by J. A. Jance
She had barely glimpsed at Ernie earlier in her office. Now she was shocked by the look of him. His color was bad. There were dark circles under his eyes. The snowballing events of the past few days had put a terrible strain on everyone in the department, but with Ernie as the sole homicide detective, the brunt of the pressure had landed squarely on his broad shoulders.
“The L.P.G.A.?” he muttered. “I still think it’s just too damned convenient that Terry Buckwalter happens to have her big-deal golf tryout this weekend. What do you think?”
Joanna looked up at him. Ernie was a good cop, a capable cop. Unlike Joanna, Ernie hadn’t recently lost his spouse. Every aspect of Bucky Buckwalter’s murder seemed to tug on Joanna Brady’s still raw emotional heartstrings. Ernie’s judgment may have been impaired by sheer exhaustion, but not by his own prejudices.
As sheriff, Joanna Brady had only one clear option—to step aside and let her investigator do his job. “It’s your case, Ernie,” she said. “I don’t have an opinion on this one.”
“Now that I know about this paternity thing, I need to talk to Terry again. Late this afternoon is probably the first I’ll be able to get to it.”
“What about sleep?” Joanna asked.
Ernie stopped cold. “Sleep?” he repeated, as though it were a totally foreign word. “Who needs sleep?”
“You do,” Joanna answered. “You’ve been juggling one case after another. How much rest have you had in the past three days?”
“Some,” Ernie admitted.
“Five hours? Ten?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“That’s about what I thought,” Joanna said. “I can tell just by looking at you. Don’t try to talk to Terry today, Ernie. Let it go. Once the funeral is over, I want you to take the rest of the afternoon off. And the weekend, too. I don’t want you near the department any before Monday morning.”
“But what about Terry going up to Tucson? What if she takes off and doesn’t come back?”
“Then let it be on my head. If she runs away, we’ll find her,” Joanna said. “But right now, you need some time off. You’re off duty from noon today on. That’s an order, Detective Carpenter. You’ve already put in some sixty-odd hours this week. Monday will be time enough to start getting a handle on all of this. If you work yourself into the ground or into the hospital, then where will we be?”
Before Ernie had a chance to reply, the Reverend Billy Matthews launched off into the “dust to dust, ashes to ashes” part of the service. Moving close enough to hear, Joanna watched as Bucky Buckwalter’s coffin slowly slid out of sight. As it did so, Joanna was gripped once again by the terrible sense of loss and finality that had assailed her months earlier as Andy’s coffin, too, had disappeared from view. The tears that surprised her by suddenly spurting from her eyes had nothing at all to do with Bucky’s death.
Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the distant part of the cemetery that held Andy’s low-lying granite marker. She and Jenny had been there together only once since the marker was installed. That was on Veterans Day, when they had gone to place a tiny American flag beside the grave.
The service wasn’t yet over when Joanna quietly drifted away toward that other part of the cemetery. Almost blinded by her tears, it was all she could do to keep from stumbling headlong over gravestones.
Once there, she stopped to pluck the faded flag out of the ground. Slipping it into the pocket of her coat, she knelt over the plain red granite marker. Chiseled into the smooth red rock was Andy’s full name—Andrew Roy Brady—along with the dates of both his birth and his death. At the very bottom of the marker, almost melting into the long yellowed grass, were four simple words: “To serve and protect.”
One at a time, she ran her fingers over each of the letters. To serve and protect. That had been Andy’s job—his whole mission and purpose in life. It was the reason he had joined the service after high school and it was the reason he had signed on as deputy sheriff once he was discharged from the army. Now those same words constituted Joanna’s mission in life as well.
“They can be mighty tough to live by,” Jim Bob Brady observed, walking up behind her and laying a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Startled by her father-in-law’s voice and touch, Joanna hurried to wipe the tears from her eyes. She scrambled to her feet.
“They are,” she mumbled. “Especially right about now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Joanna shook her head. “It feels like the bad guys are winning, Jim Bob.”
