by J. A. Jance
“Right,” Tom said.
Dave Hollicker showed up then, camera in hand, and was directed to the picnic table bench. As the CSI began snapping crime scene photos, Ernie Carpenter shook his head.
“How many people were out here this afternoon?” he asked.
“Counting prisoners, detention officers, kitchen trustees, and deputies, right around a hundred.”
“We’re not likely to find much as far as physical evidence is concerned, mostly because we’re going to find too much,” Ernie said. “Our best bet will be to talk to the people who were there—guards and prisoners both. Maybe, while we’re waiting for Fran Daly to show up, we could start interviewing some of those folks, beginning with Osmond’s cell mates.”
Joanna nodded. “Sounds good,” she said as the hulking Ernie strode away.
“As for me,” George Winfield said when he and Joanna were left alone, “since I’m taking a pass on this case, I believe I’ll go on home. I’ll have a word with your mother—or, rather, I’ll let her have a word with me on the other major topic of the evening.” He gave Joanna an understanding smile. “But again,” he added, “congratulations. Ellie’s comments notwithstanding, you and Butch and the baby will be just fine.”
By the time Joanna had walked back across the parking lot and let herself into the Justice Center conference room, Frank Montoya had shown up as well.
“This isn’t good,” he said. “I’ve already had two calls—one from The Bee and another from The Tribune out in Sierra Vista. The reporters heard about it before I did. How’s that possible?”
“It’s all politics,” Joanna said. “And in politics, anything goes. What did you tell them?”
“That I’d check things out and let them know.”
Briefly Joanna brought him up to speed. By the time she finished, Tom Hadlock was leading a handcuffed man down the hall toward the interview room, where Ernie Carpenter was already waiting. Joanna and Frank followed them into the room. “This is Brad Calhoun,” Tom said, shoving the man into a chair. “He’s one of Richard Osmond’s roomies.”
“Look,” Calhoun said, “I have no idea what happened to Richard, but whatever it was, I had nothing to do with it. I swear to God.”
“Go ahead and remove the cuffs,” Joanna told Tom Hadlock. “We’re just talking here. I’m Sheriff Brady, Mr. Calhoun. This is Chief Deputy Montoya, and this is Homicide Detective Ernie Carpenter.”
Calhoun was holding out his hands so Tom Hadlock could unlock the cuffs. When he heard Ernie’s name and title, his jaw dropped. He waited until Tom Hadlock had taken the cuffs and left the room.
“Did you say homicide?” Calhoun asked. “You mean somebody’s dead? I thought Richard just took off somehow. That he’d figured out a way to go over the fence—that he’d waited until everybody else went back inside and then away he went, know what I mean?”
“Mr. Osmond didn’t go over the fence,” Ernie told him somberly. “He’s dead, and we’re wondering what, if anything, you might know about that.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Calhoun asked.
“You tell us,” Ernie returned. “When’s the last time you talked to Mr. Osmond?”
“Right after dinner,” Calhoun answered hurriedly. “Right after we finished up the watermelon.”
“What was said?”
“Richard said he was tired, that he thought he’d take a nap. Didn’t surprise me none. We were all wore out. The heat really takes it out of you. The AC in the jail went out last night, you see, and it was too hot to sleep—for me, anyway. It was just plain miserable.”
“So you didn’t think it was odd when Richard Osmond said he needed a nap.”
“Naw. It was so ungodly hot that we were all beat. I was a little surprised, though, when he nailed that whole bench for himself. I didn’t see him again after that, and I didn’t think about it either—not until John and me got back to the cell and Richard wasn’t there. We figured out he was missing about the same time the guards did, and then all hell broke loose. They figured he’d escaped somehow, and they put the whole place on lockdown.”
“Did Mr. Osmond do drugs?” Ernie asked.
Calhoun grinned. “Around our cell, alcohol is the drug of choice, ma’am. I’d have to say Richard had been…well…maybe not sober, but dry at least, ever since they locked him up. Same goes for me and John Braxton, too.”
