by J. A. Jance
The word “hippie” might have gone out of favor in the rest of the world, but among old-time Bisbeeites it still accounted for anyone who veered ever so slightly out of the norm. With a mighty effort, a seething Joanna Brady attempted to keep from saying everything that was on her mind. The end result left her voice quivering like a serving of underdone church potluck Jell-O.
“Jeff Daniels went to China to bring home a baby,” Joanna said. “He’s in a place called Chengdu, which, as I understand it, is far better known for its coal dust than it is for drug trafficking. If there has been any delay in Jeff’s return, I’m sure it has absolutely nothing to do with what you regard as Jeff Daniels’ hippie tendencies.”
“Joanna, I’m only doing my job,” Marliss objected. “If there’s something going on, the public has a right—”
“No, you’re wrong, Marliss,” Joanna shot back. “This has nothing to do with your job. It has nothing to do with being a reporter and everything to do with being a gossip. Let me give you a word of advice, Marliss Shackleford. If one word of this shows up in that column of yours—one single word—I’ll come up to your office and make you eat the damn thing.”
“Joanna…”
“Marianne Maculyea may be a good enough Christian that she can turn the other cheek to people like you. But I’m not. I’m nothing but a poor, miserable sinner. My cheeks don’t turn.”
“That sounded like a threat.”
“As a matter of fact, it was,” Joanna growled into the phone. “You can count on it.”
She flung down the receiver and stood there glaring at it with as much loathing as if it were a coiled snake, one that might strike at any moment. Seconds later she was stabbed by an attack of remorse. How much of that blast of steam had Marliss actually deserved and how much should have gone to Eleanor Lathrop? One thing was sure, however. Joanna wasn’t about to call Marliss back and apologize.
“Mom?” Jenny emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a sodden bath towel wrapped around her still-wet body. Her blond hair dripped water onto the carpet. “What’s the matter?” she asked, looking up at Joanna in big-eyed concern. “I heard you yelling. I was afraid something was wrong.”
Ignoring the wet towel, Joanna pulled Jenny to her, holding the child close. “I’m fine now,” Joanna said.
“But who was that on the phone?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Joanna said. “It wasn’t important.”
“It wasn’t Grandma Lathrop, was it?”
“No, it was somebody else—someone who made me mad. You don’t need to worry. It has nothing to do with you.”
“But you hardly ever yell,” Jenny said, her eyes misting over with a veil of tears. “Usually, when you get mad at me, you get quiet, not loud.”
Moving Jenny to arm’s length, Joanna smiled down at her. “You know me pretty well, don’t you.”
Biting her lip, Jenny nodded.
“Well,” Joanna continued. “The person on the phone wasn’t very nice. Sometimes that’s contagious. I ended up yelling, and that makes me almost as bad as she is.”
Jenny considered that for a moment. “Back before Daddy died, I used to think that everyone was nice.”
Joanna shook her head, then gathered her daughter into her arms once more. “So did I,” she said. “But, Jenny, we have to remember that most people still are. There are just a few bad apples. And you know what they do, don’t you?”
Jenny nodded gravely. “Grandpa Brady says they spoil the whole barrel.”
“Right,” Joanna said. “Now off you go to bed. It’s getting late. We have to get up early in the morning to go pick up Tigger. Bebe Noonan left a message that we can come get him anytime after seven.”
“You mean I can go, too?”
“If you’re ready.”
Motivated, Jenny started for her bedroom. “Good night,” she said from the doorway.
“Good night, Jenny.”
She went into her bedroom and closed the door. A moment later it opened again. “Mom?”
“What now?” Joanna asked.
“How many apples are in a barrel?”
Joanna couldn’t help laughing. “I have no idea,” she said. “That’s a question only Grandpa Jim Bob can answer. You’ll have to ask him. Good night now. Go.”
When the door closed for the second time and stayed closed, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief. For that one evening at least, Jenny had seemed like her old self. That was something to be grateful for, something to appreciate. It made her hassles with both Eleanor Lathrop and Marliss Shackleford pale in significance.
