by Betty Webb
“Me, too.” With a wave, June-Mae drove off.
An hour later I had learned more about acrylics vis-à-vis oils than I ever want to know, and finally begged off Madeline’s Art 101 lecture, claiming exhaustion. Leaving her to her canvas, I climbed the stairs to the loft, where I lay down on the futon and despite my excitement, promptly fell asleep.
***
Three hours later I awoke to the smell of dinner.
When I made it downstairs, I found the table already set, the food piled onto the plates. Mine was a mini-Mt. Everest, with a three-decker mushroom, cheddar, avocado, and sprouts open-face sandwich towering over a field of sweet potato fries. Enough to feed a linebacker.
Intimidated, I said, “You expect me to eat all that?”
Madeline sat down across from me. Her sandwich was half the size of mine. “You need to keep your strength up.”
For what, I wanted to ask. More sitting around? But of course I didn’t. The food was delicious, if healthful, and she had even baked her own bread, a multi-grainer shot through with rosemary and nuts.
“Delicious,” I said.
“If you want the recipe…”
Cooking-averse, I hastily changed the subject. “How long do you think this heat spell will last? I hear it got up to one-eighteen yesterday in Scottsdale.”
She cocked her head, a quizzical look on her face. “Where’d you hear that?”
Oops. When I had signed onto the library’s computer, one of the sites I visited listed the day’s temperatures across Arizona. I scrambled to cover myself. “June-Mae mentioned it when we were looking for her brush.”
“Mmm. Speaking of Scottsdale, I’m going to have to leave you alone for a while tomorrow. While you were napping, my accountant called again and said we needed a long sit-down. Apparently there’s a problem with some of my deductions because the IRS prefers not to believe I spend so much money on paint, brushes, and canvas. So there goes my morning. Again.” She sighed. “At least I’ve finished that glaze. By the way, is there anything you’d like me to pick up for you while I’m in town?”
Plenty of things, I thought. Several New York strip steaks. A bucket of Colonel Sanders original recipe. Slim Jims, extra spicy. Two cases of Tab, if you can find it, Diet Coke if you can’t. But I shook my head. “Can’t think of anything. About how long will you be gone?”
“Several hours, I’m afraid. You know how accountants are. You’ll be okay, won’t you? I was really nervous about leaving you alone yesterday, and now, to do it again a second day…” She trailed off, guilt written all over her face.
For once, her concern about my health worked for me. “I’ll be fine.”
She gave me a relieved smile.
As soon as she began showering off the day’s accumulation of turps and linseed oil, I snuck her iPhone out of her purse and called June-Mae. By the time Madeline had emerged from the shower singing the final chorus of “Age of Aquarius,” I had set up an appointment to meet with Sam Provencio’s widow at ten the next morning.
Maybe she knew something, maybe she didn’t. Whatever the case, I was sure as hell going to find out.
Chapter Thirty-four
Bella Provencio lived in a small tract home on the south end of Florence, where the town ended and the desert took over. A riot of children’s toys littered the front yard, but the house looked in prime condition. The stucco was the same color as the desert stretching behind it, the trim and door painted a bright turquoise. Wind chimes and dream catchers hung from the beams of a shallow porch, adding a whimsical touch to a home that otherwise stood out little from its neighbors.
Two vehicles stood parked in the driveway, a tan Honda Civic, and a silver Dodge Ram pickup. Neither was new, but unlike June-Mae’s heap, both appeared in perfect condition.
“Remember, Bella’s husband’s been dead only a month,” June-Mae said, as we climbed the steps. “I want to find out who killed Sam as much as you do, but we’re talking my best friend here, and don’t you dare say or do anything that will cause her any more grief.”
June-Mae needn’t have worried. One of a cop’s saddest duties is delivering the news of a loved one’s death. After doing that a few dozen times, we get good at it. Or as good as you can get when telling someone something that will half-kill them. My face was already set in an expression of condolence, so imagine my surprise when a hugely pregnant, brightly smiling woman answered the door and chirped, “Oh, how nice of you to stop by! And you must be Lena!”
