Devil's ClawJ

by J. A. Jance

  “Right.”

  Kristin and Terry stood up together. So did Spike. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you,” Joanna said. “If anyone were to track down the records, you’d be able to see that, taking Andy’s and my wedding date into consideration, Jenny was born a lot sooner than she should have been. And since she weighed in at seven and a half pounds, we would have been hard-pressed to convince anyone that she was premature.”

  Kristin Marsten caught her breath. “Sheriff Brady, you mean the same thing happened to you?”

  “It happens to a lot of people, Kristin, and I’m here to tell you it’s not the end of the world. Talk to your parents about it. They just might surprise you.”

  Nodding and holding hands, Kristin and Terry left Joanna’s office, closing the door behind them. Moments later there was a discreet knock.

  “Come in,” Joanna called.

  Frank Montoya poked his head around the door. “Time for the morning briefing?” he asked, waving a fistful of manila folders.

  “Past time,” Joanna said. “Let’s get cracking.”

  “I guess you didn’t have a chance to have that little chat with Deputy Gregovich and Kristin,” Frank suggested tentatively.

  “But I did talk to them,” Joanna replied. “The two of them left my office just a few seconds ago.”

  “Well,” Frank said. “It doesn’t appear that your talk did much good. You’d better give it another shot. When I came into the outer office just now, I caught them in the middle of a great big smooch. They broke it off, but they didn’t even have brains enough to look guilty about it.”

  “Kristin Marsten and Deputy Gregovich aren’t guilty, Frank. They’re pregnant. They spent yesterday afternoon finding out for sure that it was more than just a late period and deciding whether or not to have an abortion. I think we can say Kristin was legitimately sick even if she wasn’t home when you went by to check. They were in Tucson seeing a doctor from Planned Parenthood.”

  “Whoa! I’d guess that means you’re not going to fire them.”

  “And I’d guess you’re right. I told them no more monkey business at work or during business hours, but we can probably overlook an engagement-launching smooch. Now let’s get down to business. What happened overnight?”

  For the next forty-five minutes, Joanna and Frank went over the chief deputy’s usual collection of mundane stuff—incident reports, jail menus, scheduling and vacation approvals. None of it was critical, but it all had to be brought to Joanna’s attention.

  “And here’s the information you wanted me to find,” Frank Montoya said when they had finally worked their way down to the last folder in his stack.

  “What’s that?” Joanna asked.

  “Faxes of the newspaper clippings on the Thomas Ridder shooting. I also found out why he got thrown out of the army. He decked a superior officer.”

  “So at least he didn’t discriminate,” Joanna said.

  Frank frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Most of the men who beat up their wives don’t have balls enough to pick on someone their own size who might hit back.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s discriminating, Joanna,” Frank said. “Remember, the army discharged Thomas Ridder over whatever happened. Sandra Ridder’s solution put the guy away in a pine box—permanently. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but I am saying there may have been other possible solutions that Sandra Ridder never considered. And the judge who sent her up must have thought so, too, or he wouldn’t have given her eight to ten.”

  “Point taken,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Anything else?”

  “Ernesto poked his head in my office a little while ago and told me to tell you the water is from Tucson. He said you’d know what he meant, but I don’t.”

  “The water in the jugs with no fingerprints,” Joanna supplied. “And if the water came from Tucson, the jugs probably did, too. Which means that whoever put them there wasn’t a UDA from Mexico walking south into the US of A to find field-hand work.”

  “I see what you mean,” Frank said. “Most of the UDAs are walking north, not south. So what else is going on that I don’t know about?”

  “Dr. Daly came down from Tucson yesterday and did Clayton Rhodes’ second autopsy.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She came up with the same results Doc Winfield did—cerebral hemorrhage.”

  “That’s a relief then,” Frank said. “At least we won’t have to have the FBI snooping around here and sticking their noses into everybody’s business. I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

  “Neither was I,” Joanna agreed.

  “And we’ll also have Reba Singleton off our backs.”

  “Right.”

  Frank was up and on his way to the door when Joanna thought to ask him about Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal.

  “They took off for Tucson first thing this morning,” Frank told her. “They had an appointment with Melanie Goodson. They were also going to take the slug that killed Sandra Ridder up to the Department of Public Safety satellite crime lab in Tucson. Why, do you have something for them?”

  “I talked to Melanie Goodson myself yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “And I had the distinct impression that she wasn’t being forthright with me. She claims she was at home asleep when Sandra took off in her Lexus, but—despite having a telephone in her bedroom—she still claims she didn’t hear Lucy’s phone call when it came in around three a.m. She let the call be picked up by her machine.”

  “What do you want Ernie and Jaime to do about it?”

  “I want them to bear that in mind when they talk to her. And when they finish up with everything else, I want them to go out to Melanie’s neighborhood on Old Spanish Trail and check it out. There’s always a chance that one of her neighbors saw or heard something unusual.”