Smiling to herself, Joanna picked up the phone once more. This time she dialed Angie Kellogg to let her know that being selected for jury duty wasn’t the end of the world. At least this time when Angie showed up in a courtroom, it would be with the prospect of someone else going to jail. That ought to be some small consolation.
SIX
“THERE YOU go, Sheriff Brady,” Dr. Reginald Wade said the next morning as a red-eyed Bebe Noonan led Tigger out into the reception area on a lead. As soon as he saw Jenny, the dog went crazy. Reggie, a long, tall drink of water with a crooked grin and an easygoing manner, leaned back against the counter and watched the dog’s joyous reunion with his tiny mistress.
“You’d think he’d been locked up here forever,” he said.
“At home the two of them are inseparable,” Joanna said, “except, of course, when Tigger takes it into his head to go chasing after porcupines.”
The vet nodded. “Speaking of which,” he said. “It must have been close to twenty-four hours from the time that dog of yours and the porcupine started mixing it up before I was able to get after those quills. Fortunately, Bucky had Tigger under sedation and on an IV, so he came through it like a champ. By the way, I noticed that his chart called for a rabies vaccination. I gave him one while we were at it.”
Looking from Dr. Wade to Bebe Noonan, Joanna reached into her purse to retrieve her checkbook. “Who do I pay, then?”
“Pay Terry, by all means,” Reggie Wade said. “I’m just helping out. Filling in until Terry has a chance to sort things out. Had our situations been reversed, I’m sure Bucky would have done the same for me and my furry patients. Putting Terry’s mind at ease about the animals is the least I can do.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Joanna said. “Thanks.” She turned to Jenny. “Go ahead and get Tigger in the car. If you want to have breakfast before I drop you off at school, we’re going to have to get a move on.”
Jenny reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a carrot. “I brought this along for Kiddo. Do I have time to take it to him?”
“Sure,” Joanna said. “But hurry.”
Jenny raced out the door, taking Tigger with her. Meantime, Bebe came hurrying into the reception area along with yet another client, a young mother who had come to collect her family’s newly neutered basset-hound pup.
While Joanna paid Tigger’s bill, Reggie Wade helped discharge the basset. His kindness in doing so made a real impression on Joanna. It seemed to her that that was what small-town America was all about—neighbors helping neighbors even when, under normal circumstances, they might have been considered natural competitors rather than allies.
As Joanna made to leave, Reggie met her at the door, pulling a business card out of his pocket. “If Tigger tangles with that porcupine again, here’s my address down in Douglas. I’m just north of the fairgrounds.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said, taking the card. “You think he’ll do it again, then?”
Dr. Wade shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “You never can tell. How many times is it now?”
“Three so far.”
“It sounds to me as if Tigger and that porcupine have a grudge match going. There’s always a chance the porcupine will decide to move along. Barring that, I don’t think anything short of a baseball bat is going to get Tigger to leave him alone. He’s convinced he’s going to win.”
Joanna put the
card in her pocket. “In that case,” she said, “I’d best keep your address handy. You’ll probably be hearing from us again real soon.”
On the way back out to the ranch, Jenny sat in the back seat with Tigger’s head cradled in her lap. “What’s going to happen to Kiddo?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You should have seen him when I gave him his carrot. He seemed so sad.”
Joanna bit back the urge to explain to Jenny that horses don’t get sad, but Jenny was already hurrying on with her own agenda. “Couldn’t we buy him, Mom? Please? We’ve got plenty of room. I’d help take care of him. Honest, I would.”
“Buy a horse?” Joanna choked. Another animal to care for was the last thing she needed.
“Don’t you remember?” Jenny wheedled. “Daddy told me I could have a horse someday.”
“Someday maybe,” Joanna said. “But not right now.”
