Rattlesnake Crossing

by J. A. Jance

  Belle's laugh was hollow. "We weren't hardly ever what you call intimate when we was married, so why would we be after we was divorced? He told me real early on that I wasn't his type. That I wasn't no good in the bedroom department. So I put as good a face on things as I could and acted like we was just like any other normal married couple. You know, complainin' about it sometimes the way women do, about their husband all the time wantin' 'em to come across. That kind of thing. 'Cept in our family, it was me all the time doin' the wantin' and him sayin' he had a headache."

  And that's probably a good thing for you, Joanna thought.

  For a few minutes the television set droned on overhead while Joanna considered her next question. "Pomerene's a small town," she said finally. "It's the kind of place where people know things even though they may not necessarily want to. So do you have any idea who any of Clyde's partners were after you left?"

  For the first time, Belle Philips' eyes strayed from the flickering television screen. "Sex partners you mean? I can't rightly say I do. And even if I did, I don't know that 1'd say. Since Clyde's dead, what people say about him now really don't matter. But I draw the line at spreadin' gossip about the livin'. Gossipin' ain't my style."

  "What made you divorce him, then? Did you leave be-cause he was getting sick?"

  Belle sighed. "Clyde was sick a long time before I divorced him, and not with nothin' catchin', neither. I just always kept thinkin' I could make him better. 'Fix him, like. They're all the unit tellin' folks that at church, sayin' that the unbelievin' spouse can be saved by the believin' one if'n they just pray hard enough. 1 prayed. Lord knows, 1 prayed for years, but it wasn't never enough."

  "What do you mean he was sick then?"

  "Sheriff Brady, the man is dead. Can't we just let sleepin' dogs lie?"

  "No, we can't, Belle," Joanna returned. "You just told me yourself that you don't believe Clyde committed suicide. If that's the case, then he was murdered. Somebody else did it-some unidentified person put that bag over his head and closed it up tight. In order to find out who that person is, we need to know everything we can about Clyde himself. Everything. Good and bad."

  "But he's already dead," Belle objected stubbornly. "What does it matter?"

  Joanna took a deep breath. Maybe Dr. Daly was right and Clyde Philips had committed suicide. Even so, someone who knew him-someone who might have discovered the body before Belle had-could have stolen the guns. And Joanna was convinced that person with the guns was responsible for what had happened at the Triple C. One way or the other, Sheriff Brady needed Belle Philips' cooperation.

  "It's not just Clyde," Joanna said. "It could be that other people are in danger as well. Someone wiped out Clyde's gun shop."

  "Wiped it out? What does that mean?"

  "I mean all of Clyde's guns are gone, Belle. A whole shop full of guns is empty. And all the paperwork that went along with them is missing. If Clyde didn't sell those guns, then someone stole them-probably the same person who killed him. Not only that, there's a very good chance that one of those weapons was used to murder someone up on the Triple C night before last."

  "Someone else? Who?"

  "A lady from Rattlesnake Crossing. Her name's Katrina Berridge. So far, we have possible links from that case to two others, not even counting what happened to Clyde. His death would make it four. We have to find out who's doing this, Belle. Find him and stop him. Whatever you can tell us about Clyde may help lead us to the person or persons responsible."

  Again there was a long silence. "Boys," Belle said at last.

  "Boys?" Joanna echoed.

  Belle nodded sadly. "Clyde liked boys. If he had been messing around with other women, maybe I could of handled it. But boys was somethin' else. It just beat all."

  "You're saying Clyde Philips was a pedophile?"

  "That's a pretty highfalutin-soundin' word, Sheriff Brady. I don't know exactly what it means, but if it means someone who likes to screw boys instead of women, then that's right. Clyde was one of them. I didn't catch on to it for a long time. I s'pose you think I'm just stupid or some-thin'. And maybe I am. I thought he just liked havin' all those young folks around on account of us not havin' any kids of our own. And then when I finally did figure it out, my pastor kept telling me to love the sinner and hate the sin. So that's what I did. For as long as I could stand it. But he kept goin' up to Phoenix and hangin' out with them boy prostitutes. Finally I just gave up. Gave up and got out, especially seein’ as how I'd come into a little bit of money to help me get set up on my own."

