Deciding to return the congratulatory calls later, Joanna set those aside. The messages from Marliss and Eleanor went straight into the circular file under her desk. The calls from the two medical examiners were the only ones she actually tackled.
“Oh, it’s you,” George said, when he recognized her voice. “When I didn’t hear from you, I called Ernie Carpenter. He sent Jaime Carbajal up here to pick up the preliminary report on Mark Childers.”
That was Joanna’s first hint that Mark Childers hadn’t survived the night, but she didn’t let on. “So what was it?” she asked.
“Heart attack,” Dr. Winfield answered wearily. “His heart was already badly diseased to begin with. And I’m sure the drugs didn’t help.”
“Drugs?” Joanna repeated.
“You bet. I’ll bet Mark Childers was a long-time recreational drug user—cocaine and/or heroin. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. And sitting locked in the dark in a crapper with somebody outside taking pot shots at the door was enough to do him in. I did that one first thing this morning, and just finished up with Flores a little while ago. I’ll be sending that paperwork along as well, but since you were right there when it happened, I suppose that one is pretty self-explanatory.”
“Right,” Joanna said. “But Ernie and Jaime will need a copy all the same.”
An awkward pause followed. “I’m sorry as hell about the way things worked out,” George Winfield said finally. “That bit in the newspaper was ridiculous. I told your mother—well, never mind. Suffice it to say, we’ve had words about this. She had no right to do that to you, Joanna, or to Butch, either. I’ve always given Ellie the benefit of the doubt where you were concerned. To hear her tell it, you were always a handful from the day you were born and always a step or two out of line. Now—what can I say?”
He sounded so genuinely upset that Joanna felt sorry for him. “You don’t have to say anything, George. It’s all right. Butch asked me to marry him and I said yes. That’s all there is to it. An item in Marliss Shackleford’s column certainly wouldn’t be my first choice for letting the world know, but now the word’s out, and it’s all right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to your mother then?”
“Not yet.” Joanna laughed. “I talk a good game, but maybe not quite that good.”
“I understand,” George Winfield said with obvious relief. “But do call her as soon as you can. For all our sakes.”
“All right,” Joanna said. “I will.”
As soon as she ended that call, Joanna tried returning Fran’s call, only to be told that the assistant medical examiner was unavailable. Well, Joanna thought, it turns out so am I.
She stood up and started into the lobby to tell Kristin she was leaving. Frank Montoya met her at the lobby door. “For someone who didn’t come to work today, you’ve had yourself quite a day,” he observed.
“Is everything under control?” she asked.
“As much as it can be.”
“Good. I may not look sick, but I’m having a sick day nonetheless. Since you’ve done a great job of handling things so far, keep right on doing it. We’ll talk about all this tomorrow morning. What do you say?”
“You’re the boss,” Frank replied. “Tomorrow it is.”
Sixteen
WITH THAT, Joanna left the office and rushed home, where she showered for the second time that day. This time she worried over her makeup and spent the better part of half an hour trying to get her hair just right. When it came time to dress, she chose with care, settling at last on her pearl-gray suit with an off-white silk blouse. She liked that outfit especially. It made her seem taller, and it showed off her red hair and green eyes to good effect.
Pausing in front of her dresser after spraying on one final spritz of perfume, she opened the top drawer and pulled out a tiny velvet-covered jewel box. She opened it and stared at the contents for some time before dropping the box into her pocket. Minutes later, the dogs’ frantic barking announced Butch’s arrival.
She hurried out to the car before he had a chance to come inside. “So, Mr. Unemployed,” she said, getting into the Outback. “Are you sure you can afford to take me out to dinner?”
Butch grinned at her. “At least Marliss spelled my name right.”
Joanna rolled her eyes. “What did you do with Junior?”
“Moe and Daisy Maxwell,” Butch answered. “As soon as I told them what kind of a bind I was in, they offered to take him, and I accepted. Besides, Junior knows Daisy and he likes her. She promised him another chocolate shake.”
