by J. A. Jance
Joanna glanced at Edith Mossman sitting quietly in the front seat of the idling Civvie.
She probably wasn’t particularly dangerous at that point.
“Let’s just say I consider it serious,” she said. “And credible. Tell Debbie not to let him out of her sight.”
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“Good enough.”
“Did you learn anything useful?” Joanna asked.
“Other than Eddie Mossman’s a total creep? He came up from Mexico because his daughter’s about to become engaged to some guy from up near Kingman.”
“But I thought Kelly Mossman was already married,” Joanna objected.
“Kelly?” Jaime said. “I don’t know anything about Kelly. I’m sure Mossman said his daughter’s name was Cecilia.”
Joanna’s stomach tightened. Knowing that Eddie Mossman had yet another at-risk daughter made what little roast beef Joanna had managed to swallow threaten to stage a rebellion.
“Did you find out how he learned about Carol’s death?” she asked.
“Sure did. He said that another daughter, Stella, called to let him know.”
“Called how?”
“On his cell phone,” Jaime answered.
“Did you get the number?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Tell Frank I want incoming and outgoing call records for that phone.”
“But the phone is from Mexico.”
“That’s all right. All that means is that Frank Montoya will have to work a little harder than he usually does to retrieve the information. He may have to pay a little mordida to get it. What are you doing next?”
“Heading into the office to get organized and to see what Frank may have for us.”
“Good enough. Tell him I’m taking Mrs. Mossman back to 272
Sierra Vista. We’ll have to have our morning briefing when I get back.”
Joanna stowed her phone and clambered into the driver’s seat, grateful to be out of the heat and the rising humidity.
“Anything important?” Edith asked.
“No,” Joanna said. “Just touching base with some of my people.”
They drove through town in relative silence. It was only when they emerged from the other side of Mule Mountain Tunnel that Joanna resumed her questioning. “You’ve told me about Carol,” she said. “And a little about Andrea, but you’ve barely mentioned Stella.”
“I don’t like her much,” Edith said abruptly. “Of all the girls, she’s the one who’s most like her father. I was surprised that she offered to come get me the other day and bring me to town when your detectives needed to talk to me. She doesn’t usually come across all sweetness and light.”
“Considering her history, I’d be surprised if she did,” Joanna said.
“Yes,” Edith agreed. “That’s why, with Stella-with all the girls, really-I’ve always been willing to let things slide.”
“So what’s her story?” Joanna asked.
“She came along with Carol, but once she got here, she wouldn’t do a thing I told her. She was just as wild as she could be, but she grew out of it. She married herself a nice young man, and she seems to be doing all right now.”
“I met her son,” Joanna said.
Edith shot Joanna a questioning glance.
“He’s nice, too,” Joanna said.
“Yes.” Edith Mossman sighed. “I suppose he is.”
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‘And who’s Cecilia?” Joanna asked.
“Cecilia who?” Edith asked.
Right that moment, Joanna wasn’t prepared to tell Edith Mossman that she had yet another granddaughter, a possible half sister of Carol, Stella, Andrea, and Kelly, who was now also in jeopardy.
“Never mind,” Joanna said at last. “I’m probably mistaken.”
After that, Edith Mossman settled back in her seat. Seconds later she was snoring softly. In the relative silence that followed, Joanna thought about Carol Mossman and her three victimized sisters. It was one thing for a ten-year-old child to take over the household responsibilities-the care and feeding-of three younger siblings, but for Carol to be unable to protect any of them, herself included, from their own father … That was, as Edith Mossman had said, unthinkable! No wonder that, as an adult, Carol had turned to animals for comfort and companionship. Compared to what the human race had dished out to her, dogs must have seemed amazingly uncomplicated.
Joanna’s phone crowed. She reached for it quickly afraid the sound might disturb Edith, but the snores continued unabated.
“Yes,” Joanna said quietly.
“Where are you right now?” Frank Montoya asked.
“On my way to Sierra Vista to take Edith Mossman back to her place. Why?”
“And that’s at the Ferndale Retirement Center?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve hit the jackpot then,” he said. “So far, nobody at PD up in Phoenix has been able to come up with a list of General Office employees, but according to the guy I talked to, we’ve got something just as good. Does the name Bob Mahilich ring a bell?”
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“Sure,” Joanna said. “He’s the Bisbee boy who made good and went on to become some bigwig for Phelps Dodge up in Phoenix.”
“That’s right,” Frank Montoya agreed. “Went to college on a full-ride PD scholarship and went to work for them as soon as he graduated from the Colorado School of Mines.
Now he’s their VP for Operations.”
“What about him?” Joanna asked.
“When the person I was talking to found out what I wanted, she referred me to Bob, since she knew he was from Bisbee originally. I figured it was going to be another dead end, but I called him anyway and got lucky. His grandmother, Irma Mahilich, worked in the General Office here in Bisbee from the time she graduated from high school until she retired in 1975. According to Bob, Irma’s memory isn’t so sharp when it comes to telling you what she had for breakfast, but as far as what she did during her working years, she’s an encyclopedia.”