  “There’s a chance,” Frank Montoya agreed. “But not a very big one. If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  The moment Frank left Joanna’s office, a much-relieved Kristin Marsten appeared with that day’s worth of correspondence. For Joanna, dealing with the daily deluge of mail was an unending source of frustration. She worked for two golden and almost totally uninterrupted hours before her private-line phone rang.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I don’t see how the Dixons could have felt very welcome when you and George and Frederick locked yourselves up in the kitchen that way. I suppose it could have been worse, though. If you had come outside and started discussing all those gruesome things . . .”

  “Mother, look,” Joanna said. “This is a complicated week for all concerned. It was wonderful of you and George to host last night’s dinner, and I’m sure everyone enjoyed it. Those tamales were incredible.”

  “I’m glad you liked them,” Eleanor sniffed. “The food was all right, but the atmosphere was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Why, even Eva Lou was snappish with Maggie when she and Jim Bob were getting ready to leave.”

  She was snappish a lot earlier than that, Joanna thought. I wonder what Maggie Dixon said that finally pushed even sweet-tempered Eva Lou over the edge?

  Joanna’s unspoken question was never uttered aloud, but Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, chattering on, answered it anyway.

  “All Maggie did was ask a few questions about Andy—nothing out of line as far as I could see, but all of a sudden Eva Lou stands up and says, ‘I can’t imagine why you’d be asking such a personal question.’ It was an answer straight out of ‘Dear Abby,’ and I was absolutely floored. Can you imagine Eva Lou being so . . . well . . .” Eleanor Winfield paused as she groped for the proper word. “So outspoken,” she finished at last.

  When it comes to Maggie Dixon, Joanna told herself, anything is possible.

  CHAPTER 18

  The service for Clayton Rhodes was a simple affair held at Higgins Funeral Home and Mortuary up in Old Bisbee and conducted by Clayton’s longtime pastor, the Reverend Lonnie
Dodds of the Double Adobe Baptist Church. Reba Singleton sat stiffly in the front row and spoke to no one. Joanna and Jenny sat near the back. When the minister announced that Clayton had been preceded in death by his beloved wife, Molly Louise, and his infant son, Cyrus Andrew, Joanna reached over and squeezed Jenny’s hand. Had it not been for Jenny, Joanna wouldn’t have had any previous knowledge about the existence of Clayton’s second child.

  Because Molly Rhodes had been a behind-the-scenes linchpin in Bisbee’s YWCA, the post-service social hour was held there. Always with a keen eye for spotting readily available refreshments, Jenny chose seats at a table within easy striking distance of silver trays laden with artfully arranged decorated cookies. A few minutes after Joanna and Jenny sat down, they were joined at the table by a tiny, bird-boned woman Joanna had never seen before.

  “I’m Carol,” she said, smiling cordially at Jenny. “Carol Hubbard from Tucson. Who are you?”

  “I’m Jennifer Brady, and this is my mom, Joanna,” Jenny answered brightly. “Mr. Rhodes was our neighbor. He used to feed our animals and stuff.”

  Carol looked at Joanna. “Oh, I know about you. You’re the woman whose husband was killed, and now you’ve been elected sheriff. Isn’t that right?”

  Joanna nodded. “Yes. The name’s Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Clayton spoke very highly of you—and of you, too, Jenny,” Carol Hubbard continued. “And don’t you have some kind of funny-looking dog? I seem to remember Clayton saying his name is Tiger.”

  “Tigger,” Jenny corrected. “Not like the golfer. Like the character from Winnie the Pooh. And Tigger’s really funny. He’s half golden retriever and half pit bull, and he loves to jump.”

  “How did you know Clayton?” Joanna asked. “Are you a relative?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just friends. He and my first husband, Hank, met during the war,” Carol Hubbard replied. “World War Two, that is. They were in the U.S. Air Force— the Air Corps back then. Hank was stationed in India with the Four Hundred Ninety-first Bomber Squadron and worked intelligence for them. According to him, his major task assignment was sobering up pilots so they were straight enough to fly the Hump. He was a voice major in college, though—a talented soloist—and later on in the war he was pulled into entertaining the troops. He and a group of other performers went to bases all over India and Burma putting on variety shows. That’s where he met Clayton.”

  “Mr. Rhodes could sing?” Jenny asked.

  Carol Hubbard laughed. “Actually, he couldn’t sing a note, and he couldn’t dance, either, but they had him in every show—moving his lips and acting like he was singing his heart out. You know how these days they have those traveling Broadway productions that go all over the country? I believe they call them bus-and-truck shows. Well, this was the same thing, only it was a plane-and-truck show. According to Hank, Clayton Rhodes was the best mechanic in India. They flew from show to show in planes that were so old and rickety that they were in danger of falling out of the sky every time they took off, but by hook or crook Clayton somehow managed to keep them running and in the air. Hank and some of the others had wonderful voices. Hank was the soloist for Saint Philips in the Hills up in Tucson for many years after the war. But he always said that if it hadn’t been for Clayton, those shows in India never would have gotten off the ground.”

