Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “You’re saying the argument was about your mother, then?” Joanna asked.

  “That’s how it started, and things went downhill from there. It ended up with Susan grabbing a tablecloth and pulling a whole table’s worth of glasses, dishes, and silverware onto the floor. Broke two plates, one mug, three water glasses, and four wineglasses. That’s more breakage than we usually have in a month. Make that a year. Those wineglasses especially are damned expensive. And what did your pal Montoya do about it? I’ll tell you what he did—nothing! Not a damned thing!”

  “Is your sister still there?”

  “No. Montoya did do that much, I guess,” Rogers admitted grudgingly. “He talked her into going outside, but he should have arrested her, by God! For disturbing the peace, if nothing else, for trespassing, or even for assault. With all that glass flying around, it’s a wonder somebody didn’t get hurt. If not one of my customers, then one of my workers. It was right in the middle of the Sunday after church rush, too. The place was packed.”

  “And this incident was all about your mother?” Joanna asked.

  “About her boyfriend, really. Farley Adams. I’m sure Mother’s mentioned him to Susan the same as she has to me, but now that it looks like things might turn serious, Susan’s all pissed off that I haven’t done something to stop it.”

  “I take it your sister disapproves of the boyfriend?” Joanna observed.

  “Our mother is something of a free spirit,” Rogers said. “But my sister is an uptight middle-class prude with delusions of grandeur. She can’t stand the idea that our mother still has some feminine juices flowing. I’m sure she’d like to think of Mother as a shriveled old prune. The fact that the old girl’s still capable of sowing wild oats drives Susan wild.”

  “So what exactly caused the fuss?” Joanna asked.

  “I suggested Susan mind her own business. I also hinted that maybe she should try reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover. That’s when she went ballistic on me and started breaking up my restaurant.”

  Joanna felt as though important parts of the story were missing. “Why did that upset your sister so?”

  “Have you read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” Rogers asked pointedly. “The randy caretaker and all that?”

  “You’re saying the boyfriend, this Mr. Adams, started out as your mother’s employee then, as a gardener or something?”

  “Right, as her handyman, but he’s graduated to something else, evidently. According to Susan, the two of them drove up to Laughlin, Nevada, a couple of weeks ago and stayed for three whole days. I doubt they had separate rooms. And I doubt they spent the whole time playing slot machines or blackjack, either.”

  “All right,” Joanna said. “So your sister disapproved of your mother’s choice of friends, but how did that cause trouble between the two of you?”

  “Susan evidently found out about the Laughlin trip just last night. Mother went out to Sierra Vista to have dinner with Susan and her husband and told them all about it. Rubbed their noses in it, was the way Susan put it. She asked me if I had known our mother was drifting in that direction, and why hadn’t I done something to stop it. I told her it was none of my business, any more than it was hers.”

  “Where’s your sister now?”

  “Not in jail, where she should be. Montoya told her to go home and cool off.”

  “And your mother?”

  “At home, as far as I know. I haven’t talked to her today so far, but she usually comes by for dinner later on in the afternoon. That’s one of the disadvantages of being in the restaurant business. Some of your relatives give up cooking completely. As far as Mother is concerned, though, it’s the least I can do.”

  In the course of the conversation, Clete Rogers sounded as though he had cooled off some. He had needed to vent.

  “So things are pretty well under control at the moment, is that correct?” Joanna asked.

  “Well, yes. I suppose so.”

  “Are you interested in filing any charges?”

  “Oh, all right. Probably not. If Mother found out, it would only upset her, wouldn’t it?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I’ll just let it go, then. But you tell Montoya to give Susan the word. Have him tell her that she’s not to come around here again. That from now on the Grubsteak is totally off limits.”

  “It might be best if you told her yourself instead of dragging Deputy Montoya into it,” Joanna inserted smoothly. “Better yet, you might consider having your attorney go to court and obtain a restraining order. That way, if Susan comes anywhere near your home or your place of business, either one, then there’ll be grounds for officers to arrest her. That will go for your town marshals and for my deputies, both. It’ll give everyone a legal basis for removing her.”