After that, Jenny drifted into a morose silence that lasted all the way out to the ranch and back into town. Unfortunately, the mood was catching. As Joanna looked out at miles of winter-blackened mesquite it seemed to her as though the whole hundred-mile-long expanse of the Sulphur Springs Valley was dead; as though the landscape would remain barren and forlorn forever.
Just like the two of us, Joanna thought.
By eight, Jenny had picked her dispirited way through an order of French toast at Daisy’s, and Joanna had dropped her off at school. With the morning’s somber mood still hanging over her, Joanna arrived at her office in the Cochise County Justice Center.
Joanna’s secretary, Kristin Marsten, wearing her signature short skirt, had just presented Joanna with a stack containing two days’ worth of untended correspondence when Deputies Voland and Montoya came into her office for their early morning briefing.
The two of them could have been Mutt and Jeff. Voland was big and burly and loud—prone to throwing his considerable weight around. Frank was slight and quiet, tending more to negotiation than to barking orders. Their only common physical trait came from seriously receding hairlines.
From day one, relations between the two chief deputies had been as much at odds as their physical characteristics. “Oil and water” was the best way to describe it. Voland’s long history with the department made him the consummate insider. It usually meant he stood firmly behind doing things the way they had always been done. Montoya, a former Willcox City Marshal, had been one of the two men who had run against Joanna in the contest for sheriff. People had been surprised when one of her first acts upon assuming office had been to draft a former opponent, appointing him to be one of her two chief deputies. Most longtime sheriff’s department employees, Dick Voland included, regarded Montoya as a rank outsider.
At the time of the appointment, Joanna had made it clear to Frank that she wanted him aboard so she could be assured of having at least one sure ally in the department. In the months since, Frank had served her in that regard both cheerfully and adeptly. Outside the department, he acted as a public lightning rod. Inside, he functioned as a behind-the-scenes departmental barometer.
On this particular morning, as Voland and Montoya took their usual places at the conference table in Joanna’s office, she was dismayed to see that the usually upbeat Frank seemed downright glum.
“So what’s been happening?” Joanna asked, opening the session with the customary question. Dick Voland complied, quickly delivering the department’s unvarnished overnight statistics.
“Five U.D.A.’s (undocumented aliens) picked up between Douglas and Bisbee along Border Road and two more just outside Tombstone on Highway 80. Turned them over to the Border Patrol. Two drunk drivers. One domestic. A single-vehicle, alcohol-related rollover just south of Elfrida. That’s about it. Pretty quiet, even for a Tuesday.”
“Anything on the Buckwalter case?” Joanna asked.
“According to Ernie, Hal Morgan’s still in the Copper Queen Hospital. They’re treating him for smoke inhalation and a skull fracture. I’ve posted round-the-clock guards outside his room.”
“Why?” Joanna asked. “He doesn’t sound like a flight risk. He’s a retired cop with a home and a job in Wickenburg. All the people Ernie talked to in California yesterday, guys who knew him when he was still a police officer, said Hal Morgan was a great guy, one who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Try telling that to Bucky Buckwalter,” Dick said, leaning back and drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Once a cop goes haywire, there’s no telling what he might do.”
Joanna looked to Frank. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I’ve been trying to tell Mr. Voland what I think all morning. I’ve been attempting to explain to him the grim realities of our budget meeting with the board of supervisors yesterday. Any overtime we pay in January is going to have a direct bearing on our ability to cover shifts come the end of the year.”
“Budgets, smudgets,” Voland sneered. “I know those guys. They’re always dishing out this belt-tightening crap, but when push comes to shove—when public safety is on the line—they always cave. One way or another, they manage to find the money.”
“Let’s not get off on the budget problems right this minute,” Joanna said, holding up her hand to stifle the debate. “First let’s deal with the Hal Morgan issue. What does Ernie say? Why don’t we have him come in and give us his take on the situation?”
