by J. A. Jance
“I’m Caroline Parker,” she said, holding out her hand iii greeting. “Amos Parker is my father. It’s before dinner siesta time, so he’s taking a nap at the moment, as are most of our clients. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna told her. “This is my chief deputy, Frank Montoya. We’re hoping to speak to a man named Ron Haskell who is thought to be staying here. Do you know it that’s the case?”
Caroline Parker frowned. “Didn’t someone come by yesterday looking for him as well?”
Joanna nodded. “That would have been my two homicide detectives, Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal. They were turned away at the gate and told not to come back without a court order.”
Caroline nodded. “I heard about that,” she said. “I was away at the time, and it did cause something of a flap. My father tends to be overprotective when it comes to our clients. He doesn’t like to have them disturbed, you see. It gets in the way of the work they’re here to do, which is, of course, paramount. Won’t you step inside?”
She opened an old-fashioned spindle-wood screen door and beckoned Joanna and Frank inside. They entered a long room that was so dark and so pleasantly cool that it almost resembled a cave. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Joanna saw that the flag-stone floor was scattered with a collection of fraying but genuine Navajo rugs. The furnishings were massive and old-fashioned. The set of indestructible leather chairs and couches might once have graced the lobby of a national park hotel. At the far end of the room was a huge fireplace with its face covered by a beautifully crafted brass screen. The walls were lined with bookshelves whose boards sagged beneath their weighty loads. The room smelled strongly of wood smoke and furniture wax.
Caroline Parker walked across the room and switched on a lamp that cast a pool of golden light on the highly polished surface of a mahogany desk. Then she seated herself in a low, permanently dented leather chair and waved Joanna and Frank onto a matching leather couch.
“What kind of work do your clients do?” Joanna asked.
“As you may have surmised, Pathway to Paradise is a recovery center,” Caroline explained. “A Bible-based recovery center.”
“Recovery from what?” Joanna asked.
“Not alcohol or drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Caroline responded. “We have a doctor on staff, but we’re not a medical facility. We specialize in treating addictions of the soul. In the past we’ve worked mostly with folks who have sexual and gambling difficulties. Now we’re seeing people who are addicted to things like the Internet or day-trading. Whatever the problem, we approach it with the underlying belief that people suffering from such disorders have handed their lives over to Satan. Pathway to Paradise helps them tied their way back.”
.’I’ve been sheriff here for several years,” Joanna said. “Until the last few days, I didn’t know you existed.”
“That’s exactly how we like it,” Caroline Parker returned. “We’ve been here for almost thirty years. We prefer to maintain a low profile, although the people in need of our services have an uncanny way of finding us.”
“Only thirty years?” Joanna questioned. “This room looks older than that.”
Caroline nodded. “Oh, the buildings are, certainly. In the thirties, the place was a dude ranch. It fell on hard times and was pretty much a wreck when Daddy and I bought it.”
“Why the armed guard?” Joanna asked.
“To keep out troublemakers. We set up shop here because we wanted privacy and affordability. The same holds true far any number of our neighbors who are looking for privacy and cheap land, too. The problem is, some of them aren’t necessarily nice people. We had a few unfortunate incidents early on. We found we were too far off the beaten path to ask for or receive timely help, so we created our own police force. That’s also part of our creed here: God helps those who help themselves.”
“That doesn’t explain what happened to my officers,” Joanna said. “They had a legitimate reason for coming here, and they were turned away.”
Caroline shook her head. “Over the years we’ve heard all kinds of stories,” she said. “You’d be surprised at the number of off duty police officers who turn out to be moonlighting process servers trying to get to our clients because a disgruntled spouse is trying to file for a divorce, for example. We’ve had to become very proactive in the area of looking out for our clients. They’re often in extremely vulnerable states, especially when they first arrive. We have an obligation to see to it that they’re not trampled on by anyone, be it angry ex-spouses or parents or even officers of the law. If our clients have legal difficulties, it’s our belief that they’ll be better able to deal with those problems after they’ve gotten themselves square with God.”