  “Okay,” Clete Rogers said, sounding mollified. “I’ll think about it. Sounds like good advice, but right now, I’ve got to go. My cashier is waving that she needs something. I’ll let you know about the restraining order later on.”

  When he put down the receiver, Joanna sat for some time listening to the dial tone. Nobody had told her how much the job of sheriff had to do with public relations. After half a minute or so, she punched the speed-dial code for the department. When Lisa Howard, the weekend desk clerk answered, Joanna asked to be put through to Dispatch. Tica Romero took the call.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff Brady. What can I do for you?”

  “What do you hear from Deputy Montoya?”

  “Not much. Things must be pretty quiet over in Tombstone this weekend.”

  “Not totally quiet,” Joanna countered. “Try to raise Frank on the radio and ask him to give me a call at home. Tell him I’ve had a call from Hizzoner Mayor Rogers.”

  “Will do,” Tica said.

  “Is there anything else going on?” Joanna asked.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Tica told her.

  “Good,” Joanna said. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  When Tica dropped off, Joanna returned the phone to its cradle. Then, thinking better of it, she picked up the receiver, stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, and took it with her when she returned to the porch.

  “Who was it?” Marianne asked. “Butch and Jeff?”

  Butch was Butch Dixon. Over Joanna Brady’s initial objections, he had meandered into her life and, invited or not, assumed the role of “boyfriend.” While attending police academy courses in the Phoenix area, Joanna had happened into Butch’s Roundhouse Bar and Grill up in Peoria. The two of them had hit it off. Joanna had enjoyed Butch’s company when he was around, but she hadn’t exactly encouraged the relationship.

  Concerned about public reaction as well as Jenny’s feelings and her own, Joanna had thought it far too soon after Andy’s death for her to become involved with anyone. Had it been left up to her, she would have relegated Butch to a back burner and let him stay there. He, however, had taken matters into his own hands. When the opportunity presented itself, he had sold out his business holdings in Peoria and moved to Bisbee. Once settled into his new digs in Bisbee’s Saginaw neighborhood, he had gone to work on his lifelong ambition of writing a novel. He had also set himself the task of being useful to Joanna, and to her friends as well.

  A bad case of writer’s block and a mutual interest in old cars had drawn him into an easy friendship with Jeff Daniels and his business, Auto Rehab. The two men had joined forces to recondition a ’56 Chevrolet Bel Air. Working together, they had bought the car for a song and then refurbished it on speculation. The previous afternoon the two men had gone off to Scottsdale together, towing their pride and joy behind Jeffs International and hoping to unload the Bel Air for a modest profit at one of Scottsdale’s collector car auctions.

  The fact that Jeff and Butch were both out of town was one of the reasons Joanna had invited Marianne and Ruth out to High Lonesome Ranch that Sunday after church. She had thought waiting for the menfolk together would be more fun than waiting separately.

 
“It was work,” Joanna said, in answer to Marianne’s query.

  “Is something wrong?” Marianne asked. “Are you going to have to go in to the department?”

  “I doubt it. It sounds as though everything is under control, although Frank Montoya will probably be giving me a call in a little while.”

  By then Ruth had tired of the leaf game and clambered up onto the porch, displacing Sadie’s long-eared head from Marianne’s lap. The child lay there, struggling to keep her eyes open while a worn-out and panting Tigger flopped down in the grass nearby. Jenny, both elbows planted on the ground, lay beside him. She looked up at her mother.

  “I hope he doesn’t call,” Jenny said with a pout. “You never used to have to work on Sundays. Now you almost always do.”

  “We’ve been over this before many times, Jenny,” Joanna said. “The kind of job I have now doesn’t come with set nine-to-five hours.”

  Unconvinced, Jenny tossed her blond hair. Still pouting, the child turned to Marianne. “What about you?” she asked.

  “What about me?” Marianne returned.

  “Don’t you hate it that you have to work on Sundays?”

