by J. A. Jance
Joanna hadn’t been concerned about protecting the two sisters from any particular risk when she had locked them in the same cell. She had done so for one reason and one reason only: that’s where she thought they belonged—together.
After crossing the parking lot and securing her weapons in a locker, Joanna waited while the guards, using video monitors and remotely operated electronic locks, allowed her access to the women’s unit.
As she approached the cell, Joanna saw someone she assumed was Samantha Edwards sitting at the table reading a paperback book. The other woman lay on the top bunk with one arm slung over her eyes to shut out the light. It was only when Joanna came closer that she realized she had no idea which sister was which. The two women looked so much alike that they might have been twins. The fact that they were both dressed in identical orange jail jumpsuits didn’t help, either.
“I’m Sheriff Brady. Which one of you is Sandra Wolfe?” Joanna asked.
The woman at the table put down her book and turned to face her. Her left eye was seriously black and blue. “I am,” she said.
“Your attorney just came to see me.”
“Irwin? Yes,” Sandra said. “My husband must have called him. Are you going to get me out of here so I don’t have to put up with her any longer? Doesn’t locking us in here together constitute cruel and unusual punishment or something?”
“Oh, cut the crap and shut the hell up, Sandy,” the woman on the bunk groused down at her. “I’m not the one who’s blabbing here.”
“Come down, Samantha,” Joanna ordered. “I want to talk to both of you.”
Rolling her eyes, Samantha climbed down from the bunk. She came over to the front of the cell and stood with her back to her sister, staring out through the bars without really looking Joanna in the eye. Joanna noticed that she, too, was more than a little worse for wear. There was a long straight scratch on the side of one cheek, and she had a distinctly fat lip that had nothing to do with collagen.
“About what?” she asked disdainfully.
“About your parents,” Joanna answered. “About what the two of you are doing to their memory.”
“They’re dead,” Samantha said. “What does it matter?”
“It matters because people from around here knew them. The fact that you two were in a drunken public brawl last night with each other and with my officers is big news in town because your parents were well-respected and even beloved members of this community. Marliss Shackleford-Voland was asking me about your knock-down, drag-out fight at church this morning. She had already heard about it and wanted me to confirm some of the more salacious details.”
“Who’s Marliss?” Sandra asked. “If she was a friend of the folks, I’ve never heard of her.”
“Marliss works for the Bisbee Bee,” Joanna told them. “At this rate, the paper with your parents’ obituaries will probably also contain news about your arrests. That should keep the gossipmongers busy for weeks to come.”
“Samantha started it,” Sandy declared. “I was just sitting there having dinner with friends and minding my own damned business when Sammy showed up and lit into me for absolutely no reason—”
“No reason my ass!” Samantha shot back. “You come riding down here without even telling me that our parents are dead? How dare you! If that isn’t the lowest of the low!”
Joanna was appalled. Here were two women in their sixties acting like a pair of out-of-control juvenile delinquents.
“It doesn’t matter who started it,” Joanna returned. “And whatever ‘it’ was, it certainly didn’t start yesterday because the two of you have been at war for a lot longer than that. You’re old enough to know better and you’re both responsible for what happened. Here your poor parents have died, apparently for no good reason, and the best the two of you can do is beat each other up in a bar fight? That’s pretty pathetic.”
For the first time Samantha turned toward Joanna and met her gaze. “What do you mean, they died for no reason?” she demanded. “You told me they were in a car accident. They went off a cliff, didn’t they?”
“Have you spoken to Detective Howell since yesterday?”
“I haven’t,” Sandra said.
“Neither have I,” Samantha interjected, “but then why would I? It seems someone—some lying bitch—told the good detective that I was dead, so why would she bother trying to contact me about what was going on?”
“Oh, shut up, Sammy,” Sandra said wearily. “Let Sheriff Brady finish.”
“Your parents did go off a cliff,” Joanna said carefully. “But it wasn’t an accident.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t an accident?” Samantha asked. “What was it, then? Did someone mess with their brakes? Are we talking murder here?”
