by J. A. Jance
Since the store had been closed now for twenty-some years, Joanna’s knowledge of the building’s faded merchandizing glory came to her primarily secondhand, through her mother’s steady harping back to the once-glorious good old days. Back then the P.D. store in Bisbee had been the place to shop. In its heyday the store had offered so much, much more than its withered successor—a humdrum, lowly grocery store that still clung stubbornly to life a few miles away in the Warren business district.
With modest renovation, the building’s interior main floor had been redesigned into a meeting-hall configuration. The Bisbee Convention Center hosted each year’s flurry of summer high-school reunions as well as other events. An echo of the store’s retailing glory remained in the thin inner shell of shops that lined the edge of the marbled main floor. There, enterprising merchants hawked turquoise jewelry, curios, and knickknacks to any stray tourists who happened to wander inside. A modestly upscale restaurant occupied one corner of the building and usually catered whatever required catering.
Joanna Brady knew almost all those individual merchants on a first-name basis and had played on the tennis team with the woman who owned and operated the restaurant. All things considered, the Bisbee Convention Center should not have been a scary place for her, yet tonight it was. Impossibly so. Standing outside in the cold, watching others arrive and hurry inside, was far preferable to going inside herself.
“I see you’re not all that eager to go inside, either,” a familiar male voice teased from behind her.
Joanna turned to greet Frank Montoya, the Willcox city marshal, who was one of her two opponents in the race for sheriff. During a series of joint-candidate appearances in front of local civic groups, Joanna had come to like Frank—a tall, scrawny, crew-cut Mexican-American of thirty-five. Frank’s ready wit and screwball sense of humor camouflaged real dedication to his work and a serious sense of purpose.
Frank Montoya was the son of once-migrant farmworkers who had, years before, settled in Willcox on a permanent basis. He came to law enforcement through a hitch in the army as an MP and with an associate of arts degree in police science from Cochise College. In an area of the country where Mexican-Americans were still often deemed second-class citizens, voters in Willcox had surprised themselves and Frank, too, by electing him to serve as city marshal while he continued to commute back and forth to the university in Tucson to earn his B.A. in law enforcement.
“Hi, Frank,” Joanna returned lightly. “You’re right. I’m not looking forward to it. I’d much rather have a root canal.”
“Me, too,” Montoya agreed with a laugh. “The Big Guy showed up a few minutes ago. I watched him go inside. He was in seventh heaven with a television camera following his every move and with two microphones stuck in his face. It makes it easier for him to talk out of both sides of his mouth.”
Joanna couldn’t help laughing.
Al Freeman, the heavyset former chief of police in Sierra Vista, was the third candidate in the three-way race for sheriff. In campaign appearances and brochures, Freeman had self-importantly characterized himself as the “only law-enforcement professional” running for the office of sheriff. That tactic had effectively thrown Joanna and Frank Montoya together in an uneasy alliance, which, to their mutual wonder, had blossomed into an unlikely friendship.
With a lessening of tension, Joanna grinned back at Frank. “I don’t know what’s been worse—limping around with doorbelling blisters on both feet or having to sit through Al Freeman’s endless redneck-and-proud-of-it speeches.”
“No question in my book,” Frank Montoya said. “Al Freeman’s speeches win that contest hands-down.”
They both laughed then, in unison. Frank held out his hand and smiled. “So may the best token win, Joanna,” he said solemnly. “I hope to hell one of us beats the pants off that loudmouthed bastard.” They shook hands. “By the way,” Frank added, “I like the haircut. Your mother’s doing?”
“How did you know?”
“Take one guess,” Frank said, running one hand over his own freshly trimmed hair. “Joanna, our mothers may be from opposite sides of the tracks, but other than that, they must be twins.”
Fourteen
THE USUALLY mild-mannered and easygoing Linda Kimball was on a tear. The Election Night bash in Bisbee’s new convention center, a bipartisan effort where political enemies buried the hatchet and socialized, was also the primary fund-raiser for a prominent local arts group called the Bisbee Betterment Society.
As one of the movers and shakers behind the annual event, Linda was required to play hostess. Armed with a glass of plain fruit punch and an ironclad smile, she was doing her duty, but she was also looking for her husband. With some real fire in her eyes.
Three hours after he should have been home and two hours after they were due at the convention center, Burton still hadn’t showed up or even called. Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered her. Linda understood that the unexpected often happened in Burton’s work life, especially the day before he was due in court with an important case. And if he had been working, she wouldn’t have minded or said a word. After all, Burton’s job was what made their comfortable lifestyle possible. They lived a far more affluent existence than Linda had ever dreamed possible growing up in Cotton-wood as the daughter of a school-cafeteria worker and a none-too-successful used-car salesman.
Burtie’s tardiness had nothing to do with work. That was the problem. Linda already knew from several different sources that it had more to do with booze than the practice of law. Word had come back to Linda that Burton had spent a good part of the afternoon in the Blue Moon Saloon up Brewery Gulch. Of all places! If Burtie was going to go drinking, couldn’t he at least do it someplace a little more respectable?