A closer look at Bella’s bloodshot eyes revealed how she really felt, and once we entered the house, I saw the reason for her bubbly act. Two little girls, one a toddler, the other just short of kindergarten age, were playing some sort of Dora the Explorer game. Neither looked unduly distressed, which I took as a testament to their mother’s grit.
The living room’s décor reminded me of that I’d seen in the homes of so many young families. Brown carpet designed not to show dirt. Colonial-style sofa and matching chair covered in a red, green, and brown floral print. A comfy-looking recliner in a blue that just managed not to clash with the rest of the furniture, probably Sam’s favorite de-stressing spot. It looked terribly empty. The only thing unusual about the room—other than three obese cats snoozing on a large pet bed in the corner—was the collection of blue ribbons hanging above the sofa.
A scarred credenza stood against one wall, and on top, Bella had created a memorial to her deceased husband. Sam’s photograph, taken in his uniform, was surrounded by candles, U.S. Army medals, condolence cards, and a large memory book. As I studied Sam’s photograph, he looked vaguely familiar, but maybe that was because of the Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin. His gentle smile made him appear kind, a man drawn to prison work out of financial necessity, not because he sought power over others.
“Say, I made us some cookies! And some coffee!” Bella chirped. “I hope you like chocolate chip!”
“I love chocolate chip,” June-Mae echoed immediately.
“Great! Have a seat on the sofa! I’ll be right back!” Still bubbly, still smiling, Bella, accompanied by June-Mae, moved past the children and toward the kitchen, the entrance to which had been blocked off by one of those expanding gates used by protective parents.
But when Bella opened the gate, the true reason for the gate rushed out: a huge, tan boxer, its coat gleaming as if brushed within an inch of its life. The dog headed straight for the children, sniffed them quickly as if to reassure himself they were all right, then with hackles raised, advanced on me. Unless I was mistaken, he wanted to eat my leg.
“Jingo! No!” Bella shouted, hurrying toward us. She grabbed the boxer’s collar and dragged him back to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” she said, shutting the gate again. “He’s very protective of the children. He knows June-Mae, but you’re a stranger, so…” She shrugged, her tone no longer chipper. “I should really have been more careful, but I’m a little distracted these days.”
“No problem.” Anticipating the attack, I’d tucked my legs under my butt, and now I lowered them to the floor again. “I like dogs. And that one’s especially beautiful.” If you were into big teeth and drooly dewlaps.
“Oh, he is that!” Back to the chirps.
I didn’t know which was the worst for her, round-the-clock sobbing or forced cheerfulness. The strain of keeping up a good front probably took its toll at night, when the children were asleep, but at least her babies were spared her grief. In the long run, that was the only thing that mattered.
Bella and June-Mae returned shortly with a platter of cookies and some coffee, along with containers of cream and sugar. Jingo tried to escape through the gate and run back into the living room, but this time June-Mae was ready for him and pushed him aside. He let his feelings be known by staring at me through the gate and venting a series of snaps and snarls that would intimidate a grizzly. After settling herself on an overstu
ffed chair, Bella shushed him. It worked for a couple of seconds, then he started up again.
The cookie was heavenly. She had made it from scratch, anything to keep the mind off that new grave on the outskirts of town.
“Lovely,” I said, over the sound of Jingo’s snarls. “I must have the recipe.” I would give it to Madeline.
As I had hoped, she flushed in pleasure. Anything to give her one bright moment before I started my questioning.
“It was my great-grandmother’s,” she said, “passed down to me. I’ll give it to Christy and Rose when they get married. But, sure, I’ll write it out for you.”
“I appreciate it.” Now was the time. Gesturing toward the children, I said, “Um, perhaps they could play in another room for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” She rose, and with a few murmured words, swept the children and Dora the Explorer out of the living room.
