Devil's ClawJ

by J. A. Jance

  Once he was gone, his widow never once deigned to use the thing, and she hadn’t allowed Joanna that privilege, either. For years the grill had sat untouched, protected from dust beneath a layer of multiple blue tarps. But now, with George Winfield in residence and from the looks of the smoke wafting skyward, the tarps were obviously long gone.

  Just then the front door slammed open and Jenny came flying down the wooden steps. “Mom,” she shouted. “You’re home.” She stopped two feet away, just inside the gate. “How come you didn’t change clothes?” she added with a sudden scowl.

  Jenny was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. Her mother, on the other hand, was dressed for work in a dry-clean-only two-piece suit and a creamy blouse along with a pair of sensibly-low high heels.

  “What’s the matter with what I have on?” Joanna asked.

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s going to look pretty funny out in the backyard at Grandma’s picnic table. Everybody else is wearing jeans and stuff.”

  “We’re having a picnic?” Joanna asked. “It’s only the end of March. Isn’t this a little early for a picnic or a barbecue?”

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s what Mr. and Mrs. Dixon wanted.” She paused. “They told me to call them Grandma and Grandpa Dixon, but I don’t really want to. I mean, I just met them. It seems kinda weird.”

  “What are they like?” Joanna asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” Jenny replied, wrinkling her nose. “But they talk funny. Their words are so sharp they hurt my ears. And they must think it’s summer, because they’re both wearing shorts. Shorts and white socks and black sandals. Ugh.”

  “They’re from Chicago,” Joanna said. “I think it’s a lot colder there than it is here. Maybe this feels like summer to them.”

  “Maybe,” Jenny said. “Anyway, when Butch introduced them to Grandma Lathrop this afternoon, she asked them if there was anything special they wanted for dinner. Mr. Dixon said what he wanted more than anything was Mexican food and he wanted to eat it outside. So Grandma Winfield went down to Naco and bought tamales and tortillas. And Grandpa Winfield is making carne asada.”

  “Who hired the mariachis?” Joanna asked.

  “They’re not real. That’s just a tape on Butch’s boom box. He said it would add atmosphere.”

  Butch met them just inside the door. “You didn’t change,” he said, frowning. “Didn’t you get my message? Frank said he’d be sure to tell you.”

  Joanna sighed. “Frank did give me the message, but there wasn’t enough time to go out to the department and still be here on time. I’m sure the clothes I’m wearing will work. I promise not to spill anything.”

  “It’s not that,” Butch said. “It’s just that everyone else is dressed a lot more casually than you are.”

  “Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “I’ll be fine. Now come on. Where are your parents? Let’s go get the introductions out of the way so I can stop being nervous about meeting them.”

  Outside, Joanna found that the backyard was lit with a series of festive-looking lanterns complete with lighted candles. Predictably, three men—George Winfield, Jim Bob Brady, and a portly man in shorts, sandals, and socks, who made Jim Bob look slim by comparison—were clustered near the barbecue. Even across the yard, Joanna could see that Butch Dixon resembled his father, Donald. The older man was taller and much heavier than his son. In contrast to Butch’s clean-shaven head, his father had thick, curly gray hair, but their facial features were almost identical.

  Halfway down the yard, Eva Lou Brady sat at Eleanor’s cloth-covered picnic table engaged in subdued conversation with a heavyset woman with thinning gray hair who looked to be in her mid-sixties.

  “Come on,” Butch said to Joanna, taking her hand and leading her down the backyard. “I’ll introduce you to my father first.”

  They met Eleanor Winfield halfway to the barbecue. She looked her daughter up and down, pursed her lips, and said nothing, but Joanna got the message all the same.

  “Dad,” Butch was saying. “Here she is—the girl of my dreams—Joanna Lathrop Brady. Joanna, this is my dad, Donald Dixon.”

  Donald Dixon turned away from the grill with its layer of thinly sliced beef, looked at Joanna’s face, and beamed. “You can call me Don,” he said, holding out a massive paw of a hand and pumping Joanna’s eagerly. “Everybody does. And I’m delighted to meet you. Maggie and I have heard so much about you. Butch said you were just a little bit of a thing, and by God it’s true!”

  Despite the fact that it annoyed Joanna when strangers and new acquaintances made unsolicited comments to her size, she nonetheless managed to keep her smile plastered firmly in place. “Good things come in small packages,” she responded, knowing that the comment sounded perky and stupid both, but Don Dixon seemed to like it.

  “Right you are,” he said heartily, slapping a beefy, snow-white, shorts-clad thigh. “I do believe my mother used to tell me the same thing. I just didn’t pay any attention. Have you met Maggie yet?”

  Hearing the Chicago twang in his voice—the hard-edged vowels—Joanna recognized what Jenny had meant. Don Dixon’s accent hurt her ears, too.

  “No,” she said in answer to his question. “I just now got here.”

  “Well, by all means go over and be introduced. She’s really looking forward to meeting you. She hasn’t talked about anything else ever since we left Chicago.”

  Taking a deep breath and following Butch’s lead, Joanna turned back to the picnic table. “Mom,” Butch was saying when they arrived at the table. “This is Joanna Brady. Joanna, my mother, Margaret, but everyone calls her Maggie.”

