Tombstone Courage

by J. A. Jance

  But now, for the first time, she saw it for what it really was—a scam. How many of the families mentioned in the article had paid damages for something that wasn’t necessarily true? How many of the supposed memories were being artificially augmented, Holly wondered, and how much had each of their families ponied up to re-bury the past?

  Amy Baxter may have started out in life as a scholarship/charity case from the wrong side of the tracks, but she was well on her way toward amassing a fortune from a very lucrative practice, especially with Rex as her sidekick. If she happened to turn up a family with enough money to make it worthwhile, some of that money was bound to find its way to their treatment center; she and Rex could soon settle into partnership with a self-sustaining cottage industry of counseling the victims and suing the perpetrators.

  The silence of the house nudged its way through Holly’s solitary musings. Rex and Amy must still be out somewhere, maybe together, maybe separately. But when one or the other of them came back, Isobel was bound to tell them what had happened in the kitchen. If Amy once realized Holly knew the truth…

  The sense of her own danger came back again, as strong or stronger than when it first struck her in the kitchen. But if her friend Amy was really the enemy, where in God’s name could Holly turn for help?

  In the end, she was forced to beg for aid from the least likely of sources—her cousin Burton Kimball. Maybe he was a wimp, but she didn’t know anyone else to ask.

  Standing by the old-fashioned dial-type phone on the table in Casa Vieja’s upstairs corridor, and keeping her voice low lest she be overheard, Holly tried calling Burton’s office. His secretary told her he was out, most likely for the rest of the afternoon. Could she take a message? No, no message.

  Even more frightened, Holly tried to think of another solution. Was it possible, with everything that was going on, that Burton might have taken the day off? Pulling open the drawer in the table, she searched through the phone book until her trembling fingers finally located the Kimball’s home number. A woman answered after only one ring.

  “Who is this?” Holly asked.

  “Linda Kimball. Who’s this?”

  Holly had never met the woman Burton had married, but this was bound to be Burton’s wife. “Is your husband there?” Holly asked, rushing on in a strangled whisper.

  “Ivy?” Linda said. “Is that you? Are you all right? You sound strange.”

  Ivy! Holly had both envied and hated Ivy all her life. Ivy was the good girl, the favorite, the one who never got her clothes dirty; who never made mud pies out of eggs from the henhouse; who never thought up practical jokes to pull on other people. And yet, until Linda Kimball mistook Holly’s voice for Ivy’s, it had never dawned on Holly how much they were alike, how much they sounded alike.

  “I’m not Ivy; I’m Holly,” she managed. “I’ve got to talk to your husband. Right away.”

  “What about?”

  “About his father; about mine.”

  “Burton isn’t home,” Linda said, her voice suddenly closed and flat. “He isn’t here, and I have no idea when he’ll be back.”

  “Where did he go? I’ve got to see him now. It’s important.”

  “As soon as he gets back, I’ll have him call you.”

  “Don’t do that. He can’t call here.”

  “How can he get back in touch with you then?”

  “I don’t think he can,” Holly Patterson said, “because by then it’ll be too late. By then I’ll be dead.”

  With that, she hung up the phone. She looked up and down the hall. The house was still unnaturally silent, but even then she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive outside.

  Panicked, Holly knew she had to get out. Now. That was the only way to save herself. Holding her breath, she crept back down the stairs, grateful for the strip of carpeting that covered the hardwood risers.

  Pausing on the ground floor, she heard Isobel working industriously in the kitchen, chopping something, singing under her breath, but there were voices outside. Rex and Amy were walking up to the back door from the garage. They’d be there any moment.

  Still wearing her nightgown, robe, and fur-lined bedroom slippers, Holly tiptoed across the slate entryway and let herself out the front door. She walked bent over, hoping that, by staying close to the ground, she could avoid being seen by anyone, including Isobel’s gardener husband. She crept around the far side of the building and made for the ivy-covered terraces at the back of the house where she had once tried to seduce poor Bobby Corbett.

