Paradise Lost (9780061749018)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I still think Ron Haskell had nothing to do with it,” Joanna insisted.

  “Why?” Frank countered. “Because he sounded innocent when we talked to him? He sure as hell isn’t innocent of relieving his wife of her money.”

  “That may be true,” Joanna agreed. “But that doesn’t make him a killer.”

  “And as for Irma, just because she may have discovered her son had killed again doesn’t mean she’d put him out of his misery like a rabid dog. Not only that, her driver’s license says she’s seventyfour years old. How the hell would she get the drop on him?”

  “If we ever catch up with her, I guess we’ll have to ask her.”

  “But I still can’t understand it,” Frank said. “How does a parent do something like that to her own child?”

  “I don’t know,” Joanna said wearily. “Maybe it was self-defense. Or maybe she shot her rabid-dog son to save others.”

  “Sheriff Brady?” Tica Romero’s radio voice reached them through the open window.

  Finishing the last of her water, Joanna got into the Civvie and unclipped the mike. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m in for Larry now. Doc Winfield says to ask you if you ever had a chance to speak to your mother.”

  Joanna sighed. Wasn’t it enough that she was out in the desert climbing up and down cliffs and finding dead bodies? Expecting her to find time to be a dutiful daughter was asking too much.

  “Tell him no,” Joanna said. “I tried calling her, but she wasn’t home.”

  “He says she still isn’t home,” Tica relayed a moment later. “He says he’s really worried about her.”

  “Tell him I’m worried too, but I’m on the far side of the Chiricahuas at a crime scene right now, and there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it at the moment. But Tica, once you let him know, you might also radio the cars that are out on patrol right now and ask the deputies to keep an eye out for my mother. Eleanor Lathrop Winfield drives a light blue 1999 Buick sedan. I can’t remember the license plate number right off, and don’t ask Doc Winfield for it. Get it from the DMV and put it out to everyone who’s currently on duty.”

  “Will do, Sheriff Brady.”

  “And when you finish with that, would you mind calling out to the ranch and letting Butch know that I won’t be home until later.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Shaking her head, Joanna went back to where Frank was standing with the heel of one boot hooked on the Civvie’s rear bumper. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “My mother,” Joanna grumbled. “She and Doc Winfield must be having some kind of row. George called me this afternoon and wanted me to talk to her. I tried calling, but she wasn’t home. According to George, Eleanor was upset last night when she heard about what had happened to Dora Matthews. And that’s understandable. I’m upset about what happened to Dora, too, but my best guess is that Eleanor is pissed at George about something else altogether. She’s decided to teach him a lesson, so she left the house early this morning without making his coffee, and she hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

  “Do you think something’s happened to her?” Frank asked.

  Joanna shook her head. “It’s not the first time Eleanor’s pulled a stunt like this. She did it to my dad on occasion. It used to drive him nuts. What drives me crazy is the fact that I have to be caught in the middle of it.”

  “You’re the daughter,” Frank pointed out. “Sons get off light in that department. Daughters don’t. If you don’t believe me, ask my sisters.”

  The better part of an hour passed before the first additional vehicles arrived. George Winfield was still enough of a newcomer to Cochise County that he had caravanned out to Paradise behind a van driven by one of the crime scene techs.

  “So where’s the body?” he demanded as soon as he caught sight of Joanna.

  She pointed. “About a mile and a little bit that way and at the bottom of a cliff.”

  “Who’s driving?” George asked.

  “Nobody’s driving.”

  “You mean we have to walk?”

  Joanna nodded. “Until Deputy Hollicker has finished taking plaster casts, nobody’s driving in or out.”

  “Great,” George Winfield said with a sigh. “When I signed on to be medical examiner around here, I never realized how many bodies we’d have to haul in from out in the boonies. And I sure didn’t understand about the hours. Couldn’t you get your murderers to do their deeds in places that are a little more on the beaten path, Joanna? And it would be nice if it wasn’t almost always the middle of the night when it happens. How about instituting a rule that says all bodies are to be found and investigated during normal office hours only?”

  Despite her own weariness, Joanna couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Stop griping, George,” she said. “Come on. I’ll show you where the body is. Frank, didn’t I see Dave Hollicker again just a minute ago?”

  “Yeah. He came back for more plaster.”

  “As long as he’s here, ask him to help carry the Doc’s equipment.”

  Using a battery-powered lantern to light the way, Joanna retraced the path she and Frank had followed earlier. George Winfield trudged along behind her. He was a good thirty years older than Joanna, but he had no apparent difficulty in keeping up with her.

  “I can’t imagine what’s happened to your mother,” he groused as they walked. “Maybe she’s been in an accident.”

  Joanna chose not to go into the details of Eleanor and D. H. Lathrop’s history of marital discord. “I’m sure Mother’s fine, George,” Joanna said reassuringly. “Did the two of you have a fight?”

  “Not really.”

  “Look, George,” she said. “If anyone’s an expert on fighting with my mother, I’m it. How not really did you fight?”

