what went on in the Apache Pass case are connected,” Jim Bob began. “How would the killer go about learning the first thing about Jenny and Dora?”

  In response, Butch retrieved a copy of Sunday morning’s Ari­zona Reporter from the car and handed it to Jim Bob Brady. Once he finished reading, Jim Bob sighed and shook his head. “‘That still doesn’t say for sure that the cases are connected.”

  “That’s right,” Joanna agreed. “But we can’t afford to take any chances. As of now, Jenny, consider yourself grounded. You don’t go anywhere at all unless one of us is with you. No more riding off on Kiddo by yourself. Understand?”

  A subdued Jenny nodded and voiced no objection.

  “What about us?” Eva Lou asked. “1 )o you want us to stay on?”

  Joanna glanced at Butch, who gave his head an almost imper­ceptible shake. “No,” Joanna said. “That’s not necessary. We’ve disrupted your lives enough as it is. You go on home. We’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” Jim Bob said, “just so long as you all know you can count on us if you need to.”

  “Has anybody found Dora’s mother?” Jenny asked.

  Joanna shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  Jenny stood up and pushed her chair away from the table. “Then maybe you should go back to work,” she said, and left the room. At a loss, and not knowing what else to do, Joanna got up and followed her daughter into her bedroom, where she found Jenny lying facedown on the bed.

  “Jen?” Joanna said. “Are you all right?”

  “You said she’d be safe,” Jenny said accusingly. “You gave me Scout’s honor.”

  “Jenny, please. I had no idea this would happen.”

  “And now you’re saying that if I stay home, I’ll be safe?”

  “Jenny, Butch and I—”

  “Just go,” Jenny interrupted. “Go away and leave me alone. You let someone kill Dora. You’d better find out who did it before I’m dead, too.”