by J. A. Jance
“That’s what people say about Lucy Ridder behind her back,” Agnes said softly. “That she’s a loner.”
Wayne turned away from the blaring television set and studied his wife’s face. “Lucy Ridder,” he said thoughtfully. “Isn’t she that Indian kid who lives with her grandmother out on Middlemarch Road?”
Agnes nodded. “Lucy’s the last one off my bus in the afternoon and the first one on in the morning.”
Wayne covered his face with both hands. “Dammit, Aggie!” he exclaimed. “I wish you could quit that damned job. Just haul off and quit. Walk away from the whole stupid mess.”
But they both knew quitting wasn’t an option. Driving a school bus didn’t pay beans, but the benefits were good. And it was Agnes Hooper’s medical benefits with the Elfrida Unified School District that were keeping her husband alive.
“You know I can’t do that, hon,” she said calmly. “It’s just not in the cards.”
Wayne shook his head. “It’s not right,” he said. “I’m the one who should be out working and taking care of you. That’s how life’s supposed to be, not the other way around. The last thing you should have to do is be out dealing with a bunch of crazy kids day in and day out!”
“They’re good kids,” Agnes said soothingly, wanting to calm him down. Dr. Loomis said it was bad for Wayne to be stressed. “They’re not crazy. As for Lucy Ridder, she’s never given me a moment’s trouble.”
“Right,” Wayne Hooper said with a despairing shake of his head. “As I recall, that’s the exact same thing that principal just said about the kid who shot up the school bus back there in Tennessee—he never gave anybody a lick of trouble.”
After finding Clayton Rhodes’ body, Joanna shifted into automatic and made all the necessary calls. Once George Winfield, Cochise County’s medical examiner, had been summoned to the scene, there was nothing for her to do but wait. She did go inside the unlocked house as far as the little telephone table. There she came face-to-face with a much younger image of Clayton Rhodes in a framed, formally posed wedding picture taken of him and his late wife, Molly. Bony and bow-legged even then, Clayton looked grimly uncomfortable and out of character in a dark, double-breasted suit. The youthful, sweet-faced Molly, slender in her bridal finery, bore little resemblance to the broad-hipped, heavyset woman Joanna remembered meeting years earlier, when she had first come to High Lonesome Ranch.
Turning from the picture, Joanna donned a pair of latex gloves and rummaged through the drawer in the table until she located a small, leather-bound address book. She remembered Clayton’s daughter’s first name—Reba—but she had no idea what her married name might be. Consequently, Joanna had to page through almost the whole notebook until she finally located the name under the letter S for Singleton—Reba Singleton. The address listed was in Los Gatos, California. Jotting the address and 415 phone number down on a scrap of paper, Joanna returned the address book to the table drawer and punched up her cell phone.
“I’d like the number for the Los Gatos, California, Police Department,” she told the operator.
“The emergency number?” the operator asked.
With Clayton dead, the emergency was long over. “No,” Joanna said. “The non-emergency number will be fine.”
She spent what seemed like several long minutes waiting on hold before a desk sergeant finally took her call. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Sheriff Joanna Brady of Cochise County in southeastern Arizona. We’ve had a death here—a man named Clayton Rhodes. I understand his daughter lives there where you are—in Los Gatos. I need someone to do a next-of-kin notification.”
The desk sergeant sounded terminally bored. “Name?” he said.
“Clayton Rhodes.”
“No. The daughter’s name.”
“Reba Singleton.”
“Address.”
“943 Valencia,” Joanna returned, followed by the 415 area code telephone number.
“You say this Singleton woman is the stiff’s daughter?”
“The deceased’s name is Clayton Rhodes,” Joanna returned sharply. “The man happened to be a friend of mine—a good friend.”
“And this is the most recent address information you have for his daughter?”
Joanna was losing patience. “It’s the one that was in Mr. Rhodes’ address book,” she answered somewhat testily.
“That may be true, but it could be out of date. The phone number is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our area code’s been 650 for years now. If the dead guy didn’t bother to fix that in his book, the address listed may be out of date as well. What did he die of, by the way—murder, natural causes, old age?”
The word “suicide” stuck in Joanna’s throat. She wanted to find a way to cushion the blow for Reba Singleton. Learning a loved one has died is hard enough. Being told that person has taken his or her own life is infinitely harder on the people left behind. Joanna had never met Reba Singleton, but already her heart ached for her. By not saying too much right now, perhaps Joanna could give Clayton’s daughter a chance to prepare herself.
“Tell Ms. Singleton that the cause of her father’s death has yet to be determined,” Joanna said. “I’ll give you several numbers where I can be reached. Or else, if she’d rather, Ms. Singleton can speak directly to George Winfield, our medical examiner. I’ll give you his office and home numbers as well. That way, once your officers have notified her, she can call one of us for more details.”
