“Come on,” Joanna said. “Don’t give me a line…”
“It’s no line,” Butch insisted. “The moment I saw you, my goose was cooked. ‘Butch, old boy,’ I told myself, ‘here’s the one you’d better not let slip away.’ And nothing that’s happened since has changed my mind.”
He swallowed the last of his coffee. “So how about letting me whip you up a little breakfast?”
“You’ll spoil me.”
He grinned. “That’s the whole idea.”
“Well, Jenny’s been gone for a week now. I doubt there are any groceries left in the house.”
“Not to worry. I know there’s still some of my bread left over from last night. And I believe I saw both milk and eggs in the fridge. With bread and milk and eggs, I can make dynamite French toast. What time do you have to be at work?”
“Eight.”
He glanced at his watch. “Hey,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, eight is still a very long time from now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Butch put one arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him. “Guess,” he said.
Hand in hand, they rose and, with no further discussion, made their way back into the bedroom. Afterward, with time growing short, Joanna disappeared into the bathroom while Butch went to start breakfast. By the time Joanna was dressed, the homey fragrance of frying bacon filled the house.
Out in the kitchen, Butch was standing watch over the stove as Joanna attempted to slip by him to collect another cup of coffee. He turned and touched her cheek with a glancing kiss as she went past. “Nice perfume,” he said.
Joanna took her coffee and ducked into the breakfast nook. She had barely seated herself when Butch set a plate of food in front of her. “See there?” He beamed. “Admit it. There are some definite advantages to becoming involved with a man who’s run a restaurant most of his adult life. I make a hell of a short-order cook.”
“I notice you have one or two other talents,” she said. “I can see why a girl might want to keep you around.”
Joanna had managed barely two bites of French toast when the telephone rang. Realizing she’d left it on the counter in the bathroom, Joanna hurried to answer it.
“By the way,” Butch called after her, “it drives me crazy when I cook food for people and they let it get cold. Did I ever tell you that?”
Coming back with the still ringing phone, Joanna held a finger to her lips to silence him before she answered. “Hello.”
“Joanna?”
“Yes, Jeff, it’s me. How are you? You sound awful.”
“We’ve had a pretty rough night here,” Jeff Daniels told her. “Esther’s come down with pneumonia.”
“Oh, no!” Joanna managed.
“The doctors don’t know whether they’ll be able to save her,” Jeff continued. “Because of the transplant, they’ve pumped her full of immune suppressants. But now…” His voice trailed off.
Joanna took a deep breath. “How is Marianne doing in the face of all this?” she asked.
“Not that well. Right now she’s down in the room with Esther. She didn’t want me to call you, Joanna, but I thought I’d better. It’s bad, real bad. I tried calling her folks. I talked to her dad on the phone, but not her mother. Even after all these years, Evangeline is still so pissed at Marianne that she wouldn’t talk to me. I know she won’t come, not even if Marianne needs her.”
“Well, I will,” Joanna said at once. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She put down the phone and looked across the kitchen at Butch, who was still flipping French toast on the griddle.
“Esther has pneumonia,” she heard herself say. “She might not make it. I’ve got to go to Tucson.”
Butch took the last two pieces of French toast off the griddle and turned off the heat. “I’ll go with you,” he offered.
“No,” Joanna said. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he insisted. “I want to. Your car or mine, or do we have to take both?”
Joanna Brady knew she was tough, knew she was a survivor. But she also knew that this was one trip she shouldn’t make alone.
“Let’s go in mine,” she decided. “That way, if I have to be in touch with the department, I can use either the radio or the phone. And the siren,” she added. “If need be.”
Butch’s eyes met hers across the kitchen, then he nodded. “Right,” he agreed. “The siren.”
TWENTY-TWO
AS THEY drove up through Bisbee and over the Divide, Butch sat quietly on the rider’s side of the Blazer watching the desert speed by outside the window. “What are their families like?” he asked finally.
“Jeff’s and Marianne’s?”
