by J. A. Jance
Joanna tried to smile back—tried and failed.
“Of course, at the time, none of us knew that the need for an executor would arise so suddenly and tragically or so soon. When they were working on redrawing their wills last spring, I had no inkling that something like this would happen in only a few months’ time. By the way, Burton Kimball let me know that the attorney for the shooter’s family has been in touch. They’re hoping to stave off a wrongful-death suit. His first offer was three hundred thousand dollars each—three hundred for George and three hundred for our mother. Burton says you might do better at trial. He also thinks he can move the settlement needle up a little from the original offer, but it’s entirely up to you.”
“Up to me?” Joanna asked. “What about you?”
“With a single exception, you’re the sole beneficiary of both estates,” Bob explained. “I made it very clear to both George and Eleanor that my adoptive parents had taken care of Marcie’s and my needs, and that we lacked for nothing. I assured them that there was no need for me to come swooping in from out of the blue, seemingly at the last minute, to deprive you of your birthright.”
“You’re to receive nothing from their estates?”
“Not one thin dime,” Bob answered with another smile. “And that’s exactly how I want it.”
Part of Joanna’s anxiety about meeting up with Bob—something she hadn’t shared with Butch—was her concern that Bob would inherit things that should have gone to her or to her kids. Suddenly ashamed that she had been both so greedy and so wrong, she was grateful to be in a shadowy, candlelit room where the hot flush that colored her face wasn’t quite so visible.
“I don’t want the settlement money, either,” Joanna said. “It’s blood money.”
“As far as I can tell, George’s only surviving relative is his nephew, Harold, his late sister’s son. George left him a bequest in his will, but I’ve been given to understand that Harold’s health is compromised, and he’s living in rather straitened circumstances. The wrongful-death payment would count as a real windfall for him—a life-changing windfall. If you don’t accept your share of the settlement, chances are that might compromise the nephew’s receiving his.”
“What do you suggest, then,” Joanna asked, “about the shooter’s settlement offer?”
“First off, give Burton a chance to move the needle, and then accept their final offer. You don’t want to wind up in court. It’ll take too much time, energy, and focus. I say take the money, walk away, and be done with it. And if you don’t want to use the money? Fine. Put it aside. Use it to pay your kids’ way through school so they don’t graduate from college with crippling loads of debt. I think if our mother knew that’s what was happening, she’d be thrilled with that kind of outcome—that she had helped guarantee her grandchildren’s education.”
Joanna gave it some thought. Finally she nodded. “Sounds like good advice,” she said.
“As for the cemetery-plot issue?” Bob continued. “I just happen to have the certificate of purchase in hand, but now that you’ve come up with such a terrific solution, we don’t really need the additional plot. How about if I leave the certificate with you? Once things settle down, maybe the Rojas family will agree to buy it back, or perhaps someone else will want it. In any event, with so much going on right now, there’s no need to deal with any of that immediately. Those details can all be ironed out later.”
The salad plates disappeared from the table and the entrées arrived. A still-famished Joanna was ready to dive into her steak and shrimp, but Bob held up his wineglass.
“First, I’d like to propose a toast,” he said. “To Eleanor and George. I know I came as a bit of a surprise to you especially, Joanna, but thank you for sharing them with me. I wouldn’t have missed getting to know them for anything.”
They clinked glasses all around—three wineglasses and Joanna’s iced tea. But then, before Joanna could pick up her fork and eat, she had to track down her purse and locate a tissue. She was embarrassed to be seen crying in public, especially while in uniform, but she cried anyway. She couldn’t help it.
It turned out Joanna hadn’t needed Agent Watkins to serve as a human shield in dealing with her brother. All she had needed was a little more faith in the kind of man he really was.
CHAPTER 19
JOANNA WAS BACK IN HER JUSTICE CENTER OFFICE WHEN DEB showed up in the doorway about eight thirty. Dinner had been delicious and far more pleasant than she’d anticipated. Where she really wanted to be right then was at home in bed.
“Katherine Hopkins is in the interview room,” Detective Howell announced. “She’s been booked and changed into a jumpsuit. There was blood spatter on her golf duds. We took them into evidence.”
“She hit her husband with a golf club hard enough to cause blood spatter?” Joanna asked.
Deb nodded. “The victim’s name is Hal—short for Halford Hopkins. She hit him twice, once going and once coming. And yes, there’s definitely blood spatter. This wasn’t a love tap, not by any means.”
“And you’ve got eyewitnesses.”
“Three of them—the other couple, the ones Katherine and Hal Hopkins were playing golf with, and a groundskeeper who was sitting on a mower nearby waiting to mow the green when they cleared it.”
“And she still hasn’t lawyered up?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then,” Joanna said, rising from her desk, “let’s get this over with.”
They walked into the interview room together. The woman seated at the table was a grandmotherly-looking sort with white hair, hearing aids, and a bright smile that revealed a set of false teeth. In a grandmother-of-the-year contest, had there been a category for “least likely to commit murder,” Katherine Hopkins would have been at the very head of the class.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hopkins,” Joanna said. “I’m Sheriff Brady. My other detectives are busy working another case just now, so I’ll be joining Detective Howell for this interview.”
