by J. A. Jance
Marty Pembroke was a big kid, probably a full foot taller than Joanna’s five two, but he seemed to shrink in size under her penetrating green-eyed gaze. He was one of the privileged few, and she doubted anyone had ever spoken to him in quite that tone before. He stared down at his feet for a time and then gave the tiniest nod.
“Your father told you that it would be easier to beat a murder rap than it would be to duck a statutory rape charge, right?”
Another nod.
“Okay, then, Marty, here’s the deal.” Joanna reached up and clapped him on one of his shoulders. “Dena Carothers has just backed up your alibi. She didn’t like telling me that she was out at the Rifle Range or what she was doing out there, but she did. It turns out that you’re telling me the same thing. Since you were out there in your car screwing your brains out, you couldn’t very well have been ten or eleven miles away out on High Lonesome Road murdering Ms. Highsmith at the same time. That means you’re off the hook on the murder charge, got it?”
Marty raised his eyes and looked at her. “Okay,” he mumbled.
“It turns out that this is also Dena Carothers’s lucky day.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re bad for her,” Joanna declared, “and you’re going to break up with her.”
“You can’t make me do that.”
“Oh yes I can,” Joanna told him. “Watch me. You don’t have to do it today, but by the end of the weekend you’re going to tell her that she’s a great girl, but it’s just not a good idea to get too serious when you’re about to go away to college in the fall. From that moment on and for as long as you’re in Bisbee, you’re going to live a celibate lifestyle.”
“What does that mean?”
“Celibate means no more screwing around—literally. If you mess with any of the other underage girls here in town, I’ll know about it, and I promise you, I’ll nail your ass to the ground.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Have you ever heard the saying ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’?”
“I guess,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, here’s some news from the front, buddy boy. It ain’t necessarily so. I know you kids think you’re the only people surfing the Net, but if you believe that, you’re way dumber than your father seems to think you are. I’m giving you one chance to walk away with your future intact. One chance, and that’s it. Don’t screw it up, literally or figuratively. Understand?”
Marty nodded.
With that, Joanna climbed into her Yukon and headed home. She was convinced that she could exclude Marty Pembroke as being a possible suspect in Debra Highsmith’s murder, but one of the things she had said to him continued to resonate in her head—the part about kids not being the only ones surfing the Net.
Debra Highsmith had gone to a great deal of effort to keep away from electronic media. Almost immediately after Marty Pembroke had posted her face on the Internet, she had started taking defensive measures—obtaining the concealed-weapons permit; getting the dog. So something about being posted online had made her wary, but of whom? And why?
Joanna’s phone rang. “Kenneth Ryan isn’t our guy,” Deb Howell said. “The night Debra Highsmith was murdered, he was under house arrest, serving out a DUI sentence complete with an electronic ankle bracelet. He’s allowed to be at home or at work and nowhere else. They give him fifteen minutes of grace time to get from one to the other. Turns out that’s been the case for the past two months. He’s got one more month to go.”
“So he’s a thrice-divorced drunk,” Joanna said.
It occurred to her about then that Debra Highsmith had been wise beyond her years in realizing that Kenny Ryan wasn’t father material and in keeping the fact that she was pregnant away from the presumptive father.
She said, “I have a feeling that Mikey Hirales is way better off living with his adoptive parents on the Falling H than he would have been living with a drunk for a father in Las Cruces.”
“I think so, too,” Deb said, “but what do we do tomorrow when Mikey’s biological grandmother shows up? What do we tell her?”
“As Jim Bob Brady is fond of saying, ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Right now, I’m going home to take a nap. I was up most of the night chasing after Sue Ellen Hirales and Isadora Creswell while the rest of you were sawing logs. Butch and I have a command performance at the Plein Air gala tonight, and I need my beauty sleep. I had a chance to check out Marty Pembroke’s alibi. It looks like he’s in the clear.”
“Too bad,” Deb said. “He was really our only lead.”
“Did anything come from reinterviewing Debra Highsmith’s neighbors?”
“Nada.”