“Does that include withholding the timely notification that a client’s wife has died?” Joanna asked.
Caroline Parker’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you telling me Ron Haskell’s wife is dead?”
“Yes,” Joanna answered. “I certainly am. Constance Marie Haskell was murdered over the weekend. She was last seen alive in Phoenix on Thursday. Our understanding, from her sister, is that Mrs. Haskell was on her way here to meet with her husband. Her body was found in Apache Pass Friday evening. Detectives Carbajal and Carpenter were here to notify Ron Haskell of what had happened.”
“Was my father aware of that?” Caroline asked.
“Was I aware of what?” a stern voice asked behind them.
Joanna turned in time to see a tall, stoop-shouldered man enter the room. In the dim light his wispy white hair formed a silvery halo around his head. Even in the gloom of that darkened room he wore a pair of sunglasses, and he made his way around the furniture by tapping lightly with a cane. Amos Parker was blind.
“Daddy,” Caroline said, “we have visitors.”
“So I gathered,” Amos Parker said, stopping just beyond the couch where Joanna and Frank were sitting. “And they are?”
Joanna stood up and went forward to meet him. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she said. “I’m sheriff of Cochise County. Frank Montoya is my chief deputy.”
Joanna held out her hand, but Amos Parker didn’t extend his.
Instead, he addressed his daughter. “What are they doing here, Caroline?” he demanded. You know nay position when it comes to police officers.”
“I’m the one who let them Caroline said. “‘They came to tell Ron Haskell that his wife is dead—that she’s been murdered. That’s why those two officers were here yesterday.”
“You know very well that Ron Haskell broke the rules and that he’s in isolation. Until his isolation period is over, he’s not to see anyone, including you, Miss Brady.”
“It’s Mrs.,” Joanna corrected.
“So you’re married, are you?” Amos Parker asked, easing himself into a chair that was off to the side from where the others had been sitting. “I should have thought a woman who would take on a man’s job and become sheriff wouldn’t have much use for men. I’d expect her to be one of those fire-breathing, cigar-smoking feminists who insists on wearing the pants in her family.”
“She’s wearing a dress, Daddy,” Caroline put in.
The fact that Caroline Parker felt constrained to defend Joanna’s manner of dress to this unpleasantly rude man was disturbing. Even so, whatever Sheriff Joanna Brady was or wasn’t wearing had nothing to do with the business at hand.
“The only part of my wardrobe that should matter to you, Mr. Parker, is the sheriff’s badge pinned to my jacket. Is Mr. Haskell still here?”
Amos Parker crossed his arms. “I have nothing to say,” he said.
“Oh, Daddy,” Caroline interceded. “Don’t be ridiculous. The man’s wife has been murdered. He needs to be told.”
Parker shook his shaggy head. “You know the rules,” he said. “Ron Haskell broke his contract. He’s in isolation until I say he’s ready to come out.”
“And I think you’re wrong.” Caroli
ne blurted out the words and then looked stricken—as though she wished she could take them back.
Amos Parker turned his sightless eyes toward his daughter’s voice. “Caroline, are you questioning my authority?”
There was a moment of stark silence. As the brooding quiet lengthened, Joanna fully expected Caroline to cave. She didn’t.
“In this instance, yes,” Caroline said softly. “I believe you’re wrong.”
Another long silence followed. Finally, Amos Parker was the one who blinked. “Very well,” he conceded. “We’ll probably lose him now anyway. You could just as well bring him down.”
“From where?” Joanna asked.
“The isolation cabin is about a mile away,” Caroline said. “I’ll go get him and bring him here.”
Interviewing Ron Haskell in a room where Amos Parker sat enthroned as an interested observer seemed like a bad idea. Joanna glanced at Frank Montoya, who nodded in unspoken agreement.
“Why don’t we go with you?” Joanna suggested.
