“As soon as you said you were going, I knew you’d never make it back in time for the dinner, and I think you did, too. But did you say so? No. You did your best imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger saying, ‘I’ll be back,’ which, of course, you weren’t. You left in the afternoon and didn’t turn back up until sometime in the middle of the night. I know you weren’t back earlier because I, too, was calling the room periodically all evening long in hopes you’d be back and able to join in the fun. Either you weren’t in yet, or else you didn’t bother answering the phone.”
“You didn’t leave a message,” Joanna said accusingly. “And you could have tried calling my cell phone.”
“Right, but that would have meant interrupting you while you were working.”
Joanna thought about that for a moment. They had both made an effort to reduce the number of personal phone calls between them while she was working. Still, she wasn’t entirely satisfied.
“That’s why you were pissed then?” she asked. “Because I missed the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner and wasn’t around for you to show me off to your old pals?”
“Pretty much,” Butch admitted. “I guess it sounds pretty lame, but that’s the way it was.”
A long silence followed. Joanna was thinking about her mother and father, about Eleanor and Big Hank Lathrop. How many times had Sheriff Lathrop used the call of duty to provide an excused absence for himself from one of Eleanor’s numerous social functions? How often had he hidden behind his badge to avoid being part of some school program or church potluck or a meeting of the Bisbee Historical Society?
Joanna loved her mother, but she didn’t much like her. And the last thing she ever wanted was to be like Eleanor Lathrop Winfield. Still, there were times now, when Joanna would be talking to Jenny or bawling her out for something, when it seemed as though Eleanor’s words and voice were coming through Joanna’s own lips. There were other times, too, when, glancing in a mirror, it seemed as though Eleanor’s face were staring back at her. That was how genetics worked. But now, through some strange quirk in her DNA, Joanna found herself resembling her father rather than her mother. Here she was doing the same kind of unintentional harm to Butch that D. H. Lathrop had done to his wife, Eleanor. And Joanna could see now that although she had been hurt by her belief in Butch’s infidelity—his presumed infidelity—she wasn’t the only one. Butch had been hurt, too.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I called, too,” she said contritely. “I left messages on the room’s voice mail trying to let you know what was going on—that all hell had broken loose and I was going to have to go to Bisbee. You never got any of them. They were all still listed as new messages when I came in.”
“This sounds serious,” Butch said. “Tell me now.”
And so Joanna went on to tell Butch about going to see Maggie MacFerson and finding the woman drunk in the unlocked house that belonged to her dead sister. Joanna told Butch about the loaded gun and the smashed glass and the bleeding cuts on Maggie’s hands that had triggered a trip to the emergency room. She told him about Eleanor’s blowing the whistle to Child Protective Services and how a zealous caseworker had wrested a screamingly unhappy Dora away from Jim and Eva Lou’s care at High Lonesome Ranch.
“What a mess!” Butch said when she finished. “How’s Jenny taking all this?”
“That’s why I stayed over in Bisbee. To be with Jenny, but she’s okay, I think. At least she seemed to be okay.”
“I read the article on the front page of the Reporter,” Butch said. “How can that woman—Maggie MacFerson—get away with putting Jenny’s and Dora’s names in an article like that? I didn’t think newspapers were supposed to publish kids’ names.”
“They usually don’t with juveniles who are victims of crimes or with juvenile offenders, either. In this case, Dora and Jenny weren’t either. They were kids who found a body. That means their names go in the papers.”
“It wasn’t exactly a flattering portrait of either one of them—or of you, either,” Butch added.
She gave Butch a half-smile. “I’m getting used to it.”
“Is Marianne the only person you talked to?” he asked. “Today, I mean. After the little scene down in the lobby.”
“She’s the only one.”
“That way, even though nothing happened, at least it won’t be all over town that I’m the villain of the piece. Marianne is totally trustworthy. She also seems to be of the opinion that you’re right and I’m wrong. She told me to get my butt in the car and head straight back here, to the hotel.”
Butch shook his head. “I think we were both wrong, Joey,” he said after a pause. “I’m a married man. No matter what, I shouldn’t have been spending all night alone with an unmarried ex-girlfriend, sick or not. And I had no right to want you to take a pass on your job. Being sheriff is important, Joey—to you and to me as well as to the people who elected you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous on occasion.” He grinned then. “And the same goes for you. I mean, if you want to be jealous of me, have a ball.”
Which, of course, she had been, Joanna realized. More so than she ever would have thought possible.
“I still don’t understand why Lila had to talk to you about all that,” she said. “Doesn’t she have any other friends she could have talked to?”
Butch shrugged. “Bartenders are the poor man’s psychologists. We listen and nod and say uh-huh, and all we charge is the price of a drink or two.”
And Joanna realized that was true as well. One of the things she had always appreciated about Butch was that he was a good listener. He heard not only the words, but paid attention to the subtext as well.
Just then, Butch glanced at his watch. “Yikes!” he said. “I’m due downstairs in five minutes for pictures. I’d better jump into that tux.” He started toward the bathroom, then stopped. “You will come, won’t you?” he asked. “To the wedding, I mean.”
