Tombstone Courage

by J. A. Jance

  As Joanna watched in dismay, Angie Kellogg’s face seemed to splinter into a thousand pieces. The words she had never been able to muster in her own behalf had suddenly erupted in defense of someone she didn’t even know, in defense of Holly Patterson.

  While Angie sobbed brokenly beside her, Joanna finally recognized the linchpin of Angie’s past, a piece that had, until that very moment, eluded her.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, horrified. “The same thing happened to you, didn’t it?”

  Angie nodded. “And my mother wouldn’t even help me. Maybe she didn’t know at first, although she must have. But even when I told her, she didn’t lift a finger, didn’t make him stop.”

  Since mid-September, Joanna had struggled to pull together the stray pieces of Angie’s history. There had been a blank spot. She could never understand what had forced Angie out onto the streets from the time she was a child only a few years older than Jenny was now. And now that Joanna knew, now that she understood, she almost wished she hadn’t.

  “Are you going to be all right?” she asked, reaching out to touch the distraught young woman’s arm.

  Gradually, Angie regained her composure. The sobs diminished to hiccups and sniffles. “I’ll be okay,” she managed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Angie,” Joanna said awkwardly, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  Angie looked at Joanna with a questioning, side-long glance. “You mean you believe me?”

  “Well, of course I believe you,” Joanna replied indignantly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because,” Angie said in a hushed, hesitant way. “The only other person I ever told was my mother and she called me a liar. Said I made the whole thing up. But I didn’t, I swear to God. And that woman whose father is dead, she probably didn’t make it up, either. I wanted her to win in court, that’s all. That’s why I got the lawyer drunk. You do understand that, don’t you, Joanna?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said quietly, getting out of Angie’s car. “I believe I do.”

  Thirty-Two

  BURTON KIMBALL came to work that morning out of habit, because he had no idea what else to do with himself. He sat numbly in his office with the door closed, staring without comprehension at the stack of routine correspondence Maxine had left on his desk. No matter how long he looked at the top letter on the pile, he was unable to make sense of a single paragraph. It could just as well have been written in a foreign language.

  It was as though the connections in Burton’s brain had been short-circuited by the knowledge that his father was dead, that he had been dead all Burton’s life. The whole time, the forty-odd years Burton had been waiting for his father to show up, longing for him to come home and reclaim his son, Thornton Kimball had been within ten miles of him, lying dead in the bottom of a hole with his skull crushed to pieces by a chunk of eon-smoothed creek-bed rock.

  Burton was living through his first morning without the comfort of his cherished childhood illusion. Burton Kimball was an orphan, had always been an orphan, but with the unveiling of that long-skeletonized corpse, his loss and grief were as new as if his father had died yesterday. In Burton Kimball’s heart, that was the truth.

  It should have fallen to him, as the closest surviving kin, to plan whatever funeral service Norm Higgins deemed appropriate, but Burton was too emotionally paralyzed. He simply couldn’t cope. Instead, he turned the whole thorny issue of arrangements over to Linda and fled to his office, where he sat in his chair and hid out.

  Other things that should have commanded his attention barely seeped into his consciousness. The fact that Ernie Carpenter had dared question him with regard to Harold Patterson’s murder was driving Linda crazy, but it hardly mattered to Burton.

  He was sorry about the death of Harold Patterson, the only “father” he had ever known. But what he was shaken by today was the sudden loss of that second, unknown father. He was amazed by the depth of the grief he felt. How could that old, scarred-over wound hurt so much?

  When the phone on his desk rang, Burton jumped as though someone had just lobbed a rock through the window beside his desk. With a suddenly trembling hand, he picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?” he said uncertainly, aware of the sudden catch in his throat.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Maxine Smith said solicitously, “but Rex Rogers is on the phone. He insists on speaking to you personally.”

  “Rex Rogers. What does he want?”

  “He didn’t say. Do you want me to put him through or take a message?”