  Without looking back, she scrambled down the four-foot drops between levels of terrace. At every step, the thick, straggly vines reached out to entangle her feet and send her tumbling, but she kept on. At last she came to the far end of the property, where a barbed-wire fence barred her way. Beyond that lay the first few far-flung boulders—massive hunks of rock waste that had bounced high and fallen wide as they tumbled down the steeply angled flanks of the dump.

  As Holly tried to wiggle through the fence, sharp wire barbs caught on threads of her terry-cloth robe. Unable to free it at once and intent only on reaching the dump, Holly slipped out of the robe and went on, leaving the white cloth dangling on the fence behind her like a June bug’s discarded shell.

  It was desperately cold that day, but even with nothing on but her nightgown, Holly didn’t notice. She had eyes only for the massive multicolored dump with the achingly blue sky arching far above it. All her life, that dump had exerted a strange, inexplicable pull on Holly Patterson. When she reached the bottom, she hesitated, but only for a moment. For all her life, she had wondered what was on top of that dump. Today, to save her life, she was going to find out.

  She was halfway up when Amy’s voice found her. “Holly! What are you doing? Come down. Come down right now before you hurt yourself.”

  Holly closed her eyes, trying to resist the inescapable pull of that beckoning voice.

  “Come…down…right…now!”

  Holly wanted desperately not to hear that voice, not to respond, but she did. Without even having to leave the bottom level of the terrace, Amy began to count.

  “Ten,” her voice called out in that powerfully soothing cadence. “Nine, eight, seven…”

  Slowly, the numbers worked their inevitable way down to zero. They burrowed their way deep into Holly’s consciousness like so many writhing worms, devouring both her will and her newfound memories.

  When Amy’s commanding voice stopped Holly’s ascent, she had been near the lip of the two-hundred-foot-high dump, climbing fearlessly. Halfway down, she happened to glance at the desert floor one hundred feet below her. She gasped with shock to see how high she was, how far she had climbed. Trembling with fear in every limb, she had all she could do to continue down.

  Somehow, for a few moments at least, Holly Patterson had forgotten that she was desperately afraid of heights.

  Joanna came back from lunch to a world of pandemonium. The two brothers from Kansas Settlement who had tried to murder one another with baseball bats the night before were once again on a friendly basis. Despite the fact that one of the two was still hospitalized with injuries, they were ready to be ruled by brotherly love. Their mother, who had not attended the birthday fracas, had negotiated a peace treaty and hired a lawyer.

  When Joanna picked up her messages, one was from a Willcox attorney letting her know that his Kansas Settlement clients were prepared to sue the county and the two deputies who had arrested them with false arrest and police brutality. A second message, from the county attorney, related to that same issue.

  “What am I supposed to do about this?” Joanna asked.

  Kristin shrugged.

  “Who usually handles this kind of thing?”

  “Mr. Sanders, usually. But he’s on vacation,” Kristin added with only the smallest of smirks.

  “Who takes care of those problems when Mr. Sanders isn’t available?”

  “Nobody else that I know of. He’s been doing it ever s
ince I got here. He also usually attends the Multi-Jurisdictional meetings, and there’s one of those starting at two. Are you going?”

  “There isn’t a note about that MJ meeting on my calendar,” Joanna said, pointing to the laminated wall calendar she had posted in order to keep track of where she was supposed to be and when. There was no Magic Marker notation in the afternoon slot.

  “I must’ve forgotten,” Kristin said. “Sorry.”

  “Like hell you did,” Joanna muttered to herself after the door closed. It was going to take time to either shape Kristin up or get rid of her, but Joanna couldn’t afford to launch into something like that when she was already up to her neck in current-crisis management.

  Sitting back in the chair, Joanna closed her eyes for a moment. She felt isolated and alone. It was fine to go have lunch with Angie or Marianne, but within the department she was on her own. It was hard not to envision that she had stumbled into a den of vipers, all of them waiting for her to make the smallest misstep.