One of Linda’s “friends” could barely contain her glee when she called with the news, which she had heard from someone else who’d heard it from a friend of Don Frost, who was a classic lush if ever there was one. To add insult to injury, not only had Burton been drinking in the bar, everybody in town evidently knew it.
The last time Burton Kimball had gotten himself really plastered was at his own bachelor’s party twelve years earlier. He was still green around the gills by the time the wedding party got to the church the next afternoon. Linda Kimball had a whole wedding album of pictures as documented evidence to prove it. She had told Burtie then and there that if he wanted to be married and stay married, he’d better knock off the drinking. And he had. Until now.
Without Burton at the party to offer his technical assistance, Linda herself had been forced to oversee the placement of Harvey Dawson’s paired television monitors, which would broadcast both local and statewide election results. Statewide results would come from Tucson stations, while local ones would be displayed on Bisbee’s public-access channel. There typed messages listing local election results would be mixed in with civic and commercial announcements.
Linda had noodled her way through the television monitor confusion only to find herself caught in the middle of a last-minute run-in between Bisbee’s two competing caterers. On this one night, they were forced to work together. And when a turf war broke out, Linda settled it. But as the evening wore on, as she was forced to handle one crisis after another, Linda’s temper rose and Burton Kimball’s rapidly tumbling husbandly stock fell that much further.
As Bisbee parties went, the Bisbee Betterment Society Election Night bash was not to be missed. Even early on, the center’s main-floor meeting room was brightly lit and smoky. A local country-western band twanged away plaintively in the background. Busy circulating, Linda was near the door when Joanna Brady and Frank Montoya came in together. When Frank wasn’t looking, Linda gave Joanna a discreet high sign.
Linda had grown up with a father addicted to Angie Dickinson’s Police Woman. Linda Kimball—who baked her own bread, canned her own vegetables, and sewed her own clothes—would have been the last person to think of herself as one of those so-called “women’s libbers.�
� Still, it had done her heart good to vote for a woman for sheriff for a change, especially over that loudmouthed bigot named Al Freeman.
Linda started over to say hello, but Joanna was intercepted by one of the Tucson television reporters who was stationed just inside the main entrance. The reporter squeezed herself in between the two candidates, cutting Frank out of the picture and shoving a microphone in Joanna’s direction.
“Mrs. Brady, are you excited about the possibility of becoming Arizona’s first female sheriff?” she asked.
Linda thought she detected a hint of annoyance in Joanna’s voice as she answered. “Being a female has nothing to do with it. Law enforcement is the only real issue here.”
“I see,” the reporter returned. “What about the campaign? Has it been difficult for you?”
Linda cringed inwardly at the crassness of the question. Everyone in town knew how devastated Joanna Brady had been over the death of her husband. Was this reporter some kind of idiot? Had she asked Linda Kimball that same question under similar circumstances, she could have expected to have her teeth rattled by someone shaking her by the fully padded shoulders of her fashionable wool blazer.
Joanna paused, as if gathering her resources. “Election campaigns are always difficult,” she returned evenly. “Regardless of who wins, I’ll be happy to have the election out of the way.”
Linda wanted to cheer, “Good for you!” but she didn’t.
“If you win tonight,” the reporter continued, “when will you start work?”
“What do you mean, when will I start? Newly elected officials are all sworn into office early in January.”
The reporter looked puzzled. “But I thought…”
“You thought what?”
“I was speaking to Mr. Freeman just a few minutes ago. He said that someone on the board of supervisors had told him they want to fill the sheriff vacancy immediately—right after the election, without waiting until January.”
A deep red flush stole up Joanna Brady’s face. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she returned coldly.
Behind Joanna the door opened, and Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady came in with their grand-daughter walking stoically between them.
“Isn’t that your daughter?” the reporter asked, catching sight of them. “She’s such a cute little thing. I wanted the camera to get a shot of the two of you together.”
“You’ll have to ask Jenny whether or not she wants to be on TV. It’s up to her.”
The reporter turned questioningly to Jenny, who shook her head emphatically. “That’s that then,” Joanna said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
As Joanna hurried past, Linda Kimball reached out and shook her hand. “Congratulations, Joanna. Good job,” she said.
Linda could have been talking about just the election, but she actually meant far more than that. In that brief exchange with the reporter, she had caught a glimpse of Joanna Brady’s basic honesty and toughness.
Those were qualities Linda Kimball should have recognized. She had them in abundance herself.
Still steamed by her encounter with the reporter, Joanna took Jenny with her and set off across the room to where she had caught sight of Milo Davis standing visiting with Jeff Daniels and his wife, Reverend Marianne Maculyea.
“So,” Jeff was saying to Milo, “we actually took back the study today. Cleaned out all the mass-mailing stuff, unburied Marianne’s desk…”
“I even vacuumed,” Marianne chirped proudly.
“You vacuumed?” Joanna teased, coming in on the tail end of the conversation. “I don’t believe it. That only happens once in a blue moon, doesn’t it, Jeff?” she asked.
“Mark your calendars then,” he said, “because she did it, and we’re not just talking her study, either. She vacuumed the whole house.”