“And where are we going? Not Daisy’s, I presume.”
“The Rob Roy, of course,” Butch said, naming a recently built golf course out near Palominas. The clubhouse contained an upscale dining room that had quickly become one of the hot-spot dining places in all of Cochise County.
“Since I’m a sentimental slob, where else would I take you? After all, that’s where we had our first real date. You look beautiful, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Their table was in a secluded corner of the elegant dining room. A chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot was waiting for them when they arrived, as was a beautiful bouquet of roses—a dozen of the delicately colored apricot ones that were Joanna’s favorite.
“There’s only one thing missing,” Butch apologized, as they sipped their first glass of champagne. “I love you. I’m thrilled that you’ve said yes, regardless of whether or not it was under duress because your mother was holding a gun to our heads. But you were so damned busy today that I couldn’t catch up with you long enough to drag you to a jeweler. Which I’m sure I should have. After all, with our engagement already public knowledge, you’d better turn up with a ring pretty damned soon or we’ll be in even more trouble.”
Joanna fingered the stem of her champagne flute. “Have you priced engagement rings lately?” she asked.
“Well, yes. I have. But I’m fearless,” he added. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
“What would happen if I told you I already have an engagement ring?”
His face fell. “You don’t mean that there’s someone else…”
Had Butch not been so serious, it might have been comical. Reaching in her pocket, Joanna fished out the tiny box. She flipped it open to reveal the diamond engagement ring that lay inside, then she slid the open box across the table.
For a long moment Butch stared at the ring with its glittering emerald-cut stone. “What’s this?” he asked finally.
“Andy gave it to me,” Joanna explained. “I never had a diamond before we were married. We couldn’t afford it. And with Jenny coming along so soon, we couldn’t afford one for a long time afterward, either. Andy bought it for me for our tenth anniversary, but by the time it arrived, he was in the hospital dying. I tried wearing it for a while. But finally I just put it away in a drawer and left it there. Andy gave it to me, Butch, and it was exactly the kind of ring I would have chosen for myself. But it never meant what it was supposed to mean. Or what it can mean now—for us.”
“It’s very beautiful,” Butch said. He was still staring at the ring with downcast eyes.
“Yes, it is,” Joanna agreed.
“And you’re suggesting that we use this ring—Andy’s ring—for our engagement, yours and mine?”
“It was Andy’s anniversary present,” Joanna said. “It would be our engagement ring. Don’t forget, you and Andy are both a part of my life now, Butch. You always will be.”
For what seemed an eternity, he continued to stare at the ring. Then, carefully, he pried it out of its velvet-covered bed. When he looked up at her, he was grinning.
“One thing about me, I’m smart enough to know a good deal when I see one. As far as the world is concerned, even though I have money in the bank, I am currently unemployed. It was nice of Marliss to point that out, by the way. So, since Andy already bought this and since I can be pretty well assured th
at the size is right, once and for all, Joanna Lathrop Brady, will you marry me?”
“Yes, I will,” she returned. With that, he slipped the ring on her finger.
Myron Thomas, co-owner of the Rob Roy, had been observing them from a discreet distance. “Bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed. “Let me be the first to congratulate you. What an extraordinarily beautiful ring,” he added, as he refilled both their flutes. “Did you choose it all by yourself?”
Myron’s question was addressed to Butch, who looked at Joanna and smiled. “No,” he said. “I believe you could say we picked it out together.”
Dinner passed quickly. They skirted around the when-and-where wedding questions in favor of less difficult subjects, only one of which was Jenny’s suspension from school. Joanna would have been content to keep on talking the night away, but at nine o’clock sharp, Butch looked at his watch and signaled for the check. “Daisy has to be in to open the restaurant by five o’clock in the morning. I promised it wouldn’t be any later than ten when we stopped by to pick up Junior.”