  She realized that having Martin Sanders leave without even bothering to discuss the situation constituted a real blow to her credibility. She had tried to talk Dick Voland into staying, because, with one supervisor out the door, she realized the need of maintaining experienced officers around her to give the department the appearance of continuity. But she also needed an ally, someone on her side who wasn’t going to be eagerly awaiting or even engineering her first public tumble.

  The only problem was, she couldn’t think of anywhere to turn for help. Voland would work with her, but only grudgingly, and only so long as he perceived her to be holding up under pressure. At the first sign of weakness, he’d be all over her like flies on crap. The same held true for Ernie Carpenter.

  For right now, her only choice was to trudge along as best she could. Until she could forge some in-house alliances, it was important to cover all the necessary bases, wear all the hats.

  She picked up the intercom and buzzed Kristin. “Call the MJ folks and let them know I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be sitting in on their Multi-Jurisdictional meeting after all.”

  Without complaint, Linda Kimball had spent all morning doing what she regarded as her wifely duty. That was her job. She made one phone call after another, working her way through the confounding layers of bureaucracy, finding out when the two bodies were likely to be released for burial, making arrangements with Norm Higgins for a private service for Thornton Kimball, and politely dodging Norm’s questions about services for Uncle Harold.

  Norm Higgins had hinted that it would be a lot simpler for all concerned and a lot less expensive to have one joint service for both men, but Linda had nixed that harebrained idea. The funeral for Thornton Kimball would be absolutely private—for family members only. Anyone who tried to turn her husband’s grief into some kind of participatory spectacle would have Linda herself to deal with. As for questions about Uncle Harold’s service, she told Norm, in no uncertain terms, that she was sure Ivy would be in touch to take care of those matters just as soon as she possibly could. If Norm Higgins knew about Ivy’s inappropriate wedding arrangements, he had the good sense not to broach that touchy subject with Linda Kimball.

  When the phone rang between calls, Linda was taken aback to find Holly Patterson on the line. In fact, once she realized who it was, Linda’s first instinct was to hang up. After all, hadn’t Holly Patterson already caused enough trouble for everyone concerned? But Linda’s overall courtesy and good nature won out. Instead of hanging up, she listened.

  When the call was over, she stood with her hand on the receiver for only a moment or two while she made up her mind. A sincere request for help was something Linda Kimball was almost physically incapable of ignoring.

  Without giving herself a chance to change her mind or back out, she combed her hair, put on lipstick and a jacket, and headed for Casa Vieja. She presented herself at the front door at precisely half-past two and smiled pleasantly at the uniformed Mexican woman who opened the door.

  “Why, Isobel Gonzales. I haven’t seen you since your mother passed away in the hospital three years ago. I had no idea you worked here.”

  Isobel nodded. “For almost a year now. Jaime and me both. It’s a good job.”

  “I’m looking for Holly Patterson. Is she here?”

  Another woman appeared over Isobel Gonzales’ shoulder. “Who is it, Isobel?”

  “Mrs. Kimball,” Isobel answered. “To see Miss Patterson.”

  “I’m Holly’s therapist, Amy Baxter,” the other woman said, moving fully into Linda’s view and easing Isobel aside. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I came to see Holly.”

  “I’m afraid Holly isn’t up to seeing anyone just now. She hasn’t been feeling well, with what happened to her father and all. I’ve prescribed total bed rest.”

  “But she called me,” Linda Kimball protested. “She called earlier this afternoon and asked me to stop by.”

  A look of seeming dismay flickered briefly across Amy Baxter’s countenance and then disappeared, replaced by a determined shake of her head. “That can’t be,” Amy said.

  “But it is,” Linda returned civilly. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Kimball. The woman is seriously ill. It simply isn’t possible for her to see you or anybody else.”