“You don’t think it’s possible Osmond might have gotten himself some contraband drugs?”
“Not that I know of,” Calhoun said, “but we weren’t like, you know, best buddies. He wouldn’t have told me if he had.”
There was a knock on the door. Tom Hadlock pushed his head inside the room. “I’ve got the girlfriend’s parents’ address down in Douglas—Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Gomez. Should somebody from the jail handle this?”
“No, Tom,” Joanna said. “We will.” She looked at Frank Montoya, who nodded, stood up, and headed for the door.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Joanna stayed in the interview room for the remainder of Calhoun’s interview and for John Braxton’s as well. Fran Daly arrived in less than an hour and a half after being summoned. Once Dr. Daly went out to the rec yard to take charge of the body, Joanna headed home. Butch was in bed, reading, when Joanna walked into the bedroom.
“Where’s everybody?” Joanna asked.
“Tigger and Lucky are in Jenny’s room.”
“You didn’t leave the puppy loose, did you?” Joanna asked.
“Do I look that stupid? Of course he’s not loose. Jenny and I rigged up a temporary crate to use until we can get a real one.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the other one?”
“Lady’s over there,” Butch said, nodding toward Joanna’s side of the bed. “See for yourself.”
The Australian shepherd lay curled into a tight ball on the rug between the bed and the wall. She looked up as Joanna came around the side of the bed. Her tail thumped tentatively on the floor, but she made no effort to raise her chin off her paws.
“Did you say Lady?” Joanna asked.
“Yup,” Butch replied. “Jenny picked it. She said she was dainty and ladylike, so that’s what she’s going to be called—Lady.”
Joanna went over and patted the top of Lady’s head. “How did you get her to come in here?” Joanna asked.
“Don’t ask me. Jenny’s the one who finally persuaded her to come into the house. She found your side of the bed all on her own.”
“Smart dog,” Joanna observed.
“Opinionated,” Butch corrected. “She’s fine as long as I don’t get anywhere near your side of the bed.”
Joanna undressed and then crawled into bed herself, sidestepping the dog as she did so. “You owe me,” he said.
“With Mother, you mean?” Joanna asked.
“I’ll say.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“I calmed her down eventually, but it took all of my considerable skill and charm.”
“I can make it up to you,” she offered, snuggling closer.
“Good,” Butch said. “I thought you’d know how. What’s the word on murder and mayhem?”
Right that minute, Joanna Brady didn’t want to think about Richard Osmond and how he had died. “Do you mind if we talk about this in the morning?” she asked.
“No problem,” Butch replied. “No problem at all.”
Six
Fran Daly and George Winfield stood with their heads close together, leaning over something just out of Joanna’s line of vision. “The needle went in right here,” Fran was saying. “Just at the base of the skull. He never felt a thing. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”
Joanna held back, not wanting to see what they were looking at. The air around her was thick with nauseating odors. She could barely breathe, and yet she felt compelled to move forward, to make her way around to where she could see the naked figure lying there exposed beneath the harsh, bright lights. She expected to find the na
ked dead man lying exposed on Doc Winfield’s autopsy slab to be Richard Osmond. Instead, it was Butch Dixon.
She awakened from the nightmare and scrambled out of bed. In her race for the bathroom, she stepped on Lady and almost fell in a tangle of legs and dog. Heaving, she made it to the bathroom in time, but only just barely. Seconds later, Butch was there as well, standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I should do?”
Joanna was embarrassed to be found kneeling in front of the toilet and puking. “Go away,” she mumbled impatiently through chattering teeth. “Go away and leave me alone.”
He did. Finally, having survived that first powerful fit of nausea, Joanna showered, then pulled on a robe. Lady, waiting just outside the bathroom door, got up and followed Joanna through the house, trailing behind her like a four-footed shadow. The overhead skylights in the hallway shed a hazy gray glow as Joanna and the dog made their way to the kitchen. Butch was already there. The clock on the microwave read five-thirty as she hitched herself up onto one of the barstools positioned along one side of the island.
