Outlaw Mountain

by J. A. Jance

  Junior smiled and nodded. “Like pictures,” he said.

  “Good, then. The book will be here waiting for you, and you can look at it however much you like.”

  Some other people came in the door, and Butch led Junior out to his car. “He’s just as sweet as he can be, isn’t he,” Daisy commented, looking after them.

  “Yes,” Joanna said, thinking of Butch. “He is sweet.”

  “What do you suppose happened to his family? And why haven’t they come back for him? Surely they didn’t leave him on purpose, do you think?”

  “It looks that way,” Joanna said.

  “That’s awful,” Daisy said. “What kind of a low-down snake would do such a thing?”

  Joanna thought about the trunk of Elvira Hollenbeck’s Subaru. “Actually,” she said, “I don’t think snakes would. They’re probably more honorable than that.”

  Back in her office, Joanna settled down to work. Dick Voland had taken charge of the squad of deputies patrolling Oak Vista Estates. Since he was perfectly capable of handling the situation, there was no need for Joanna’s added presence. Not only that, after spending two days on the road, there was plenty of work for her to catch up on.

  She had labored in peace for the better part of an hour and felt that she was starting to make some real progress when the phone rang. “Yes, Kristin. What is it?”

  “Someone to see you, Sheriff Brady. She says her name’s Monroe. Jessie Monroe. She wants to talk to you about her sister.”

  “Who’s her sister?”

  “Alice Rogers,” Kristin answered.

  With a swipe of her arm, Joanna cleared the remaining clutter of paperwork from her desk. “Show her in,” she said.

  The woman Kristin ushered into her office was a stooped, bird-boned woman who leaned almost bent double on a walker. She was tiny and frail, but the piercing eyes she focused on Joanna were sharp and uncompromising. “Sheriff Brady?” she said, peering out crookedly from under a permanently ducked head.

  “I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “What can I do for you?” “You’re in charge here?”

  “And you’re investigating my sister’s death-Alice Rogers’ death?”

  “I’m not doing that personally,” Joanna said. “I have two detectives who are handling the case.”

  “I suppose they’ve already spoken to that worthless niece and nephew of mine.”

  “Susan Jenkins and Clete Rogers?” Joanna said. “Yes, they’ve both been spoken to, but I doubt they’ve been interviewed in much detail so far. It’s still too early in the investigation for that.”

  “But you will be talking to them.”

  “My detectives will.”

  “Well, then,” Jessie Monroe said. “I want you to give them a piece of my mind.”

  Jessie’s walker had what looked like a bicycle basket attached between the two handles. At that point, Jessie reached into the basket, pulled out a clothbound book and dropped it onto Joanna’s desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “What does it look like?” Jessie demanded. “It’s a book.”

  Joanna picked it up and examined the cover. “My Life and Times,” it said. “By Alice Monroe Rogers.”

  “Your sister wrote this?” Joanna asked.

  Jessie Monroe nodded. “Paid good money to have it printed, too. She wanted people to know about her, about who she really was. I watch all those programs on TV,” Jessie continued. “You know the ones-’Law and Order’ and all those other things they call police dramas. It seems to me, the dead people never get to tell their side of the story. The people in authority only learn what the people who are left want to tell them, which may or may not be the truth. I wanted someone to know what Alice thought instead of hearing what her kids think she thought. There’s a big difference, you know. A big difference.”

  “Won’t you please sit down,” Joanna said, motioning Jessie Monroe toward one of the captain’s chairs on the far side of her desk. “Would you care for something to drink? Coffee? A soda?”

  “A glass of water would be nice. I am feeling a bit parched.”

  Joanna summoned Kristin and asked her to bring water. Then she turned back to her guest. “You don’t sound particularly fond of your niece and nephew.”

  “Fond? Absolutely not. They’re both next thing to worthless. Cletus never amounted to a hill of beans. How he ever got himself elected mayor is more than I’ll ever know. Susan always drank like a fish. Still does, as far as I know. And then she went and married that long-haired freak who sells cars out in Sierra Vista. Have you ever seen him?”