  Belle lapsed into silence once more, and Joanna had the good sense to realize that her questions were plumbing the depths of an open wound. "Do you know any of their names?" she asked.

  Belle blinked. "Only one," she said.

  "Who's that?"

  "Talk to Ruben Ramos," Belle replied.

  "Ruben Ramos? You mean Chief Ramos over in Benson? You're saying the Benson police chief is one of Clyde's friends?"

  Belle shot her head slightly. "The chief's son. Ask him about his son. Ask him about Frankie."

  That was what Joanna had come to Belle's room looking for-a single name that would put her inside Clyde Philips' circle of intimates. Now that Joanna had one, she rose to go.

  "Before you take off, Sheriff Brady, tell me what I'm s'posed to do."

  "About what?"

  "About a funeral. I ain't Clyde's wife no more, but there ain't nobody left but me to plan a service. That's pretty hard to do with me lyin' here flat on my back."

  "The body's been transported to the morgue here in Tucson," Joanna told her. "It's over at the Pima County Medical Examiner's office. Dr. Fran Daly is the investigator who'll be doing the autopsy. When that's done, she can release the remains to whatever funeral home you choose. You'll have to let her know which one."

  "I ain't worried about no funeral home," Belle said. "It's what comes later's got me spooked."

  "Later? What do you mean?" Joanna asked.

  "The funeral part is what bothers me. What do I do? Go ahead and have a regular one in church with a casket and all that? Or what?"

  "That's up to you, of course. You said something earlier about your pastor. Ask him. I'm sure he'll be happy to ad-vise you, and he could probably conduct an appropriate service for you as well."

  "You mean in the church?"

  "Why not?"

  "Clyde never went to church. Never so much as set foot inside one, not even when we got married. A justice of the peace did that."

  "Check with your pastor," Joanna urged. "I don't think Clyde's attendance will matter. Besides, funerals are for the living. Have the kind of service that will give you the most comfort. And remember, the last I heard, churches were supposed to welcome sinners."

  "That's true," Belle Philips said. "But only up to a point. My pastor talks a good game," she added. "But when it comes to livin' it, he sometimes falls a little short."

  Don't we all, Joanna thought. Just ask Marianne Maculyea.

  After leaving Belle's room, Joanna walked as far as the elevator before turning around and walking back to the nurses' station, where a young man stood perusing a chart. His name badge read "Tony Morris, R.N." Finally seeming to sense Joanna's presence, he looked up. "May I help you?"

  "You do blood work when patients come in here, don't you?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "And you check for AIDS and HIV?"

  "Yes."

  "Do the patients know that?"

  "They should. It says so plain as day right there on the admission form."

  "If someone tested positive, would you let them know?"

  Tony Morris's hackles seemed to rise. "Look-"

  Joanna cut him off by handing over one of her cards. "I'm not faulting your procedures," she said. "You know Belle Philips, the lady down the hall with casts all over her body?"

  Tony Morris nodded.

  "There's a good chance that her former husband had AIDS when he died," Joanna continued. "I just t
alked to the woman. I don't think she has a clue about what was going on."

  "You're saying her husband might have infected her and she has no idea."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  The nurse shook his head. "Christ," he said. "People like that deserve to be shot."

  Maybe nobody shot Clyde Philips, Joanna thought. All the same, it sounds as though he got what he deserved.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Back in the ICU waiting room a few minutes later, Joanna found that Jeff Daniels was still involved with friends from Bisbee. Moving away from the group, she settled onto a couch in the corner and called the Pima County Medical Examiner's office. Joanna more than half expected to be told Fran Daly wasn't in, but to her surprise, the woman picked up her own line after only one ring.

  "Don’t tell me somebody down there has found another body," Fran grumbled when she realized Joanna Brady was on the line. "How long before Doc Winfield comes back?"

  "He's due in on Monday."

  "Thank God for that," Fran said, "although, at the rate things are going, you people could probably have another three or four cases stacked up for me by then. What do you want?"

