by J. A. Jance
“How’s Jenny’s hair doing these days?” Helen asked as she flipped a plastic cape over Joanna’s shoulders.
Two months after Jenny’s ill-fated permanent, the solution-damaged hair was finally beginning to grow out. “It’s much better,” Joanna said. It was easy for her to be gracious at that point. After all, she had a good deal to be thankful for. Jenny was alive and well. Her hair would eventually outgrow the effects of that bad permanent. Helen Barco’s daughter was dead.
Helen shook her head sadly. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I haven’t had a disaster like that since back when I was first going to beauty school. Your mother and I just got carried away talking and I plumb forgot to set the timer.”
“We all make mistakes,” Joanna said.
It wasn’t until after her hair was shampooed and Helen Barco was snipping away that Joanna finally got down to business. “I saw Terry Buckwalter yesterday,” she said. “She looked great.”
“Doesn’t she though!” Helen Barco agreed with a smile. “She was my first appointment yesterday morning. She had a complete makeover, including letting me do her colors. I fixed her up with new lipstick and nail enamel as well. Those new spring lines do a lot for her. They’d be fine for you, too, Joanna. You should try them.”
“I’ll think about it,” Joanna said. “But I’m still not ready. Getting back to Terry, though, I barely recognized her. People will be surprised when they see her at the funeral tomorrow.”
“That’s what she said, too,” Helen said. “That people will be surprised. They’ll have plenty to talk about when Little Miss Mousie shows up at the funeral looking like a fashion plate.” Helen clicked her tongue. “It does make such a difference. It’s a crying shame she didn’t have it done years ago. But I don’t think that’s why she did it now—the funeral, I mean. It sounded to me like she had some kind of important appointment coming up this weekend. She wanted to look her best for that.”
“Did she say what kind of appointment?” Joanna asked.
“Not exactly,” Helen said. “Whatever it is, it isn’t here in town. I believe it’s up in Phoenix. Or maybe Tucson. I forget which.”
“A meeting, or a date?” Joanna asked, thinking once again of Terry Buckwalter’s missing wedding ring.
“Oh, I’m certain it wasn’t a date,” Helen said quickly. “I believe it had something to do with golf. Something with a whole bunch of letters. L-something and some kind of school—a V-school or a T-school, I forget.”
Over the years, Joanna had picked up a little golfing lingo just from having Jim Bob and Andy Brady watch weekend golf tournaments. “Q-school?” she asked. “Is Terry trying to get into a qualifying school?”
“That’s it,” Helen said. “Those are the exact words she used. Qualifying school. And she wants to go on a tour of some kind.”
“The L.P.G.A.?” Joanna asked incredulously. “Terry Buckwalter thinks she’s going to go off on the Ladies Professional Golf Association tour?”
“How did you put that together?” Helen said. “You really are a detective, aren’t you. Your mother is always telling me how smart you are. This is amazing.”
Joanna thought about Terry Buckwalter. She didn’t know exactly how old Terry was, although she had to be somewhere in her mid-to late-thirties. For years, Terry had served as an unpaid assistant tennis coach at the high school, but as far as Joanna could remember, that had come to an end several years earlier. It was a hell of a long way from playing small-town tennis to hopping on the L.P.G.A. circuit as a professional golfer.
“She’s that good?” Joanna asked.
“Evidently,” Helen Barco said. “She seems to think so, and so does that guy out at the Rob Roy.”
“Terry spoke to you about Peter Wilkes?” Joanna asked.
“You bet she did. To hear her talk, you’d think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
That stumped Joanna. If Terry Buckwalter and Peter Wilkes had something going, wouldn’t they be a little more discreet about it than that?
“It sounds expensive as all heck,” Helen continued. “She did say that with the insurance and all that she’d come out all right, although she is selling, you know.”
“Selling what?”
“The practice,” Helen answered. “Since she isn’t a veterinarian, she can’t operate it herself. The same thing would happen to Slim if he was left holding this shop. He wouldn’t be able to do a thing.”