  Margaret Dixon held out her hand. She smiled a thin smile. “How do you do. Glad to meet you, Joanna. I’ve got my fingers crossed. Let’s hope the third time’s the charm.”

  Joanna saw the muscles tighten along Butch’s jawline. “Mother!” he said.

  “I’m sure Joanna knows what I mean,” Maggie Dixon said quickly, waving away his comment as though it were a bothersome fly. “No doubt the two of you will be very happy. And since Butch is getting such a late start on settling down, it’s probably a good thing you come complete with a ready-made family.”

  For months Butch had been hinting to Joanna that his mother was a difficult woman. He had warned that, in a competition of relative prickliness, Maggie Dixon would run Eleanor Lathrop Winfield a close race. Joanna had laughed off his comments, saying he was probably exaggerating or making things up. Now, all it took was that one exchange for Joanna to realize he was right. Maggie Dixon was going to be tough to like. Across the table and behind Maggie’s back, even the perpetually easygoing Eva Lou Brady felt constrained to shake her head and raise a disapproving eyebrow.

  Never one to retreat from a battle, Joanna motioned Butch to take a seat next to Eva Lou. Then, raising her skirt, she stepped over the picnic bench and sat down next to Maggie. Wanting to give Butch a chance to relax, Joanna dived into the task of making polite conversation.

  “So how do you like Cochise County so far?” she asked as evenly as she could manage.

  “It is warm,” Maggie replied. “I’ll say that much for it, and it’s so dry here. My skin feels like it’s going to turn brittle and break off. I’m used to a lot more humidity. My mother and her second husband retired out here,” she continued. “They bought a place up in Sun City. That’s how Butch ended up coming out here years ago. But as far as I’m concerned, I could never see what it was about the desert that appealed to my mother so much, and it’s such a long way from home. And now that Donald’s retired from the post office, we prefer to spend our winters in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Ever been there?”

  Suddenly the idea that Arizona was a long way away from both Chicago and Hot Springs, Arkansas, held some appeal for Joanna Brady. Good, she found herself thinking. Let’s keep it that way.

  “So how do you like being sheriff?” Maggie Dixon continued without bothering to wait for an answer. “That sounds like a difficult job for a woman.
And isn’t it dangerous?”

  “At times, it’s a difficult job for anyone—man or woman,” Joanna replied. “And yes, it can be dangerous, but that can also be true of any job. You have to keep your wits about you.”

  “Well,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “From what Butch writes about you and says on the phone, I can tell he’s very proud of you. But you won’t keep doing this, will you—I mean after you’re married?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, you know how it is. It’s the man’s job to support his family. And then, if you got pregnant . . .”

  Butch got up abruptly. “I think I’ll go see if Eleanor needs any help,” he said, leaving the battle of the picnic table under Joanna’s sole direction.

  Maggie turned and watched him go. “Now I suppose my son will be mad at me,” she mused. “He’s always accusing me of being nosy. But these are the kinds of things people need to talk about before they get married, not after. And I’m sure that’s the mistake Butch made before—the other times he got married. He went into those relationships with no idea at all of what he really wanted. Of course, the first time, he and Debbie were both much too young. And with Faith, I don’t think either one of them thought ahead very much, either. Faith’s a very nice girl,” Maggie added. “We still stay in touch from time to time. I’m sure you’d like her. She and her husband just had their second child—a little boy. I meant to mention that to Butch.”

  Months earlier, about the time Butch had asked Joanna to marry him, he had told her about his first two marriages and what had happened to them. She remembered all too well Butch relating the tale of his bitter divorce from a woman named Faith who had taken him to the cleaners both financially and emotionally as she abandoned ship in order to marry her husband’s soon-to-be-former best friend.

  Don’t bother telling him, Joanna thought. That’s the last thing he needs to know!

  “Well?” Maggie asked. “Are you?”

  Her tone implied that there was an unanswered question lingering in the air, one Joanna had somehow failed to hear.

  “Am I what?” Joanna returned.

  “Are you and Butch planning on having kids?” Maggie prodded. “The magazines are always filled with articles about women and their ticking biological clocks, but I think men’s do, too. And at Butch’s age—”

  “Come and get it while it’s hot,” George Winfield announced as he walked by the table carrying a platter piled high with strips of broiled flank steak. “We’re serving this buffet-style,” he added. “Come into the kitchen and fill your plates. Those who want to can come back outside to eat.”

  “Let me give you a hand, Maggie,” Don Dixon said, stopping by the table to help his wife rise from the picnic bench. While Don led Maggie into the house, Eva Lou stood up and wordlessly gave Joanna a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she walked by. Meanwhile, a stunned Joanna stayed where she was. With a last flourish of trumpets, the mariachi music faded to nothing and the boom box clicked off, leaving the backyard in welcome silence.

  “Are you all right?” Butch whispered near her ear a few moments later. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Joanna shook her head. “I don’t think George and Eleanor have anything strong enough,” she returned.