June-Mae whispered, “She’s taking this harder than it looks. If you upset her any more than is necessary, you’ll be walking back to Madeline’s.”
I was sure she meant it.
Once Bella returned and settled herself, I started slowly, asking her about the show ribbons above the sofa.
“Those are Jingo’s,” she said. “He’s doing really well on the AKC circuit. But there probably won’t be anymore shows, at least not for us. They were Sam’s thing, I’m not that into it. I just like to have a dog around to pet. And for protection. He scared you, didn’t he?” She smiled.
“He sure did. Speaking of Sam, he must have been a really busy guy. His work at the prison, the dog shows, and June-Mae told me he was quite the runner, too. It’s amazing he could fit all that into his schedule.”
“Oh, Sam had energy to burn. And he dearly loved to run. I don’t think there was a marathon here in the state that he hadn’t completed, plus a few out of state, San Diego, San Francisco, even Boston.”
“You must have been proud of him.”
Her face changed slightly. “It wasn’t always easy. He’d get hurt from time to time, and that bothered me. At least we have good insurance through the state.”
On an off-chance, I said, “You say he ran every marathon here in Arizona. Would that include the Phoenix Marathon?”
She nodded. “He ran the Phoenix four times, but only finished three. He got hurt there a couple of years ago when another runner tripped him up during a turn. It was an accident, of course, but he wound up in the emergency room with a torn tendon. Good thing I was there to bring him home. It was his right foot, so he couldn’t even drive.”
When she said “emergency room,” I tensed. I controlled my voice carefully, when I asked, “Which hospital was that?”
She shrugged. “Can’t remember.”
I reeled off some names. “Phoenix Baptist, St. Joseph’s, Phoenix General, St. Luke’s, Good Samaritan…”
“Good Sam! That’s it! Near downtown. On McDowell, I think. Yeah. McDowell.”
I didn’t think there was a hope in hell of her answering my next question, but I asked it anyway. “You went with him to the emergency room, right? Do you remember his doctor’s name?”
“Sorry, I just…He was good, I remember that. Not much of a bedside manner, kind of cold, but really efficient. Maybe I can’t remember his name, but after…but a few days after Sam’s funeral I was throwing out all the newspapers that’d accumulated during…well, you know, when I wasn’t paying attention to much else other than missing Sam…and as I was stacking them I saw an article about those awful murders in Scottsdale, and wondered if by any chance it could be the same doctor who’d treated Sam, and when I saw the picture I realized yes, it was. Sam’s ER doc was the very same doctor who got killed along with his family. Oh, it was just the most terrible thing, and if I remember right, everyone thought the doctor’s daughter and her boyfriend did it…Wait a minute, wait a minute. Maybe I do remember his name. Dr. Cummings? No, but it was Cam something. Cam, Cam, Cam…Cameron, that’s it! Dr. Cameron. He and his family were murdered the day after Sam was killed. Isn’t that a horrible coincidence?”
Horrible, yes. Coincidence, no.
We were getting close to it now, so I asked her if Sam ever talked about his work at the prison.
She shook her head. “He never brought his work home with him. None of the guards do. Too depressing.”
“Smart, that. And considerate. How about some of the people he encountered? Especially the prisoners.”
“Like I said, Sam was close-mouthed about that sort of thing, but lately he didn’t really have that much to do with the prisoners, mostly just construction crews coming in and out of the gate. People like that. Regulars.”
Except for one lone man on execution days, a man whose face he would have recognized.
She continued, “Anyway, I was glad he never talked about it, because he said the stories he’d heard from the other guards would upset me, especially in the condition I’m in now. Sam was very protective that way.”
“I’m sure he made the right choice.”
After asking her a few more softball questions, all answered in the negative, I finally arrived at the hard part. “I’m aware that Sam worked the day shift on the industrial yard, so I’m wondering if on, ah, execution days, when sometimes…” I had to be careful not to put any ideas in her head. “Where sometimes, ah, a special person needed to be admitted.” Oh, the hell with it. “I’m talking about the executioner. Did Sam ever mention recognizing him?”