  “Take a message. I don’t want to talk to anybody this morning, especially not Rex Rogers.”

  “You want me to hold all your calls?”

  “Please.”

  A few moments later, Maxine tapped on Burton’s door. “What did he say?” Burton growled.

  “He wanted to let you know that they’ll be filing a brief to amend the suit so it goes against Mr. Patterson’s estate. That is, unless Ivy is interested in negotiating a settlement now, without any more courtroom proceedings whatsoever.”

  Burton buried his face in his hands. “I should have known,” he said. “That’s Holly through and through—always more than happy to kick somebody when they’re down.”

  He got up and took his coat off the hanger.

  “Where are you going?” Maxine demanded.

  “To see my client.”

  “I thought your client was dead.”

  “I’ve got a new one now,” he answered grimly. “She may not realize she needs me yet, but she does. How are the gossip mills working around town?”

  “Fine, I suppose. Why?”

  “Does anyone know where the honeymooners spent the night?”

  “I suppose if anyone did, Helen Barco would be the one.”

  “I’m going down the hall to wash my face. Get on the horn and see if you can find out where Ivy and her groom spent the night. It’ll be a whole lot easier to track them down if I have some idea where I’m going.”

  As usual, the fact that something threatened Ivy was enough to jar Burton Kimball out of his funk. The same kind of lifetime habit that had brought him to his office that morning now propelled him to action. If Ivy was threatened, he had to do something about it.

  Even as she dialed Helen Barco’s number, Maxine didn’t understand what had gotten into him all of a sudden. Linda Kimball would have understood, if she had known about it. Her husband was like that where Ivy Patterson was concerned—always had been.

  When Isobel Gonzales finished dusting and straightening the living room, she took the morning’s paper out to the kitchen, where she sat down long enough to drink a cup of coffee and read the Bisbee Bee.

  Isobel had lived a quiet and fairly sheltered life. This was the first time a violent death of any kind had touched her life so closely. She tried to imagine how she would feel that morning if she were Holly Patterson.

  It was bad enough for Holly to come back home after all those years to bring such awful charges against her own father. Isobel had no idea what had gone on during that stormy afternoon session in the library on Tuesday. Isobel herself had ushered Harold Patterson into the room for the scheduled conference while Miss Baxter and Miss Patterson were still upstairs. She supposed they were some of the last people to see the old man alive. That saddened her, made her feel somehow responsible.

  Mr. Patterson had been sitting there waiting when Holly came into the room, accompanied by Amy Baxter. Isobel had closed the door behind them and had gone on about her business, doing her best not to eavesdrop, but even in that huge house, she hadn’t been able to avoid the sound of raised and angry voices. When you’re used to a house being peaceful and quiet, it’s hard not to notice when people are yelling.

  Isobel had prepared a casserole and a salad for dinner, and she had left the house early—promptly at five-thirty—so she and Jaime could go vote. She had no idea how the library battle had ended, and she hadn’t seen Holly make
off with Mr. Rogers’ fancy red car either. But she had certainly witnessed the awful aftermath.

  Holly’s appetite had been bad before. After the incident with the car, it was almost nonexistent. She had virtually quit eating altogether. Sometimes she drank something, but the food on the trays remained almost untouched. Isobel worried about it, but she didn’t mention it to either Miss Baxter or Mr. Rogers. As a Mexican-American housekeeper, Isobel Gonzales knew her place. She kept her mouth shut and tried not to listen to the noise of the rocker creaking away in Holly’s room directly over the kitchen.

  Someone would have to be crazy to rock that much, Isobel thought, to sit there rocking and staring out the window at nothing but the dump for hour after hour after hour. Of course, Miss Baxter would never use the word “crazy” or even “loco.” She said Miss Patterson had “emotional problems.” Poor thing.