“Bucky’s been dead for two days and she’s already sold the practice? How can that be?”
“She said it was something Doc Buckwalter set up himself a long time ago. It’s not final yet, by any means, but it sounded like it was pretty much a done deal. According to her, that nice Dr. Wade from down in Douglas is the one who’ll be buying it. The practice and the house both. Once she has the money, she’ll be free to do whatever she wants.”
Joanna couldn’t help wondering exactly what kind of “deal” Terry Buckwalter was getting. Dr. Wade might be just as kind as could be when it came to pulling out porcupine needles, but how nice would he be when it came to taking advantage of a widow?
“If he’s moving in this fast,” Joanna said, “he’s probably buying the place at fire sale prices.”
“Could be,” Helen Barco said, “but Terry seemed happy enough about it. Like she was getting just what she wanted. According to her, Dr. Wade is planning on bringing in some young vet fresh out of school to help him run both places. Terry says Dr. Wade was such a help to her last year when Bucky was out of town that she knows people can trust him to do a good job.”
That was all that was said. Helen’s next client showed up right then. Still, Joanna was filled with misgivings. Outside in the Blazer, she sat for some time with the engine running but without putting the truck in gear, puzzling about this latest batch of information.
By Bisbee standards, Terry Buckwalter’s behavior was nothing short of outrageous. And suspicious as well. With Bucky not yet in his grave, Terry was cashing in all the jointly held marital assets to go on the pro-golf circuit? What kind of a harebrained scheme was that?
Joanna wasn’t a golfer, but she knew enough about how sports tournaments in general worked to understand that only the very few top players actually made a living at it. The people farther down the line followed the play from one course to the next, but they did so on their own, sometimes barely covering expenses, to say nothing of eking out a living.
For years Joanna had been privy to the entire Davis Insurance Agency book of business. Milo Davis handled all kinds of insurance—property/casualty, life, health, disability, and group. The Buckwalters as well as the Buckwalter Animal Clinic had been full-service customers.
Closing her eyes, Joanna tried to remember the Buckwalters’ several bulging files. One of them—the one with the orange tag on it—had dealt with nothing but life insurance. It seemed to Joanna that there had been several policies, whole-life and term insurance both. There had been some insurance on Terry, but since Bucky had been the professional and the major source of income, the bulk of the coverage had been on him.
But what kinds of face amounts? Joanna wondered. Probably no more than two hundred thousand or so. Maybe three hundred on the outside. Combined with whatever pittance Reggie Wade was paying for the veterinary practice, that would give Terry Buckwalter a fairly nice piece of change to go out into the world as a single woman. It wasn’t a huge amount, but it would have provided years of security if she didn’t blow the whole wad on something or someone stupid.
And then Joanna thought of Peter Wilkes. Was this really about Terry Buckwalter trying to break into the pro tour circuit, or was it something far more sinister? In her mind’s eye, Joanna saw it as one of the old story problems from arithmetic.
Life-insurance proceeds plus sale of property equal cash equals motive for murder. That’s it, she thought. It has to be. Bucky Buckwalter was killed for the money. The question is, was it Terry, was it Peter Wilkes, or was i
t both of them acting together?
Shoving the gearshift into drive, Joanna pulled out of her parking place and headed for the Buckwalter Animal Clinic. In a way, solving a murder case was very much like playing a complicated game of tag.
And the cops are always it.
THIRTEEN
IT WASN’T until Joanna pulled up to the entrance to the Buckwalter Animal Clinic that she realized she didn’t know what she was doing there. Posted on the upright at the end of the cattle guard was a hand-lettered sign that announced: “Closed Until Further Notice.”
Joanna hesitated. She had already turned on her turn signal to go back onto the highway when she noticed there were four vehicles parked beside the building: Terry Buckwalter’s T-Bird, Bebe Noonan’s Honda, Bucky’s van, and a U-Haul truck.