He shook his head. “Aw now,” he said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Seems to me you and your people are doin’ all right.”
Joanna gave him a frail smile. “It’s possible you’re prejudiced,” she said.
“Nope,” he declared, “not me. I admit it’s been a bad week around here for lots of folks, but I’m sure that before too long you’ll sort it all out.”
“Sort it all out?” Joanna snorted. “What good will that do? Several people are dead, all of them in my jurisdiction. Five in all, with a couple more lives hanging by a thread. In at least two of those cases my own actions, or inactions on the part of some of my people, are partially responsible for what happened.”
“So?” Jim Bob returned. “Most likely those people would be dead regardless of who was sheriff. The only thing you can do is try and see to it that whoever’s responsible gets what’s comin’ to him.”
Unable to say anything in return, Joanna turned and looked back toward the mound of flowers next to Bucky Buckwalter’s grave. “When people are dead,” she said finally, “punishing the killer always seems like too little too late.”
“Maybe so, but it’s the best you can do. Come along now,” Jim Bob added. “It’s too chilly for you to be out here very long.”
Reaching out, he took Joanna by the hand and pulled her close, then he headed off across the cemetery, leading her back in the direction of the parked cars. “Eva Lou saw you walk off, and she sent me to fetch you. She was concerned.”
“I’m sorry to worry you,” Joanna said. “That was thoughtless of me.”
“That’s all right. Problem is, we’re in a little bit of a hurry because Eva Lou’s due to help serve at the Ladies’ Aid’s luncheon. I need to drop her by the church before too long. You see, that’s Eva Lou’s thing, Joanna. Servin’ lunch may not seem like much of anything. On the scale of things, it’s sort of like you said—too little, too late. But when people are hurtin’, fixin’ and servin’ food is the best Eva Lou can do. You’re so busy looking at the murder part of all this that you’ve plumb forgot it’s the lunches and the little things that glue us all together.”
Looking up at her father-in-law gratefully, Joanna realized what he was saying was absolutely true. “Thanks, Jim Bob,” she said. “I needed that.”
SIXTEEN
BACK AT the cars, Eva Lou was already waiting in her husband’s Honda. “I guess we’ll see you later,” she said. “Your mother mentioned that you wouldn’t be coming to the church.”
Joanna smiled in at her through the partially opened window. “What is it Jim Bob always says about a wise man changing his mind?” She took her father-in-law’s hand and squeezed it. “He gave me a little pep talk over there. Sort of like the one you gave me earlier. Now that you’ve both got my attention, I believe I’ll come along to the luncheon after all.”
Just inside the parish hall of Canyon Methodist Church, Joanna ran into Bebe Noonan. Still dressed in black, she was carrying a plateful of food and looking somewhat restored. She smiled tentatively when she saw Joanna.
“Thank you for your help, Sheriff Brady,” she said. “I did just what you said. I asked Dan Storey to represent me—me and the baby.”
Joanna nodded. “I heard about the court order, so I knew you must have found someone.”
“That’s not all, either,” Bebe added. “I talked to Reggie Wade a little while ago. Did you know he’s taking over Bucky’s pract
ice?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “So I heard.”
“Well,” Bebe went on, “he told me that when the deal goes through, I’ll be able to stay on with him. He says it’ll be a big help to him if he has someone here in town who already knows Bucky’s clients. Since Terry won’t be working there anymore, I’ll have a full-time job instead of a part-time one. He may even let me stay in the house for a while. That way, he’ll have someone to look after things. So we’ll be all right, the baby and I, right?”
Joanna had terrible misgivings about what it would be like for Bebe Noonan as a single parent in a small town—particularly an unwed single parent. Joanna had the financial security of some insurance, a reasonably well-paying job, and loving grandparents and friends to backstop her when it came to emergency child care. Bebe Noonan and her baby would have none of those. Bebe seemed to have only the barest grasp of the difficulties ahead. Still, her question pleaded for a simple affirmative answer. Joanna gave her what she wanted.