  For the first time all day a seemingly genuine smile spread across Marianne Maculyea’s haggard face. “I never have minded,” she said, “but I must confess, I never thought about it quite that way.”

  Two

  AS THE sun sank behind the Mule Mountains, a sudden chill settled over the porch. Raking the steaming, foil-wrapped potatoes out of the remaining embers, Joanna announced it was time to move the party inside. One by one, the fully cooked spuds were divested of blackened foil and scooped onto dinner plates where they were smothered with butter, sour cream, and chopped green onions and joined by thick slices of freshly baked meatloaf. After hours of play, the two girls were famished. Joanna, too, was surprisingly hungry. Once again, however, Marianne Maculyea pushed food around on her plate and made only the slightest pretense of eating it.

  Dinner was over, the table cleared, and dishes mostly in the dishwasher before the telephone rang again. Joanna had left the cordless phone sitting by her place at the dining room table. Jenny raced to answer it before her mother could dry her hands.

  “It’s for you,” Jenny announced, carrying the handset into the kitchen. “It’s Butch. I already told him we’re saving him a potato and some meatloaf.”

  “Does that mean Jeff and I are invited out to the ranch when we get home?” Butch Dixon asked when Joanna came on the line.

  “Sure,” Joanna said.

  “Anything besides potatoes and meatloaf on the menu?” Butch asked.

  Knowing his slyly stated question had nothing at all to do with food, Joanna ducked her face away from Marianne and Jenny in order to conceal the crimson blush that swept up her neck and face. Her best line of defense was to ignore his remark altogether.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Tucson,” he said. “We’re making a pit stop, getting gas, and grabbing some coffee.”

  “When do you expect to be home?”

  “Not much later than an hour and a half.”

  “Where are they?” Marianne asked from across the room.

  Joanna held the phone away from her mouth. “In Tucson,” she answered. “Getting gas.”

  Marianne nodded. “Have Butch tell Jeff that Ruth and I will meet him at home. If we don’t go home until after he gets here, it’ll be too late for Ruth to have a bath before bedtime. Tell him we’ll bring his dinner home and he can eat it there.”

  “Did you hear that?” Joanna asked Butch.

  “Got it,” he said. “I’ll have Jeff drop me off at my place so I can pick up my car. I’ll be out at the ranch as soon as I can. See you then.”

  “Be careful,” Joanna said. The warning was out of her mouth before she could stop it. No matter how hard she tried, Joanna could never quite forget that she had failed to say those cautioning words to Andy as he left home on the morning he died—the morning he went off to work never to return. With Butch those once unspoken words were never far from her lips or her heart.

  “Don’t worry about Jeff and me,” Butch replied. “Neither of us is big on taking chances.”

  By the time Joanna put down the phone, Marianne was already gathering her stack of traveling-mother equipment—a diaper bag, an old briefcase packed with toys and books, as well as a purse. She loaded the collection into the backseat of her venerable VW bug. When it came time to strap Ruth into her car seat, the weary child turned suddenly cranky. She fought the seat belt and was screaming at the top of her lungs as they headed down the road for the seven-mile trip back uptown to the Canyon United Methodist parsonage in Old Bisbee. As Ruth’s earsplitting wail receded into the distance, Joanna felt a sudden wave of gratitude that Jenny had grown far beyond the unreasoning tantrums of toddlerhood.

  “Come on, Jenny,” Joanna said. “Fun’s over. Time to do the chores.”

  Six days a week Clayton Rhodes, Joanna’s octogenarian neighbor, took care of the animal husbandry duties on High Lonesome Ranch. Sunday was Clay ton’s one day off.

  For the next half hour Jenny and Joanna worked together, feeding and watering the High Lonesome’s menagerie of animals. There was Kiddo—Jenny’s quarter horse gelding; four head of cattle; two dogs; and half a dozen noisy, squawking chickens. The flock of birds had started out as cute and cuddly, living decorations for in-town children’s Easter baskets, but once the chicks sprouted feathers and stopped being cute, they had all been discarded. The animal control officer who had convinced Joanna to take the first one knew when he had found a soft touch. He soon brought her several more, and she took those as well.