Marianne smiled good-naturedly at the ribbing. “Just don’t expect it all the time. It’s decompression. With all the campaign work over, I needed something to do with my hands.”
Jenny naturally gravitated toward Jeff, who took her by the hand and led her toward the refreshment table. Meanwhile, Marianne examined Joanna’s face. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”
Joanna glanced back over her shoulder toward the reporter, who was still stationed by the door. “That reporter just told me that, according to Al Freeman, the board of supervisors wants to swear in the new sheriff right away. Is that possible?”
Milo, juggling a glass of wine and a plate of hors d’oeuvres, munched thoughtfully on a dip-covered carrot stick. “Are you just now hearing about that?”
Marianne frowned. “That creep,” she said. As far as Al Freeman was concerned, Marianne’s venture into political campaigning had divested Reverend Maculyea of some of her Christian charity. “He always did claim to have an inside track with county government.”
“But it’s not such a bad idea,” Milo Davis said. “After all, the position is vacant. Swearing in the winner right away will give the new administration a head start on solving departmental problems. Dick Voland’s been doing an okay job on an interim basis, but the board would be well within its authority to install the new sheriff immediately.”
“But what if I win?” Joanna objected.
Milo looked at her with a shocked expression on his face. “What do you mean, what if? Are we having a crisis of confidence here? Of course you’re going to win.”
“But I couldn’t just go off and leave you high and dry like that. Not without any notice.”
“I’ve had plenty of notice,” Milo said reasonably. “It’s not going to be a problem. As soon as you said you’d run, I started looking for your replacement.”
Trying to mask the flicker of hurt she felt, Joanna looked away. She had worked at the Davis Insurance Agency first as a receptionist, and later as office manager, from the moment she graduated from high school eleven years earlier. Before Andy’s death, Milo had been grooming her to take over much of the selling end of the business as well. Was he really finding it so easy to replace her?
“You’ve found someone then?” she ventured tentatively, dreading his answer.
Milo’s cheerful grin wounded her to the soul. “Yup,” he said, sounding proud and almost gleeful. “Lisa took the last of her licensing exams just last week. The results came in today’s mail. I won’t be able to start taking her out on calls with me, though, until after we find a new receptionist. That could be a whole lot tougher proposition.”
Joanna was dumbfounded. “I see,” she mumbled.
Milo nodded. “Lisa’s had her hands full, working on the licensing exams and trying to stay ahead of the regular workload as well.”
Especially since she was doing it behind my back, Joanna thought bitterly. She said, “What happens if I don’t win, Milo? Does this mean I’m out of a job?”
“Are you kidding? We’ll still need to hire a new receptionist. If I have two full-time agents working for me, I’ll finally start getting to take some time off. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my wife voted against you today for that very reason. She has her mouth all set for us to go on a two-week cruise in the Caribbean come January. If you win, she might not get to take it.”
One of Milo’s golf-playing buddies showed up then. Marianne took Joanna by the arm. “The candidate looks as though she could use some fresh air. Come on.”
Linda Kimball caught sight of Burton the moment he stepped inside the door. He was green all right, the same shade as in the wedding pictures and in the video she’d taken of him and the kids when they got off the teacups ride at Disneyland. His hair was standing on end. His clothes looked as though he’d slept in them.
Linda was at his side before he was ten feet into the room. “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded in a tense whisper.
“I’m looking for Uncle Harold,” Burton answered wanly. “Have you seen him? His Scout’s out back in the lot. He must be here somewhere.”
“Believe me,” Linda returned coldly, “if U
ncle Harold were here, I would have seen him. I’ve been watching this door like a hawk. Now how about telling me what you’ve been up to, mister. I’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors, and I don’t like any of them. Come to think of it, I don’t much like the way you smell, either.”
“Linda, please,” Burton said, glancing anxiously around the crowded room. “Do we have to talk about this here? Couldn’t we have this discussion later?”
“We’re discussing it now!” Linda answered, her voice rising in pitch. “Right this very minute!”
Burton took her arm and guided her back to the door. “Come on,” he said. “People are listening.”
“Listening isn’t all they’ve been doing,” Linda replied. “They’ve been talking a blue streak. Everybody in town knows you’ve been out drinking. How come you spent the afternoon at the Blue Moon up Brewery Gulch?”
Burton Kimball’s shoulders sagged. “You know about that?”
“Damned right I know about it. You’d better tell me what’s going on.”
But something about Burton’s careworn face, his desolate expression, muted the worst of Linda’s anger. “What’s wrong?” she asked more quietly, once they were outside.
Burton leaned against the wall of the building. “I quit Uncle Harold’s case,” Burton said. “He’s going to settle with Holly out of court.”
“Why on earth would he do a stupid thing like that?”
Burton shrugged hopelessly. “Who knows? He’s going to split the ranch in half. When he gets done, there won’t even be enough left for Ivy to make a living.”
That was it. Ivy again! Linda might have known Ivy would be at the bottom of it. She had known her husband for fourteen years and had been married to him for twelve. She had never for one moment doubted that Burton loved her and their two children, but from the beginning she had always known that Ivy Patterson came first.