by J. A. Jance
“What if they hurt each other?”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Joanna said. “Tell Tom if he has any questions, he should call me back.”
When she hung up, Joanna leaned back against the couch, intending to wait a few minutes to see if Tom would call her back. She was still sitting there with the phone in her lap and sound asleep when Butch, with Dennis and a bottle in hand, nudged her awake at 2:00 A.M.
“I got up to feed the baby and you weren’t in bed,” Butch said. “What are you doing out here?”
“There was a problem at the jail last night,” Joanna said. “I’m waiting for Tom Hadlock to call me back.”
“If the man has any sense, he’s probably in bed asleep by now,” Butch said. “And you should be, too.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. “You’re right.” With that, she staggered back into the bedroom. When she woke up next, the sun was shining in through the window and bacon was frying in the kitchen. When Joanna showed up there, Butch seemed to have the baby and breakfast well in hand. Pausing long enough to pour herself a cup of coffee, she kissed Butch on her way to the table.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in.”
“You’re welcome, but what was the problem at the jail that had you up half the night?”
“A barroom brawl down at the Branding Iron,” she said. “Two sisters got into it. They beat the crap out of the bartender, two of my deputies, and each other. I decided they should sleep it off in the same cell. Since no one’s called to say otherwise, they must not have killed each other overnight.”
They were about to load into the car to head for church when Joanna’s phone rang. “We’ve identified our trash-bag Jane Doe,” Dave Hollicker announced.
“Who is she?” Joanna asked. “And how did you do that?”
“Her teeth,” Dave replied. “There’s that new program that keeps computerized dental records on missing persons. Doc Winfield came in early this morning to take charge of the remains so he could examine them and issue a death certificate. He was the one who thought to enter the dental records into that Missing Persons database, and that’s how we ID’d her. The victim’s name is Wanda Louise Mappin. She was age thirty-one and developmentally disabled. Her mother, Lucinda Mappin, lives in Eloy. Wanda was reported missing from her residence, a group home in Tucson, on March twenty-first of this year.”
Joanna knew that having George at work so early on a Sunday morning probably meant that he and Eleanor were still on the outs.
“Does Detective Carbajal know about this?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He does. All of it. He’s actually spoken with the mother. She’s driving down here. She should be at the Justice Center a little after one. She may be able to identify some of the items we found in the bag along with all that sand—the Keds, some bits and pieces of clothing, an earring, and a little gold locket.”
Joanna sighed. Of all her duties as sheriff, meeting with homicide victims’ bereaved family members was one of her least favorite responsibilities. She did it because she felt she had to—because it went with the territory. If Lucinda Mappin was coming to meet with the officers investigating her daughter’s death, Joanna would be there as well.
“Let Jaime know I’ll be there at one to meet with the mother, too.”
“No Sunday afternoon off, then?” Butch asked when she ended the call.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Joanna told him.
“But we’re supposed to go to Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s after church.”
Joanna had known that; she had also forgotten. “We should probably take two cars, then,” she said.
On the way into town in her Crown Victoria, Joanna called in to the on-duty jail supervisor.
“How’s our sister act doing this morning?”
“Samantha and Sandra? They seem to be fine. I’ve been checking on them regularly with the monitor. Looks like they’re not speaking, which, under the circumstances, is probably just as well.”
“Probably,” Joanna agreed.
Next she tried calling George. “I hear you were at work bright and early this morning,” she said. “Good work on the ID.”
If George heard Joanna’s compliment, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was too focused on his own difficulties.
“I never went home,” he said miserably. “Well, I did stop by for a while after I finished up with Leonard Sunderson, but since Ellie still wasn’t speaking to me, there wasn’t much sense in hanging around. I have a fold-out couch here in the office, so I came back up the canyon and slept here. I don’t know what’s going on with her,” he added. “I missed a dinner party on Friday. So what? It’s not as though that’s the first time it’s ever happened. I can’t imagine why she’s making such a big deal of it. Do you have any ideas about this?”