While the waiter headed for the cashier’s station, Butch turned back to Joanna. “Which reminds me. We haven’t talked about that at all. Did you make any progress on the Junior situation today?”
“No. How could I?”
Butch seemed perplexed. “But we talked about it last night, and I thought—”
“Talked about what?”
“About checking with the authorities in South Dakota.”
“Butch,” Joanna said. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You don’t remember my telling you about Mount Rushmore?”
“Not at all. Are you sure you’re not making this up?”
“It was after we went to bed last night. I told you how there was only one picture in the whole book that got Junior all excited, and that was the one of Mount Rushmore. When Jenny asked him if that’s where he lived, he nodded his head up and down and said, ‘Home. Home. Home.’ He was so excited, I was afraid he was going to pee his pants again. Yesterday it was Junior and his sheriffs badge. Today it was Junior and his book. Whenever anyone came near him, he’d open the book to the Mount Rushmore page and make them look at it.”
“You told me all this last night?”
“Yes, and you said you’d call South Dakota today to see if anyone there has reported him missing.”
Joanna shook her head. “Sorry, Butch, but I don’t remember any of that. I must have dozed off and been talking in my sleep. Which also means that I didn’t do a thing about it today. But I will tomorrow. I promise.”
They drove back to Bisbee. Moe and Daisy Maxwell lived on Quality Hill uptown in Old Bisbee. When Junior came out to the car, he was wearing his badge and carrying his book, one well-worn page of which he insisted on showing to Joanna. “Home,” he announced proudly with one of his wide grins. “Home. Mine.”
“Pretty convincing, wouldn’t you say?” Butch asked.
“Definitely convincing. Daisy Maxwell is one smart woman.”
Behind her, Junior tapped on her shoulder. “Daisy,” he said. “Me like.”
“Yes, Junior,” Joanna agreed. “I like her, too.”
Driving around the abandoned black hole that was Lavender Pit Mine, Joanna had a thought. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Nine-thirty. Why?”
“Would you mind making a stop along the way?”
“What kind of a stop?” Butch asked.
“I think we should go by the house and show George and Eleanor the ring.”
“What a good idea,” Butch said. “That might go a long way toward getting us both out of the doghouse with her. But what do we do with Junior?”
“Take him along in and introduce him,” Joanna said. “That’ll give Mother something else to talk about the next time she runs into Marliss Shackleford.”
Minutes later, they pulled up in front of the house on Campbell Avenue that had been Joanna’s home when she was a girl. The porch light was on. A purple glow behind the living room windows showed that the television set was on.
“Joanna!” Eleanor Winfield said when she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Now that I have a ring, I thought you’d want to be among the first to see it.”
Joanna held out her hand. Taking it, Eleanor pulled her daughter into the living room and switched on the overhead light. “George,” she called over her shoulder. “You have to come look at this. Frederick has given Joanna a ring.”
As usual, Eleanor’s insistence on using Butch’s given name irked Joanna. Eleanor was of the opinion that the name “Butch” wasn’t nearly a dignified enough name for a grown man.
“It’s beautiful,” Eleanor was saying, “although it does look a little like the one Andy gave you. It isn’t, of course.”
“Of course not,” Joanna agreed, and let it go at that.
Butch and Junior stepped inside long enough for Butch to be congratulated and for Junior to be introduced; then they climbed back into the car and drove out to High Lonesome Ranch. “We can come in for a while,” Butch offered hopefully.
Joanna looked in the backseat, where Junior was nodding off. “No,” she said. “Your charge looks pretty worn out. You’d better get him home and to bed.”
Butch shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for asking,” he said.
He waited outside in the Subaru until Joanna had unlocked the door and taken the dogs into the house. As the car drove away, Joanna was touched by a feeling of being alone but not necessarily of being lonely. It was a sign that slowly, over time, she was getting better, and that knowledge made her almost giddy. She wanted to call people and tell them what had happened—that she was in love and engaged—but it was too late. It was also too late to return the phone calls of the people who had called her office during the day. She went out to the kitchen, thinking she’d squander some of her excess energy on cleaning up the mess out there. Only the kitchen was spotless. The dishwasher had already been loaded and run. That was the way Butch always left any kitchen—clean and ready to use.