  Joanna Brady found something life-affirming and grounding in watching animals munch their oats and hay. On Sundays when she had time to do her own chores, she found that performing those menial tasks gave her respite from the day-to-day pressures of running her department. Not only that, sharing those mundane duties with Jenny made Joanna feel that she was keeping faith with Andy—that she was continuing to raise their daughter in the way they had both intended.

  “Is Marianne all right?” Jenny asked once the feeding frenzy was over. Mother and daughter were standing outside Kiddo’s stall, and Jenny was reaching through the wooden slats to scratch the big sorrel’s smoothly muscled shoulder.

  “Why do you ask that?” Joanna returned.

  “No fair,” Jenny pointed out. “Remember, you’re not supposed to answer a question with a question. If I can’t, you can’t.”

  Joanna laughed. “That’s fair enough, I guess. And no, Marianne’s not all right.”

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she still sad about Esther?”

  Joanna nodded. “I think that’s it,” she said.

  Jenny considered that answer for some time before she spoke again. “When somebody dies, it takes a long time to get better, doesn’t it?”

  Joanna reached over and ran her fingers through Jenny’s tangle of blond hair. “Yes, it does,” she agreed. “But then, you and I both know something about that, don’t we?”

  Jenny nodded. “I guess we do,” she said.

  Back in the house and putting things to rights, Joanna was dimly annoyed by the fact that so much time had passed without Frank Montoya’s returning her call. In fact, it wasn’t until well after dark and after Jenny had scooted off to the bathroom for her evening bath when the telephone finally rang.

  “What took you so long?” Joanna asked when she heard her chief deputy’s voice on the line.

  “It’s hunting season, so naturally we’ve got spooked deer everywhere,” Frank replied. “Right after you called, a big buck put himself through the windshield of a motor home just outside the Tombstone city limits. The Department of Public Safety officer who responded to the incident needed some help, and I happened to be handy. Sorry about that.”

  “What about the accident?” Joanna asked. “Not a fatality, I hope.”

  “It was fatal for the deer,” Mo
ntoya answered. “The people in the motor home both got hit by flying glass. The seat belt did a pretty good job of bruising the woman’s collarbone, but other than that, I think she and her husband will both be fine. What was it you wanted?”

  “To know what’s going on with Clete Rogers.”

  Frank sighed. “That’s another whole can of worms. I’m just now getting ready to file the missing person’s report.”

  “What missing person’s report?” Joanna demanded.

  “On Clete’s mother—Alice Rogers.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Evidently. According to the family, she drove to Sierra Vista yesterday afternoon to have dinner with her daughter and son-in-law, Susan and Ross Jenkins. Ross owns Fort Apache Motors, the Chrysler dealership on Fry Boulevard. According to the daughter, Alice left their place around eight-thirty, but she never made it home. At least, that’s the way it looks so far. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was also a problem earlier at noontime between Susan Jenkins and her brother.”

  Joanna cut in. “I know about that. Mayor Rogers himself called to give me a full report.”

  Frank Montoya groaned. “Which was probably none too complimentary regarding yours truly.”

  “Right. Clete couldn’t understand why you didn’t arrest her. I’ve been wondering about that myself. If the woman was doing property damage, why didn’t you?”

  “Because they were both out of line,” Frank Montoya replied. “I don’t suppose Clete mentioned that.”

  “No.”

  “No surprises there,” Montoya continued. “I’ve worked with the man long enough to know that when it comes to points of view, he has only one—his. I can also tell you that Clete Rogers doesn’t exactly exude sweetness and light. By the time brother and sister finished bitching one another out in the middle of the restaurant, I had two choices. I could either arrest them both or let them off the hook. It was a judgment call, Joanna. Considering the current political climate, I chose the latter. I sent Susan Jenkins on her way. Told her to go home and cool off. She didn’t, however. Instead, she went over to her mother’s house looking for her. My guess is she planned to raise a little more hell, except her mother wasn’t home. The Sunday paper was still on the porch.