“My crime scene investigator found a suicide note in the glove box of their vehicle,” Joanna replied. “It was signed by both of your parents. It wasn’t notarized, but I’m sure we’ll be able to verify that the handwriting on each of the signatures is legitimate.”
“Suicide?” Samantha repeated. “You’re saying Daddy killed himself, and Mother, too? That’s crazy. It’s just not possible. Why would he do such a thing? And they both signed this supposed note? Are you telling me that’s what Mother wanted, too?”
“According to the note, your father thought he was developing Alzheimer’s,” Joanna explained. “He was worried about what would happen to your mother if he became too ill to look after her. He didn’t want to leave her unattended.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sammy said. “Utterly ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not,” Sandra said. “Not after what happened to Grandma. The poor woman spent years living like a vegetable without knowing up from down. She was totally helpless. Dad and Mom both wore themselves out taking care of her while some people I can name never lifted a finger to help them.”
“You wouldn’t let me lift a finger, remember?” Samantha returned. “Every time I tried to help, whatever I was doing was wrong. It wasn’t good enough.”
“Had your parents discussed any of this with either one of you?” Joanna asked.
“Not with me,” Sammy said, “but then they didn’t discuss much of anything with me. She saw to that.”
“Oh, spare me,” Sandra said. “Can’t I go stay in another cell somewhere? At least that way I wouldn’t have to listen to her yammering.”
“Getting back to your parents,” Joanna said. “What about you, Sandra? Did you know anything about your father’s health concerns?”
“I suppose he may have mentioned something about it,” Sandy allowed, “but he didn’t make a big deal of it. And I can’t imagine him being so upset that he’d do something so drastic as to drive himself off a cliff.”
“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “Especially since it seems your father wasn’t developing Alzheimer’s after all—at least not according to the autopsy.”
“He wasn’t?” Sandra asked.
“Dr. Winfield didn’t find any visible indications of it,” Joanna replied.
The unmasked surprise that registered on Sandra’s face was enough to make Joanna wonder if the woman hadn’t known far more about her parents’ health situation than she was willing to admit. Samantha Edwards seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.
She wheeled and turned on her sister. “I’ll bet you knew all about this,” Sammy said accusingly. “You always made sure that you were closer to them than I was. You always found ways to shut me out.”
“Come on, Sammy,” Sandra said. “Knock it off. Isn’t it a little late for all this?”
“Both of you knock it off,” Joanna interjected. “And you’re right. It is a little late. For your information, the suicide note mentioned that, too—that the fact that you two were estranged was a continuing heartache for both your parents. Before last night, how long had it been since the two of you had been in the same room together?”
Samantha shrugged. “Forty years, give or take, but who’s counting?”
&
nbsp; “And who cares?” Sandra added.
“I do, for one,” Joanna said. “What’s your name?” she said to Sandra.
“You know my name. It’s Sandra Wolfe.”
“So presumably you have a husband?”
“Yes. His name is Larry. Lawrence, actually. Lawrence Wolfe.”
“Of course,” Samantha sniffed. “Lawrence sounds so much better.”
“And what’s your last name?” Joanna asked, turning to Samantha.
“Edwards,” Samantha replied. “And no, I don’t have a husband at the moment. I’m divorced.”
“So since neither one of you actually married Norbert Jessup, isn’t it about time the two of you grew up, put an end to this silly quarrel, and got over it? Isn’t it more than a little ridiculous for you to still be feuding over some poor dolt who’s been married to somebody else for as long as I can remember?”
“This was never about Norbert,” Sandra exclaimed. “Whoever said it was?”
“Like hell,” Samantha returned. “It was always about him. You never forgave me because he chose me over you when it came time to go to that stupid prom. You’ve been pissed about it ever since, and you’ve undermined me and bad-mouthed me to the folks whenever you had a chance.”