Butch nodded and Joanna made a face. “I’ve never met Jeff’s folks. They live back East somewhere—Maryland, I think. Marianne’s parents, Evangeline and Tim Maculyea, came from Bisbee originally, but they moved to Safford after the mines shut down. They still live there.”
“Safford,” Butch mused. “That’s not too far away, so they’ll probably show up to help out, too.”
Joanna shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Safford may not be that far away in terms of mileage, but emotionally, it could just as well be another planet. That’s what Jeff was telling me on the phone. He called the Maculyeas and told them what’s happening with Esther. I guess Tim was okay on the phone, but Evangeline wouldn’t talk to Jeff and she won’t come see Marianne, either.”
“Why not?” Butch asked.
“Because Marianne’s the black sheep in the family,” Joanna replied.
“Black sheep!” Butch echoed. “The woman’s a saint. She doesn’t smoke or drink or use bad words. Not to mention the fact that she’s a minister. What makes her a black sheep?”
“She’s a Methodist.”
“So?”
“Evangeline is a devout Catholic. She’s been bent out of shape ever since her daughter left the Church. She hasn’t spoken to Marianne since. The same thing goes for Marianne’s two younger brothers. They don’t speak to Jeff and Marianne, either. I don’t think Evangeline Maculyea has ever laid eyes on Jeff Daniels, even though he’s been married to her only daughter for more than ten years.”
“I suppose that means she hasn’t laid eyes on her grandchildren, either,” Butch surmised.
“Right,” Joanna said.
“That’s a shame.”
“No,” Joanna disagreed. “That’s a tragedy—all the way around.”
As she drove, she kept one eye on the speedometer and the other on the clock. As soon as it was eight, she picked up the radio. “Put me through to Dick Voland,” she told Dispatch. “He should be there by now.”
It took a few minutes to track the chief deputy down. “Where are you, Joanna?” he asked.
“I’m in the car and on my way to Tucson,” she said. “Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea’s baby has taken a turn for the worse. I’ve got to go see them. I’ll need you to handle the morning briefing.”
“No problem. I can take care of that. Anything in particular you want me to cover?”
Joanna thought about mentioning her Eddy Sandoval idea, but then she reconsidered. That was something she’d need to handle herself. But she did have another suggestion.
“I want you to have someone pick up the last three or four years’ worth of high school yearbooks from both Benson and St. David. Have someone show them to Clyde Philips’ next-door neighbor, Sarah Holcomb. She should look through them and see if any of the pictures match up with any of the ‘young ’uns,’ as she calls them, who used to hang around Clyde Philips’ house.”
“Okay,” Dick Voland said. “I’ll have someone get right on it. Jaime or Ernie, most likely.”
“Whoever you send, tell them that once Sarah finishes examining the pictures, I want her to go visit her daughter, who lives somewhere up in Tucson. I want her to stay there until we put this case to rest.”
“Yo
u think she’s in danger?” Dick asked.
“Absolutely. If there’s even a remote chance that she can identify the killer, she’s as much a threat to him as Frankie Ramos was.”
“What if she refuses to leave?”
“Then put a guard on her house. Park a deputy on her front porch twenty-four hours a day if you have to. I don’t want anything to happen to the woman.”
“Mounting a twenty-four-hour guard is going to cost money. Frank Montoya’ll shit a brick over that idea.”
“Well, then,” Joanna said, “send him to talk to her.”
“Frank? But he’s not even a detective.”
“He’s a trained police officer, Dick. I’m sure he’s fully capable of showing her a montage of photos and getting her reaction. He can do that every bit as well as a detective can. Aren’t Ernie and Jaime totally overloaded at the moment?”
“Well,” Voland conceded, “I suppose they are.”
“Besides,” Joanna added, “we both know that when Frank’s budget is on the line, he can be amazingly persuasive.”