Butch looked up at her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded. “Coffee’s almost done,” he added. “Do you want some?”
Just the smell of Butch’s freshly brewed coffee made Joanna’s queasy stomach turn flip-flops. She shook her head. “I think I’ll have tea,” she said.
“Tea?” Butch objected. “You don’t even like tea.”
“I do when I’m pregnant,” she told him. “The same thing happened when I was pregnant with Jenny. I couldn’t drink coffee the whole time.”
Obligingly Butch filled the teakettle and put it on a burner. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said. “What do you eat for breakfast when you’re pregnant?”
“No juice,” Joanna said quickly. “English muffins with peanut butter and nothing else usually works.”
“Coming right up,” he said.
Joanna huddled miserably in her robe while Butch bustled capably around the kitchen. Usually Joanna’s nightmares dissipated a few minutes after she awoke. This time the disquieting image of Butch laid out in the harsh lights of the ME’s examining room stuck with her and wouldn’t go away.
“Joanna?” Butch asked. “Are you listening?”
“Sorry, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?”
“I asked what you’re up to today.”
“We’ll have to deal with what happened to Richard Osmond at the jail yesterday,” she told him. “But I’m also hoping we’ll make some progress on the Mossman case.”
“Sounds busy,” Butch said. “Will you be having lunch with Marianne?”
Friends since junior high, Joanna and the Reverend Marianne Maculyea tried to have lunch together at least once a week. On the surface, they were just two old friends enjoying each other’s company. But there was more to their weekly get-togethers than that. As two women working in nontraditional jobs and living in nontraditional families, each served as the other’s primary support system. Other than Marianne, there weren’t all that many women clerics working in Bisbee, or in Cochise County, either. And, as far as Joanna knew, there were no other female sheriffs anywhere.
“We probably will meet up,” Joanna said dubiously. “But the way I feel right now, I’m not so sure about eating lunch.”
“Isn’t there something you can take for morning sickness?” Butch asked, putting a plate containing two peanut-butter-spread English muffins on the counter in front of her.
Joanna shook her head. “Too many antinausea drugs have the potential of causing birth defects.”
“So we just have to wait it out?” Butch returned.
Joanna nodded. “Grin and bear it,” she said.
While Joanna nibbled tentatively at her English muffins, Butch went into the laundry room and began distributing dog food. At the first clatter of dog dishes, Tigger came racing from the far end of the house, followed by the puppy. Butch put the food in the garage and then opened the door, but only Tigger and Lucky went out. Butch had to leave the door open and then come all the way back into the kitchen before Lady sidled into the laundry room and then on into the garage.
“I’d like to beat the crap out of the guy who hurt that dog,” Butch said after she left. “I don’t think she actually hates men. She’s just scared to death of us—probably with good reason.”
Jenny came into the kitchen about then, rubbing her eyes and frowning. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Why’s everyone up so early?”
“It’s due to your mother’s delicate condition,” Butch said with a chuckle. “I have a feeling we’re all going to be early birds for the next little while.”
It was one of the few times ever that Sheriff Brady beat Frank Montoya into the office. When he came to see her a little later, he carried his usual cup of coffee. Again, the very smell of it made Joanna turn green.
If I’d only waited long enough to smell the coffee this morning, Joanna thought miserably, we wouldn’t have had to waste any money on the pregnancy test. Do you suppose that’s what Dear Abby meant when she said, “Wake up and smell the coffee”?
“Is something the matter?” Frank asked. “You don’t look very well.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “It’s nothing that having a baby won’t fix.”
“Oh, that,” Frank said. “I see.” But, since he was a confirmed bachelor, Joanna wasn’t convinced he did.
“What’s on the agenda today?” she asked. “Did you have any luck tracking down Marla Gomez?”