Helen Barco’s right, Joanna told herself. Terry’s already sold the place, and she’s moving out.
Rumbling across the iron rails of the cattle guard, Joanna drove into the lot and parked in an empty space between the truck and the two cars. Her tires had raised a cloud of rust colored dust on the graveled lot. She waited long enough for the cloud to settle before opening her door.
As soon as she stepped up to the building entrance, she heard the sound of raised voices. The front door had been propped open, most likely to allow for carrying things in and out. Even had the door been closed, Joanna probably could have heard what was being said inside. Terry Buckwalter was literally screaming at Bebe Noonan. With one hand poised and ready to knock, Joanna stood listening.
“But what am I supposed to do?” Bebe Noonan was saying.
“Do!” Terry Buckwalter exploded. “Get rid of it and act like it never happened.”
“But it did. You don’t mean—”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Terry shot back. “And if you don’t, you can’t expect me to be responsible. You’ve got no right. It isn’t mine, now is it! I made that decision a long time ago. If you had a brain in that head of yours, you’d do the same damned thing.”
“But I want it.” Bebe’s response was a wail of anguish. “I want it!”
“Have it then!” Terry stormed. “Keep the damned thing. Do whatever the hell you want. But don’t come crying to me for financial support, because I’m not paying. Do you understand me? Not one thin dime. Now get the hell out of here. Go on. Get! Before I do something we’ll both regret!”
Joanna stepped aside as a tearful Bebe Noonan burst out through the open door. Looking neither right nor left, she raced to the Honda. Falling into it, she turned on the engine, wound the car into a gravel-spattering reverse, and then tore out of the lot. Not knowing what to do next, Joanna stood there and watched, replaying the words she had just heard.
Have it then, Terry had said. Keep the damned thing. Joanna knew at once that it wasn’t a thing the two women had been discussing—it was a baby. Bebe Noonan’s baby.
Moving into the doorway, Joanna stepped into the clinic’s reception area and pulled the door shut behind her. A stony-eyed Terry Buckwalter was sitting behind the counter.
“Bebe’s pregnant then?” Joanna asked. Wordlessly, Terry Buckwalter nodded. “And Bucky’s the father?”
Terry shrugged. “That’s what Bebe says. I’ve got no reason to call her a liar. She says she’s going to sue me for child support. Like hell she is. He wouldn’t let me have a baby, why should she?”
The bitterness, anger, and betrayal in Terry Buckwalter’s voice were enough to take Joanna’s breath away. “What do you mean, wouldn’t let you?” she repeated.
“When I got pregnant, Bucky told me that if I went through with having the baby, I’d be on my own,” Terry replied. “That raising it would be my responsibility, not his.”
“He couldn’t have done that.”
“Yes, he could, and he would have, too,” Terry said. “So I did what he wanted. I had an abortion.”
“You were already married?” Joanna asked.
“Yes.”
“And he still made you do that—abort the baby?”
“Yes.”
Behind the counter, Terry Buckwalter opened a desk drawer and began sorting through the items she found there—tossing some into a box and some into the trash while leaving the rest. For a space of almost half a minute, Joanna could think of nothing to say. She was too busy remembering Andy’s delighted grin when she had told him she was pregnant. Pregnant and unmarried. Roe versus Wade was ancient history by then. Joanna could have opted for an abortion, but there had never been any question of what to do. They had married and lived, reasonably happily, for as long an ever after as had been granted to them.
“That shocks you, doesn’t it,” Terry Buckwalter said quietly.
Across the distance of the counter, their eyes met briefly. In the space that followed, Joanna noticed that Helen Barco’s day-old haircut still looked terrific, although the makeup job didn’t quite measure up. No doubt Terry had used all the same products Helen had applied, but Terry’s inexpert hand hadn’t achieved the same results. Still, she had tried, Joanna realized. She had put on makeup just to come across the backyard footpath to start packing up the clinic.