  “I’ve met him,” Joanna said.

  “He doesn’t do a thing for me,” Jessie Monroe announced. “Thinks he’s something of a ladies’ man-like that weird guy who does all those margarine commercials on TV. Stringy hair all the way down to his shoulders. Girl’s hair. Twice as long as Susan’s. Wears it in a ponytail some of the time. For the most part, it just hangs loose around his ears. One of those guys with a Custer complex.”

  “Custer?” Joanna asked.

  “General George Armstrong Custer. Except I don’t suppose he ever wore earrings,” Jessie sniffed. “Ross Jenkins does, you know. Two or three to an ear.”

  Kristin came in with water. Jessie took the glass, emptied it with several long unladylike gulps, and then handed it back. “Thank you,” she said. “Much obliged. Now, then, to get back to Alice. She was the baby of the family. I’m the oldest. Eleven years difference between us. But even with the age difference, we were always friends and I always looked out for her. Some of my brothers and sisters I can pretty much take or leave, but Alice and I were good friends. You know what I mean?”

  Joanna nodded. “I think so,” she said.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Jessie Monroe’s eyes misted with tears. She groped in her pocket and found a hankie. “You’ll have to excuse me. I still haven’t quite accepted the idea that she’s gone. I always assumed I’d be the one who’d go first, you see. Anyway, Susan called me this morning. She’s the ‘full of business’ one in the family. She called to let me know what had happened. She said Alice had been killed up near Tucson. She said the authorities seem to think some young Mexican boys did it, although Susan seems to have her own ideas on that score.”

  “Hispanic boys,” Joanna corrected. “They’re from Tucson, not Mexico. And yes, that is the theory the Pima County investigators are working on at the moment-that they’re the ones responsible for your sister’s death.”

  Jessie blew her nose. “Well,” she announced, “Susan doesn’t believe that, and I don’t either. Not for a minute. If Alice has been murdered-and that’s the word Susan used, she said murdered-then that’s where I’d start looking for her killer, if I were you. Right there in Alice’s own backyard, as it were. You know what they say. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ and all that? Well, it’s true. Clete and Susan are two of a kind that way. I wouldn’t trust either one of them any further than I can throw them.”

  “When did you last see your sister, Mrs. Monroe?”

  “Miss,” Jessie corrected. “I’m the old maid of the family. And the last time I saw Alice was about three months ago, when she came down to Douglas to show off that new beaus of hers. Seemed like a nice enough chap to me. And I could see he thought the world of her, too, opening and closing doors for her, helping her in and out of chairs. A regular gentleman. You don’t see too many of those around anymore. Nope, they’re scarce as hen’s teeth.”

  “Farley Adams?” Joanna asked.

  “Alice’s beau? That’s right. Farley Adams was his name. Is his name. I should imagine he’ll be devastated, losing her so soon after like this. It’s a tragedy-a terrible tragedy, and, as I said before, I’m sure those selfish kids of hers are behind it one way or the other.”

  “You said, ‘losing her so soon after,’ Miss Monroe,” Joanna put in. “So soon after what? What exactly did you mean by that?”

  Jessie Monroe heaved a sigh and then fumbl
ed a black satchel-sized purse out of the basket on her walker. Once she snapped it open, she spent several long minutes sorting through the contents. At last she withdrew a stiff piece of paper-a postcard-which she handed over to Joanna. It was addressed to Jessie Monroe c/o Golden Agers Home and Convalescent Center, 816 G Avenue, Douglas, Arizona. To the left of the address was a neatly written note: “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Love, Ali.”

  The picture side of the card showed a smiling couple posing inside an enormous heart-shaped wreath of flowers. The woman was holding a small bouquet. The man wore a suit complete with a boutonniere. The caption at the bottom of the picture said: “Greetings from Mr. and Mrs. Farley Adams. Laughlin Chapel of Love. Specializing in Weddings to Go. All-inclusive.”