“I’m sure that’ll suit our officers just fine.”
“Will you notify me once they’ve talked to her?” Joanna asked.
“That’s not how we usually do it,” he said.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d do it that way this time,” Joanna said firmly. “Let me know one way or the other, whether your people locate her or not. I need to know either way.”
“We’re not equipped—“ he began.
Joanna cut him off in mid-excuse. “And what did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Carlin,” he replied after a short pause. “Sergeant Richard Carlin.”
“Thanks so much, Sergeant Carlin. You’ve been most helpful. It’s always a pleasure to work with someone who really cares about inter-departmental relations.”
She hung up before he had a chance to reply. Then, shivering against the cold, she turned on the porch light and waited on the front steps of Clayton Rhodes’ house to see who would be the first to arrive. The winner was Deputy Debbie Howell, followed closely by George Winfield. Somehow Joanna didn’t have the heart to go back to the shed and work the crime scene. She stayed where she was and sent Deputy Howell along to assist the medical examiner and catalog evidence. Not wanting to pay any more overtime than absolutely necessary, Joanna had put off summoning one of her two homicide detectives until after hearing what the medical examiner had to say.
Sitting alone on the top step, Joanna lost track of time. She was surprised by the amount of anger she felt toward Clayton Rhodes—toward a dead man. What was happening that he would have committed suicide over it? she wondered. Was his health going bad? Did he have money worries that he never mentioned? And why the hell didn’t he tell me about it? Maybe I could have helped. Or at least been there to say good-bye.
Clayton Rhodes hadn’t given Joanna that opportunity, and right then that omission on his part seemed utterly unforgivable.
She was still lost in thought some time later when Deputy Lance Pakin showed up fresh from his traffic investigation. She directed him to assist Debbie in bagging and loading Clayton’s body into the medical examiner’s van. While the two deputies went about doing that, George Winfield came up the gravel walkway and sat down beside her. “How’s tricks?” he asked.
Dr. George Winfield was a permanent snowbird who had come to Arizona from Minnesota. Hired by the Board of Supervisors, his initial position had been that of county coroner. Now, though, he held the recently created title of Cochise County Medical Examiner.
Due to his equally recent marriage to Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, he was also Joanna Brady’s stepfather.
She looked up at him and gave him a wan smile. “Not so hot,” she answered. “Why’d Clayton go and do that, George? Why did he have to commit suicide?”
“Who said anything about suicide?”
“Well, I thought . . .”
“You thought he locked himself in that garage with the engine running on purpose?”
“Didn’t he?”
“Deputy Howell,” George called out. “Mind bringing that bag of evidence over here?”
Debbie Howell came toward them carrying a clear plastic bag. Inside it were several glassine envelopes. George held it up to the light and pointed to a rectangular black-and-white object inside. “What does that look like?” he asked.
“A garage-door opener?”
“Right you are. And guess where I found it?”
“I don’t know.”
“In Clayton Rhodes’ shirt pocket—pressed tight up against the steering wheel. My guess is the garage door was open when he turned on the engine. But then something happened—a heart attack maybe, or possibly even a stroke. We won’t know exactly what until the autopsy. Whatever it was, he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. When that happened, the weight of his body pressed against the button, shutting the door.”
“You’re saying he didn’t commit suicide after all?” Joanna asked wonderingly.
“Are you kidding?” George Winfield returned. “To do that, the place would have had to be airtight. And it’s not. Definitely not. If there wasn’t plenty of air, the engine wouldn’t have been running when you got here. In an airtight garage the engine would have quit long ago due to lack of oxygen.”
“So you’re saying he most likely died of natural causes?” Joanna asked.
“Or smoke inhalation. That could be the culprit as well. In any event, for right now I don’t believe Clayton Rhodes took his own life. You didn’t find a note or anything to indicate otherwise, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, he wasn’t bright red, either, which pretty well rules out carbon monoxide, but as soon as I have autopsy results, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, what about notifying next of kin?”
Joanna glanced at her watch. To her surprise she realized two hours had passed since her call to the Los Gatos Police Department. What wasn’t the least bit surprising was that Sergeant Carlin hadn’t bothered to call her back.
“I found Clayton’s daughter’s address and telephone number. Reba Singleton lives in Los Gatos, California,” Joanna replied. “Someone from the local police department there is supposed to notify her and report back to me once the notification has been made.”
“Good. Glad that’s being handled.”
“What next, Sheriff Brady?” Debbie Howell asked. “You calling in the homicide guys?”
Joanna considered for a moment. From what George Winfield was saying, a full-scale homicide investigation might not be necessary, which meant that neither would an overtime visit from one or both of her two homicide detectives.
“If we need detectives, they can look things over in the morning. Meanwhile, you and Deputy Pakin do what you can to secure the scene,” she answered. “You’ve got the house keys?”
Debbie Howell nodded. “Right here in the bag.”