“Yes, Bebe,” Joanna said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Why, Joanna,” Marliss Shackleford said, horning her way into the conversation in her customarily pushy fashion. Faced with the columnist’s arrival, Bebe Noonan paled and melted into the crowd.
Usually, Joanna would have dreaded running into the reporter in a social setting. Today was different. “We missed you at the luncheon the other day,” Joanna said sweetly. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
Marliss must have had something in mind as she approached Joanna and Bebe Noonan. Now, whatever it was, seemed to disappear in unaccustomed confusion.
“Oh, yes,” she stammered uncomfortably. “I was sorry to miss it. I had a little touch of the flu, but I’m fine now.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “And have you heard Jeff and Marianne’s good news?”
“What good news?” Marliss asked.
“Marianne left for San Francisco bright and early this morning. She’s going there to meet Jeff and the baby and bring them home.”
“Is that right?” Marliss Shackleford’s disinterest was unmistakable. She may have been in the news business, but good news wasn’t necessarily her bag.
“I’m planning a shower for them as soon as they get home,” Joanna continued cheerfully. “Probably sometime in the next week or so. I’ll let you know as soon as I decide when it’ll be. Maybe you can put a little announcement about it in your column.”
“Oh, no,” Marliss objected at once. “I couldn’t possibly do that.”
“You couldn’t?” Joanna asked. “Why not?”
“Marianne Maculyea is a personal friend of mine. I could never use my column in that way. Making a personal plea like that would be a violation of journalistic ethics—a conflict of interest. It just wouldn’t do at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Joanna felt a certain amount of satisfaction as Marliss Shackleford slipped away from her. Going on the attack was a good way of dealing with some people.
“What was that all about?” Eleanor asked, appearing at Joanna’s elbow.
Eleanor Lathrop and Marliss Shackleford were part of the same bridge group and had been known to be thick as thieves on occasion. Here was a golden opportunity to drive a wedge between them. In the end, whether the devil made her do it or not, the temptation was too much for Joanna to resist.
“Actually, Mother,” she said confidentially, “Marliss was asking me about you.”
Eleanor Lathrop’s eyes widened. “About me? Really? Whatever for?”
Keeping her face straight, Joanna leaned closer to Eleanor. “She told me she’s heard some rumors about you. I told her she must be mistaken.”
“What kind of rumors?” Eleanor asked.
“About you and George Winfield. She said she’d heard that you and the coroner were planning on taking a short jaunt up to Vegas. I told her that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.”
For the first time in Joanna’s memory, an aghast Eleanor Lathrop was shocked into absolute silence.
“It is ridiculous, isn’t it?” Joanna pressed.
Nodding numbly, Eleanor finally regained the power of speech. “Of course it is,” she agreed. “Where do rumors like this start?”
“I can’t imagine,” Joanna said.
Across the room, she caught sight of Larry Matkin standing near the door. Their eyes met briefly, but then he looked away. His message had said he wanted to talk to her. Thinking now would be a good time, Joanna started moving in that direction. Several people stopped her along the way. By the time she reached the door, he was gone. She even walked out into the parking lot to try to catch him, but he was nowhere in sight.
Oh, well, she told herself. I’ll call him as soon as I get back to the office. In the meantime, she turned back into the parish hall. By then, the serving line at the buffet had almost disappeared. Taking a plate from the stack, Joanna went to get some food.
Once the luncheon was over, Joanna returned to work with a renewed sense of purpose. She was relieved to find that things seemed to be going fairly well, considering. According to Dick Voland, both of the two critically injured U.D.A.s had been upgraded, one to critical but stable and the other to serious. In addition, none of the hospitalized aliens whose guards had been pulled had made any effort to run away. Jaime Carbajal had spent most of the morning interviewing the jailed crash victims. So far, three of them had expressed a willingness to testify against the driver, as well as against the Mexican national from Agua Prieta whom they all identified as the mastermind behind a very profitable drug and wetback-smuggling operation.
