Dead to Rights

by J. A. Jance

“Pretty much,” Terry said. “It’s not all finalized yet, but it will be before long.”

  “Aren’t you worried about moving too fast?” Joanna asked. “If you make important decisions like that too soon, there’s always a chance someone will take advantage of you.”

  Terry smiled for the first time. “I’ve been taken advantage of by an expert,” she said. “Compared to that, this is fine. Besides, it was all set up long ago. Bucky and Reggie made all the arrangements late last fall, shortly after Bucky got out of treatment. The valuations were all set then. Nobody’s cheating. Reggie Wade is buying the practice under that preset formula, less the money we already owe him. If something had happened to Reggie, Bucky would have done the same thing—bought him out. Actually, setting that whole process up in advance is probably the nicest thing Bucky Buckwalter ever did for me.”

  “Less what money?” Joanna asked.

  “Reggie Wade lent Bucky and me money last year when things went so sour. After the accident, we had to post a bond, pay for lawyers and all kinds of other expenses that weren’t exactly expected. We tried the bank first, but I guess they figured if Bucky went to jail, there’d be no way for us to pay it off. We were right up against it when Reggie came to the rescue. He and Bucky worked out a deal. Reggie lent us what we needed, using the practice as collateral.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Terry said. “If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know what I would have done. By the time we’d paid off the defense attorneys and it was time for Bucky to go for treatment, we were tapped out completely. I knew I needed a substitute vet while Bucky was gone, but there wasn’t a dime to pay for it. Reggie came to the rescue again. Reggie and Bucky had covered calls for one another on occasion. This time, he subbed for Bucky on top of keeping up with his own practice. When I told him about the money situation, he told me not to worry. He was nice enough to add his bill for professional services rendered to the other loan. That’s the only reason we made it through.”

  “What you’re saying is that Dr. Wade has what amounts to a mortgage on the practice.”

  Terry nodded. “For right now. When the sale closes, he’ll give me the difference between the valuation formula and what he’s already paid. And as for moving fast, we pretty much have to. The valuation formula is based on selling the practice as a going concern. If there’s too much of a break, then customers end up going elsewhere.”

  “And this is a regular buy/sell arrangement?”

  “Maybe not regular,” Terry allowed. “When Milo Davis set it up, he said it was a little unusual. Still, though, it worked.”

  “Milo set it up?”

  “It wasn’t all finalized until Bucky got out of treatment in mid-December.”

  That was why Joanna had known nothing about it. The buy/sell arrangements had happened after she left the insurance agency.

  “You’re saying that Reggie Wade is paying full value without any haggling?”

  “No haggling at all. He’s following the buy/sell agreement right down to the letter.”

  Joanna nodded. The idea that moving too fast would leave Terry Buckwalter open to being cheated had been one of Joanna’s concerns. Judging from what Terry had said, however, that evidently wasn’t the case. In addition, Joanna liked knowing that Milo Davis, her ex-boss, had been involved in drafting the agreement. Milo was scrupulously fair.

  “That reminds me,” Terry said. “What about the insurance?”

  “What about it?”

  “How long will it take to pay off? I know I’ll have to sign claim forms and all that, but I’m trying to get some idea of how long it will take to pull all of this together so I can leave town.”

  Somehow, Terry Buckwalter’s desire to put Bisbee behind her no longer seemed nearly as sinister as it had earlier. Considering the situation with Bebe Noonan, Terry’s wanting to leave town was entirely understandable. Nonetheless, when it came to insurance proceeds, desire and reality were on a collision course.

  “With a death like this,” Joanna told her, “a homicide, investigations are automatic. Those take time. Months, in fact.”

  “Months!” Terry echoed. “But why an investigation? Bucky’s dead, isn’t he? We owned the policies, we paid all the premiums, and I’m the beneficiary. What’s there to investigate?”

  Lots, Joanna thought. “For one thing,” she said aloud, “insurance companies generally don’t want to pay out benefits until they’re reasonably assured that a killer isn’t reaping some kind of financial reward. They frown on beneficiaries who murder in hopes of collecting.”