Caroline looked to her father for direction, but he sat with his arms folded saying nothing. “All right,” Caroline said, plucking her hat off a table near the door. “Come on then. Someone will have to ride in the back.”
“I will,” Frank volunteered.
Once they had piled into the Jeep, Caroline started it and drove through a haphazard collection of several buildings all of whose blinds were still closed. No one stirred, inside or out. Beyond the buildings, Caroline turned onto a rocky track that wound up and over an adjoining hillside.
“How did Ron Haskell break his contract?” Joanna asked.
“He was seen making an unauthorized phone call,” Caroline replied. “Clients aren’t allowed to contact their families until their treatment has progressed far enough for them to he able to handle it.”
“When was this phone call?” Joanna prodded.
“Thursday morning,” Caroline answered. “One of the kitchen help had gone to the store to pick up something. She saw him there and reported it to my father. Since Ron hadn’t asked for a pass, that meant two breaches of contract rather than one: leaving without permission and making an unauthorized phone call.”
The Jeep topped a steep rise. Halfway down the slope a tiny cabin sat tucked in among the scrub oak. “That’s it?” Joanna asked. Caroline Parker nodded. “And how long has he been here?”
“Since Thursday afternoon. When people are in isolation, we bring them up here and drop them off along with plenty of food and water. It’s our form of sending someone into the wilderness to commune with God. Even at Pathway, there’s so much going on that it’s hard for someone to find enough quiet in which to concentrate and listen.”
“No one has seen Ron Haskell since he was brought here last Thursday?”
“That’s what isolation is all about,” Caroline said. “You’re left completely alone—you and God.”
As the Jeep rumbled down the hill, Joanna fully expected that they would find the cabin empty, but she was wrong. As the Jeep rounded the side of the cabin, the door flew open and a stocky man hurried out, buttoning his shirt as he came. Ron Haskell was any-thing but the handsome Lothario that Maggie MacFerson’s acid descriptions had led Joanna to expect. He waited until the Jeep stopped, then he rushed around to the passenger side of the vehicle. As he flung open the door, his face was alight with anticipation. As soon as his eyes came to rest on Joanna’s face, the eager expression disappeared.
“Sorry,” he muttered, backing away. “I was hoping you were my wife.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was long after dark when Joanna finally rolled back into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch to the sound of raucous greetings from Sadie and Tigger. She was relieved to find that Jim
Bob and Eva Lou’s Honda was no longer there. Lights behind curtains glowed invitingly from all the windows.
Weary beyond bearing, Joanna was frustrated as well. The meeting with Ron Haskell had left her doubting that he had been involved in his wife’s death. And if that was true, they were no closer to finding out who had killed either Connie Haskell or Dora Matthews, which meant that Jenny, too, was possibly still in grave danger.
As she got out of the car, Joanna heard the back door slam. Butch came walking toward her.
“How’s Jenny?” she asked over an aching catch in her throat. Butch shook his head. “About how you’d expect,” he said. Not good?”
Not good. She’s barely ventured out of her room since you left this afternoon. I tried cajoling her into coining out for dinner. No dice. Said she wasn’t hungry Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Remembering that last difficult conversation with her daughter, Joanna shook her head. “Don’t count on it,” she said.
“Hungry?” he said. Joanna nodded. “I don’t think Eva Lou trusts my cooking abilities,” Butch continued. “She left the refrigerator full of leftovers and the freezer stocked with a bunch of Ziploc containers loaded with precooked, heat-and-serve meals. What’s your pleasure?”
“How about a Butch Dixon omelette?”
“Good choice.”
Inside the kitchen, Joanna noticed that the table was covered with blueprints for the new house they were planning to build on the property left to Joanna by her former handyman, Clayton Rhodes. “Don’t forget,” Butch said as he began rolling up the plans and securing them with rubber bands, “tomorrow night we have a mandatory meeting scheduled with the contractor.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said. “Right now, I’m going to change clothes and see if Jenny’s awake. I just talked to Ernie Carpenter. Jenny will have to come to the department with me tomorrow morning so the Double Cs can interview her.” Since both detectives had last names beginning with the letter C, that’s how people in the department often referred to Joanna’s homicide detective division.