Joanna nodded. “I’ll be there.”
His face broke into a smile. “Good,” he said, but then he turned serious again. “With everything that’s going on back home, do you want to head for Bisbee after the reception is over? It probably won’t be all that late. If you want to, we can.”
That kind of offer, made in good faith, was exactly what made Butch Dixon so damned lovable, and it made Joanna remember her former mother-in-law’s advice about spending time with her husband.
Joanna got up, went to over to Butch, and let him pull her into a bear hug. “Thanks,” she said. “But I don’t think we have to do that. Jenny’s fine. Jim Bob and Eva Lou have everything under control. Besides,” she added, smiling up at him, “it’s too late to check out without being charged for another night. It would be a shame to waste an opportunity to be alone together, wouldn’t it?”
He kissed her on the lips. “It would be a shame, all right. Now let loose of me, so I can get dressed.”
9
Once Butch had left for the photo session, Joanna stripped off her clothes and took a shower. When she came out of the bathroom, the message light was blinking on the phone. “There’s a package for Mr. Dixon waiting at the front desk,” she was told. Dialing the front desk, Joanna asked to have the package sent up. When it arrived, the package showed a return address of a place called Copy Corner. Ripping off the wrapping, Joanna found an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch-sized box that was about as thick as a ream of paper.
With trembling fingers, she lifted the cover. Inside was a computer disk. Lifting that, she then read what was typed on the top page. “To Serve and Protect,” it said. “By F. W. Dixon.” Beneath the author’s name were the words “To Joey.” Seeing that simple dedication put a lump in Joanna’s throat.
Taking the open box with her, Joanna settled onto the bed and began to read. To Serve and Protect was a murder mystery, set in a fictional Arizona town, with a lady police chief named Kimberly Charles in charge of a tiny police department. That much of the story bore a
certain familiarity to Joanna’s own life, but there the resemblance seemed to end. The story was told in a droll fashion that made what happened on the pages, complete with typical small-town politics, far more funny than serious.
Lost in the story, Joanna lost track of time. When she came up for air, it was twenty past four; there was just enough time to comb her hair, put on her makeup, dress, and make it to the wedding. She had brought along one of the outfits she had bought in Paris on her honeymoon. Next to her own wedding dress, the silk shirtwaist was the most expensive piece of clothing she had ever owned. She’d fallen in love with it on sight and had been forced to buy it because it came in her favorite color—the brilliant emerald-green hue of freshly sprouted cottonwood leaves, a color desert dwellers find hard to resist. It didn’t hurt that, with her red hair and light skin, that particular shade of green was, in Butch’s words, a “killer” combination.
The nuptials were scheduled to be held in one of the several ballrooms on the Conquistador’s second floor. Joanna was already seated in one of the rows of chairs when Lila Winters entered the room. Blond and elegant, she wore a sapphire-blue suit. Watching her start down the aisle, Joanna couldn’t quite stifle the stab of jealousy that shot through her whole body. Watching closely, however, Joanna did detect the smallest trace of a limp as Lila made her way to a chair. That limp caused Joanna’s jealousy to change to compassion.
Only three people among the assembled guests—Butch, Joanna, and Lila Winters herself—knew that the strikingly elegant woman who looked so vibrantly alive was actually dying. What must it be like, Joanna wondered, to be given that kind of devastating diagnosis? Whom would I tell if that happened to me? In the end there was only one answer. Butch, she realized. He’d help me figure out what to do.
At that juncture the first strains of the “Wedding March” sounded. Joanna rose and turned with everyone else to watch the procession. Butch preceded the bride down the aisle, walking in the slow, halting manner dictated by the occasion. Catching Joanna’s eye as he passed, Butch winked. Tammy Lukins walked down the aisle on the arm of her adult son, who also gave her away. During the brief and joyful ceremony Joanna couldn’t help feeling a grudging respect for Lila Winters’s decision to keep her bad news away from the happy bride and groom.
After the ceremony, the wedding entourage moved to a second ballroom for the reception. While Butch was occupied with his attendant duties, Joanna sat down at one of the tables which offered a panoramic view of the entire reception. She was sipping a glass of champagne when someone said, “Mind if I join you?”
Joanna looked up to see Lila Winters in her sapphire-blue suit. “Sure,” Joanna said. “Help yourself.”
As Lila took a seat, Joanna noted the fleeting wince that crossed the woman’s face when her back came in contact with the chair. The expression passed so swiftly that only someone looking for it would have noticed.
“You seemed upset earlier,” Lila began, once she was seated. “When Butch and I met up with you in the lobby, I mean. I didn’t want you to think anything untoward had happened.”
During that earlier encounter, Joanna Brady would willingly have scratched the woman’s eyes out. Now she simply said, “I know. Butch told me.”
They were interrupted by a roar of laughter from a group gathered across the room, where the groom had just tossed the bride’s garter high into the air, and several of the guests, graybeards all of them, scrambled to retrieve it.
