Damage Control (13 page)

“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?”

“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.”

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.”

“You’re sure you’re talking about my mother?” Joanna asked.

“Who else?” Butch returned.

“When did she tell you that?”

“This afternoon,” Butch said. “She stopped by a couple of
hours earlier this afternoon, just after we came home from Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s. She wanted to know what I thought about Mazda Miatas. She’s evidently thinking of buying one—a convertible, bright red.”

The fact that Eleanor wanted to come and run roughshod over Joanna’s household in Butch’s absence was bad enough. The rest was beyond belief. “Wait a minute,” Joanna said, holding up her hand. “You’re saying my mother came to you—to Butch Dixon—for car-buying advice? And she wants a convertible?”

“That’s right. I told her she should probably talk the Miata situation over with George. She said ordinarily she would but that she isn’t speaking to him at the moment.”

Joanna shook her head. “As you said earlier, whatever’s going on between them, we can’t afford to get in the middle of it.”

“I’m afraid we already are,” Butch said. “George called here looking for her. Twice. I told him she had been here earlier but that I didn’t have a clue where she was headed after that. George asked me if she had given me any hint about what was going on with her. I told him no, because I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Does that mean you do know what’s going on?” Joanna asked.

“I think your mother is jealous,” Butch said.

“Jealous!” Joanna repeated. “Of whom?”

“The woman who works in George’s office. She didn’t mention any names, but she kept talking about ‘that woman in his office.’ Other than the car, that’s
all
she talked about.”

“You mean Madge?” Joanna blurted. “My mother is jealous of Madge Livingston? Are you kidding? That can’t be.”

“Why not?” Butch asked.

“Have you ever met Madge Livingston?”

“Never.”

“She’s a sixty-something peroxide blonde who’s a bitch on wheels,” Joanna said. “She drinks too much, smokes too much—unfiltered Camels—and rides her Harley to and from work.”

“Hey,” Butch observed mildly. “There’s nothing wrong with people who ride Harleys.”

With his beloved Honda Goldwing safely under cover and stowed in his section of the garage, Butch had an opinion about motorcycles and their riders that was widely at variance with Joanna’s. There was nothing he liked better than to hit the road for a long solitary ride. Joanna, on the other hand, had adamantly refused Butch’s every invitation to accompany him.

“Not on your life,” Joanna had told him the last time he asked her to come along. “I’m not getting on that thing until hell freezes over.”

“Madge has worked for the county for years, even though she’s only been assigned to George for a matter of months,” Joanna continued. “Every year she times her vacation so she can go to that big motorcycle week in Sturgis, North Dakota.”

“South Dakota,” Butch corrected.

“Whichever,” Joanna returned. “But the point is, she and my mother are as different as night and day.”

“Maybe that’s why your mother is so interested in buying a Miata,” Butch suggested. “Maybe she figures having a hot little convertible is one way of leveling the playing field with the competition’s Harley.”

“That makes no sense,” Joanna said.

“Jealousy is an emotion,” Butch observed. “It doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, it usually doesn’t.”

He has a point,
Joanna thought.
Think about Sandra Wolfe and
Samantha Edwards still feuding over Norbert Jessup. None of that made sense, either.

Joanna reached in her pocket and pulled out her phone. “What are you going to do?” Butch asked.

“Call her,” Joanna said. “Try to talk some sense into her head.”

“Just don’t tell her I told you,” Butch said. “She swore me to secrecy.”

“About Madge?”

“And about her wanting to buy the Miata. Once she knows I’ve let the cat out of the bag, I’ll no longer be her favorite son-in-law.”

“You’re her only son-in-law,” Joanna pointed out. Shaking her head in exasperation, she dialed her mother’s cell phone number. It rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. Joanna hung up without leaving a message.

“She isn’t answering,” Joanna said.

“I know,” Butch replied. “George already told me as much.”

When she ended the call, instead of putting down the phone, Joanna dialed George’s number. He answered immediately and without bothering to say hello. “Have you heard from her?” he asked. “Is she all right?”

“No,” Joanna replied. “I haven’t heard from her. What about you?”

“She hasn’t called me, either,” he said morosely. “I’m here at the house. Ellie’s makeup is gone from the dresser. So are her toothbrush, hairbrush, and hair dryer from the bathroom. That means she’s packed up and taken off for somewhere, but she didn’t leave a note, Joanna, and she didn’t say a word about where she was going or when she’d be back.”

“Do you know anything about her wanting to buy a Miata?” Joanna asked.

“A what?”

“A Mazda Miata. You know, one of those sporty little convertibles.”

“A sporty convertible? No way. Ellie would never let loose of that big Buick of hers. She loves that car.”

That pretty much showed how much George knew about the situation—which was to say,
nada.

Joanna decided to tackle the problem head-on—well, more or less head-on. “Butch seems to think Mom is jealous,” she said.

“Jealous?” George repeated, as though the word were entirely foreign to him. “Jealous of what?”

“Of you and Madge.”