  And then, just as those thoughts ran through her head, Isobel realized she was no longer hearing the rocker. Moments later, the kitchen door swung open, and a disheveled Holly Patterson stood there in her robe, leaning weakly against the doorjamb. “I want some more coffee,” she said.

  Isobel Gonzales had cared for a number of invalids in her time—people who were ill enough to require looking after, but not sick enough to need a nurse. She knew that after even a few days of bed rest, the transition from bed to walking around is a tricky one that requires careful negotiation.

  “You should sit down,” she said, hurrying to Holly’s side. “You shouldn’t be up walking like this.”

  Holly waved her away. “I’m fine,” she announced. “I’m really fine.” Nevertheless, she did totter over to the table and chairs just inside the door.

  While Isobel hurried to pour a cup of coffee from a fresh pot, Holly sank down at the kitchen table. Her eyes were drawn at once to the pictures on the front page of the paper that was lying there in front of her.

  The moment she saw the picture, a lifetime’s worth of forgotten memories boiled to the surface, threatening to drown her in a head-crushing wave.

  The hours of careful probing sessions with Amy, the hazy, hypnotic, dreamlike questions and answers, had never come near this terrible, searing pain, had never cast a light on Holly Patterson’s interior darkness. Or her horror.

  She grabbed the newspaper and stuffed it into the pocket of her robe, thinking that perhaps if she could no longer see that smiling face, the pain would diminish enough so she could at least breathe. But even with his visage squashed in her hand like an unwary cockroach, she could still see his face. She could still remember.

  And then, in a moment of terrifying clarity, she caught a single glimpse of her own danger. Bolting upright, she knocked over the kitchen chair behind her.

  Isobel started at the sound of the falling chair. Thinking Holly had fainted, she spun around, almost spilling the full cup of coffee she had just poured. When she caught sight of Holly’s stricken face, she nearly dropped it altogether.

  Was the woman having some kind of seizure—a heart attack perhaps? Her mouth gaped open. She seemed to be trying to speak, or maybe even scream, but no sound came out of her open mouth.

  Slamming the cup back down on the counter, Isobel hurried to Holly’s side. “Miss Patterson,” she said. She pulled out one of the remaining chairs and pushed it in Holly’s direction. “What’s the matter? Sit down. Sit down right here. You look like you’re going to faint.”

  “She’s going to kill me!” Holly whispered hoarsely.

  “Miss Patterson, please. No one’s going to kill anybody. You’re imagining things. Please sit down.”

  With surprising agility, Holly Patterson dodged out of Isobel’s reach and made for the stairway. Isobel stood there listening as heavy feet pounded down the long overhead corridor that led back to her room.

  Isobel’s first impulse was to follow the woman. It was clearer to her now than ever before that Miss Baxter was right. In Isobel’s world, Holly Patterson’s “emotional problems” meant the woman was crazy as she could be. Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed shut, and Isobel breathed a sigh of relief. If Miss Patterson had tried to go outside or run away, she would have been far more worried. Instead, she had gone back to her room, back to where she was supposed to be.

  As soon as Miss Baxter and Mr. Rogers came back from their ride, Isobel would have to report the incident, although she still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened.

  Miss Patterson had been looking at the paper. Whatever she saw there, it had upset her terribly at a time when she had already been through too much. Remembering the look on the fleeing woman’s face, Isobel knew she had gone over the edge.

  Isobel stood waiting, expecting to hear the sound of the rocking chair resume, and finally it did.

  Isobel crossed herself and breathed a small prayer. “Let the poor soul alone,” she said to herself. “Just let her be.”

  Burton was less surprised by the fact that Maxine had been able to locate Ivy and Yuri Malakov than he was by where they were found. They had stayed at the Geronimo Lodge, a grade-B motel on the far side of Tombstone.

  The very look of the place offended him. Certainly, Ivy deserved a better honeymoon suite than this. He called their room from a house phone in the lobby. It was almost noon, but when Ivy answered, she sounded as though the phone had awakened her out of a sound sleep.