“Never!” She seemed to change her mind in mid head-shake. “Wait. Wait. There was this one time…” Then she finished shaking her head. “See, Sam was new on the gate. Normally he worked CB4, but back in January they transferred him. I knew he didn’t like working there, not only because he was just standing around in that shack for hours at a time, but because he doesn’t, uh, didn’t believe in capital punishment, and he really, really didn’t like working those days when they, uh, had to, um, when it happened. But he never complained. Sam wasn’t a complainer, he just did his job. The only thing he ever said about those occasions was that at least it happened by IV, not the noose or the chair, that compared to them, the IV was merciful, just like putting a sick animal to sleep. But there was this one day he came home pretty upset, and I think it was in March or April or May, back before it got really hot. He wouldn’t talk about it, though, so I can’t help you.”
Not necessarily. “Can you remember which execution this might have been? The prisoner’s name?”
“I’m like Sam on that. I don’t want to know so I make sure I don’t know. But I remember I was pregnant and having trouble sleeping. I’m not sure. It was fairly cool during the day and still chilly at night, that’s all I can tell you. My memory isn’t that great. Especially now. A lot of stuff that happened this year is all mushed together in my mind because of…” Her lower lip began to tremble.
To my relief, June-Mae took over. “You know what, Bella? I’ll bet Lena would love to see your memory book. There are some lovely photographs of Sam in it.” Turning to me, she said, “Bella is quite the amateur photographer, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Last year she won first prize in the formal portrait category at the Pinal County Fair, and that’s for someone who never took a photography class in her life. When Madeline saw it, she said she’d help Bella put together a show of her work.”
Getting of the subject of the prison for a while was a good idea, so I said I’d love to see the memory book. Bella appeared so eager to show me that I realized going through the book brought her comfort.
The memory book was more than pictures; it was the story of a marriage. I saw the first note Sam had passed to Bella when they were in the second grade. He’d misspelled the word “love” but his drawing of two hearts pierced with one arrow was moving. On another page, I saw a photograph of them dancing together at their senior prom; it had been taken by Sam’s mother, one of
the prom chaperones. Pressed between two pages were dried flowers from a bouquet he’d once given her. Bella’s photographs started halfway through. A delighted Sam holding a baby. A delighted Sam holding a different baby. A sweating Sam running through several marathons. A half-naked Sam getting out of bed, his dark hair a wild mess. A grinning Sam looking at the puppy that had grown into the blood-thirsty Jingo. In each case, Bella used available light to evoke mood, giving the photographs a subtlety I found surprising in an untrained photographer. No wonder Madeline had been impressed with her work.
“You really are good,” I said, meaning it. “Let Madeline help you get a show. It’ll take your mind off…” I stopped before I said “your grief.” Nothing would do that.
Bella blushed, as if such talent was nothing, but June-Mae was determined to sing her friend’s praises. “She once sent a picture to the Arizona Republic and they printed it. They even sent her a check, and the editor called and said someone had even requested a copy. Sam looked so handsome in his new suit, didn’t he, Bella? C’mon, show Lena. I forget what page that one’s on.”
Bella took the heavy book and flipped through several pages. “Here,” she said, handing it back. “I taped the article about the dog show across from it, but in the caption under the photo you can see Sam’s name. Sam Provencio, big as life! And doesn’t he look handsome?”
Smiling, I looked at the photograph, then the article. Read the caption.
And understood.
Chapter Thirty-five
Several minutes later, I was driving Sam Provencio’s truck toward south Scottsdale. It was a stick shift, but since my Jeep was, too, I had no problem. When I had explained what I wanted to do, Bella had insisted I take it, saying that using her husband’s truck to catch his killer was poetic justice. The money-hungry June-Mae had even turned her phone over to me, for free this time.
Chances were nil that I would make it back to the studio before Madeline returned home, but under the circumstances, listening to one of her lectures was a small price to pay for identifying a killer.