  “They can do that?” Terry asked.

  “They do do that,” Joanna told her.

  “But I don’t want to wait,” Terry said. “The next qualifying school starts in a matter of weeks. If they let me in, I don’t want to miss the opportunity. Peter’s worked so hard on getting me this chance to prove myself. I can’t blow it now.”

  “What chance are you talking about?” Joanna asked.

  “Remember Peter Wilkes, my golf pro? You met him the other day. He has an old friend, a grade school buddy, who owns golf courses and golf equipment stores all over the country. According to Peter, he also has enough pull so that, if I’m good enough, he can maybe get me a spot in the next Q-school strictly on his say-so. If I do well there, I’ll be able to get a provisional card. It’s the chance of a lifetime, Joanna. A chance to finally get to do something.”

  “What would have happened if Bucky hadn’t died?” Joanna asked.

  “I would have gone anyway,” Terry said determinedly.

  “Did Bucky have any idea all this was going on? That you were making these kinds of arrangements?”

  Terry looked at Joanna and shook her head. “You really don’t understand. Bucky had his life and I had mine. We lived in the same house, but that was more a matter of convenience than anything else. It beat paying two sets of house payments.”

  Terry Buckwalter was describing a kind of empty marriage that was totally outside the realm of Joanna Brady’s experience. She glanced first at her own wedding ring and then at the pale white imprint left behind where Terry had removed hers.

  “Would you have divorced him?” Joanna asked.

  “I don’t know,” Terry said. “I was building up to it. Thanks to Peter, I was finally coming to a point where I had enough confidence to think I could make it on my own.”

  “Without having to kill him?”

  Terry looked sharply at Joanna. “Yes,” she said. “Without having to do a thing. I may be relieved he’s gone—glad that I don’t have to do anything or jump through any legal hoops to resolve the situation. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

  Joanna nodded. “No,” she said, “I don’t suppose it does.”

  For the better part of half an hour, the two women had been speaking together in a totally candid fashion. Terry’s answer was delivered with such blunt, unblinking openness, that Joanna didn’t doubt it. The problem was, if Hal Morgan wasn’t responsible for Bucky’s murder and if Terry wasn’t either, then who was?

  “You didn’t mention any of this the other afternoon when Detective Carpenter and I were here.”

  “Believe it or not,” Terry said, “I have some pride. With Bucky gone, I didn’t see any reason to dig up all this crap. That was before I knew about Bebe’s being pregnant. That’s going to be tough to keep under the rug.”

  “I remember your telling us that Bucky was home the whole evening the night before he died. Is that true?”

  “No.”

  “Where was he?”

  “You guess,” Terry said.

  “With Bebe?”

  “Probably,” Terry replied. “Obviously I don’t know for sure. It isn’t the kind of thing someone would tell his wife, not even a worm like Bucky. ‘Hey, I think I’ll dash out to Double Adobe and knock off a piece of tail.’”

  Joanna heard once again the hard edge of anger in Terry’s biting words.
This time she recognized them for what they were. A different form of grief perhaps than dissolving into tears, but grief nonetheless. In Terry Buckwalter’s case, it wasn’t a matter of mourning something that had ended so much as something that had never been.

  “That’s where Bebe Noonan lives?” Joanna asked gently.

  Terry nodded. “On her folks’ place. It’s three or four miles east of Double Adobe.”

  “Someone will have to talk to her.”

  “I know. Do you think—?” Terry stopped abruptly.

  “Do I think what?”

  “No,” Terry said, shaking her head. “Never mind. She wouldn’t have.”

  “Wouldn’t have what?”

  “Bebe was there at the time Bucky died, wasn’t she?” Terry asked. “Maybe he told her the same thing he told me—the same thing I told Bebe just a little while ago. To get rid of it. Maybe he gave her a choice of the baby or him and she was smart enough to choose the baby.”