  “I told her about Dora last night after I came home. I do that—talk to her about my cases. Most of the time it’s okay, but this time, she just went off the deep end about it. I’ve never seen her upset like that before, Joanna. Your mother isn’t what I’d call an hysterical woman, but she was hysterical last night. I did my best to calm her down. I told her she was overreacting, that she was being far more emotional than the situation warranted. I told her she shouldn’t blame herself for what happened. That there was no way anyone could possibly think that Dora Matthews’s death was her fault. That’s when she really lit into me, Joanna. She told me I didn’t understand anything about her. That’s when she took that sleeping pill and went to bed, without even staying up to watch the news, which she usually does every night.

  “Maybe Ellie was right,” George Winfield added miserably. “Maybe I don’t understand her.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Ellie was never particularly good friends with Dora’s grandmother, was she?”

  “No,” Joanna answered. “She wasn’t.”

  “When she found Dora was at your place,” George continued, “she was just livid about that—about the camp-out and the cigarettes and the girls’ being sent home. It sounded to me as though she thought everything that had happened out there was Dora’s fault. So why should she fall apart the moment she hears Dora Matthews is dead? It’s more than I can understand.

  “But still, that’s no excuse for her disappearing without saying a word to me about where she was going or when she’d be back. This morning I checked the house to see if she had left me a note. She hadn’t. All day long, I kept calling in for messages. She never called. The whole thing beats me all to hell. And now, just when she might finally show up at home, where am I? Out here hiking to God knows where trying to track down another body. So if Ellie finally gets over being mad at me because of the business with Dora Matthews, by the time I get home she’ll be mad all over again because I’ve been out late one more time.”

  He stopped walking and talking both. When Joanna turned to look at him, he shook his head. “Oh, hell, Joanna. I’m just rambling on and on. Why don’t you tell me to shut up?”


  “Because I thought you needed to talk.”

  He sighed. “I suppose you’re right there. But tell me about this case now, and how much farther do we have to walk?”

  They had already passed the clearing containing the deserted house. “It’s only another quarter of a mile or so, but then we have to climb down a cliff. The car’s at the bottom of that.”

  “And what’s this all about?”

  “The victim is a guy named Rob Whipple. Just this afternoon, he turned into a suspect in the Connie Haskell homicide. Frank and I were on our way to talk to him when we found him dead.”

  “Any idea who killed him?”

  “It was probably his mother,” Joanna said. “A woman by the name of Irma Sorenson.”

  “I was told this was a car accident. Something about it going over a cliff.”

  “The victim is in a car that went over a cliff, but since there’s a bullet in the middle of his forehead, and since he wasn’t in the driver’s seat, I have a feeling he was dead long before the car went over the edge.”

  “And you think his own mother did it?” George asked wonderingly. “I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand women. But at least I’m still alive—so far.”

  “Eleanor’s not going to kill you, George,” Joanna told him. “Even if she’s mad, she’ll get over it.”

  George Winfield shook his head. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with her.”

  “No, but I’ve done it, and I’ve got the T-shirt!”

  About then they reached the edge of the cliff. By the time Dave Hollicker and the two crime scene techs had strung a rope and helped lower George Winfield and his equipment to the ground, Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter had both shown up, accompanied by Frank Montoya.

  Ernie peered down over the edge of the cliff and shook his head. “Looks like it’s time for more of Jaime’s crime scene photography. Doc Winfield may have gotten down there, but I’m not climbing down that cliff on a bet.”

  “Give me the camera then,” Jaime said. As he headed for the rope, Joanna turned to Ernie.

  “Did you guys do any good today?” she asked.

  “That depends on what you call good,” he groused. “We talked to Buddy Morris, the kid in Sierra Vista who supposedly saw Dora Matthews get into a car sometime Sunday night. Buddy’s fifteen years old. When I was his age, I knew every make and model of car on the road. When it comes to cars, Buddy Morris is practically useless. He doesn’t know shit from Shinola, if you’ll pardon the expression. He thinks maybe it was a white Lexus he saw, but he’s not sure. Not only that, he couldn’t tell us for certain if it was Dora Matthews he saw getting into the car because he doesn’t really know her, which is hardly surprising since she’d only been in the neighborhood for a little over twenty-four hours.

  “Still, Buddy tells us, he thinks the girl was one of the kids from the foster home because they’ve got a special window at the back of the house that they use to sneak in and out of the house at all hours of the night. Why people volunteer to become foster parents in the first place is more than I can understand.

  “Anyway, Buddy claims he saw a girl getting in the unknown car with a driver he couldn’t see and the two of them took off in a spray of gravel.”

  “What about Walgreens?” Joanna asked.

  “Didn’t have time,” Ernie said. “We got the call and came straight here, but we do have the phone company checking the line at the foster parents’ house to see if Dora may have made any unauthorized phone calls from there. I’ve also asked for them to check the Bernards’ number for any calls going from there to Sierra Vista. Without Frank the phone wizard doing the checking, we probably won’t have results until tomorrow morning, hopefully before our appointment with Christopher Bernard and his father and his lawyer, and not after. Which reminds me of something else. We were supposed to see them at ten a.m but there’s a conflict with the doctor. The appointment has now been moved to two o’clock in the afternoon. So that’s all I know, and Frank’s pretty much told me what’s going on here, so why don’t I shut up, go back to the cabin, and get to work.”