  Butch shook his head. “I can’t believe she said that—the third one’s the charm. She’s something else, isn’t she?” he added. “It’s like that old saying about how absence makes the heart grow fonder. When I’m not around her, I always end up convincing myself that my mother can’t possibly be as bad as I remember. Then, once we get within shouting distance of one another, it all comes back to me. Believe me, it’s no accident my grandparents wound up retiring to Sun City. I’m pretty sure my stepgrandfather was looking for a way to get away from his stepdaughter. I don’t think he or Grandma were the least bit unhappy that Mother hated Arizona. It seemed to suit both of them just fine.”

  “No wonder Eleanor doesn’t bother you,” Joanna said. “She may be a piker at times, but right now she seems mild by comparison.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along,” Butch said with a rueful grin. “I told you that you just didn’t know when you were well off.”

  Jenny came to the back door and stuck her head outside. “Aren’t you two going to come inside and fill your plates?”

  “In a minute,” Butch called back, then he turned to Joanna. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, really,” Joanna said. “Maggie takes some getting used to, is all. And how did we end up out here in the yard? Mother hates barbecuing and picnics and all the bugs that go with them. And she’s not that fond of Mexican food, either. That’s why I didn’t worry about not changing clothes. I figured we were in for one of Mother’s six-course sit-down extravaganzas.”

  “That was before she caught sight of my mother’s hefty backside,” Butch said. “I think the thought of Mother sitting on one of Eleanor’s fine dining room chairs was enough to spark an instant change of menu and venue both. That’s also about the time Eleanor decided to invite Jim Bob and Eva Lou along for the ride. I think she hoped they’d serve as leavening agents, but when I met Eva Lou on her way inside a few minutes ago, even she looked like she’d had enough.”

  “How do you tolerate her?” Joanna asked.

  Butch shrugged. “I live in Arizona, and my parents live in Chicago,” he said. Behind them, Joanna heard the back door slam. “Here they come,” he added. “We’d better go fill our plates.”

  By the time Joanna and Butch reached the head of the serving line, everyone but George Winfield had abandoned the kitchen in favor of outside dining. George stood at the counter dealing out plates loaded with meat, tortillas, and steaming, freshly made tamales.

  “How are the love birds doing?” he asked, as Joanna and Butch paused by the counter and began dishing up condiments.

  “Fine,” Butch and Joanna both said at once, then they burst out laughing.

  “Sure you are,” George agreed. “For somebody getting the third degree, you’re both in great shape. Hey, would you two like to sit inside? My guess is the picnic table is already full to overflowing.”

  It was true. Six was the maximum number of diners that could be accommodated at the wooden outdoor table. “But won’t Eleanor be pissed?” Joanna asked.

  “Let her,” George said with a shrug. “After all, doing dinner this way was her bright idea. There’s no reason we should all have to suffer.”

  In the end, the three of them settled at the kitchen table. The food was good. The tamales were thick and spicy. The tortillas were soft and see-through thin. And the strips of ancho-flavored steak had been grilled to spicy perfection. Until Joanna put the first bite of food in her mouth, she had no idea how hungry she was. For several minutes Butch, Joanna, and George ate in companionable silence.

  “Your old friend Fran Daly was in town today,” George said at last when he paused from eating long enough to unwrap the corn husks from his tamale.

  Dr. Daly was the assistant medical examiner in neighboring Pima County. In the course of the past few years she and Joanna had been involved in several different joint investigations. After a somewhat rocky start, the two women had come to have a good working relationship.

  “What for?” Joanna asked.

  “She showed up to be Reba Singleton’s hired gun,” George Winfield replied.

  “To do Clayton Rhodes’ autopsy?” Joanna asked. George nodded. “How’d it go?”

  “Pretty much the way I said it would,” George replied. “Fran Daly says the same thing I did—Clayton Rhodes died as a result of a cerebral hemorrhage. That should get Reba off your back for good and all. And now that I’ve released the body and Little Norm Higgins from the funeral home has collected it, Reba should be off my back, too.”

  “When’s the funeral?” Joanna asked.

  “According to Little Norm, they’ve scheduled it for tomorrow at two. Reba says she wants to have it ASAP so sh
e can get back home to California, which is good riddance as far as I’m concerned.” He added, “And while we’re on the subject of autopsies, I know what killed Sandra Ridder—loss of blood combined with peritonitis. If the Volksmarchers had found her in the morning and she’d been treated with massive doses of antibiotics, she might have made it. But as it was . . .” George shrugged.

  Joanna glanced at Butch to see how he was handling this graphic dinnertime discussion. Chewing thoughtfully, he seemed unfazed.

  “Will you be going to Clayton’s funeral?” he asked Joanna, as if just then becoming aware of a pause in the previous conversation.

  She nodded. “Yes, of course I am.”

  “And Jenny?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll leave that up to her. When we first talked about it, I know she was planning on going. Why?”

  “I want to take the folks out sight-seeing tomorrow,” Butch said. “It’s better than having my mother prowling around my house all day, looking through drawers and opening my cupboards. Besides, they’ve never been in southern Arizona. I wanted to show them the sights—the Wonderland of Rocks, Boot Hill, maybe even Kartchner Caverns.”