  “Didn’t they make a handsome couple, though?” Jessie Monroe was saying. “Alice was always the prettiest little thing. And she managed to keep her looks, even if she didn’t keep her own teeth.”

  Holding the picture, Joanna was painfully aware that Jessie’s “handsome” wedding portrait was actually a study in motive. If Farley Adams and Alice Rogers were already married at the time of her death, Farley would have a good deal to gain from his wife’s death. Even without a rewritten will, he would have been able to go against an existing one, demanding his spousal share of Alice’s estate. The fact that Farley was Alice’s husband bumped Susan Jenkins and Clete Rogers down a notch on the list of suspects. Had they been able to prevent the marriage, the children could have split the take two ways. Afterward, it would most likely have to be divided differently, with half going to the husband and a quarter to each of the children.

  Studying the picture closely, Joanna noted that Farley was probably twenty years younger than his bride. She remembered hearing something about his being stone-cold broke when he had arrived in Tombstone a year ago. For someone coming from that kind of straitened circumstances, an estate of any size would come as a bonanza. And even if he had to split the take with Alice’s children, Farley Adams would still be walking away with far more than he’d had when he started.

  Joanna turned the postcard over and studied the canceled stamp. The year was illegible, but the date wasn’t. October 18. Susan Jenkins’ worst nightmare had been realized. Clearly, the road trip to Laughlin, Nevada, had been for purposes other than throwing money away on one-armed bandits.

  “May I make a copy of this, Miss Monroe?”

  “Of their wedding picture? I suppose so. I don’t see what it could hurt. But I want it back. As a remembrance, you see.”

  “It’ll only take a minute or so. Let me call my secretary.”

  Kristin was summoned once more. She took the picture down the hall and returned a few minutes later with the original and with color copies of both sides of the postcard. Joanna placed the two copies face-up on her desk and returned the original to Jessie. The old woman leaned forward and peered across the desk.

  “Remarkable,” she said. “I remember all those years with Ditto machines. Do you remember those? The purple ink?”

  Joanna looked at her blankly.

  “Oh, well, I suppose not. There were probably mimeograph machines by the time you came along, or maybe even Xerox. But I used Dittos for years when I was teaching school. The idea that you cart just make a copy of something like this is astonishing. Why, you almost can’t tell the difference between the original and the copy! I guess that’s progress for you. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see it.”

  As she spoke, Jessie carefully filed the postcard back away in her purse. “Have you spoken to Farley?” she asked. “I’ve tried calling his number out at the mobile, but there wasn’t any answer, and he doesn’t seem to have a machine. Alice did, but not Farley. I wanted to give him my condolences and find out about arrangements and all. I do hope he’ll have something to say about than-about the funeral, I mean. By rights, he should, since he’s her husband and all. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Susan and Clete didn’t cut him out of it. That’s the way they are, you see. Both of them selfish as the day is long. Both of them wanting to run the whole show. You have no idea how their constant bickering bothered Alice. There were times when she considered disowning them both.”

  Cramming her purse back into the basket on the walker, Jessie Monroe struggled to her feet. “I’d best be going,” she said.

  “Will you be needing a ride back to Douglas?” Joanna asked. “If you do, I can get one of my deputies…”

  Jessie waved the offer aside. “Oh, no,” she said. “I have my own wheels. Not really mine, of course. I turned in my license when I hit eighty-five. Seemed like the responsible thing to do because my reflexes were getting so bad. But Helen Dominguez, one of the attendants from the home, drove me here. I’m paying her, of course. That’s only fair. But she can’t get home too late. She’s a young person, you see, and still has children that will be coming home from school soon. I’ve always felt that mothers should be at home when their children get out of school, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Joanna agreed. “I certainly do.”

  By force of will she managed to keep herself from casting a guilt-ridden glance at her own watch. Jenny would be out of school by now and on her way to Butch’s house where there would be no at-home mother in attendance.