“I guess it does shock me,” Joanna admitted. “I didn’t think…”
“Husbands were like that?” Terry asked. “It depends on the raw material, doesn’t it,” she added with a derisive snort. “Some people marry Eagle Scouts. Others don’t.”
Sheriff Joanna Brady had come to the clinic on an investigative mission, thinking that she would catch Terry Buckwalter in the act of doing something wrong, something incriminating. Instead, they were talking together in a nakedly unguarded way that had everything to do with hurt and loss and grief and nothing at all with murder. In that room, littered with half-filled packing boxes, they were simply two women comparing the jagged pieces of their broken hearts.
“How long has Andy been gone?” Terry asked.
“A little over four months,” Joanna said.
“I’m sorry,” Terry said. “Sorry for you. But you have to understand, my marriage has been over a lot longer than that. I did my grieving a long time ago.”
“You knew about them then?” Joanna asked. “About Bucky and Bebe?”
“Knew they were screwing around? Of course I knew. You’ve probably already figured out that she wasn’t the first. She is the last, though. I’m just surprised he let her get pregnant. He usually insisted on using protection.”
“How long has it been going on?” Joanna asked.
Terry shrugged. “Bebe’s worked here for the better part of two years, so I suppose it’s been about that long. When it came to assistants, Bucky never could keep his pants up.”
“Why didn’t you put a stop to it?” Joanna asked. “Why didn’t you throw him out, or else fire her?”
“What good would it do? He’d just find another one,” Terry answered. “He always did.”
“Why didn’t you leave then?”
“You mean why did I put up with it? You have to understand that what I had with Bucky was a hell of a lot better than what I came from.”
“How could this be better?” The words were out of her mouth before Joanna could stop them.
“For one thing, for the first time in my life, I had a real home. And a certain amount of respect, from other people, if not necessarily from Bucky. Later on, when I realized I’d traded one set of problems for another, I couldn’t see any alternative. With no formal education beyond my sophomore year in high school, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own. So that’s what I did—put up with things. Ignored them.
“The last couple years, though, I stayed because I wanted to—because it was convenient. After all, I was finally getting a chance to do something for me. I used to play tennis, but the first time I held a golf club in my hand, I knew it was something I could do—something I’d be good at. I also knew that what I wanted to accomplish would take time. Time and money. Without Bucky I wouldn’t have had access to either one. I woul
d have had to have a job that didn’t include afternoons off. I wouldn’t have had time to play, to say nothing of money for greens fees.”
Joanna was stunned. “You’re saying you stayed married for the sake of golf?” she demanded.
“Damned right. And it’s been worth it, too,” Terry Buckwalter declared. “I’m going to make it, Joanna. Just you wait and see. I’m going to go all the way to the top, and nobody’s going to stop me. Not Bucky and not Bucky’s little bastard, either.”
For Joanna, grief had manifested itself with tears that came and went, washing in and out without warning, periodically overwhelming her. For Terry Buckwalter, it seemed to be anger.
Abruptly, Terry pushed the chair back from the desk. “I just made some coffee. Do you want some?”
Detouring around a collection of packing boxes, Terry led Joanna into a backroom that was lined with lab equipment. On the far end of a Formica counter top sat an aged glass coffeemaker filled with newly brewed coffee. Terry filled a stained china mug with strong, lethal-looking coffee.
“No, thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll pass.”
Terry opened a drawer beneath the counter and pawed through the contents. She plucked out a set of keys, a pocket knife, several matchbooks, and a selection of refrigerator magnets. After tossing those into one of the boxes, she slammed that drawer shut and went on to examine the next one.
“You’re moving, then?” Joanna asked.
“As soon as I can,” Terry returned. “All I’m doing today, though, is clearing out a few personal things—pictures, knickknacks, personal junk. The kinds of things the new vet won’t have any use for.”
“A new vet. It sounds as though you’ve sold the practice.”