  “Was she here the day before, when Hal Morgan first showed up?” Joanna asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So she would have known about the whole thing—would have known that Hal Morgan had plenty of reason to see Bucky dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anyone else?” Joanna asked. “Anyone besides you and Hal Morgan and Bebe who might have wanted to see your husband dead?”

  “I can’t think of anybody,” Terry said with a rueful smile. “But isn’t that enough? They say three’s a charm.”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. Checking the time, Joanna started for the door. “They do.”

  Terry followed her. “I’m still under suspicion, aren’t I?” she asked.

  Joanna nodded. “For the time being, everybody’s still under suspicion. It’s probably better if you don’t leave town.”

  “But what about the golf game with Peter’s friend?”

  “When and where is that scheduled?”

  “Sunday,” Terry answered. “In Tucson. He wanted to do it tomorrow, but I told him I couldn’t on account of the funeral. That would look bad even for me.”

  “Where in Tucson?”

  “Peter and I are supposed to meet him out at the Westin La Paloma at noon. You’re not planning on having someone follow me up there, are you? It might screw up my game.”

  “I don’t know,” Joanna said. “We’ll have to see. Once I give Ernie Carpenter this information, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you again.”

  “I won’t be hard to find,” Terry said resignedly. “I’ll be around.”

  Joanna got as far as the front door of the clinic before she remembered to ask one last set of questions. “On the morning Bucky died, what time did you leave the clinic?”

  “Eleven thirty. Peter and I had a twelve-seven tee-time. I was almost late.”

  “I talked to Hal Morgan yesterday,” Joanna said. “He claims that there was someone else in the barn with Bucky before he died. Some man. Did Bucky have any appointments scheduled for that time?”

  Without a word, Terry slipped into Bucky Buckwalter’s private office. Joanna followed behind. It was a plain, minimally adorned place with an oak-laminate desk and a bank of metal file cases. One wall held a series of diplomas. The most expensive item in the room was a two-by-three-foot oil painting of Kiddo, Bucky Buckwalter’s quarter horse gelding.

  Terry picked up a desktop calendar, opened it, and handed it over to Joanna. A metal clip held the calendar open to the current week, “That’s Bucky’s personal calendar,” Terry explained. “Take a look. The clinic appointment book is out at the reception desk. I can get that one for you as well.”

  While Joanna examined the first calendar, Terry returned with the other one. From eleven o’clock through two o’clock on the day in question, nothing at all had been scheduled. Without comment, Joanna handed both books back to Terry. “I guess I’d better be going,” she said.

  Still holding the calendars, Terry Buckwalter followed Joanna to the clinic door. “I don’t know if you want my opinion or not,” she said, “but I still think Hal Morgan did it. What’s more, I hope he gets away with it.”

  Joanna’s jaw dropped. “You do?”

  “Think about it,” Terry said. “It’s almost like one of those old romantic stories of the knights of the Round Table. Hal Morgan really loved his wife. He loved her enough that he was prepared to kill for her. Bucky never felt that way about anybody, except maybe for that damned horse of his. Which reminds me. You don’t happen to know of anyone who’d be interested in buying Kiddo, do you?”

  Joanna thought of Jenny and her approaching birthday. “How much?” she asked.

  “Two hundred bucks,” Terry replied. “He’s worth more than that, but he was Bucky’s horse, not mine. I don’t even like him much, and I’ve got no way to ride him. All the saddles and bridles and currying equipment got burned up in the barn. The feed, too. The sooner I unload him, the better.”

  Kiddo was no longer young enough for the racing circuit, but he was a good, fine-looking horse. Joanna knew enough about horses to realize Terry’s selling price was far lower than it should have been. Fire-sale prices. One step above dog-food prices. If Joanna offered to buy Kiddo for that, she’d be doing exactly what she’d worried about others doing to Terry—taking advantage of her misfortune.

  “Jenny’s interested in having a horse,” Joanna said.

  “I thought she might be,” Terry said. “Whenever she came here, she always seemed to have either a carrot or an apple in her pocket. That’s why I mentioned it.”