“He told you about me, then?” Lila asked, once the laughter subsided. “About what’s going on?”
Joanna nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Please,” Lila said, cutting her off. “Let’s not discuss it. I’m still feeling pretty sorry for myself, and I don’t want to go into it here. Not now. Not yet. I just wanted to say that I think you’re very lucky—to have Butch, that is.”
“I know,” Joanna said. “Thank you.”
For the space of almost a minute they sat in silence while both sipped at their respective glasses of champagne. Across the room it was time for the bride to toss her bouquet.
“It doesn’t seem real,” Lila said quietly. “It wasn’t all that long ago when I was the one tossing the bouquet, and now . . .”
Even though she had said she didn’t want to discuss her looming illness, Joanna realized that’s what they were doing nevertheless. “It must be very difficult,” she replied.
Lila nodded. “These are my friends,” she said, gazing around the room. “I’ve known these people for years. It was bad enough to have to come back and face them all at a wedding, of all things, after Jimmy walked out on me the way he did. But now that I know about—” She stopped short of naming her illness. “I don’t want to tell them, but . . . I don’t want to die alone, either.”
Law enforcement circles are full of heroes and acts of derring-do—the kind that make for newspaper headlines and for riveting television newscasts. Lila Winters’s courage was far quieter than that, and far more solitary. In her life-and-death struggle, she couldn’t reach for a radio and call for backup.
“It was very kind of you not to upset the wedding plans,” Joanna said. “If I had been in your place, I don’t think I could have done it.”
Lila gave Joanna a quick, self-deprecating smile. “Don’t give me too much credit,” she said. “I think it’s really a case of denial. As long as nobody else knows about it—as long as I don’t say the actual words out loud—maybe it’s all a big mistake and it’ll just go away. But that’s not going to happen, and now that I’ve told Butch, I’m hoping I’ll be able to work up courage enough to tell the others—in good time, that is. But talking to Butch helped a lot. Thanks for sharing him with me.”
With that, Lila Winters excused herself and walked away. A few minutes later, Butch showed up at Joanna’s table. “Is everything all right?” he asked, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead. “I mean, I noticed the two of you were . . .”
Looking at him, the last vestiges of Joanna’s earlier anger melted away. “We were talking,” she said, smiling. “Comparing notes, actually.”
Butch looked thunderstruck. His obvious consternation made Joanna laugh. “We both think you’re a pretty good listener,” she added. “For a boy.”
“Whew,” he said, mopping his brow in relief. “So I’m still alive then?”
“So far.”
The reception included a buffet dinner followed by cake and dancing to a swing band that lasted far into the night. Joanna surprised herself by having a delightful time. Rather than rushing out early to drive back to Bisbee, she and Butch stayed until eleven, when the party finally began to wind down. When they at last went back upstairs to their room, Butch stopped short at the mound of manuscript pages scattered across the bed.
“It came,” he said.
“And I opened it,” Joanna said. “I also started reading it.”
“How far did you get?” he asked.
“The first hundred pages or so,” she said.
“And?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“It’s funny.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you write it that way?”
He came across the room to her and gathered her into his arms. “I had to,” he said. “Because, if I wrote it the way things really are, it would be too hard.”
Joanna frowned and pushed him away. “What do you mean?”
“Because the truth of the matter is, the real job scares the hell out of me. Look at yesterday. You walked into a house to tell someone her sister died, and the woman at that kitchen table was sitting there drunk and with a fully loaded weapon within easy reach. If that isn’t scary, I don’t know what is. I decided to make it funny to preserve my own mental health.”
“I don’t mean to worry you,” Joanna said, nestling against his chest and staying there.
“But you do.”
Had Joanna had this same conversation with Deputy Andrew Brady before he was shot and killed? How many n
ights had she lain awake in her bed at High Lonesome Ranch worrying about whether or not he would make it home safely after his shift? And how often had Eleanor done exactly the same thing when Big Hank Lathrop had been sheriff?
Once again, she was struck by the sense of history repeating itself, but with the lines mysteriously crossed and with her somehow walking both sides of the street at the same time.
While Butch went to change out of his tux, Joanna retrieved the cell phone she had deliberately left upstairs when she went down to the wedding. There were five missed calls, two from the department and three from Frank Montoya’s cell phone. When she listened to the three messages, they were all from Frank—all of them asking that she call him back regardless of what time she got in.
“What’s up?” she asked when Frank came on the line.
“We’ve got a problem in Paradise,” he said.
“That sounds like the title of a bad novel.”
“I wish,” he said. “That place I told you about, ‘Pathway to,’ could blow up in our faces.”
“How so?”
“Ernie and Jaime went over there this morning and were met at the gate by an armed guard who wouldn’t let them inside to see anybody. In other words, if Ron Haskell is inside—which we don’t know for sure at this time—nobody’s going to be talking to him anytime soon.”
“Have them call up Cameron Moore and get a court order.”
“We tried. Judge Moore and his family are down in Guaymas, fishing. It’s Memorial Day Weekend, you know. He won’t be back from Mexico until late Tuesday.”
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