“Those are all finished now?”
“Yup.”
“Who’s on call tonight?”
“Jaime.”
“All right, then,” Joanna said. “Tell the guys to take the rest of the day off and go home. The budget can’t handle running this whole investigation on an overtime basis. We’ll take another look at things tomorrow morning when Isadora shows up.”
“Sounds good,” Deb Howell said, sounding relieved at getting some of her weekend back. “I’ll let everyone know.”
As Joanna headed for High Lonesome Ranch, she was thinking about her father. She remembered him telling her once that sometimes you had to do the wrong thing for the right reason. She was sure what she had just done with Marty Pembroke was an instance of that. And when it came to Marliss Shackleford? Ditto. Calling her on her Internet snooping was the right thing to do. Making use of that snooping was right or wrong, depending on your point of view.
Joanna was relatively sure that nothing short of a threatened jail sentence would make Marliss cede even so much as an inch of her Internet territory, and that was fine with Joanna. As long as Marty Pembroke was still in town, Joanna Brady intended to take full advantage of Marliss’s ill-gotten info to make sure Marty continued to walk the straight and narrow.
When Joanna parked in the garage and let herself into the house, Lady and Lucky came scrabbling into the laundry room to greet her.
“You’re home early,” Butch said.
“I’m beat,” she told him. “I’m going to take a nap.”
“Sounds like a good idea, but what’s the smug look I’m seeing on your face?” Butch wanted to know. “What have you been up to?”
“I think I’ve just figured out that it’s possible two wrongs do make a right.”
“Tell me.”
“Later,” she said. “Right now, I need to close my eyes. If I’m not on my feet by five, come wake me. Mother wants me to appear for that dinner all gussied up. The way I’m feeling right now, that’s going to take some time and effort.”
CHAPTER 16
WHEN JOANNA AND BUTCH ARRIVED AT THE CLUBHOUSE AT ROB Roy Links at six thirty on the dot, it was clear that the club’s owner, Myron Thomas, had outdone himself. The nominally Scottish-themed lobby had been transformed into an upscale art gallery where open bar cocktails were being served.
Every inch of available wall space was lined with a series of vivid gold-framed paintings, both large and small, all of them with M. L. Coleman’s signature in the corner. Many of the oversize pieces featured time-honored views of the Grand Canyon lovingly rendered in oils on canvas. Great care had been taken to adjust the focus of the track lights in the ceiling in a fashion that made each painting glow from within. Some of the pieces were scheduled to be auctioned later that evening, with a piece of the action going to Maggie Oliphant’s beloved art league.
Checking out the crowd, Joanna discovered that, with few exceptions, most of the menfolk had shown up, as expected, in tuxes. One notable dress-code exception was the artist himself. M. L. Coleman stood in the midst of his array of paintings in a long-sleeved white dress shirt but still wearing a brown vest and a pair of well-worn jeans. Drink in hand, smiling broadly, and looking totally at ease, he greeted arriving guests and co
llectors in a fashion that was completely oblivious of the icily disapproving look Eleanor lobbed in his direction on her way past.
Eleanor zeroed in on Butch and Joanna like a heat-seeking missile.
Seeing her mother’s approach, Joanna took a deep breath. She had shown up properly attired for the occasion in the green silk number—a floor-length sheath with a slit up the side—and matching three-inch stiletto heels Butch had bought for her on their honeymoon. While she was getting dressed there had been a moment when she thought the dress wouldn’t fit and that she’d have to use her back-up-plan little black dress.
The last time she had worn the green gown had also been the last time Butch had worn his tux—when they had gone to New York for the MWA banquet for an award Butch hadn’t won. Having had Dennis since then made her wonder, but the dress had slipped smoothly onto her body. Under that layer of shimmering silk, however, there was no room at all for her small-of-the-back holster. Over Butch’s exaggerated eye rolling, Joanna had stuffed her Glock into her tiny beaded clutch. With the handgun inside, that left room for only a compact, a badge, and a single tube of lipstick. She tried fitting her cell phone in as well, but that didn’t work. She had meant to ask Butch to carry it, but in the rush of leaving the house the phone had been forgotten on the nightstand.