“Sorry, George,” Joanna said. “I can’t help you there. My mother’s been a mystery to me my whole life. What about Sunderson?”
“We found him in what was left of his bed. I doubt he even woke up before his oxygen tank exploded. Once that happened, it was too late for him to get out.”
“Smoking in bed, then?” Joanna asked. “Suicide?”
“Neither one. We’ll most likely have to chalk this one up to aluminum wiring. According to Ted Carrell, the DPS arson investigator, aluminum wiring in those old mobile homes is a disaster waiting to happen. He thinks the wiring overheated, smoldered in the wall for a long time, and then finally broke out and set the place on fire—starting with Mr. Sunderson’s oxygen tank.”
“And Jaime’s Jane Doe?” Joanna asked. “What’s her name again?”
“Wanda,” George replied. “Wanda Mappin. I’ve just done a preliminary on her remains, but it looks like Dave called it about right. Several superficial stab wounds to the ribs, but what killed her was blunt-force trauma from repeated blows to the head.”
By then Joanna was pulling into the church parking lot. “I’ve got to go now, George,” she said.
“But if you hear from your mother and she tells you anything about what’s going on—”
“I’ll let you know, George,” Joanna said. “I promise.”
Once Joanna was seated next to Butch in the pew, she checked out the bulletin and saw that the topic for that day’s sermon was “My Brother’s Keeper.” Joanna stayed focused on the proceedings long enough to make it through the opening hymn, the Scripture reading, and the announcements—including the one that mentioned that the Ladies’ Auxiliary would be accepting donations of food, clothing, and cash to benefit a family whose home had been burned down the day before. Joanna was glad that Marianne was continuing to look out for Carol Sunderson and her family, but once the actual sermon started, Joanna was far too busy being her brother’s keeper to pay much attention to the message.
Would Carol Sunderson be relieved to know that her husband hadn’t deliberately taken his own life? Or would she be devastated because the home she’d managed to create for her family, the one with the bargain-basement rent, had turned into a death trap? And what about Alfred and Martha Beasley’s daughters? Joanna knew she’d have to speak to them that afternoon. What would she say? And then she’d end up having to speak to Lucinda Mappin as well. What comfort could she offer to the mother of a brutally murdered child? Would Joanna be able to find any words of consolation adequate to that painful task?
After the service they went downstairs to the church social hall for coffee hour. Marianne’s two-year-old son, Jeffy, had escaped from the nursery and was playing a shrieking game of toddler tag, terrorizing the place by dodging in and out between people juggling cookies and coffee cups. No doubt within months, Dennis would be walking and he, too, would join that noisy parade. Meanwhile, eight-year-old Ruth, the daughter Marianne and her husband, Jeff, had brought home from an orphanage in China, clung shyly to the sleeve of her mother’s robe.
Joanna found it reassuring to know she wasn’t the only woman there dealing with work and family issues. Marianne’s mother was no
longer on speaking terms with her daughter. That rift came with an unexpected side benefit. It meant Marianne didn’t have to deal with the kind of constant meddling Joanna was forever having to endure from her own mother on the subject of family and career.
“Are you okay?” Marianne asked, seeking Joanna out. “You looked preoccupied.” It was a nice way for Marianne to say she had noticed Joanna wasn’t paying attention to the sermon.
“Sorry,” Joanna said. “There’s a lot on my plate right now.”
“I know how that goes,” Marianne said with a laugh. “Some of the ladies were talking about doing a fund-raiser to benefit Carol Sunderson and the kids. What would you think about that?”
“It’s fine with me,” Joanna said. “As long as I’m not the one doing it. I’m overbooked as it is right now. Adding one more thing to the mix just isn’t possible.”
“That was my take on the situation, too,” Marianne said. “Go ahead and knock yourselves out. Just don’t expect me to run it.”
Someone came up to talk to Marianne just then. As Joanna turned away, Marliss Shackleford-Voland caught her eye and came hurrying toward her. That was one of the problems with living in a small town—you found yourself thrown in with people you’d much rather avoid, Marliss being a prime case in point.
