Rattlesnake Crossing

by J. A. Jance

  Hosfield rammed the pickup into neutral and then climbed out. He came around the front of the truck, clutching a frayed Resistol Stetson in his hands. Meanwhile, his passenger stepped out of the truck as well.

  "This is my son Ryan," Alton Hosfield said. "Ryan, this is Sheriff Brady."

  Nodding politely in Joanna's direction, Ryan doffed his Denver Rockies baseball cap. He was tall and lean like his father, but his bright blue eyes, unruly mop of long blond hair, and finely chiseled features bore little resemblance to his red-haired father's craggy features. Had Joanna encountered Alton and his two sons on the street, she would have known at once that Alton Hosfield and Jake were father and son. Ryan, on the other hand, didn't look as though he was remotely related to either his father or his half brother.

  Joanna acknowledged the polite greeting by offering her hand.

  "Glad to make your acquaintance," he said.

  Joanna turned back to Alton Hosfield, whose face was knotted with a puzzled frown. "Why does the name Ashley Brittany sound familiar to me?" he asked.

  "As I said, she was a student intern," Joanna told him. "Working on a project for the U.S. Department of Agriculture."

  "Wait a minute," Ryan offered helpfully. "I think I remember her. Wasn't she the cute little blonde who came around earlier this summer, talking about how we needed to get rid of all the oleanders in the yard because they were damaging the environment and killing off wildlife?"

  Comprehension washed across Alton's tanned features. "That's right," he said. "The oleander lady."

  "You knew her, then?"

  "I talked to her that one time," Alton admitted. "Long enough to tell her to get the hell off my property. She showed up in one of those little Toyota 4x4s, wearing her ID badge around her neck and packing a laptop computer. Ryan's right. She was real full of business, too. She had been up to the house and had seen the oleander we have there-oleander my grandmother planted. Next thing I know she shows up in her shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes and wants me to get rid of it. Wants me to pull it out by the roots. 'Whatever you do, don't burn it,' she says to me. 'The smoke's poisonous, too.' Give me a break!"

  "So what happened?" Joanna asked.

  "I told her to take a hike. I told her if she wanted to do something useful, to get her ass up to Montana or North Dakota and do something about leafy spurge. Now, there's something the Feds ought to be worrying about. We've had oleander around the house for seventy-five years and it's never killed even so much as a damned horned toad to say nothing of cattle or deer. Now, leafy spurge, that stuff's a killer."

  "Leafy spurge?" Joanna repeated. "I've never even heard of it."

  "So far," Hosfield said ominously. "That's because it hasn't shown up in Arizona yet. But that's what I told this woman girl, really that it she wanted to do something useful, she should go to work on the spread of that. Euphorbia esula is nightmare stuff. That's the whole problem with the Feds. They get all hot and bothered about things that aren't important, like oleander, for God's sake, and totally ignore the kind of thing that will put me and hundreds of people just like me out of business."

  "Well, I can tell you that Ashley Brittany is out of business," Joanna said quietly. "Somebody shot her and then buried her under a pile of rocks up there on the ledge just under the cliffs. When's the last time you saw her, Mr. Hosfield?"

  "I only saw her the one time, and I'm not sure when it was. A month ago? Three weeks, maybe? All I remember is, the river had flooded one of my pastures. I needed to get the cattle moved to higher ground or they were going to drown. And here's this little twit of a girl who wants me to drop everything else and chop down a bunch of oleander. Give me a break!"

  "What happened?"

  "I ran her off. I told her she must have missed the sign when she drove onto my property, or maybe she couldn't read it. But I told her that the little plastic badge with the USDA printed on it meant she was persona non grata on the Triple C and that she'd better get the hell out."

  "And she left?"

  "You bet."

  "And you never saw her again?"

  "Sheriff Brady, I already told you…

  "Let me ask you another question, Mr. Hosfield. Have you seen any other strangers around here in the last couple of weeks-somebody who looked like he didn't belong?"

  "On the Triple C?"

  "Yes. Or anywhere in the neighborhood for that matter."