Eleanor stopped directly in front of Joanna and Butch and gave them both an up-and-down appraisal. Finally, she smiled at her daughter, nodding in approval.
“Not bad,” Eleanor said. “You look lovely.”
Joanna was nothing short of amazed by Eleanor’s unconditional compliment. It was unexpected enough to leave her momentarily dumbstruck. Fortunately, Butch came to her rescue.
“That’s right,” he said. “Not bad for a girl. She must be a chip off the old block,” he added. “You’re not bad yourself.”
“Oh, go on,” Eleanor said, flushing with pleasure. “You’re such a tease.” She stood still for a moment, examining the crowd. “I’m looking for Maggie Oliphant. You haven’t seen her by any chance, have you?”
“We just got here,” Joanna said. “You’re the first person we’ve talked to.”
Eleanor hustled off, intent on her search. “You’ve almost got her eating out of your hand,” Joanna muttered under her breath.
“Yup,” Butch said, grinning. “I told you I’d bring her around eventually. We’re definitely getting there.”
As Butch led Joanna around the lobby, she spent more time paying attention to her feet than to the paintings. No longer accustomed to wearing heels on a daily basis, she clung to Butch’s arm to keep from losing her balance. When he stopped abruptly, Joanna came close to flying forward.
“Why, would you look at that!” he declared.
They had left the immense Grand Canyon pieces behind and were now in an area that featured groupings of smaller paintings, scenes of Paris.
“Look at what?” Joanna asked.
“That one—the flower stand. Don’t you recognize it?”
The painting was twenty by thirty inches. It featured an outdoor flower stand, with vases of brilliant pink and yellow flowers standing on risers, glimpses of the Parisian skyline showing in the distance.
Joanna moved close enough to see the title: MARCHÉ D’ALIGRE—SUNDAY MORNING FLOWER VENDOR.
“Wait. Isn’t that the market that was just down the street from our hotel?”
When Joanna and Butch were planning their wedding and honeymoon, Joanna had been surprised to learn that Paris was his first choice. She had also been amazed to discover that Butch spoke fluent French. When they went there on their honeymoon, they had stayed at the Hotel Plazza Bastille while Butch played tour guide all over the city.
“So you’ve been there?” a voice behind them asked. They turned and found Michael Coleman standing behind them.
“We honeymooned at the Plazza a few years ago, Mr. Coleman,” Butch said. “We walked past this place almost every day.”
“Call me Michael, or Mike,” the artist said. “The hotel has been completely remodeled since then. It goes by a different name now.”
As Butch and the painter struck up a conversation, Marianne Maculyea appeared at Joanna’s side. Not completely comfortable in the cocktail party atmosphere, Joanna was glad to see her. Evidently Marianne was of the same mind.
“Your mother said we’re good to go, so I slipped into the dining room and reserved four chairs at her table,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding?” Joanna replied. “Anything that takes my mother’s focus off me and onto someone else is all to the good.”
Jeff was standing next to Marianne, wearing a suit, tugging at his bow tie, and looking as though he, too, was a little out of his depth. “I’ve been checking out the price tags on those paintings,” he said. “They’re all too rich for our blood.”
“Ours, too,” Joanna said, “but the prime rib should be great.”
Across the room, Joanna caught sight of her mother meeting up with Maggie. They stood just inside the front door, huddling over some last-minute detail. That was the problem with any kind of event like this. It took plenty of concerted effort from any number of people to make it work. Joanna still thought it remarkable that Maggie had managed to rope Eleanor into the project.
When Marianne and Jeff moved off to chat with a pair of parishioners, George Winfield took Marianne’s place at Joanna’s elbow.
“Care for a drink?” he asked. “They’re handing out free drinks in hopes of getting people to loosen up their wallets for the auction.”
“Not too many drinks, I hope,” Joanna said, “but a glass of champagne would be great.”