“Because of Connie Haskell, because of Dora, or because Jenny herself may be in danger?” Butch asked.
Joanna sighed. “All of the above,” she said.
She went into the bedroom, removed her weapons, and locked them away. Thinking about the threat to Jenny, she briefly considered keeping one of the Glocks in the drawer of her nightstand, but in the end she didn’t. As she stripped off her panty hose, she was amazed to discover that they had survived her crime scene foray. That hardly ever happens, she thought, tossing them into, the dirty clothes hamper.
Dressed in a nightgown and robe, she went to Jenny’s bedroom and knocked on the door. Her questioning knock was answered by a muffled “Go away.”
“I can’t,” Joanna said, opening the door anyway. “I need to talk to you.”
The room was dark, with the curtains drawn and the shades pulled down. Even the night-light had been extinguished. Joanna walked over and switched on the bedside lamp. At her approach, Jenny turned her face to the wall in her cavelike bottom hunk and pulled a pillow over her head.
“Why?” Jenny demanded. “Dora’s dead. What good will talking do?”
“We’re not going to talk about that,” Joanna told her daughter. “We can’t. You’re a witness in this case. Tomorrow morning you’ll have to go to work with me so Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal can talk to you. They’ll want to go over everything that happened this weekend, from the time you went camping on Friday. They’ll question you in order to see if you can help them learn what happened to Dora and who’s responsible.”
“Grandma Lathrop is responsible,” Jenny insisted bitterly. “Why couldn’t she just mind her own business?”
“I’m sure Grandma Lathrop thought she was doing the right thing—what she thought was best for Dora.”
“It wasn’t,” Jenny said.
They sat in silence for a few moments. “I didn’t really like Dora very much,” Jenny admitted finally in a small voice. “I mean, we weren’t Friends or anything. I didn’t even want to sleep in the same tent with her. I was only with her because Mrs. Lambert said I had to be. But then, after Dora was here at the ranc
h that day with Grandpa and Grandma, she acted different—not as smart-alecky. I could see Dora just wanted to be a regular kid, like anybody else.”
Just like you, Joanna thought.
“Dora cried like crazy when that woman came to take her away, Morn,” Jenny continued. “She cried and cried and didn’t want to go. Is that why she’s dead, because Grandma and Grandpa Brady let that woman take her away?”
“Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have a choice about that, Jenny,” Joanna said gently. “When somebody from CPS shows up to take charge of a child, that’s the way it is. It’s the law, and the child goes.
“You mean if Grandpa and Grandma had tried to keep her they would have been breaking the law?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I wish they had,” Jenny said quietly.
“So do I,” Joanna told her. “God knows, so do I.”
There was another long silence. Again Jenny was the first to speak. “But even if I didn’t like Dora Matthews, I didn’t want her dead. And why do there have to be so many dead people, Mom?” Jenny asked, turning at last to face her mother. “How come? First Dad, then Esther Daniels, then Clayton Rhodes, and now Dora. Are we a curse or something? All people have to do is know us, and that means they’re going to die.”
Jenny lay on her back on the bottom bunk, absently tracing the outlines of the upper bunk’s springs with her finger. Meanwhile Joanna searched her heart, hoping to find the connection that had existed only two nights earlier between herself and her daughter, when Joanna had been the one lying on the bottom bunk and Jenny had been the one on top. The problem was that connection had been forged before Dora was dead; before Sheriff Joanna Brady—who had sworn to serve and protect people like Dora Matthews—had failed to do either one.
“It seems like that to me sometimes, too.” With her heart breaking, that was the best Joanna could manage. “But dying’s part of living, Jen,” she added. “It’s something that happens to everyone sooner or later.”