  He considered. "Well," he said, "there are those stupid pretend Indians. Seems like there's always one or two of them wandering around where they're not supposed to, either on foot or riding horseback. Other than that, I don't guess I've seen anybody. But then, Ryan and I have had our hands full, too. I haven't been on the west side of the river since we finally managed to move the stock over here. With the river doing its thing all summer long, we've been keeping most of the stock in fenced pastures on this side. That way, we can get trucks to 'em if we need to."

  "So you haven't seen anyone?" Joanna asked.

  "Like I told you, nobody except those yahoos from Rattlesnake Crossing," Alton answered.

  "What about you?" Joanna turned to Ryan. "Have you seen anyone?"

  "No, ma'am," he replied. "Not a soul. Dad and I are working pretty much sunup to sunset, so I don't have time to see anybody."

  "There you are," Alton said with a shrug.

  "Well," Joanna concluded, "keep your eyes open, and don't hesitate to call if you see anyone or anything suspicious. Right now my detectives are all tied up with crime-scene investigation. When they finish up with that, they'll be around asking questions. Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal will be spearheading the investigation, but they may be joined by officers from Pima and Maricopa counties as well, just so you'll be prepared."

  "All right," Alton Hosfield said, clapping his hat back on his head. "I'll expect 'em to be dropping by in the next day or so. In the meantime, Sheriff Brady, I appreciate your taking the time to bring me up to speed. I was beginning to feel just a little paranoid." He paused and grinned. "If you ask Sonja, she'll probably tell you maybe even a bit more paranoid than usual. See you around."

  With that he turned on his dusty Tony Lama hoots and returned to his truck. Joanna went back to the Blazer.

  It was so late in the afternoon when she reached Benson that she should have driven past the ongoing press conference at the Quarter Horse Cafe without a trace of guilt. She had already put in a very long day after several other very long days. But her father, D. H. Lathrop, had imbued his daughter with his own fierce work ethic. In addition, Joanna Lathrop Brady had been raised in her mother's spotless household, where free-floating guilt outnumbered dust motes three to one. So she did drive past, but not without suffering a few guilty pangs over the fact that she was some-how shirking her duty.

  She was still battling her attack of guilt when she reached the Rita Road overpass on I-10. That was when inspiration struck. Belle Philips. As soon as the woman's name crossed her mind, Joanna reached for her radio. Then, realizing that a dozen reporters probably had their all-hearing scanners tuned to Cochise County frequencies, she fumbled for her phone instead.

  Dispatcher Tica Romero took the call. "Where's Detective Carbajal?" Joanna asked.

  "Still at the Triple C crime scene, as far as I know," Tica replied. "Do you want me to put you through to him?"

  "No. Ask him to contact me by phone rather than radio. Cell phones may not be one hundred percent secure, but they're better than broadcasting everything we say over the airwaves."

  "I'll have him get right back to you," Tica said. And she did. Joanna was on the horn with Jaime Carbajal before she had made it as far as Tucson's Wilmot Road.

  "What's up, Sheriff Brady?" he asked.

  "Jaime, have you had a chance to interview Belle Philips yet?"

  “Are you kidding? We've been so busy since the medics hauled her away in the ambulance that I've barely given the woman another thought. Why?"

  "Where is she?"

  "University Medica
l Center," he replied. "At least that's where I understood they were taking her."

  "It happens that I'm on my way there myself," Joanna told him. "That's where Marianne Maculyea and Jeff Daniels' daughter had surgery today. I was thinking, though, as long as you and Ernie are still tied up with the crime scene, I could just as well stop by and see Ms. Philips. She might actually know something about her husband's business."

  "It couldn't hurt," Jaime agreed.

  Armed with both official and unofficial reasons for being in Tucson, Joanna fought her way through rush-hour traffic and drove straight to the hospital. After stopping in the gift shop long enough to buy a small bouquet of daisies, she headed upstairs. As the elevator rose through the building, Joanna was grateful that the pediatric ICU was in a different part of the hospital from the adult surgical ICU, where Andy had died. That meant Jeff and Marianne would be in a different waiting room.