“He thinks she’d remember who worked in the General Office way back then?”
“Right, since she hired most of them. And you’ll never guess where she lives.”
“Where?”
“At the Ferndale Retirement Center. For all I know, she may live right next door to Edith Mossman.”
“You want me to talk to her?” Joanna asked.
“Either that or I can send Jaime and Ernie.”
“No. They have enough to do. When it comes to dealing with LOLs, I’m every bit as good as they are.”
“That’s what I thought,” Frank agreed.
Joanna glanced at Edith Mossman, who hadn’t stirred. “Any other news?”
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“Yes. Ernie’s been in touch with Fandango Productions. They’re checking with their attorney to see whether or not they can give us access to the two victims’ company e-mail files. Otherwise, we’ll have to go through the pain of sending someone over there and serving them with a warrant.”
“Let me know what happens on that score.”
Joanna’s phone buzzed in her ear. “I’ve got another call, Frank. I have to go.”
“Joey?” Butch Dixon asked. “Where are you?”
“On my way to Sierra Vista. I’m just crossing the San Pedro. What’s up?”
“You’ll never guess who just called.”
Joanna was too tired to want to play games. “Who?” she asked.
“Drew,” Butch replied excitedly.
Drew Mabrey was the literary agent who, for the last year, had been trying to sell Butch’s first manuscript, Serve and Protect. In the intervening months, Butch had worked on the second book in the series, and he had also done a good deal of physical labor on their new house. But as time had passed with no word of acceptance on the manuscript, Butch had become more and more discouraged.
“And?”
“Remember that editor, the one who had expressed interest in the
book and then ended up turning it down? Something to do with Marketing not liking it?”
“Yes. Didn’t she move to another publishing house or something?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right,” Butch said. ‘And this morning she called Drew to see if Serve and Protect is still available. Drew is pretty sure she’s going to make an offer after all.”
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“Butch, that’s wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed. “When will you know?”
“Probably sometime later this week.”
Edith stirred. “What’s wonderful?” she asked.
“I have to go, Butch,” Joanna said. “Congratulations. We’ll talk more later. That was my husband calling,” Joanna explained to Edith, once she was off the phone “He just had some very good news. He’s written a book, and someone may be interested in buying it.”
“I’m glad,” Edith said. “It’s nice to hear that someone has good news.”
Looking at Edith Mossman’s weary, grief-ravaged face, Joanna was immediately awash in guilt and resolve as well. Carol Mossman had been murdered, taking with her huge chunks of her grandmother’s heart.
We’ll find out who did it, Joanna vowed silently. I promise you that.
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Twenty minutes later, having escorted Edith Mossman to her Ferndale Retirement Center apartment, Joanna presented herself at the reception desk in the lobby. “Can you tell me the room number for Irma Mahilich?” she asked.
“One forty-one,” the receptionist answered without looking up. “But Irma’s not in her room. She’s over there, working a jigsaw puzzle.”
Joanna glanced around the lobby. The attractively furnished and brightly carpeted room resembled an upscale hotel lobby rather than what Joanna would have expected in an assisted-living facility. Several seating areas were ranged around the reception desk. A large-screen television blared unwatched in one of them. Two women, both in wheelchairs, sat reading newspapers in another. In a third-one lined with book-laden shelves-a solitary woman sat hunched over the bare outline of a round jigsaw puzzle so large that, once completed, it would
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cover much of the massive table. It wasn’t until Joanna approached the table that she realized the woman was studying the pieces with absolute intensity and with the aid of a handheld magnifying glass.
“Mrs. Mahilich?” Joanna asked.
Irma Mahilich’s shoulders were stooped. Thinning white hair stood on end in a flyaway drift. She wore dentures, but the lower plate was missing. The bottom left-hand portion of her mouth turned down, betraying the lingering effects of a stroke.
“Yes,” Irma said, lowering the magnifying glass. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sheriff Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady.”
“That’s right. I remember now. Aren’t you D. . Lathrop’s little girl?” Irma asked, peering up at her visitor.
Surprised, Joanna answered, “Yes. He was my father.”
“I’m the one who hired him to work for the company, you know, back when I was running the PD employment office. When he showed up there, your father had never done a lick of work in a mine. Everybody else said he wouldn’t last, but I had a good feeling about him. And he stuck in there-right up until he decided to go into law enforcement.
When he ran for office, I was proud to vote for him. Did that every time he ran.
D. . Lathrop was a nice young man. It’s a shame he got killed the way he did. Now, what do you want?”
Joanna was taken aback, both by Irma Mahilich’s abrupt manner as well as by her unexpectedly detailed memories of D. . Lathrop.
“I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions,” Irma continued. “They send that social worker around from time to time to bother me. She’s so young she looks like she should still be in high school. She asks me things like who’s the president of the
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United States and other such nonsense. I don’t know who the president is because I don’t care anymore. Those politicians are all just alike anyway. But it’s like she’s trying to find out how much I know about what’s going on around me. If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t need to be in a place like this, now would I?”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose you would.”