“The Border Patrol is ecstatic to get the goods on this guy,” Voland told her. “They’ve been trying to put him out of business for years. What I can’t understand is what’s keeping Ernie. He should have been here to oversee the questioning. He was going to the Buckwalter funeral this morning, but I expected him back long before this.”
“I sent him home,” Joanna said. “And I’d send you home, too, if I could. We’ve all been working too hard. When I saw Ernie at the funeral, I could tell he was right at the end of his rope.”
Voland’s eyes bulged. “With all the cases we’ve got hanging fire? How could you send him home? He’s the only detective we have left.”
“Why is that?” Joanna countered.
“Why?” Voland shrugged. “The two other guys put in their twenty years and bailed out.”
“I know that,” Joanna replied. “What I don’t understand is why Deputy Carbajal hasn’t been promoted to detective. Has he passed the written test?”
“Yes, but I was waiting for Ernie to tell me he was ready.”
“What were you really waiting for, Dick? For hell to freeze over? It just did. We’ve had five violent deaths in as many days, and we’ve only got one detective to cover too many bases. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“But Jaime’s not ready yet. He’s still too young.”
“No, he’s not,” Joanna stated. “From what you said, it sounds as though he’s doing fine with those guys over at the jail.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing, Mr. Voland. Do it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chief Deputy Voland replied. “I’ll get right on it.”
“And one more thing. Have you talked to Ruth since last night?”
Dick Voland flushed. “No.”
“Are you going to talk to her?”
“She threw me out,” Voland said. “What’s the point of talking? I’ve made some calls. I think I’ve lined up an apartment. I’m supposed to go look at it after work.”
With that, he turned and stomped out of her office. Joanna waited for several minutes after he had left before she picked up the phone and dialed Dick Voland’s home number. She had called it often enough in the past few months that she knew it by heart. Joanna was still trying to imagine what she would say to Ruth Voland when the answering machine clicked on telling her that no one was home.
Relieved, but sorry,
too, Joanna put down the receiver and went to work. Half an hour later Kristin called in on the intercom to announce that someone named Philip Dotson was waiting in the outer office.
“Philip Dotson?” Joanna returned. “Who’s he?”
“He’s Reed Carruthers’ nephew and Hannah Green’s cousin,” Kristin replied. “He says he came here directly from George Winfield’s office. He was supposed to talk to Ernie Carpenter, but since Ernie’s not in, Deputy Voland suggested that he talk to you.”
Here it comes, Joanna thought, shifting her paperwork to the far side of her desk. This will probably be my first wrongful-death suit. Do I talk to the guy alone, or do I call for reinforcements? The problem was, Dick Voland had already passed the problem on to her, and Frank Montoya would be out of the office for the next several hours.
Time to be a grown-up, Joanna thought.
After a moment’s reflection, she pressed the intercom talk button. “I’ll see him, Kristin,” she said. “Go ahead and show him in.”
By the time Kristin ushered the visitor into the office, Joanna was standing, waiting to greet him. “Good afternoon,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Sheriff Brady. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such tragic circumstances.”
Dotson, a tall, spare man in his late forties or early fifties, bore no family resemblance to his dead cousin. He was carrying a cowboy hat, an old one made of worn gray felt.
“Tragic?” he repeated with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “I don’t know. Couldn’t be helped none, I guess. It was bound to happen.”
Joanna motioned him into one of the two visitor’s chairs. He sat down, carefully balancing his hat on the threadbare knee of a pair of worn Levis’. “What couldn’t be helped, Mr. Dotson?” Joanna asked.
“Reed Carruthers was a son of a bitch, if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am. It’s a wonder somebody didn’t cave his head in a long time ago. His poor wife—my Aunt Ruth—was my mother’s sister. For starters, Aunt Ruth is the one who shoulda done it. There may be meaner men on the face of the earth; I just haven’t had the misfortune of meeting any of ’em. Leastways not so far. And as for Hannah, she was always a couple tacos short of a combination plate, if you know what I mean.”