  With that, Ernie turned and stomped away from them, leaving Joanna and Frank staring at one another in astonishment. “I think that’s more words than I’ve ever heard Ernie Carpenter string together at one time,” Joanna said.

  “I didn’t even know he knew that many words,” Frank Montoya agreed.

  It was the beginning of another long night. As people showed up and began doing the jobs they were trained to do, it was clear there was little reason for Joanna and Frank to hang around. At nine they finally left the scene for the long drive back to Bisbee.

  “I can take you straight home if you want,” Frank offered. “It’s on the way.”

  “No, thanks,” Joanna told him. “I’d rather go by the department and pick up my car.”

  “Suit yourself,” Frank said.

  When they reached the department, Joanna knew that if she even set foot inside her office she’d be trapped, and it would be hours before she got back out again. Instead, she simply exited Frank Montoya’s Civvie and climbed into her own.

  As Joanna drove from the justice center toward High Lonesome Ranch, she felt a sense of letdown and disappointment wash over her, draining the last of the waning energy out of her body. In a matter of days, three different homicides had occurred within the boundaries of Cochise County.

  Three! Joanna lectured herself. Connie Haskell, Dora Matthews, and now Rob Whipple. If my department is supposed to be serving and protecting, we’re not doing a very good job of it.

  She turned off onto High Lonesome Road and drove through the series of three steep arroyos that made the approach to the ranch feel more like a roller coaster than a road. As she crested the final rise, the Civvie’s headlights bounced off the headlights of a car parked next to Joanna’s mailbox.

  A sudden bolt of fear set Joanna’s fingertips tingling and her heart racing. This was the same deserted stretch of roadway where a drug dealer’s hit man had lain in wait to slaughter Andy. Easing her Glock out of its holster, Joanna laid it on the seat beside her. Then, knowing that whoever was waiting in the darkness would be blinded by the sudden light, she switched on her high beams and roared forward. Only as she drew even with the parked car did she recognize her mother’s Buick and slam on the brakes. The speeding Crown Victoria fishtailed back and forth on the rough gravel surface before she finally managed to wrestle it under control and bring it to a stop fifty feet beyond where she had intended.

  With her hands shaking and her heart still pounding in her throat, Joanna threw the car into reverse. By the time she reached the mailbox, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield was already out of her car and standing beside the roadway.

  “Why on earth were you driving so fast?” she demanded when Joanna rolled down her window. “Do you always speed that way when you’re coming home late at night? You could have been killed, you know.”

  Having Eleanor go on the attack was so amazingly normal—so incredibly usual—that it was all Joanna could do to keep from laughing aloud.

  “What are you doing here, Mother?” she asked.

  “Waiting for you. What do you think? And why are you so late?”

  “I just left George at a crime scene over by Paradise, Mom,” Joanna said. “He’s upset because he hasn’t heard from you. He says you’ve been among the missing all day, and he’s worried. He’s afraid you’re mad at him. Are you?”

  To Joanna’s surprise, Eleanor’s strong facial features suddenly crumpled as she dissolved into tears. Astonished, Joanna flung open the door. Clambering out of the car, she pulled the weeping woman into her arms. She held her mother close and rocked her back and forth as though she were a child. Eleanor had always been taller than her daughter, but Joanna realized with a shock that Eleanor had somehow shrunk and now they were almost the same size. Through their mutual layers of clothing, Eleanor’s body felt surprisingly bony and fragile.

>   “What’s wrong, Mom?” Joanna begged. “Please tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I tried to tell George,” Eleanor croaked through her tears. “I tried to tell him, but he just didn’t understand. I couldn’t make him understand.”

  “Tell me, Mom.”

  Coming from across the desert, Joanna heard the joyous yips from Sadie and Tigger, who had no doubt heard the sound of the familiar engine and were coming to welcome their mistress home.

  “Let’s get back in my car before the dogs get here,” Joanna urged. “Then I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  To Joanna’s surprise, Eleanor didn’t object. Instead, she leaned against her daughter and allowed herself to be led. Joanna opened the door. Before letting her mother in, she reached over and brushed her unholstered Glock under the seat of the car. After helping Eleanor inside, Joanna stopped at the trunk long enough to retrieve two bottles of water. She regained the inside of the car just as Sadie and Tigger burst through the mesquite and came racing toward them. The dogs circled the car madly, three times each. Then, finding it immovable, they gave up and went bounding off through the underbrush after some other, more interesting, prey.

  Joanna passed the bottled water to her mother. “This should probably be something stronger, Mom, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.”

  Eleanor took the bottle, opened it, and downed a long grateful swallow.

  “So what is it?” Joanna asked after a moment. “Tell me.”

  Eleanor sighed and closed her eyes. “It was bad enough to know Dora was dead,” she began shakily. “As soon as George told me that, I knew that was all my fault. I mean it’s obvious that Dora was perfectly content to be out here at the ranch with Eva Lou and Jim Bob. If I had only let things be . . .”