“Nobody had to bad-mouth you to anybody,” Sandy said. “Your actions always spoke louder than anything else. For the past ten years you’ve barely given Mom and Dad the time of day.”
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Joanna interrupted. “It’s just after two P.M. The preliminary hearing will probably be twenty hours or so from now. Judge Cameron isn’t much of an early bird. He doesn’t usually get started before midmorning. Between now and then, you’re going to be here together in what I’m calling a dose of enforced friendship. I suggest you use the time together to come to some kind of understanding about how the two of you are going to get along in the future.
“Eventually your parents’ bodies will be released for burial. When that happens, it would be nice if the two of you could work together to make the proper arrangements. It would also be nice if you could manage to conduct yourselves with enough dignity that your actions wouldn’t be a public embarrassment to the memory of your poor parents. They were both honest, hardworking, well-respected people, and they deserve better than what their daughters have given them so far.”
“Just a minute here,” Sandra declared. “You’ve got no right to lecture us like this, Sheriff Brady. This is a private matter.”
“That’s right,” Samantha agreed. “It’s none of your concern.”
The sudden turnaround was astonishing. In an instant, the two feuding women stopped quarreling with each other long enough to join forces against Joanna. If Joanna hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she might not have believed it possible. She also understood that was exactly how Deputies Butler and Brophy had gotten into trouble.
Fortunately for Joanna, Samantha Edwards and Sandy Wolfe were sober now. There was also a sturdy set of iron bars between her and them.
“It stopped being private the moment the two of you started brawling in public,” Joanna returned. “And it became my concern as soon as the two of you attacked my deputies.”
“You shouldn’t talk to us like that,” Sandy said. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘allegedly attacked’? After all, we haven’t been convicted yet.”
“Sorry,” Joanna said. “It’s my jail, my rules.”
“But I’m old enough to be your mother,” Samantha objected.
“More than old enough,” Joanna countered. “Too bad neither one of you has brains enough to act your age.”
With that she turned away from the cell door, walked back to the entrance of the cell block, and buzzed for the guards to let her out.
Returning to her office, Joanna was packing up to head home when Jaime Carbajal tapped on the door frame.
“Back already?” she said. “How’d it go?”
Jaime shook his head. “About how you’d expect,” he said. “There wasn’t much to see.”
“Have you had any luck figuring out where the body was all this time?”
“No. I walked back along the bed of Greenbush Draw, but I couldn’t see anything. If it hadn’t been for that storm, we probably wouldn’t have found the body for years, if ever.”
“What’s this about your nephew?” Joanna asked. “He lives in Naco?”
Jaime nodded somberly. “Luis,” he said.
“I didn’t know you had family living in Naco.”
“I don’t talk about them much,” Jaime admitted. “Luis’s mother is my sister, Marcella. She’s five years younger than I am; divorced; pretty much the black sheep of the family. She has issues.”
“Issues?”
“Chemical-dependency issues,” Jaime returned. “Employment issues. Housing issues. Parenting issues. The whole ball of wax.”
“So how did Luis find Wanda Mappin’s body?” Joanna wanted to know.
“According to him, he likes to go out hiking and looking for stuff people might have dropped or left behind.”
“So he’s a scavenger who picks up the leavings of illegal crossers and coyotes, to say nothing of your basic ordinary drug smugglers. Does he have any idea how dangerous that could be?” Joanna asked. “What if he got himself caught up in a deadly cross fire between Border Patrol and the bad guys?”
“Exactly,” Jaime said.
“And I’m guessing he’s done this before and found things of value?”
“I asked him about that. He turned very coy, which is probably a yes, but he wasn’t talking. I tried to explain to Luis that if he happens to come between a drug dealer and his cash, his life won’t be worth a plugged nickel, and neither will his mother’s. I doubt he was listening. I’m betting he’ll do it again the first chance he gets.”
“What if his mother talked to him. Would he listen to her?”