Frank nodded. “Yes, unfortunately. It wasn’t pretty.”
“She was upset?”
“I’ll say, and who could blame her? The thing is, she wanted to know what we’d done to Richard. I told her we hadn’t done a thing, but she didn’t believe it. Her father was there, and he wasn’t much help, either. You do know who the father is, don’t you?” Frank asked. “Gabriel Gomez?”
“I heard the name last night,” Joanna said. “It sounded familiar, but at the time I couldn’t place it. Who is he?”
“Gabriel Gomez is an attorney in Douglas. Specializes in immigration law. By the time I left their house last night, he was threatening to sue the department for wrongful death on his daughter’s behalf.”
“How can they do that?” Joanna asked. “We still don’t have any idea of who or what killed Richard Osmond.”
“You know that, and I know that, boss, but Papa Gomez is an attorney. You don’t really expect him to wait around for the dust to settle, do you? His strategy is to sue first and ask questions later.”
“Great,” Joanna said. “That’s just what I need to hear first thing in the morning.”
The door to Joanna’s office shot open and Joanna’s secretary bounded into the room, brandishing a copy of The Bisbee Bee over her head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Were you planning on keeping it a secret?”
“Keeping what a secret?” Joanna asked.
“That you’re expecting. It says so right here. In Marliss Shackleford’s column.”
Kristin held out the paper, and Joanna snatched it out of her hand. The Bee was already opened to Marliss’s column, “Bisbee Buzzings.” For Frank Montoya’s benefit, Joanna read the item aloud.
An unnamed source close to Cochise County Sheriff Joanna Brady tells us that the sheriff and her husband, Butch Dixon, could be in a family way. There’s no telling how the potential patter of little feet will affect Sheriff Brady’s current bid for reelection against former Cochise county deputy sheriff, Kenneth W. Galloway.
Motherhood, apple pie, and baby showers could get in the way of politics as usual, but at this point Sheriff Brady evidently has no intention of dropping out of the race.
That was all there was to the item, but by the time Joanna finished reading the two paragraphs, her voice was choked with fury. So much for her plan of giving Marliss Shackleford the kind of well
-aimed, exclusive piece that might have allowed Joanna to control both timing and content. Here it was, set loose into the world in a way that was bound to do as much damage as possible. The general public would probably assume, just as Kristin Gregovich had, that Joanna had intended to keep her condition secret up to election day or even longer.
Livid, Joanna turned her ire on Frank. “You didn’t give her this, did you?” she demanded.
“No, ma’am,” Frank said. “Absolutely not. I didn’t breathe a word of it.”
“I didn’t think so. Unnamed source, my ass. It has to be my mother, then. Eleanor’s the only other person Butch and I have told. Too bad for me, she and Marliss have always been the best of pals.”
With words of congratulation dying on her lips, Kristin retreated from Joanna’s office. Frank Montoya followed, closing the door behind him as he went. The door was barely shut by the time Joanna had the telephone receiver in hand and was dialing George and Eleanor Winfield’s number.
“Mother?” Joanna said stiffly as soon as Eleanor answered the phone.
“My goodness, you’re certainly up and about early this morning,” Eleanor responded brightly.
“I’m calling about the piece in the paper,” Joanna said, struggling to keep her voice level.
“What piece is that?” Eleanor asked. “I brought the paper in from the porch, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I usually save that for after George goes to work.”
“You know what piece I mean,” Joanna retorted. “It’s the part of Marliss Shackleford’s column that talks about my being pregnant. How could you do that to me, Mother? How could you?”
“Do what?”
Eleanor’s tone of affronted innocence made Joanna that much angrier. “Come on, Mother. Don’t play games. How could you go behind my back and talk to Marliss that way? Other than Jenny, you and George were the first people Butch and I told. Did it ever occur to you that maybe we’d like the opportunity of sharing the news with a few other people in person before you hauled off and put it in the paper for everyone to read over their morning coffee?”