Long a columnist for the local paper, the Bisbee Bee, and now married to Joanna’s former chief deputy, Dick Voland, Marliss was always on the prowl looking for fodder for her column, “Bisbee Buzzings.” This Sunday-morning coffee hour was no exception.
“Joanna,” she said with a delighted smile. “I heard that the Beasley girls ended up in the slammer last night. Any truth to that?”
“Since no one’s been charged with a crime at this point, it wouldn’t be fair for me to comment one way or the other,” Joanna told her.
“But there were plenty of witnesses,” Marianne said. “One of my friends was having dinner in the dining room at the Branding Iron when the fight first broke out. She saw the whole thing.”
“And you’re welcome to write it up that way if you want, Marliss,” Joanna said. “I certainly can’t tell you what you should or shouldn’t publish. All I can control is what I will or won’t comment on. Without formal charges, this is a definite won’t. Once charges are filed, you’re welcome to ask again.”
“You don’t have to be snippy about it,” Marliss said.
“I’m not being snippy,” Joanna returned. “I’m being firm.”
Joanna was relieved when, moments later, Butch gave her the high sign. He had collected Dennis from the nursery and was headed for the door. Joanna hurried after him.
“Thanks for rescuing me from Marliss,” she said.
Butch smiled. “I could see you needed it.”
While he stowed the diaper bag, Joanna buckled Dennis into his car seat.
“You’re sure you don’t have time to stop by and grab some lunch with the Gs before you head off to work? I know Jim Bob and Eva Lou won’t mind if you eat and run.”
It pleased Joanna that Butch had taken to calling her former in-laws by Jenny’s pet name for her grandparents—the Gs. She glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Better not,” she said. “Have fun.”
Even though Joanna drove straight to the Justice Center from church, Lucinda Mappin was already there. Jaime Carbajal and Dave Hollicker were ushering her into the conference room as Joanna arrived.
“Sorry to be late,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Lucinda Mappin was a heavyset woman in her late fifties or early sixties. Her shoulders drooped; the features of her broad jowly face were distorted by sorrow; her red-rimmed eyes looked bleary and haunted.
She nodded numbly. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Wanda’s been gone for months now. It shouldn’t be that much of a shock, but it is. It’s hitting me pretty hard.”
Joanna nodded.
“I guess I always hoped she was alive and well somewhere,” Lucinda continued. “She was developmentally disabled, you see—functioned at a three-or four-year-old level. I hoped and prayed that she was with someone who was being good to her and that she just wasn’t able to communicate well enough to tell them where she belonged. Unrealistic, I know. But that’s what I told myself. Otherwise I would have gone crazy. This is all my fault, you see,” Lucinda added. “If I hadn’t had to put her in that place to begin with—in that group home—none of this would have happened, but my husband, my Bill, was so terribly sick at the end. He was bedridden and required round-the-clock nursing care. What with working and looking after him, I just couldn’t take care of Wanda, too. It was too much, and now I’ve lost them both. What happened to her? Did my baby suffer?”
“The medical examiner says she most likely died from a blow to the head,” Jaime said quietly.
“So maybe it was quick, then?” Lucinda asked hopefully.
Jaime nodded. Joanna appreciated his understated answer. That was what murder victims’ survivors always wanted to know and always hoped—that their loved ones had died quickly and painlessly. That they hadn’t been forced to endure incredible suffering. Joanna was grateful that Dave Hollicker had the good sense to keep quiet about the bloodstains he had found inside the bag.
Lucinda swallowed a sob. In order to give her some space, Jaime offered the grieving woman a bottle of water. She picked up the bottle, looked at it blankly, and then set it back down without drinking any of it.
“Will I be able to see her?”
“As I told you on the phone,” Jaime continued, “there’s not much point, although you can if you wish. The remains we found are primarily skeletal, and they’ve been moved to the morgue. The Cochise County medical examiner, Dr. George Winfield, is the one who entered your daughter’s dental information into a Missing Persons database. That’s how we tentatively identified her. But there are a few items that we found among her personal effects that you might recognize.”