She turned back to check with Butch, but he and the artist had wandered off to another part of the room and were standing in front of a different painting.
“Did you talk to Dena?” Marliss Shackleford asked, materializing from out of nowhere. She already had a glass of champagne in her hand.
Joanna nodded. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re not going to tell me what was said?”
“No, I’m not,” Joanna answered with a smile. “Maybe Dena will post a report of the conversation on her Facebook page.”
When George returned with Joanna’s champagne, Marliss found a reason to be elsewhere.
Watching her walk away, George shook his head. “I understand that Eleanor’s friendship with Marliss predates my showing up on the scene, but for the life of me, I don’t understand what Eleanor sees in that woman,” he said.
Taking a sip of her champagne, Joanna nodded. “That makes two of us.”
“I see Dr. Machett is here, too, dishing out doses of urbanity to people he can’t help but regard as country bumpkins,” George observed. “He’s not my cup of tea, either.”
Joanna laughed aloud at that. “Are you sure you’re only my stepfather? I’m beginning to suspect you may have passed along some of your DNA to me.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “Eleanor’s currently out of earshot, so can we talk shop for a minute? How’s your latest case going? Debra Highsmith seems to be hot news all over the state.”
“We hit a dead end this afternoon,” Joanna admitted. “It turns out our two most likely suspects both have solid alibis. Now, at Mom’s request, I’m officially off work and showing up here to do my daughterly duty. My detectives and I will be at it again tomorrow. What about you and Mom? When do you leave for Minnesota?”
“By May first at the latest. I had wanted to be on our way earlier, but Ellie got caught up in this whole art-conference deal. I’ll be glad when it’s over. Maggie Oliphant has been pushing panic buttons for weeks. She’s been on the phone day and night, asking Ellie for advice. I suspect that your mother is the only thing that’s been holding this can of worms together.”
Joanna looked around the room filled with close to two hundred milling guests—local dignitaries, visiting artists and their spouses, as well as visiting art patrons—all of whom had paid good money to b
e there. For a very small town, this was an enormous undertaking. Joanna was Eleanor’s daughter. Most of the time she found it easy to dismiss her mother as a pain in the neck, but now, for the first time, she caught a glimpse of the fact that Eleanor had chosen to be a wife and mother when there were other things she might have done instead.
Even now, Eleanor was on the far side of the room conferring with Myron Thomas about something or other, probably averting some last-minute disaster that might have derailed the festivities. Finished with that, she came looking for George.
“Maggie is having a bad case of nerves,” Eleanor explained. “She’s asked us to take charge of Mr. and Mrs. Coleman until she gets a grip. They’ll be seated at our table. When the waitstaff opens the doors at seven fifteen, she wants us to lead the way into the banquet.”
“Nerves?” George asked. “Or too much champagne?”
“A little of both, I think,” Eleanor said.
Dutifully, Joanna went off and rounded up Butch, who was now chatting with Jeff Daniels, while Eleanor and George went to collect the artist and his wife, Sheri. They took the lead positions—Eleanor on Michael’s arm and Sheri on George’s—in the procession.
The banquet room was laid out beautifully. The floral centerpieces were spectacular. Next to a small dance floor sat a DJ playing music from the fifties and sixties.
“Great job, Mom,” Joanna whispered in her mother’s ear as Butch led Joanna to her seat at the table.
At seven thirty, while people were starting on their salad course, Joanna’s mother stepped up on the podium. Playing mistress of ceremonies as if born to the role, Eleanor welcomed the attendees and introduced the honored guests and their spouses. Joanna saw the piece of paper she placed on the lectern in front of her as she stepped up to the microphone. No doubt it was a cheat sheet of names Maggie Oliphant had provided, probably at the last minute, but Eleanor carried off her pinch-hitting stint with an air of cool assurance.
Joanna noticed that William Farraday, the superintendent of schools and his wife, Jeannie, were part of the introductions. Joanna made a mental note to try to speak to him sometime during the evening to ask about gaining access to the school district’s e-mail system.