“I’d prefer to call it amazingly obnoxious,” Voland returned, “but you’re right. If anyone can charm the old lady into leaving town for the duration, Frank Montoya is it. Especially when there’s overtime at stake. I’ll have him go to work on it first thing this morning. As soon as the briefing is over. Anything else?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“I’m just now collecting my copies of the overnight incident reports. It doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “Keep me posted. If I’m out of the car, I’ll have my cell phone with me. You’ll be able to reach me on that.”
“Right,” Dick Voland said. “In the meantime, I hope things work out all right for Jeff and Marianne’s little girl.”
“I hope so, too.” Joanna said the words, but deep in her heart she feared it wasn’t to be.
The trip from High Lonesome to Tucson should have taken about two hours. It was accomplished in a little less than ninety hair-raising minutes. And if Butch Dixon had any objections to the way Joanna drove, he had the good grace to keep quiet about it.
As they walked from the hospital parking garage toward the lobby entrance, a wave of panic suddenly engulfed Joanna. She hesitated at the entryway, unsure if she was capable of facing what was coming. On her previous visit, Esther’s situation hadn’t been this bad. Now it was like having to relive everything that had happened to Andy.
Somehow, without her saying a word, Butch must have sensed what was happening. He reached out, captured her hand, and squeezed it.
“You have to do this,” he said. “Jeff and Marianne are counting on you.”
Bolstered by his words, Joanna took a deep breath. “I know,” she said. “Thanks.”
When they entered the pediatric ICU waiting room there was a lone figure in it, an elderly gentleman standing next to the window, staring down at the hospital entrance far below. It wasn’t until he turned to face them that Joanna recognized Marianne’s father, Timothy Maculyea.
“Mr. Maculyea,” she said, hurrying toward him, “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Marianne’s friend Joanna Lathrop—Joanna Brady now. And this is my friend Butch Dixon. Butch, this is Mr. Maculyea.”
The older man held out a massive paw of a hand—the permanently callused and work-hardened mitt of a former hard-rock miner. “Tim’s the name,” he said to Butch. “Glad to meet you. I came as soon as I heard, but—” He stopped and pursed his lips.
“How are things?” Joanna asked.
He shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Not good at all.”
“Where’s Jeff?”
“Down in the room. It’s the ICU, so they let only one person in at a time.”
“And Marianne?”
Tim Maculyea swallowed hard before he answered. “She’s down in the chapel,” he said, his throat working to expel the words. “I haven’t seen her yet. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“And Mrs. Maculyea?” Joanna continued.
Tim shook his head once more. “Vangie isn’t coming. She’s always been a stubborn, headstrong woman. Not unlike her daughter.”
Joanna turned to Butch. “I’d better go check on Marianne,” she said.
He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here and keep Mr. Maculyea company.”
Minutes later, Joanna stepped into the hushed gloom of the dimly lit chapel, a small room that held half a dozen polished wooden pews. Marianne Maculyea, her head bowed and her shoulders hunched, sat in the front row. Silently, Joanna slipped into the seat beside her. Marianne glanced up, saw Joanna, then looked away.
“It’s bad,” she said.
“I know,” Joanna murmured. “Jeff told me.”
“Why?” Marianne whispered brokenly. “Why is this happening?”
“I don’t have an answer,” Joanna said. “There’s never an answer.”
Marianne put her hand to her mouth, covering a sob. “I thought she was going to make it, Joanna. I thought it was going to be all right, but it’s not. Esther’s going to die. It’s just a matter of time. A few hours, maybe. A day at most. All her systems are failing.”
“Oh, Mari,” Joanna said, barely able to speak herself. It was what she had expected, yet hearing the words tore at her heart. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say, what to do…”
Marianne breathed deeply, fighting for control. “Joanna, I need a favor.”
“What?”
“Promise me that when the time comes, you’ll officiate at the service.”