“Let’s close up for tonight,” Joanna directed. “Take the tarp from your vehicle and cover the hole I made in the door. Then put up crime-scene tape around both the barn and garage. I’ll take care of locking up the house.”
“Will do,” Debbie said.
As Deputy Howell walked away, George Winfield peered questioningly at Joanna through the top of his bifocals. “How are you doing personally, Joanna?” he asked solicitously. “I know the man was a good friend of yours.”
The likelihood that Clayton Rhodes hadn’t committed suicide should have made Joanna feel better, but it didn’t.
She shook her head. “I’ve been sitting here all torn up that Clayton had the unmitigated nerve to go and die without giving me any advance notice. Like he should have been thoughtful enough to pick up the phone and say, ‘By the way, Joanna, I think I’m going to cork off now, so maybe you’d better make other arrangements to feed your own goddamned animals for a change.’ “
“Sounds to me like you’re blaming yourself,” George observed.
“Maybe I am,” Joanna replied. “And why shouldn’t I? If I’d been smart enough or observant enough to notice that the dogs’ water dishes were empty this morning when Jenny and I left the house, maybe I would have realized something was wrong and come over to check on Clayton early enough to make a difference. If I had done that, maybe he’d still be alive.”
George shook his head. “I doubt it,” he replied. “I don’t think your getting here sooner would have made any difference at all. The way it looks to me, once he slumped over onto the steering wheel, I doubt he even twitched. We’re dealing with something catastrophic here, Joanna. It’s the kind of thing from which there would have been no recovery, other than life in some kind of vegetative state. And from the stories I’ve heard about Clayton Rhodes—about the kind of man he was and the active life he led—that would have been a nightmare. He wouldn’t have wanted to end up that way, not at all.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Joanna agreed with a sigh. “He would have hated being helpless. That would have been hell for him.”
George reached over and gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “So, there you are then, Joanna. Let it go.”
“I’ll try.”
George stood up and rubbed his hands together. “Back home in Minneapolis, this would have been considered balmy weather for late March. People would have been ready to haul out their shorts. But I have to admit, it feels chilly tonight, even to me.”
Joanna stood up. Despite the sheepskin lining in her denim jacket, she, too, felt chilled.
“I’d best be getting back home to your mother,” George added. “She doesn’t like it when I have to be out late at night—even when I’m off on official business and in the company of her very own daughter.”
“Truth be known, Eleanor doesn’t like her daughter being out late, either,” Joanna said with a laugh.
“You want me to stick around while you finish up?”
“No need. I’ll wait until my deputies leave, then I’ll go, too.”
George started down the walkway, then turned back. “How’s Butch holding up?” he asked. “With all the wedding preparations, I mean.”
“Fine,” Joanna answered. “Better than I am.”
“I know things are turning out to be somewhat more complicated than either one of you originally envisioned,” George added, “but I appreciate it. Ellie’s having the time of her life making all the arrangements. She’s in her element and loving every minute of it. By the way, she wanted me to ask when do your new in-laws arrive?”
“On Monday. They’re driving into town in their RV. They wanted to come a few days early so they’ll have a chance to visit with Butch before the wedding. He tried to talk them into coming a little closer to time, but he doesn’t seem to have any better luck with his mother than I do with mine. In other words, his folks will be here for the better part of the week. Since they’ll be staying at that new RV park down by the Elk’s Club, it shouldn’t be too bad.”
“I’ll try to see to it that Ellie and I do our fair share of entertaining,” George said. “Your mother will be in tall cotton and cooking up a storm. I’ll probably gain ten pounds.”
With that, George Winfield waved and continued down the gravel walkway. Joanna watched him go out and shut the gate, then she let herself back into the house. Talking with George had helped. She had worked with the man long enough to have real confidence that his initial assessment of the situation would most likely be on the money. There was little doubt in her mind that the official finding would be that Clayton Rhodes had died of a sudden massive stroke or heart attack or hemorrhage ra
ther than by committing suicide or falling victim to foul play. Now, as Joanna went back through the house to make sure all the doors and windows were locked, she did so with a sense of loss that was no longer contaminated by guilt. It was all right to feel sad that Clayton was gone, but here on Rhodes Ranch where he had lived and worked most of his eighty-five years—here in the modest home he and his wife had loved so much—it was okay to feel thankfulness as well.
Clayton had lived a good life—a long and useful one. He had worked for Joanna not so much because he needed the money, but because he needed to be needed—because he knew that taking care of Joanna’s livestock made her life easier. He had been in full possession of his faculties right up until the moment he died. Instead of lingering helplessly as an empty shell of his former self in some sterile hospital-bed prison, he had been up and about and on his way to work when death overtook him—when it caught him on the fly. Clayton may have had to give up on horseback riding, but as far as Joanna was concerned, he had died with his boots on in the best sense of the phrase.