“Please call me Kay,” the woman said. “My given name is Katherine, but as I told Detective Howell, I’ve never seen myself as a Katherine. It always sounded a little uppity to me. I’m more of a plain Jane kind of girl.”
Joanna took a seat and then waited while Deb went through the formalities of starting the recording process, including announcing the time and date as well as the names of the people in the room.
“Just for the record,” Deb said, “I would like you to assure Sheriff Brady that you have been formally read your rights and that you’re still willing to talk to us.”
“Absolutely,” Kay said. “I’m perfectly willing to talk. Why wouldn’t I? After all, it’s inarguably clear that I did it, and it wasn’t an accident, either. I meant to hit him, and I did. All I really wanted was for him to shut up for a change. I’ve put up with that man telling me what to do for the past thirty-five years. Today, when he told me how to line up my shot? It was the last straw. I buy the groceries, do the cooking, look after the house, and balance the checkbook. Lately, when he’s been so sick he could barely lift his head off the pillow, I’ve looked after him, too. But there he was today, telling me that I was too dim to read the line on a putting green. It’s geometry, for Pete’s sake. I got straight A’s in geometry. I just hit the end of my rope, that’s all.”
You hit the end of your rope, but you also hit your husband, Joanna thought. Then she remembered Drexel Nelson. What exactly had he said when she had come to tell him that Susan was dead? Something to the effect that having his erring wife murdered spared him the disgrace of having to divorce her.
Yup, Joanna thought. As Yogi Berra would have said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”
“You and your husband—Halford—were married for thirty-five years, correct?” Joanna asked.
“Call him Hal, but yes. That’s how long we were married—almost half my life. I was married once before when I was very young, but it didn’t last.”
“Given that,” Joann
a ventured, “you don’t seem to be particularly . . . well . . . upset. In fact, you don’t appear to be the least bit distressed by what’s happened.”
“I suppose you’d like it better if I were hysterical, tearing my hair, and crying my eyes out,” Kay said. “That’s what women are expected to do under circumstances like these—weep and wail and act like it’s the end of the world. Well, it isn’t. I’m something of a realist, you see. I did the crime, and I’m prepared to do the time. I’m willing to stand up and accept the consequences of my behavior.”
“So before today on the golf course, had you and Hal been having any difficulties?” Detective Howell asked.
Kay sighed. “He’d been having some ongoing health issues lately, and he wasn’t what I’d call an easy patient. In fact, today was the first time in several weeks that he felt well enough to play golf. After being locked up with him for weeks at a time, I was ready for an outing, too.”
“What hole was this where it happened?” Joanna asked.
“Hole seven,” Kay said at once. “It’s a par three.”
“What about the previous holes? Did the two of you have issues on any of the others?”
“Of course we had,” she said. “He didn’t like the way I drove the cart. I wasn’t playing ‘heads-up’ golf. I was taking too much time. It was one thing after another, all the way along.”
“And that’s why you snapped?” Joanna asked.
“Exactly.”
“Most people in your circumstances would have called for an attorney by now. They wouldn’t still be talking to us the way you are. Why is that?”
Kay Hopkins shrugged. “I already said. I did it. There were eyewitnesses who saw me do it. My plan is to plead guilty and take my medicine.”
“You’re prepared to write out a full confession?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and do that, then?” Joanna suggested. “Detective Howell and I will leave you to it.”
It took Deb a moment to shut down the taping process, then she followed Joanna out into the hall. “I guess that’s that, then,” she said.
“Not so fast,” Joanna cautioned. “This is all way too neat and easy, and I’m not sure I’m buying it. A signed confession to murder should give us ample probable cause to search her home. I want you to get a warrant to do that first thing in the morning. And make sure that the warrant includes all electronic devices—cell phones, computers, everything.”
“But why? The murder happened on the golf course,” Deb objected. “She and Hal weren’t even at the house when this all went down.”
“Right,” Joanna replied. “The way Kay tells it, she put up with Hal’s bossing her around for thirty-five years, but today is when he finally pushed her over the edge? Why? I don’t think this just happened out of the blue. Something led up to this fatal outcome, and I want to know what that something is. The way things stand right now, Kay can’t be charged with anything more than manslaughter. I want you to go through her computer—every e-mail, text, and Internet search—and see what’s there.”
“You’re thinking we’ll find signs of premeditation—that she’d been planning on taking him out all along and this was her first opportunity?”
Joanna shook her head. “I’ve been in this job for a long time now. Maybe it’s finally getting to me. Maybe I’m starting to see conspiracies where none exist. Maybe a whack on the head—even a well-deserved whack—is just that—a whack on the head. But all the same, Deb, humor me on this. Get the warrant and see where it takes us.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Deb said. “Will do.”
“And while you’re getting warrants, I want one for Susan and Drexel Nelson’s house. We had one for her classroom and for her electronics, but now I want one for their house as well. You have the address?”
“Got it.”
“Okay, then.”