“So what do you want?” Irma demanded again. “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, girl.
And while you’re at it, have a seat. I don’t like it when people hover over me.”
Joanna sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table with a clear view of the lid to the two-thousand-piece puzzle that featured a stained-glass window in brilliant primary colors-jewel-tone blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Just looking at the tiny, intricate pieces was enough to give Joanna a headache. The round-edged border was all in place but not much else.
“We’re working on a case,” Joanna said quietly. ‘A homicide case. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What homicide?” Irma asked. “Somebody here?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s a relief then. So who died?”
“Three women, actually. A woman was murdered over by the San Pedro last week. Two additional victims were found in New Mexico the next day.”
With her hand trembling, Irma picked up a piece of the puzzle and put it unerringly in the proper spot, sighing with satisfaction as it slipped neatly into place.
“That lets me out then,” she said as she resumed studying the other loose pieces.
“I’ve been shut up in here for years, so I can’t possibly be a suspect.”
“No,” Joanna agreed, “you’re not a suspect, but we thought 279
you might be able to help us find the killer. Your grandson thought the same thing.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Bob.”
“You mean Bob Junior,” Irma said, nodding. “That boy’s always giving me far more credit than I’m due.” With that, Irma put down her magnifying glass and stared at Joanna. “Now tell me, how could I be of help?” she asked.
“All three women were murdered with the same weapon,” Joanna answered. “They were shot with ammunition that dated from 1917. We have reason to believe that the ammunition, and maybe even the weapon, may have come from a cache of weapons that was once stored in the safe in the General Office.”
“Oh, those,” Irma breathed. “The ones from the Deportation. I remember telling Mr.
Frayn, my boss, at the time they opened that safe-I remember saying, ‘We need to get rid of those things, Mr. Frayn. Burn them if need be. They were bad news when they were used in 1917, and they’re bad news now.’ But Mr. Frayn-Otto Frayn, his name was-wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll just hand them out to whoever wants them,’ he said, and that’s what he did. Passed them along to the people who worked there.”
“Which is why I’m here talking to you, Mrs. Mahilich,” Joanna said. “We need to know who all was working there with you at the time.”
“You should contact the company for that,” Irma said, picking the magnifying glass back up and resuming her careful examination of the puzzle, pieces.
“We already tried that,” Joanna explained. “At the moment they’re unable to locate any official records that date from as long ago as 1975, but your grandson suggested we talk to you. He said you’d probably remember who “worked there. Maybe 280
you can’t remember all of them, but if you could put us in touch with one or two, perhaps those people can lead us to others.”
“I don’t suppose this can wait until after I finish the puzzle, can it?” Irma asked.
“No,” Joanna said, glancing at the empty expanse of open puzzle. “I’m afraid we need what information you can offer a little sooner than that.”
“Oh, all right,” Irma said impatiently. “You might want to go over to the desk and get me some pieces of paper and a pencil. Meet me at that table over there.” She pointed to a table in the still empty TV alcove. “That way we won’t disturb any of the puzzle pieces.”
While Joanna hustled off to the receptionist’s desk, Irma produced a folded walker from under her chair. She was just tottering up to the second table when Joanna returned.
Joanna reached to help Irma onto a chair, but Irma pushed her hand away.
“Leave me alone and turn off that TV set,” she snapped. “With all that noise, I can barely hear myself think.”
Chastened, Joanna located the remote and turned off the television. Then she took a seat at the table and pushed paper and pencil in front of Irma. When she was seated, Irma once again stowed her walker, picked up the pencil and began to draw, frowning and biting her lower lip in total concentration. Joanna watched while Irma drew a series of shaky rectangles on the first sheet of paper. Then she began to label each of them.
“This is the way the desks were arranged when you first came into the building,”
she explained. “It’s easier for me to remember where people were located than it is for me to remember their names. Nona Cooper sat here, for instance,” Irma said, pointing at one of the first rectangles she had drawn. “And the door was right next to her, so you had to come in past
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her desk. She always had a picture of her little boy on her desk. I believe his name was Randolph, but she called him Randy, and he was cute as a button. He died, though.
Got drafted into the army right out of high school and died in Vietnam in 1967. Poor Nona. She never got over it. She died in ‘76, just a year or so after she got laid off. Committed suicide. Can’t say I blame her.”
Joanna had her notebook out by then. Sorry she hadn’t brought spare tapes and grateful to be proficient in shorthand, she made swift notes of everything Irma said.
“Would Nona Cooper have been given one of the weapons from the safe?” Joanna asked.
Irma shook her head. “Certainly not,” she huffed. “Randy was killed by sniper fire.
Nona wouldn’t have had a gun in her house on a bet.”
Joanna and Irma worked that way for the better part of an hour, with Irma drawing and labeling individual desks in the various rooms, all the while delivering thumbnail sketches of each desk’s respective occupant. Irma had begun drawing the fourth and final room when Joanna’s cell phone rang.