“Me?” Joanna was aghast. “Mari, you can’t be serious. I’m not a trained minister. Surely one of the other pastors in town would be glad to step in…”
Marianne Maculyea shook her head fiercely. “No,” she said, “I don’t want one of the other pastors. I want you. If one of them had nerve enough to mention the word ‘faith’ in my company or during the course of the service, I’d probably go berserk. Besides, none of them knows Esther, not really—not the way you do. You were there the day we brought the girls home from the plane, Joanna. We’re still using the diaper bag you gave me to take to Tucson that morning. In fact, that’s what we brought with us to the hospital to carry Esther’s things—” Unable to continue, Marianne broke off in tears.
“Please,” she added after a pause. “Promise you’ll do it.”
“Of course,” Joanna said. “Whatever you want.”
“Thank you.”
For the next several minutes the two women sat together, lost in their own thoughts, neither of them saying a word. Joanna was the one who finally broke the silence. “Your father’s upstairs,” she said gently. “Butch and I ran into him in the waiting room.”
“And my mother?” Marianne asked woodenly.
“No,” Joanna said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Marianne said. “It figures. How long has my dad been here?”
“I don’t know. He was in the waiting room when we arrived.”
Marianne sighed and stood up. “I’d guess I’d better go see him, then. Are you coming?”
“Yes I am.” Joanna said.
The morning passed slowly. Several times Joanna tried calling Jenny, but there was no answer at the farm, and once again, she didn’t want to leave this kind of disturbing message on anyone’s answering machine.
Word of the impending tragedy had spread throughout Bisbee, so in the course of the morning, more and more people showed up—some of whom, in Joanna’s opinion, had no business being there. She and Butch found themselves running interference, trying to keep the group of sympathetic well-wishers from completely overwhelming Jeff and Marianne.
At twenty after one that afternoon, Jeff emerged from the ICU, sank onto a couch, covered his face with his hands, and announced to the room, “It’s over. She’s gone.”
Trying to stifle a sob of her own, Joanna buried her head against Butch Dixon’s chest
. There was nothing more to be said.
For the next half hour Butch and Joanna helped herd people out of the waiting room. When Marianne finally emerged herself—dry-eyed, despondent, and empty-handed except for the diaper bag—there were just the four people left in the room: Joanna and Butch, Jeff Daniels, and Tim Maculyea.
Marianne spoke only to Jeff. “I want to go home,” she said. “Please take me home.”
Jeff reached in his pocket and fished out a set of car keys, which he immediately handed over to Butch. “Marianne and I will take the Bug,” he said. “We have to go by the hotel and check out on our way out of town. The International is parked behind the hotel on the corner of Speedway and Campbell. Butch, you’re sure you don’t mind driving it back to Bisbee?”
“Not at all. I’ll park it on the street somewhere near the Copper Queen. And if I’m going to be out, I’ll leave the keys at the desk.”
“Good,” Jeff said. “Thanks.” Then, with a gentle hand on Marianne’s shoulder, he guided her out the door. She moved stiffly, like a sleepwalker. It broke Joanna’s heart to see the vibrant and loving Marianne Maculyea, a woman whose very presence was a comfort to those in need, so bereft and comfortless herself.
Hands in his pockets, Tim Maculyea stood to one side and watched them go. “It’s rough,” he said, shaking his head and swiping at tears from under his thick glasses. “It’s awful damned rough.” He turned to Joanna. “Marianne didn’t happen to tell you when the services would be, did she?”
“No, she didn’t,” Joanna replied. “But I’ll call you as soon as I know. What about your wife? Will she come?”
“I doubt it,” Tim said sadly. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.”
At two-thirty, Joanna dropped Butch off at the Plaza Hotel so he could take Jeff’s International back to Bisbee. “You’ve been a brick today,” she told him as he climbed out of the Blazer.
He looked at her and smiled. “Glad to be of help,” he said, and then he was gone.
Once alone, Joanna headed back toward Bisbee. She tried to switch gears—to make the transition from private to public, from Joanna Brady to Sheriff Brady. But it didn’t work very well, at least not at first.
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