  "I'm calling about the Clyde Philips case," Joanna said. "Have you had a chance to work on the autopsy yet?"

  "Sure," Fran said. "I tossed him in the van when I went hauling ass out to the Triple C. I've been working on it in my spare time. Give me some slack, Sheriff Brady. You know what I've been up against."

  "Sorry," Joanna said, "but I just finished talking to Clyde's ex-wife, Belle Philips. She doesn't believe her husband committed suicide. She said that she knew he had been dragging around some in the last few months, but I don't think she had any idea he might actually have been sick, and I don't think the possibility of HIV or AIDS ever crossed her mind. She also doesn't think he ever went to a doctor. According to her, he didn't believe in them."

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Are you saying Clyde himself might not have known he had it?"

  "It's possible," Joanna allowed. "Belle also told me that Clyde was a pedophile, although that's not the word she used. Wittingly or not, he could have infected any number of other people."

  "Including his ex-wife. What a bastard! I was going to put the autopsy off until tomorrow," Dr. Daly said, "but I suppose you want it done right away."

  "Actually, yes," Joanna replied. "I really would appreciate it."

  "Give me your number," Fran Daly said with a weary sigh. "I'll give you a call as soon as I finish."

  After she hung up, Joanna sat for a few minutes. Her initial impression had been that Fran Daly was something of a pill. In two days of working with her, she had discovered that, personality conflicts aside, Dr. Daly was nothing if not a consummate professional. The fact that she was willing to go ahead and work on an autopsy even after spending the whole afternoon in the broiling heat of a crime scene was impressive. It showed a dedication to her work that went above and beyond the call of duty.

  For the better part of the next two hours, Joanna stayed at the hospital, visiting with some of Jeff and Marianne's other friends, and with Marianne herself when she showed up at the hospital about a quarter to eight. She looked better than Joanna had expected-the extended nap had done her some good-but she was still a bundle of high-strung nerves.

  "I knew you were coming, Joanna," she said. "I meant to be back here sooner so we'd have a chance to visit, but Jeff called the hotel and canceled my wake-up call. He said he thought I needed the rest more than I needed to see you."

  "I'd say he was right," Joanna said.

  "You've talked to him, then?"

  "A little. He's been so busy meeting and greeting that I haven't had much of a chance. How are things really?"

  Marianne shook her head. "Everything looks okay at the moment, but there's always the possibility that Esther's body will reject her new heart. That's the big worry right now. That and the risk of her coming down with some kind of secondary infection."

  Joanna reached across the space between them, took Marianne Maculyea's hand, and squeezed it. "It's going to be all right," she said. "I know it is."

  "Thank you," Marianne said, squeezing back. "I hope so.”

  Just then Hal Hotchkiss, one of the old-timers from Can-yon United Methodist, broke away from the group gathered around Jeff. He came toward Marianne with his frail, liver-spotted hands extended. "Well, Reverend Maculyea, the missus and I had better head on back home pretty soon. It's a long trip, and I don't much like driving after dark anymore. My night vision just isn't what it used to be."

  "Thank you both so much for coming all this way," Marianne said, somehow summoning up the strength to sound like the gracious Reverend Marianne Maculyea of old. "I’ll just go over and say good night to Beverly before the two of you take off."

  While Marianne wandered away with Hal, Joanna staged where she was, watching the interactions of the Bisbee people who had gathered there. The other two family groups in the waiting room were much smaller and much quieter. Joanna found herself wondering where those other people were from. If they were from Tucson, presumably their friends wouldn't have had nearly so far to come in order to visit the hospital. Maybe, Joanna theorized, the smaller the distance, the fewer the visitors. Or maybe it's just the difference between living in a city and living in a small town.

  She was still mulling over that idea when the door from the corridor swung open and in walked Butch Dixon. He saw where Joanna was sitting, but instead of coming directly to her, he stopped off at the group surrounding Jeff and Marianne. He stayed there for several minutes, chatting and being introduced around, before breaking away and approaching Joanna.

  "Ready?" Butch asked.

  "Ready," she said.