  Jessie started toward the door. “By the way,” she added, “when you read Ali’s book-Alice’s book-don’t expect it to be great literature. It was done by one of those self-publishing outfits. Vanity presses, I think they call them. I don’t know how much she paid for it-probably way too much-but the company who did it certainly didn’t squander any of what she paid on editing. My sister was a great gal, but she never was much of a writer, so the book’s a bit rough in spots. You’ll get the picture, though. Or your detectives will.”

  “Thank you,” Joanna said, following her guest to the door. “By the way, is your address in the book, so I’ll be able to return it to you when I finish reading it?”

  “You can keep it if you like,” Jessie said. “Alice gave me ten copies for my birthday last year. Even with this one gone, I still have seven. That should be plenty. It’s not like I have any children of my own to leave them to. I did give one to the Douglas Historical Society and another to the historical society over in Tombstone. Alice lived both places, you see. Both towns are in the book.”

  “I’m looking forward to reading it,” Joanna said. “I’ll get to it just as soon as I can.”

  As the door closed behind Jessie Monroe, Joanna picked up Alice’s book and began to read. The first chapter was a charming childhood remembrance of playing hide-and-seek with her older brothers and sisters. Halfway through the second chapter, though, Joanna could no longer hold her eyes open.

  With the book lying open on her desk, Joanna laid her head on her arms and fell fast asleep. She had no idea how much time had passed when Kristin tapped on the door. “Yes,” Joanna managed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and hoping she sounded more wide awake than she felt. “What is it?”

  “Casey down in AFIS needs to see you right away.”

  “What about?” Joanna asked.

  “All I know is she said it’s urgent.”

  Before Joanna could stand up, she had to find the shoes she had kicked off under her desk. It took several tries before she was able to force her aching feet back into them. “All right,” she said. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Casey Ledford, the gifted young technician who ran Cochise County’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was a Bisbee girl who had gone off to college on a full-ride Veterans of Foreign Wars scholarship. She had enrolled in the University of Arizona’s College of Fine Arts, where she had planned on becoming a commercial artist. Smart, but not smart enough to avoid all the treacherous pitfalls of young adulthood, she had returned to her parents’ home two years later, with no degree, but with a four-month-old baby-a daughter named Felicity-in tow. Back in Bisbee, Casey had taken whatever work she could find,
including stints waiting tables in the dining room al the Copper Queen Hotel while she continued to attend college level classes on a part-time basis.

  Like a lot of other things, the AFIS equipment had fallen into Cochise County hands through a law enforcement, War Against Drugs grant that paid for hardware and software, hut no “liveware”-the people necessary to make the other two work. Prior to receiving the equipment, Joanna had mistakenly supposed that automated fingerprint identification meant just exactly that -automated. With the arrival of the equipment and the technical documentation that accompanied it, Joanna learned that fingerprints usually had to be augmented by hand before they could be fed into the computer. That meant that the department was going to need to hire someone who was not only artistically inclined but also more than moderately computer-literate. When the position was advertised in the paper, only one applicant had responded-Casey Ledford.

  “What’s so urgent?” Joanna asked, poking her head in Casey’s lab, where dozens of images of Felicity Ledford-most of them framed pastels-covered the walls.

  “It’s the Rogers case,” Casey said.

  “You got a hit?”

  Casey Ledford nodded, but she didn’t look any too happy about it. Joanna perched on a lab stool. “So tell me,” she urged. “What did you find?”

  “The hit resulted from prints we found at the mobile at Outlaw Mountain.”

  “Farley Adams’ place,” Joanna murmured. “The ones left on the dirty dishes?”

  Casey nodded again. “Right,” she said. “None of the guys thought to look there. They had dusted the outside controls, but they hadn’t bothered to check inside.”

  “Good work,” Joanna said with a grin “That’s what it takes around here sometimes-a woman’s touch. Go on.”

  “I actually brought the dishes back here to process them,” Casey continued. “It was easier that way. And the prints I lifted were good ones. They didn’t need all that much augmentation or anything. And once I fed them into the computer, the hit came back almost right away.”