“I doubt it. Besides,” Jaime said despairingly, “I don’t think she’s that kind of mother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Luis is a good kid. He’s smart, he goes to school, and he gets good grades. But this is the first time I’ve been to Marcella’s house since she moved back here—and I thought she was going to tear me limb from limb when I showed up. She went totally ballistic on me, screaming like a banshee, threatening to pull my hair out. She said I had no business coming there, no business interfering with her life; but her life is a mess, Joanna, and so’s her house—that’s a disaster.
“You should have seen the place. It’s a wreck. It was filthy. Garbage everywhere. I don’t think she’s ever done the dishes. I don’t know what they eat or where. There was no food visible anywhere in the house—at least no food that was fit to eat. There’s so much dry rot in the bathroom, it’s a wonder the toilet hasn’t fallen through the floor. If Child Protective Services came and saw how they were living, they’d take Luis away from Marcella so fast, it would make her head spin. So what should I do about this? Do I call them? Do I turn her in?”
“Turn her in for what?” Joanna asked.
“You name it,” Jaime replied. “Child neglect. Prostitution. Drug dealing. Take your pick.”
As far as Joanna could remember, Jaime had never mentioned having a sister before—at least not in Joanna’s presence. Now she knew why.
“If your sister went to prison or if she died,” Joanna said, “what would happen to your nephew then? What about his father?”
“What about him?” Jaime answered. “Marco Andrade’s idea of fatherhood stops at being a sperm donor. I’ve never met the man. I doubt Luis has, either.”
“And what about your nephew?” Joanna asked gently. “What does he want?”
“He acts like he’s the grown-up in the family,” Jaime said. “Like he has to look after Marcella instead of the other way around.”
“If it ever came to that, could you and Delcia take Luis in?” Joanna asked. “Would you?”
“I don’t know for sure what we’d do,�
�� Jaime said. “We’ve never discussed it one way or the other.”
“Maybe you should,” Joanna said quietly. “Just in case.”
CHAPTER 8
ANOTHER LATE-AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORM WAS PREDICTED. NOT wanting to have her Crown Victoria stranded on the wrong side of the wash at High Lonesome Ranch, Joanna stopped by the motor pool. Her department kept several older-model patrol vehicles in reserve for use when newer ones ended up in the shop. She left the Justice Center driving an overused Ford Explorer that was several years beyond its pull date but still ran. Unlike her sedan, it came complete with four-wheel drive and reasonably high ground clearance. During Arizona’s monsoon season, high ground clearance was the order of the day.
The rain arrived in a pelting downpour before Joanna made it home. She was grateful that the attached garage enabled her to park and go inside without getting soaked. She went straight into the bedroom and peeled out of the clothing she’d worn to church. Back in the kitchen, she saw that Butch had things in hand. He was feeding the baby, and Jenny was helping herself to their traditional Sunday-night dinner fare of cocoa, toast, and cheese. Having missed lunch altogether, Joanna collected a cup of coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster.
“How were Jim Bob and Eva Lou?” she asked, giving Butch a peck on the cheek as she passed his chair. “And how was lunch?”
“Great on both counts,” Butch said. “They were sorry you couldn’t come, but Eva Lou sent home some dessert for you—a piece of her pecan pie.”
“I’ll eat it if you don’t want it,” Jenny offered.
“No way,” Joanna told her. “That pie is mine. I’m not sharing.”
“But you always tell me sharing’s a good thing,” Jenny objected.
“Not when it comes to Grandma Brady’s pecan pie.”
Joanna’s toast popped. She went to butter it.
“I asked them about the book-tour thing,” Butch said, pausing to mop a stray dribble of rice cereal that had spilled down Dennis’s chin. “The problem is, one of Eva Lou’s cousins is celebrating her fiftieth wedding anniversary, which means Jim Bob and Eva Lou will be in Tulsa, Oklahoma, for a family reunion the second and third weeks of September. When I heard that, I was afraid it put us back to square one as far as the book tour is concerned, but when I told your mother about it, she said she’d be happy to come help out.”