  "You wouldn't like to wear a bag over your head or something, would you?" he teased. "That way people wouldn't know we're together."

  "Don't be ridiculous," she said. But as they walked across the room and out the door, she was aware of any number of inquisitive eyes watching their every move. Maybe that bag wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all.

  They rode together in Butch's car, a Subaru Outback. "This smells new," she said.

  "It is," he told her. "I just picked it up from the dealer last week."

  "I didn't know you were planning to buy a new car."

  Butch looked at her and grinned. "I wasn't," he said, "but life is full of surprises."

  They drove down Grant to Miracle Mile and then pulled into a place called La Fuente -"the fountain." At almost eighty-thirty on a weekday summer evening, the Mexican-style eatery was hardly crowded. They were shown to a small candlelit table near the bar. "Do you want something to drink?" Butch asked. "A margarita, maybe?"

  "Iced tea for me," Joanna said. "I still have to drive all the way back home. It wouldn't do for the Sheriff of Cochise to be driving around in a county-owned vehicle with a hint of Jose Cuervo on her breath."

  "Iced tea it is, then. I was hoping for a roving band of mariachis, but unfortunately, they only play on weekends."

  Just then a young Hispanic woman, dressed in a peasant blouse and a colorful skirt, showed up at the table pushing what looked like a salad cart. "Guacamole for your chips?" she asked.

  "Sure," Butch said. "Why not?"

  The young woman made the dip table-side, expertly peeling and pitting avocados. She mashed the peeled fruit in a small stone-like bowl and then added salt and pepper, tomatoes, onions, lime, and chili pepper. When she finished and was leaving the table, Butch slipped her a generous tip.

  Joanna dipped a tortilla chip into the light green mixture and tasted it. "Delicious," she announced.

  "When the ingredients going into a dish are that fresh," Butch told her, "it would have to be good."

  The tea arrived and the waiter took their order-flautas for Joanna and a combination plate with chili relleno, taco and beef tamale for Butch. "So what's up?" Joanna asked, once the waiter had left them alone. "You've been hinti
ng around that you have some kind of big news. Spit it out."

  "I sold the Roundhouse," Butch Dixon answered.

  "You what?"

  "I sold it." Butch grinned. "Two weeks ago, this developer came around wanting to buy the place. He told me he wants to build a new resort hotel complex right there in the middle of downtown Peoria to draw on all the snowbirds that come down to the Phoenix area for spring training. Over time, he and his partners had managed to go around picking up pieces of property.

  "From what I can tell, they bought most of them for a song-all except mine, that is," he added. "When the guy first showed up, I wasn't aware of what had gone on, but I found out about it over the next few days. The next time I saw him, I was loaded for bear. And in view of the fact that I was the only person standing in the way of his putting together this multimillion-dollar venture, I was able to strike a pretty good deal-for me and for the folks who used to work for me as well. They all walked away with a very nice severance package. Like I told the developers, none of them asked to be laid off. That was the only way I'd go for it."

  Butch was clearly proud of himself. Joanna, on the other hand, was stunned. "So it's gone?" she asked.

  "The building's still there, but it's closed," he replied. "The developers must have greased the planning-and-zoning skids pretty good, because the use permits are already posted on the door. It was written into the contract that I had to vacate the premises within three days of closing, and they had the check to me so fast it made my head spin. We had one last party-sort of a drunken variation on a going-out-of-business sale. Then I packed everything else up, put it in storage, and I was out of there, just like that."

  So that's why the phone was disconnected when I called, Joanna thought. "But Butch," she objected aloud, "if you don't have the Roundhouse to run anymore, what are you going to do instead?"

  "Write," Butch answered. "Mysteries, I think. I was an English Lit major. I always wanted to write. In fact, I've been writing some over the years-scribbling away for my own amusement and pleasure, even though I've never had anything published. But I always said that if I ever had the opportunity, I was going to do it full-time. Now I have all the time I need. I'm retired at age thirty-four, and if I play my cards right, I won't ever need to have a regular job again. So I bought myself a little laptop computer, and I'm in the process of getting started."