“You mean Madge Livingston, my receptionist?” George managed. “You’re saying your mother thinks something is going on between Madge and me? That’s ridiculous. You know the woman, Joanna. She’s a regular man-eater if I ever met one. Wherever would your mother come up with such a fruitcake idea? What’s she been smoking?”

“You’ve been putting in some pretty long hours,” Joanna suggested. “In fact, she was complaining to me about that just yesterday. She said your department needed to have more help.”

“That’s true. I could use more help, but believe me, when I’m working, I’m working. I don’t have time to screw around with anyone, especially with one of my employees. That would be professional suicide. In addition to which, why would I? Your mother’s more than enough woman for me. I knew that from the moment I met her. I also knew that she was the one. Compared with Ellie, Madge Livingston isn’t even in the same ballpark.”

“So what is going on between you and Mom?” Joanna wanted to know.

George’s response was guarded. “What makes you think something’s going on?”

“For one thing, you’re calling here looking for her. For another, she’s not speaking to you. For a third, she’s suddenly treating Butch like he’s the Second Coming or something. She even offered to come here to
babysit
this September so he can go off on a book tour when
Serve and Protect
comes out. Does any of this sound like the Eleanor Lathrop Winfield you know and love? It doesn’t to me. I think someone’s pulled a switcheroo on us. Otherwise, she’s gone completely round the bend.”

“She has been a little strange lately,” George admitted.

“How lately?”

“The last few months. Certainly the last few weeks. Ellie hasn’t been herself. She’s been out of sorts—snappish and unhappy.”

That didn’t seem odd—or even out of character. As far as Joanna was concerned, snappish and unhappy was how Eleanor Lathrop Winfield was most of the time.

“What about being overly emotional?” Joanna asked, thinking of Eleanor’s sudden bout of tears the day before.

“Well, yes,” George agreed. “I suppose there’s been some of that as well, but when the women in my life turn on me like that, I just assume it’s something I’ve done wrong. Usually, if I wait around long enough, they’ll let me know what it is. But the idea of Ellie taking off without saying a word about where she’s going? This is something altogether new.” He paused. “And as far as
her talking about buying a new car? She’s never said a word to me about that, either.”

That was one of the tricky things about being married, Joanna realized. You had to be aware of and understand what your spouse was saying. But you also had to understand what he or she wasn’t saying. And why. Text, subtext, invisible subtext. There was evidently a whole lot Eleanor hadn’t been saying to George. And probably vice versa as well.

“I don’t suppose I should report her missing,” George mused at last.

“There’s no sign of a struggle at your house?” Joanna confirmed. “Nothing to indicate that she didn’t leave of her own volition, right?”

“No,” George replied. “Everything’s shipshape.”

“Then I’d say there’s no reason to report her missing just yet,” Joanna told him. “Adults have every right to come and go on their own. You simply wait to hear from her. We all do.”

“But it’s not like her to be so unreasonable.”

That,
Joanna thought,
is a matter of opinion.

“If she calls here, we’ll let you know, George,” Joanna assured him. “And if she calls you, you do the same.”

“I still can’t get over it,” George said. “Ellie thinks I’m carrying on with Madge? That’s unbelievable.”

As Joanna hung up, she turned to look at Butch, who was busy plucking Dennis out of his high chair. “Now you’ve done it,” her husband said. “We’re right in the middle of it.”

Joanna shook her head. “We already were,” she replied.

Once the baby was down and Jenny closeted in her room, Joanna was kind enough to share her pecan pie with Butch. Lying
in bed later, Joanna was still puzzling over her mother’s odd behavior.

“Did Mother come straight out and say she thought George was carrying on with Madge?”

Butch had already rolled over on his side. “No,” he said. “Not by name. She never mentioned anyone by name. Just ‘that woman from George’s office.’”

Joanna started to say something more, but by then Butch was already snoring. She lay awake for a long time thinking about it, and before she fell asleep she’d made up her mind. The next morning, as soon as she dropped her purse and briefcase in her own office, she made her way to Frank Montoya’s.

A longtime deputy, Frank had been one of Joanna’s original opponents when she ran for office the first time. Her decision to make him one of her chief deputies had been a wise political move. From an administrative standpoint it had been absolutely brilliant. Frank had a good eye for detail. He was her chief IT guy and a bulldog when it came to keeping track of budgetary concerns. For the two years since Dick Voland’s departure, Frank had served ably as Joanna’s sole chief deputy. He had a reputation for being the first one at his desk each morning, but not that particular Monday morning, when she was especially in need of his IT skills.

Joanna wrote a Post-it note and left it on his desk. “See me,” the note said.

Out in the lobby, Kristin handed Joanna a stack of correspondence that was topped by that morning’s edition of the
Arizona Daily Sun.
The paper was folded open to reveal a highlighted article headlined “Missing Group Home Patient Found Slain.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “Let me know when Frank shows up.”

Back at her desk, Joanna disposed of most of the correspondence before finally turning her attention to the designated article.