Jaime nodded to Dave, who opened an evidence box that had been sitting beside his chair. He reached inside, removed a pair of Keds, and set them on the conference table. They were stained a muddy reddish brown and were still shedding sand, but some of the original color, a vivid shade of pink, still showed through. Lucinda picked one of them up and examined the bottom.
“They look like hers,” Lucinda said with a nod. “They’re the right size, and Wanda loved pink. It was her favorite color. She also loved Keds.”
Next Dave handed the woman a see-through glassine envelope. Lucinda held it up to the light, nodded, and handed it back. “That’s one of her earrings,” she said. “Rose zircon. Her birthstone. Also pink. Do you know anything about people who are developmentally disabled?”
Her question was directed at Joanna, who nodded, thinking of Junior Dowdle at Daisy’s Café.
“The only one I know personally,” she said, “is the adopted son of people who own a restaurant in town. He helps out there, busing tables, handing out menus, and washing dishes.”
Lucinda nodded. “He must function at a higher level than Wanda. She was never quite potty-trained, which made things complicated.”
Joanna vividly remembered the night she had picked Junior up after his supposed caregivers had abandoned him at an arts and crafts fair in Saint David. He had said, “Go. Go. Go,” over and over. Joanna had thought he was telling her to drive when in actual fact he’d been talking about another kind of going altogether—one that came with disastrous consequences for the interior of Joanna’s vehicle.
“Believe me, Junior has his difficult moments, too,” she said.
Lucinda nodded. “Anyway, Wanda loved sparkly things. When she wanted something badly enough, she had a way of making her feelings known. When she was about twenty or so, she met someone who had pierced ears, and she decided she wanted hers pierced, too. At first her father was absolutely dead set against it, but finally Bill relented. Not only did Wanda have her ears pierced, we bought her a pair of birthstone
earrings—rose zircon—because they’re not that expensive, and they’re pink, too. Eventually, Wanda lost one of the first pair we gave her, and she was devastated. So we bought several sets that were all just alike. That way if she lost one, we’d be able to replace it without any fuss. I still have two and a half pairs of these left,” Lucinda added as she handed the glassine bag back to Dave. “All of them are just alike and just like this one. This is hers. I’m sure of it.”
“And this?” Dave asked, passing over yet another bag.
Lucinda held it up to the light. “What is it?”
“A heart-shaped locket,” Dave said. “There’s a place for two tiny photos, but there weren’t any photos inside it.”
Lucinda shook her head. “I have no idea where Wanda would have gotten something like this. I certainly never gave it to her. Maybe one of her friends at the group home gave it to her. Are those rhinestones?”
“No,” Dave said. “They may be small, but I believe they’re actual diamonds that have been designed and set so they spell out two separate sets of initials. HRC and KML.”
“These are all real diamonds?” Lucinda asked. “That many? Something like that would be expensive, wouldn’t it?”
Dave nodded, and Lucinda shook her head. “I can’t imagine where it would have come from—not from her dad and me. We didn’t give it to her.”
“And the initials aren’t ones you recognize?” Jaime asked.
“Not at all.”
“Tell us about the group home,” Joanna said.
“It was the best I could do at the time,” Lucinda answered. “It’s on East Copper in Tucson. It’s run by a company called the Flannigan Foundation.”
“Does the home have a specific name?” Joanna asked.
Lucinda nodded. “It’s called Holbrook House, I don’t know why. Flannigan Foundation operates group homes for the mentally impaired, and for other kinds of people as well, all over Arizona. Maybe not all over. Mostly in Phoenix and Tucson. If there had been one in Eloy when I needed it, I would have put Wanda there—somewhere closer to home. The foundation buys up four- and five-bedroom places, mostly ones that are in less than wonderful neighborhoods. They fix them up and assign clients to them, complete with resident supervisors and caregivers. Living in a place like that with three or four other clients is supposed to be more like living at home, but of course it’s nothing like home.”