  “Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  Out in the Blazer, Joanna was eager to tell someone what she had learned, but the long night had evidently taken its toll. No one she asked for was in or available—not Ernie Carpenter, not Jaime Carbajal, not even Dick Voland. Her original plan had been to drop by the department and pass along her latest tips. Now, though, she changed her mind.

  Joanna’s interview with Terry Buckwalter had worked far better than she would have expected. The dynamics of two women talking had made it possible for her to emerge with more information than Ernie had been able to elicit in a full-court press of an interview. It was possible that the same thing would happen with Bianca “Bebe” Noonan.

  Half an hour later, three and a half miles east of Double Adobe, Joanna turned right just beyond a battered, bullet-sprayed mailbox marked “R. Noonan.” The moment she drove in through the gate, she felt as though she had landed in a slum. The hundred yards or so of dirt road between the fence line and the collection of buildings were strewn with trash. Shards of broken beer bottles glittered, marking the edge of the road. Windblown papers clung to the bottom strand of barbed wire. Hulks of several wrecked vehicles in various stages of deterioration dotted the desert on either side of the road. When she reached the buildings, the cars she found parked there weren’t in much better shape than the junked ones she had passed earlier. Several of the tumbledown buildings seemed barely capable of remaining upright. In fact, the remains of what may once have been a barn had blown over on its side, leaving behind a knee-high stack of gray, tinder-dry wood.

  The house itself was a ramshackle clapboard affair seemingly held together by little more than multiple layers of peeling paint. A sagging front porch teetered drunkenly to one side. The remains of a screen door, permanently stuck open, sagged on a single hinge. A long-legged mongrel dog lay in front of the closed front door. He sat up, scratched himself deliberately, then came to the edge of the porch, barking without much enthusiasm or threat. That changed, though, once the faded front door opened and a middle-aged woman in worn jeans and a man’s flannel shirt stepped outside. The trashy house, the weed-choked yard, the woman herself conveyed the same air of uncaring hopelessness and disrepair.

  As soon as the woman appeared, the dog went through a sudden ominous transformation. His hackles came up. Now each deep-throated bark was accompanied by a threatening show of teeth.

  War
y of the dog’s sudden change in personality, Joanna rolled down the window. “I’m looking for Bebe,” she said. “Does she live here?”

  “Out back,” the woman answered. “Take this driveway and go on around to the back of the house. Her place is the trailer, not the bus. You go on ahead. I’ll keep Buddy here with me.”

  Buddy. Of course. That was exactly the name people like that would give to a vicious dog.

  Following the directions, Joanna drove around the house. The Blazer’s passing sent a flock of chickens scurrying in all directions. Out back, positioned at either end of a no longer functional clothesline in a yard randomly punctuated by any number of dead appliances, sat a small camper/trailer and a converted school bus. Halfway down the side of the bus a stovepipe, belching smoke, stuck up out of the roof. From the looks of the moldering rubber tires, both formerly mobile vehicles had been marooned in place for a very long time.

  Bebe Noonan’s Honda was parked beside the door to the camper. Taking a deep breath, Joanna crawled out of the Blazer and walked up to the door.

  Bebe answered her knock. “What do you want?” she demanded, standing in the open door and barring Joanna’s way.

  “I need to talk to you,” Joanna said.

  Bebe shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. Leave me alone.”

  “Do your parents know about the baby?” Joanna asked, ignoring Bebe’s attempted dismissal. “Or are you still trying to keep it a secret?”

  Bebe’s face registered shock, then dissolved into a torrent of anguished tears. “Oh, please. You didn’t tell my mom, did you?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “I didn’t tell anybody. Not yet. Let me in.”

  Wordlessly Bebe complied. Moving away from the door, she allowed Joanna to step inside. The room was impossibly hot. The windows were covered with a thick layer of steam.

  “Please don’t tell my parents,” the young woman begged, pulling the door shut and following Joanna to a tiny table with two bench seats. “Please.”

  Uninvited, Joanna sat down. Bianca Noonan sank down opposite her. “How did you find out about it?” she continued. “Did Terry tell you?”