“Because he’s already up at the coroner’s office,” Voland answered. “Winfield has another autopsy scheduled for today—the stiff from Sunizona that we found yesterday.” Voland paused long enough to consult his notes. “The dead guy’s name is Reed Carruthers, by the way. According to Ernie, unless Winfield finds something unforeseen in the autopsy, it’s not a case to concern us. Natural causes rather than a homicide. But at ninety-three, when a guy takes off walking in the middle of a January night with no coat or jacket, you’ve gotta say it’s old age plain and simple.”
Voland looked up. When no comments were forth-coming from either Joanna or Frank, he continued. “According to Ernie’s report, Carruthers’ daughter, Hannah Green, has been looking after him for years. She claims he’s been sleeping so little of late that she’s all worn out. Two nights ago, he evidently waited until she was asleep and then took off.”
“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “Isn’t this the same guy who had a bloody wound on his head? Wasn’t that why Ernie was called out to Sunizona in the first place?”
“That’s right. The initial police report said that Carruthers fell off a fence and hit his head on a rock. According to Ernie, that’s pretty much what happened. I’m sure once Dr. Winfield finishes the autopsy, he’ll be able to give us a more definitive answer. As soon as he’s done with Carruthers, he’ll be moving right on to Bucky Buckwalter.”
“Which brings us right back to the Hal Morgan problem,” Joanna put in. “Has Ernie talked to the man?”
“To Morgan? Not that I know of,” Voland replied. “At least he hadn’t the last time I heard from him. My understanding is that Morgan’s doctor still won’t let anyone in the room.”
“If the man’s physical condition is that serious,” Frank Montoya offered, “then it strikes me he’s in no shape to take off under his own steam.”
“In other words,” Joanna said, addressing Frank, “you don’t think the guard is necessary.”
“Not at this time. At least not until he’s either well enough to be released or until we’ve made a decision to charge him. On the other hand, if Dick here insists on having a guard, then he needs to pull someone in off patrol to do that duty. This morning I took a look at Deputy Pakin’s time sheet from yesterday. He pulled an eighteen-hour shift. That’s ridiculous. I hate to think how much we paid per hour to have somebody guarding a bedridden patient who was too sick to move.”
Joanna looked to Dick Voland. “You still have a guard on duty there this morning?”
Voland nodded.
“And it’s someone who was off duty ra
ther than pulling a deputy off patrol?”
The chief deputy squirmed. “Well, yes, but—”
“No buts, Mr. Voland,” Joanna snapped, cutting him off in mid-excuse. “Enough of this. I’m going to go track down Ernie Carpenter. Once I talk to him, I’ll make the call on whether or not the guard is necessary. From now on, whoever stands guard duty comes from the regular patrol-duty roster. Overtime is out. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Voland responded with just a trace too much emphasis on the “ma’am” part. “You’re the boss,” he added, standing up. “Is that all?”
Joanna glanced at Frank. “I don’t have anything else,” he said.
“That’s all then,” Joanna answered.
A steamed Richard Voland marched out of the office. “He’s not a very good loser, is he,” Frank Montoya observed as the door swung shut.
“It’s not a matter of winning or losing, Frank,” Joanna said, a little dismayed to find herself defending Dick Voland. “Since you’re still here, there must be something on your mind. Tell me.”
“I’ve been hearing some grousing out there among the troops.”
“That’s hardly news. What kind of grousing?”
“Some of the deputies are saying that if you hadn’t sent Deputy Pakin on his way early yesterday morning, Bucky Buckwalter wouldn’t be dead.”
Joanna felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks, but there was no point in denying the charge. She herself had reached much the same conclusion. “Maybe it’s true,” she ventured quietly.
Frank shook his head. “No way. If killing Bucky was Morgan’s whole purpose in coming to town, he would have waited until Pakin left regardless of how long it took. Your ordering Pakin to leave had nothing to do with it.”
“Thanks, Frank,” Joanna said. “I appreciate your saying that, but if it turns out that the investigation shows I’m partially responsible for what happened, then I’m prepared to live with the consequences. In the meantime, my deputies are entitled to their opinions.”