Looking for something to do and hoping for an occupation that would calm her down and help her sleep, Joanna pulled open the briefcase she had brought home the day before and hadn’t opened since. There, on top, sat My Life and Times by Alice Rogers.
It worked yesterday, Joanna told herself. She had read one chapter and been out like a light. Maybe it would work the same way now. Undressing, she took the book to bed with her. Skimming, Joanna scanned through the rest of Alice Rogers’ childhood remembrances. Jessie Monroe was right. The book wasn’t written in smoothly flowing prose. Some of the sentences careened dangerously off track without ever coming up with something so simple as a subject and a predicate. Alice’s free-form punctuation also made for tough going.
Joanna’s eyes were growing heavy when she reached the part where the mine supervisor’s headstrong fifteen-year-old daughter met a handsome, fast-talking man-about-town named Calhoun Rogers. The unlikelihood of their pairing was enough that it roused Joanna to attention once more. And then it happened.
When my father could see that Cal and I were determined to get married, he offered Cal a job. I know Daddy could have found Cal a good position with Phelps Dodge. After all, Daddy was the superintendent of the smelter by then. It wouldn’t have been any trouble, but Cal didn’t want to be beholding. He liked being his own boss and doing his own thing, so we said no and went our own way. But sometimes now I wish we hadn’t done that and wonder what would have happened if we had accepted Daddy’s offer. For one thing, we would have had medical insurance and maybe the company doctors would have caught Cal’s diabetes before it got so bad that he had to go and lose his leg. That’s what the doctors said happened. That it went untreated for so long that by the time they figured out what was the matter with him a lot of the damage was already done.
Joanna finished reading that paragraph and went on to the next before she realized what she had read. Diabetes. Wasn’t that he
reditary? And if so, who else might be diabetic in the family—diabetic and a user of insulin? Of course, Joanna realized with a jolt of excitement. Calhoun Rogers’ son, Clete.
She remembered the bad spell he had suffered up on Houghton Road after Susan arrived and raised such hell with him. What was it he had said? Something about having medication in his truck. She remembered, too, how concerned he had been that he have food along with him on the drive to Tucson. That had to be it. Cletus Rogers was an insulin-dependent diabetic, and his mother may have been murdered with an overdose of insulin.
Too excited to sleep, Joanna jumped out of bed, threw on a robe, and paced the floor. It was after midnight now—too late to call any of the detectives involved—too late to try contacting Dr. Fran Daly up in Tucson. No, the only thing to do was to go to bed, try to sleep, and go to work on the whole mess first thing in the morning.
Eventually she did go back to bed and to sleep. Long before her alarm sounded the next morning, Joanna’s eyes popped open of their own accord. She was up, dressed, and drinking coffee by the time Clayton Rhodes came to feed the livestock at six. By six-thirty she was on the phone to Fran Daly in Tucson.
“Well,” Fran said, “if we aren’t a pair of early birds—worms and all. What’s got you up and going so bright and early?”
“The insulin,” Joanna answered.
“Pharmaceutical companies aren’t to be rushed,” Fran Daly said. “I spoke to at least half a dozen people yesterday. They all assure me that they should be able to trace the batch number to its distribution point, but so far the computer guru who’s supposed to make that happen can’t be bothered with returning my calls.”
“I think I can help,” Joanna said. “Is it possible that Clete Rogers is diabetic?” Breathlessly she went on to explain what she had learned.
“It certainly sounds plausible,” Fran said, when Joanna finished. “And with that kind of direction, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get the supplier to confirm that the insulin container we found on Alice Rogers’ body was actually part of her son’s prescription. In fact, the druggist who sold it might even be able to do it.”
Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806) Page 23