  “So Clayton and your husband stayed in touch after the war?”

  Carol nodded. “You may remember seeing my husband. He was a news anchor in Tucson for many years.”

  Suddenly the name finally clicked in Joanna’s head, and she remembered a handsome, smooth-voiced, silver-haired man sitting at a television news desk. That Hank Hubbard.

  “He was a big deal up in Tucson, but even so, there was nothing Hank liked better than coming down here to Bisbee for a few days and staying with Clayton and Molly. The two of them—Clayton and Hank, that is—would go out hunting in Clayton’s old beat-up Ford. During the gas shortage back in the mid-seventies he added an extra gas tank so they could go as far as they wanted without having to worry about having to stop for gas.

  “The two of them would come dragging home with whatever they’d caught—venison and javelina and dove, and Molly—bless her heart—and I would figure out a way to cook whatever it was on Molly’s old woodstove.” Carol Hubbard paused. “Have you ever cooked javelina?” she asked Joanna.

  “Venison and dove, yes,” Joanna said. “But I have to admit, no javelina.”

  Carol grinned. “The best thing to do with that is cook it the way the Indians do—in a pot of Anaheim chili paste and let it simmer for hours. Otherwise, it’s tough as it can be. Still, the four of us had great times together. I know Rhodes Ranch was real life for Clayton and Molly, but for Hank and me, the time we spent there was like time apart—like camping out.

  “Whenever we were with them it seemed as though we were a world away from the high-pressure life in Tucson. While we were there, we could afford to be ourselves—Hank and Carol. That’s important sometimes, especially when you’re in the public eye. It’s easy to get too full of yourself, to take yourself too seriously. If Hank ever started getting all puffed up, Clayton was the one person who could throw Hank Hubbard off his high horse.”

  At that juncture Reba Singleton, accompanied by Marliss Shackleford, chose to make her grand entrance. She swept into the room and went straight to the head of the line, where she helped herself to a cup of coffee and declined an offer of cookies. Carol Hubbard regarded her behavior with a raised eyebrow. “Some things never change,” she murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?” Joanna asked.

  Carol shook her head. “Molly and Clayton both would be embarrassed beyond belief to see their daughter behaving like that—pushing her way to the head of the line—but then it’s not very surprising. Reba was always that way—pushy—from way back, from when she was tiny. She was the kind of child who wanted her way, and she wanted it now.”

  Joanna was tempted to ask, What went wrong? How could two people as squared away as Molly and Clayton Rhodes raise a daughter who was that screwed up? Instead, she allowed herself a discreet “You knew her back then—when she was little?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid we did. One of the things Hank and I liked about coming down to see Molly and Clayton was that they didn’t even have a TV set. It wasn’t until Reba went away to college—to the university in Tucson—that she discovered that Hank, her father’s dear old friend, was on television up there. Then she raised all kinds of hell with her parents because she wanted her dad to have Hank help her get on television, too.”

  “And did he?”

  Carol nodded. “Of course he did. That’s the kind of guy Hank was. Once Reba managed to pick up a degree in broadcast journalism, he put in a good word for her here and there. Hank knew people who knew people. That’s how those things happen in broadcasting, through connections.”

  Jenny turned in her chair so she could watch Reba and Marliss making the rounds of the room. “You mean she’s on TV, too?” Jenny asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Carol smiled. “She was, but not anymore. It’s sad but true that most male news anchors have a much longer shelf life than female anchors do. She’s been off the air for years now. According to Clayton, she’s been married and divorced several times since then, but she’s always managed to marry up. I think her current husband is some kind of bigwig in computers out in Silicon Valley.”

  Carol shook her head and laughed. “My goodness. Whatever did you say to set my tongue to wagging so much? You must think I’m a terrible gossip.”

  Joanna looked around the room, scanning faces. “So is your husband here as well, Mrs. Hubbard?”

  “My second husband,” she corrected. “Hank died years ago. A couple of years after that, Molly died as well, but Clayton and I remained friends. Force of habit, I guess.”

  “Why, Carol Hubbard,” Reba Singleton said from just over Joanna’s right shoulder. “I didn’
t know you were here. I almost missed you.”

  Carol held out her hand long enough for it to be pressed by Reba’s ring-bedecked fingers. “Your father was such a good man,” Carol Hubbard murmured. “And such a dear friend, too. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

  With a curt nod, Reba acknowledged Carol Hubbard’s comment, then she rounded on Joanna. “Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve taken away my father’s ranch?” she demanded in a loud voice. “Do you have to steal his friends as well? Don’t you have any shame? How dare you!”

  As conversation in the rest of the room came to a complete standstill, Joanna felt her cheeks turn hot. “Reba,” Joanna began. “Please.”

  “Please what?” Reba demanded. “Please shut up and don’t let anyone know what you’ve been up to? Please go away so people won’t know about your underhanded dealings and how you’ve cheated me out of my birthright?”