  Expecting to find one or the other of them inside, Joanna stepped off the elevator and pushed open one of the swinging doors that led into the waiting room. To her surprise, the first person she encountered was Butch Dixon. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  He had been working on a small laptop computer. As soon as he saw Joanna, he closed the lid. "I've been waiting for you," he said.

  "What's going on? Are you on your way back to Peoria?"

  "Not exactly," he replied. "When Kristin called and said you were coming here to visit Jeff and Marianne, I decided I would, too. That may be the only way I'll have a chance to see you-to turn up wherever you are-sort of like a bad penny. You're not avoiding me, are you?"

  "No. Of course not." Joanna was flustered by finding him there. To her consternation, she could feel a hot-faced blush blooming at the base of her neck. "And we did have lunch today," she reminded him.

  "That wasn't what I call having lunch," Butch objected. "You breezed in and sat down, but before we had a chance to exchange two words, that woman…"

  "Marliss," Joanna supplied. "Marliss Shackleford."

  "Whatever-her-name-is showed up and monopolized the conversation for as long as you were there."

  "I'm sorry," Joanna said. "That's what she's like. Pushy."

  "And you're skittish," Butch said.

  She nodded. "Well, I suppose I am. I'm afraid people will talk, I guess. Afraid of what they'll think."

  "What will they think?"

  "That you and I are involved. Seriously involved."

  "Are we?"

  Butch was making it tough for her. Standing there with the little vase of daisies in her hand, while she fielded his questions like a complete ninny. "Yes, we're involved," she said. "But I'm just not ready to be serious. You understand what I mean, don't you?"

  "I'm trying," he said. "So far, the signals are a little mixed. Look, Joanna, I want to have a chance to talk." He glanced around the waiting room. "As far as I'm concerned, this isn't the place to do it. How about dinner? Eight o'clock. I'll pick you up here, and we can go someplace nice. The Arizona Inn is just a few blocks away…"

  Along with the hospital itself, the Arizona Inn was an-other place that held painful memories for Joanna Brady. She'd been there, in the dining room talking to Adam York of the DEA when Tony Vargas had walked into Andy's hospital room to finish the job he had started a day earlier in a wash off High Lonesome Road.

  "No," Joanna said quickly. "Not there."

  "I'll figure it out, then." Butch stood up and headed for the door. "See you here at eight. No excuses."

  Joanna nodded. "But where are Jeff and Marianne?"

  "Jeff's in Esther's room for this hour's ten minutes' worth of visiting. He should be out any time. Marianne's at their hotel taking a nap. See you."

  Butch turned and walked out, leaving Joanna still standing and holding the flowers. She wasn't exactly alone. There were at least two other clumps of people, family members commiserating in low, solemn voices. A chill ran down Joanna's spine; she knew the kinds of crises they must be enduring where the only thing they could do was to keep their long, helpless vigils-waiting, hoping, and worrying.

  Jeff Daniels burst into the waiting room. "Joanna," he said. "You're here."

  "How's Esther?"

  "All right so far," he replied. "They're keeping her pretty well sedated."

  "And Marianne? How's she?"

  "She's hardly slept for days," Jeff said. "I finally convinced her to go back to the room to nap. I called and found out she'd left a wake-up call for five. I canceled it. I want her to sleep until she actually wakes up. She's been running on adrenaline for months now, ever since the girls got here. She's tough, but the strain is starting to show."

  "In other words, she's a wreck," Joanna concluded.

  Jeff managed a rueful grin. "We both are," he agreed.

  Looking down, Joanna remembered the flowers. "These are for you," she said, handing them over. "They're for all of you. I brought them, but they were Jenny's idea."

  "Thanks." Jeff put the vase down in the middle of a small conference table that sat next to the vending machines. "We're not allowed to take flowers into the ICU itself," he explained. "But if we leave them here, everyone can enjoy them. Besides, for the next day or two, we'll probably be spending more time here than anywhere else."

  Stuffing his hands in his pocket, Jeff sighed. "It was nice of Butch to stop by. He and I had a good visit. Just guy stuff-cars and baseball, mostly. But I was glad to have a chance to think and talk about something else. I can only deal with this for so long before I start to lose it." He broke off and shrugged. His eyes welled with tears. "Butch is a nice guy, Joanna. A real nice guy. You're lucky he's around."