  “You’re where?” Ivy demanded, finally coming to her senses.

  “I’m in the lobby. I’ve got to talk to you, to both you and…Yuri. It’s important.”

  “Burt, I’m on my honeymoon. I’ve waited for it for forty years, and this is the only one I’ll ever have. Whatever you need, it can wait until tonight. We have to come back to the ranch then to do the chores. We’ll take on the funeral arrangements this evening.”

  “This isn’t about your father,” Burton said. “It’s about Holly.”

  “What about her?”

  “Her attorney called my office just a little while ago.”

  “Why?”

  “She intends to continue to fight you, Ivy, to file against the estate unless you want to negotiate now. Her lawyer will go to Judge Moore and amend the suit.”

  There was a long pause. “Holly can’t do that, can she?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  There was a pause. “All right,” Ivy said finally. “Wait there in the coffee shop. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Burton went into the coffee shop, sank into a booth, and ordered himself a cup of coffee. He noticed Dave Hollicker come in a few minutes later, and Burton casually waved at the deputy as he went by.

  It didn’t occur to Burton Kimball that Dave’s appearance had anything to do with him, or that by interrupting his cousin’s honeymoon, he might be adding fuel to the fire of Ernie Carpenter’s growing conspiracy theory. Because by then, the Cochise County homicide detective was hot on the trail of the possibility that Burton Kimball, Ivy Patterson, and Yuri Malakov might all be in it together.

  Detective Carpenter was growing more and more convinced that the three of them, acting in concert, had murdered Harold Lamm Patterson.

  Thirty-Three

  FOR A while after she went back up to her room, Holly sat on the bed barely allowing herself to breathe. No wonder people thought she was crazy. She really was crazy. In her mind’s eye, it was as though two parallel videotapes were running in tandem, the one from long ago and the other from Tuesday. The old one was horrifying and real. Although the colors had turned to sepia like the rusty shades of old pictures in a museum collection, the faces were still recognizable. Holly knew now who those people were. All of them.

  The other was in living color, although the clouds overhead had covered the dark red cliffs of Juniper Flats in a misty gray wool blanket. First there was her father telling her the real story, while from deep inside her came the first faint rustlings of recognition and remembrance. And then the tap
e ended, abruptly, as though cut off in midscene. After that vivid mountaintop scene there was nothing but the warm, sweet, comfortable oblivion of forgetting. After that came an unreasoning anger that her father hadn’t come as he had said he would, that he had once again betrayed her.

  But that was silly. This time, she realized he hadn’t let her down at all. He had been there in the library, just as he had said he would be. He had offered to make amends, to make things right. And she had forgotten it somehow. That was the part that didn’t make any sense unless she had been made to forget it.

  As she sat there, she tried her best to convince herself that she was wrong, that the sudden shock of panic that had overwhelmed her in the kitchen had to be some kind of horrible mistake. But it wasn’t. As much as it hurt, it was no mistake.

  She knew now that no chance meeting had caused Holly and hypnotherapist Amy Baxter to stumble across one another’s paths months earlier. Amy must have targeted her, come looking for her deliberately. Holly’s fall from grace as well as her intermittent drug-use woes had been well publicized among Hollywood insiders. Amy’s offer of help and much-needed counseling had been a precious lifeline to someone whose telephone calls were no longer returned and whose longtime agent had just cut her loose.

  And after hearing about Holly’s rocky relationship with her family, after learning about the Rocking P, Amy had been only too eager to put Holly in touch with Rex Rogers. Of course, those two weren’t exactly mere nodding acquaintances. As the People article had pointed out, they had worked together on several separate cases and won monetary settlements in most of them.

  When she had first seen the magazine piece, Holly had been naïvely proud that Amy and Rex had been able to find so many other people to help—other people just like her. She had thought that, with Amy as a partner and with the Rocking P as the site for a treatment center, she, too, would be able to make a contribution to their pioneering work.