  Linda Kimball was an experienced mother whose finely honed instincts warned her whenever one or both of her children was even tempted to tell a lie. Although the reason for it eluded her, she nonetheless sensed the lie behind Amy Baxter’s bland words and felt the blind panic Linda’s unexpected appearance at the door of Casa Vieja had engendered in the other woman’s supposedly composed expression.

  What’s going on? Linda wondered.

  “I’ll be dead by then.” That’s what Holly Patterson had said on the phone—not threateningly, as if dying were something within her own power. She wasn’t crying out with the plaintive voice of someone contemplating suicide and hoping for a last-minute rescue. No, she spoke with the fatalistic, matter-of-fact despair of someone caught in the middle of a railroad trestle with an oncoming train speeding toward her.

  This was Bisbee, a small and supposedly safe community, a town where general wisdom assumed that murders weren’t supposed to happen. But murders do happen here, Linda thought grimly, more often than she liked to believe possible.

  Astute enough to realize that forcing her way into the house would do nothing to help the situation, Linda backed off at once. She donned her best hospital-volunteer mask—the one she used to comfort the grieving relatives and friends she often found huddled outside sickrooms in the polished corridors of Copper Queen Hospital.

  “Just let Holly know I stopped by to see her, would you?” Linda said with a sincerely concerned smile. “I’ll be glad to drop by later on this evening if she’s feeling up to it by then.”

  “I’ll do that,” Amy Baxter said.

  With her knees knocking under her, Linda Kimball marched back to the car. She was frightened. Without knowing quite what it was, she realized she had uncovered something important. Whom should she tell about all this? she wondered. She had to tell someone.

  As soon as she was outside the swinging electronic gates of Casa Vieja, instead of going home, she turned right and headed straight for the sheriff’s office out on Highway 80.

  Thirty-Four

  THE MJ meeting was dull as watching grass grow. Max Foster, a vice detective from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, was the ranking officer for the Cochise County Multi-Jurisdictional Unit. Foster might have been a fine detective, but he was an incredibly poor public speaker. The meeting droned on and on. Even though the information was vitally important, Joanna wasn’t the only one fighting to stay awake. She was relieved when Kristin poked her head in the door and crooked a finger at her.

  Probably the Kansas Settlement boys acting up again, Joanna thought, as she gathered her notepad and followed Kristin out t
he door.

  “What is it?” she asked, as soon as they were in the corridor.

  “Linda Kimball to see you,” Kristin said. “Again.”

  Linda was waiting and pacing the confines of the reception area. “I’m doing it again.” She smiled apologetically. “You’re probably getting pretty tired of me by now.”

  “Come on in,” Joanna said, gesturing Linda into her corner office. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Linda barely waited for the door to finish closing behind them. “I’ve just come from Casa Vieja,” she said, “and I have a funny feeling something isn’t right over there. Something’s the matter with my husband’s cousin Holly.”

  Joanna suppressed a smile. “Considering what all’s gone on this past week,” she replied, “the idea that something’s the matter with Holly Patterson is hardly news.”

  But by the time an anxious Linda Kimball finished recounting her story, even Joanna had to agree that what was happening at Casa Vieja sounded disturbing.

  “Someone should look into this, all right,” Joanna agreed. “If for no other reason but to ask a few questions.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” Linda said. “Burton always says I’m forever jumping to conclusions, but the whole thing gave me a very bad feeling, an edgy feeling. What my mother used to call the willies.”

  “Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “I’ll have someone check it out.”

  When Linda left her office, Joanna went looking for both Richard Voland and Ernie Carpenter. Voland was in Willcox talking to the two deputies involved in the Kansas Settlement problem. Carpenter had gone to Sierra Vista to make arrangements for shipping evidence off to the state crime lab for processing.

  So much for delegating tasks to her second-and third-in-command, Joanna thought. She briefly considered sending one of the deputies by to check on Holly Patterson, but she thought better of it. A deputy would need to have some idea what to look for, what questions to ask. Unfortunately, Joanna had no idea what directions to give to anyone else. In the end, she decided, like the Little Red Hen, to do it herself.