Joanna glanced at the clock. It was almost ten. “I’m beat and heading home now. I’m scheduling a meet up with the whole team here in the conference room tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll find out then where everything stands. I’ll be off work on Friday for sure.”
Deb started to walk away then changed her mind, stopped, and turned back around. “I’m so sorry about your mom and George,” she said. “This week must have been awful for you, but I understand completely why you’ve been here at work. With everything that’s gone on, if you had tried to stay home, you would have gone nuts.”
“And maybe tried taking Butch out with a pitching wedge?” Joanna asked with a small grin. “No, wait. That wouldn’t work because I don’t own a pitching wedge, and neither does he. But thanks for the kind words, Deb. And thanks for understanding. Not everyone does, you know.”
Deb nodded. “Most especially Marliss Shackleford,” she said. “See you tomorrow morning, then, Sheriff Brady, ten o’clock sharp.”
CHAPTER 20
BREAKFAST WAS ON THE TABLE AND DENNIS WAS MUNCHING HIS way through a stack of blueberry pancakes when Joanna stumbled into the kitchen the next morning.
“Sorry to be a slugabed,” she said, dropping into the breakfast nook still wearing her nightgown and bathrobe.
“Robe day?” Butch asked.
Joanna nodded. “I left word for Kristin that I’d be there in time for a ten o’clock homicide briefing. I figure I can compensate for some of the extra hours I’ve worked this week by showing up late.”
“That maybe works for you, but Denny still needs to be at school on time.”
Butch brought over a cup of tea and a plate of pancakes. “You got home late.”
“I know. Sorry. Deb brought in the suspect from the Sun Sites homicide. When the interview was over, I sent out e-mails about this morning’s meeting. Time got away from me.”
“How come you never mentioned that Jenny’s coming home tonight?”
“I didn’t? I thought I had.”
“The only reason I know is that I called to see what her plans for the weekend were.”
“She called yesterday morning as I was on my way to Sierra Vista. Things got so crazy after that that it completely slipped my mind.”
“Anyway,” Butch said, “it’s a good thing she’s coming. It’ll be good for her to be here and be part of it—part of the funeral, I mean. Dying is an integral part of living, and our trying to keep her from facing that reality isn’t exactly fair to her.”
Joanna nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
She’d taken only a single bite of pancake, but now she put her fork and knife down on her plate. She’d been so busy that she’d barely thought about the funeral since walking out the door of the mortuary days earlier. Now it was back staring her in the face.
“Speaking of the funeral,” Butch said, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“What? I thought it was all handled.”
“I’m sure it is, but this is about after the funeral. I know you wanted the service itself to be private, and you’ll get no argument from me there—none. But George and your mother were prominent people here in town, Joey. Important people. In a way the whole community is grieving, and you need to give them a chance to do so, the same way letting Jenny come home is giving her a chance to grieve.”
“What are you saying?”
“Jim Bob called yesterday afternoon. As you know, he and George had been planning that big send-off barbecue for Jenny last weekend, and Jim Bob had already stocked up on beef brisket. He and Eva Lou proposed the idea of having a commemorative barbecue here tomorrow afternoon after the funeral.”
Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady were Joanna’s first in-laws. Despite the fact that Butch was Joanna’s second husband, Jim Bob and Eva Lou had remained fixtures in the family—being actively involved grandparents in Dennis’s life just as they had been in Jenny’s. It was not at all surprising that they would offer to do such a kind thing, but it was more complication than Joanna could bear that morning. She was already shaking her head before Butch finished speakin
g.
“I can’t handle something like that,” she said. “It’s just not possible. I know my limits, and that’s a bridge too far. God knows how many people would come. How would we manage the cooking and the cleanup?”
“That’s the thing,” Butch said. “Jim Bob said he’d talked to Lieutenant Wilson up at the Bisbee Fire Department. He says he and a crew of guys will come out and help with cooking, setting up, cleaning up, and breaking down. All you have to do is show up. If you had opened up the funeral to all comers, I’ll bet five hundred people would have shown up. And maybe that many will come for this.”
“Five hundred? Are you kidding? Jim Bob doesn’t have that much beef brisket.”
“We can always get more beef brisket,” Butch said. “But listen to me, Joey. You’re a take-charge kind of girl, and I love you for that, but there are times when it’s important to let other people do for you, especially when doing so is better for the other people involved than it is for you. This is one of them.”
“Why?”
“In the first place, there’s an election coming up,” Butch said. “One of the things people like about you—and one of the reasons they elected you to public office—is that you’re a human being—a regular person. Your mom died. George died. You don’t need to be a superhero right now. You don’t need to conceal the fact that you’re grieving over losing two of the most important people in your life. And sharing that grief with the people around you—not just those closest to you but with the rest of the community as well—is going to make voters like you even more.”
“You’re saying we’re holding a memorial barbecue for Mom and George because it’ll be good for my election prospects?” Joanna asked.
“No,” Butch said with a grin. “Because it’ll be good for you, because it’ll give you a chance to see how much other people care. And we’re also holding it because your mother would have absolutely loved it. Eleanor always adored being the center of attention. This will give her one more chance to shine as the queen bee.”