  "I know," she said. That was part of the problem. Butch Dixon was a very nice guy.

  The door to the ICU waiting room swung open and several people came in at once. Joanna recognized them all-people from Bisbee's Canyon United Methodist Church come to offer prayers and moral support.

  "It looks like you have another whole batch of company," she told Jeff. "I'll leave you to visit with them."

  "You don't have to go."

  "No," she said. "There's someone else in the hospital I'm supposed to see. I'll come back a little later when I finish up with her."

  After pausing long enough to say hello to the newcomers, Joanna hurried back down to the lobby and was given directions to Belle Philips' room. Since Belle was a possible homicide suspect, Joanna had briefly considered posting a guard outside her hospital room, but then, with all the confusion of dealing with multiple cases, she had forgotten about it. Seeing Belle swathed in bandages and with casts on both an arm and a leg, Joanna realized that a guard wouldn't be necessary. Belle lay like an immense beached whale on her hospital bed, gazing up at a wall-mounted television set.

  She flicked her eyes away from the set as Joanna entered the room. "I can't never answer any of these questions, can you?" she asked.

  Jeopardy! was playing on the screen. "I can some of the time," Joanna replied, "but I don't watch it very often."

  "I suppose not," Belle said. "You're a busy lady."

  They were quiet, letting the television fill the room with low-level noise while Joanna searched for some way to start. "I'm sure this will be painful for you, Ms. Philips, but I need to talk to you about Clyde."

  Belle bit her lip and nodded. "It's all right," she said. "I don't mind. What do you want to know?"

  "When's the last time you saw him?"

  "Saturday," she said. "He came by the restaurant and I cooked him breakfast."

  "What about Sunday?" Joanna asked.

  "I never saw him on Sunday," Belle said.

  "But you did go by the house," Joanna pressed.

  For a long time Belle Philips didn't answer. "Yes," she said finally. "I did go by, but I didn't see him."

  "Did you go into the house?"

  "Yes, but he must have been asleep," Belle said. "I didn't wake him up and I didn't see him, neither. I went in and came straight back out."

  "If y
ou didn't go to see him, why were you there?" Joanna asked.

  Belle sighed. "I needed money," she said. "To pay my utilities. So I did that sometimes, when I was short. Went by aid helped myself to a dollar or two. He always had money in his wallet. And he never seemed to miss it. Least-wise, he never complained about it. But I never killed him, Sheriff Brady. I never did nothin' to hurt the man. You're not sayin' I did, are you?"

  "No," Joanna responded, "I didn't say you did. I'm just trying to understand what all was going on in Clyde's life the last few days before he died. We don't have autopsy results yet, but Dr. Daly-the investigator for the medical examiner's office-thinks Clyde may have committed suicide. What do you think?"

  "He never," Belle said flatly. "Clyde never would of done that, not less'n he got a whole lot sicker than he was already."

  "You knew he was sick, then?" Joanna asked.

  Belle shrugged. "I guess."

  "With what?"

  "Who knows? All I know is, the last few months he was always tired. Just dragging. Like he could barely stand to put one foot in front of another. Losing weight no matter how much food I stuffed into him. But Clyde wasn't one to go to doctors much. Didn't believe in 'em."

  Joanna stared. Dr. Daly had taken one look at Clyde Philips' body and suspected that the man was suffering from AIDS. If Clyde didn't go to doctors, was it possible that he himself hadn't known what was wrong with him? Or was his former wife the one who didn't know?

  "So as far as you know, Clyde didn't have a personal physician?"

  "If he did, he never told me. And what's the point? Even if he was sick when he died, once he's dead, can't see how it matters."

  It matters, all right, Joanna thought, to anyone else who's ever been with the man. It matters to you. She said, "So after you moved out, Ms. Philips, did you maintain any kind of relationship with your former husband?"

  "I cooked for him," Belle admitted. "Did his wash. Cleaned for him when the house got so filthy that I couldn't stand to see it. He paid me for it, too, for doing all those things, but I probably would of kept right on doin' even if he hadn't had no money to pay me."

  "But you and he weren't… well… intimate."