Devil's Claw (18 page)

“You do know about Clayton’s will then?” he asked.

“I do now. Burton Kimball called this morning and clued me in.”

“She’s something, Reba is,” Dick said. “And she sure is on a tear about this. She’s going to push it all the way to the end.”

“Which is?”

“She wants me to gather enough evidence that she can present a case to the FBI.”

“The Feds?” Joanna yelped in surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as can be. She claims her husband is friends with some big-wig assistant director who specializes in investigating wrongdoing in local law-enforcement jurisdictions. She’s also going to court first thing tomorrow morning to request an additional autopsy. Since Doc Winfield is your stepfather, she wants him to be required to turn over both his results and his tissue samples to another medical examiner for a second opinion.”

Sighing and scuffing one foot on the ground, Voland looked even more ill at ease than he had before. “So I guess you could call this a courtesy call,” he continued. “I’ll be coming around to the department tomorrow morning, Joanna. I’ll be asking for fingerprint information—on you.”

The whole time Dick Voland was speaking, Joanna hadn’t taken her eyes off his face. Rather than his usual bluster and bravado, she saw something else there, something she never would have expected to see—regret. She and Dick Voland had worked together for years. He had been her Chief Deputy for Operations, and he was someone Joanna had looked up to. At the beginning of her administration, while she had been fighting her way through an overwhelming mire of on-the-job training, she had counted on Dick Voland’s good sense and his years of law-enforcement experience for counsel and advice. Despite the unfortunate way things had ended between them, there remained a lingering respect—one that hadn’t been entirely obliterated and probably never would be.

“My prints are on Clayton Rhodes’ ignition key,” she said. “I’m the one who found the pickup in his garage. The engine was still running. At that point I had no way of knowing whether Clayton was dead or alive. There wasn’t time to go hunting for a pair of latex gloves. I had to shut the engine off.”

Voland nodded. “I figured as much, but try explaining a concept like that to a crazy woman. It’s hopeless. She didn’t believe a word of it.”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose she did.”

Just then Marianne Maculyea emerged from the restaurant. Catching sight of Dick Voland standing there talking to Joanna, she frowned with concern. “You’ve been out here a long time,” she called across the top of Eleanor’s Buick. “Anything wrong?”

Marianne Maculyea was one of the few people in whom Joanna had confided the real reasons behind Dick Voland’s abrupt departure from the sheriff’s department.

“No,” Joanna said quickly. “Nothing’s wrong, Mari. Dick here was just giving me a preview of what to expect tomorrow morning at work. And I appreciate it, too, Dick. I really do. Thanks.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “You’re welcome. Guess I’d better be going. See you tomorrow.” With that, he folded his lanky frame small enough to fit back inside the Camry and then drove off.

Joanna turned back to Marianne. “What is it, Joanna?” Marianne asked. “You can say there’s nothing wrong, but I know better. I can see it in your face.”

“Reba Singleton has hired Dick Voland to gather enough evidence against me to ask the FBI to investigate my involvement in her father’s death.”

“She’s accusing you of murdering Clayton Rhodes?”

“That’s right.”

Marianne’s eye blazed with anger. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

“No, it’s not. According to Burton Kimball, if Reba tries to go against her father’s will, the expenses of that come straight out of her pocket. But if she can somehow prove that I’m responsible for his death, the state would be compelled to declare the will invalid. I don’t know all the applicable statutes well enough. It may not even be necessary for her to make a murder charge stick. Criminal negligence might be enough to invalidate the will.”

“But what’s the point?” Marianne asked. “Reba Singleton seems to have plenty of money of her own. According to what I heard, she came to town yesterday in a chauffeur-driven limo after flying into Tucson International in a private jet. Why does she even care what happens to her folks’ old place? It can’t be worth that much money.”

“I doubt it is,” Joanna agreed. “I’m sure it’s the principle of the thing. She regards Rhodes Ranch as hers. The fact that her father may have had other ideas about it is driving her crazy.”

“What can I do to help?” Marianne asked.

Joanna smiled. “Listening helps more than you know,” she said. “This isn’t exactly the kind of problem I want to broadcast to the world. There aren’t that many people I can talk to about it.”

“Does Butch know?”

“He knows about the will. He doesn’t know that Reba Singleton has hired Dick Voland. I don’t think he’ll be thrilled when he finds out.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Absolutely. It’ll give us something to talk about—while we’re cleaning the oven and wiping down cabinets.”

“What about a ride home?” Marianne asked.

Joanna shook her head. “Mother already offered,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just a ploy to fill my head with a whole other list of things that have to be done before the wedding. Still, I’d better ride with her and give her that much of a shot at me. I haven’t exactly been sitting still this week.”

“You never do,” Marianne said.

“Look who’s calling the kettle black,” Joanna pointed out. “We’re both card-carrying members of the Women Who Do Too Much Club. Speaking of which, what are you going to do after the baby gets here? Have you and Jeff found a live-in sitter yet?”

Marianne frowned. “We haven’t, and I don’t know what we’re going to do. We can’t really afford a nanny, but I know Jeff won’t be able to keep track of Ruth and the baby at the shop. I’ll have a few weeks of maternity leave right after the baby is born. What we’ve decided to do is not worry about the sitter situation until it’s closer to time.”

“In other words, cross the bridge when you come to it.”

Marianne nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “You should probably try doing the same thing with Reba Singleton and her going to the FBI. Don’t worry about it until it happens.”

Great advice,
Joanna thought.
Easier given than taken—in both directions.

The ride home with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield proved to be just what Joanna expected. Eleanor wanted to present her daughter with a complex litany of things that had to be done in the course of the next week, along with a detailed schedule by which each one of those assigned tasks had to be accomplished. Eleanor remained willfully oblivious to the fact that her daughter might have a few other concerns in her life in addition to her upcoming wedding.

“You’re treating this whole thing far too casually,” Eleanor complained. “An event like this doesn’t come together without a little effort and cooperation, you know.”

“I’ve told you before, Mother,” Joanna said. “You need to talk to Butch about all these details. He’s the one who’s in charge of wedding plans and logistics on our end. I have my hands full just doing my job.”

“What about your hair?”

“My hair?”

“Have you made your appointment at Helene’s yet? Or has he made one for you? If the wedding starts at four, you should be in a chair in Helen Barco’s shop no later than eleven. And since the wedding is going to be on a Saturday, somebody had better call for an appointment pretty soon because she could be all booked up.”

“Mother,” Joanna replied. “I’m sure I can fix my own hair that day without having to visit an adequate shop.”

“I beg your pardon? A what?”

“I know Helen calls her place a beauty shop, but my results are usually adequate rather than beautiful. I prefer calling Helene’s an adequate shop.”

Eleanor Winfield gave a disapproving shake to her head. “There you go again,” she sniffed. “You’re just like your father—always making jokes. You’re so like him at times, Joanna, I can hardly stand it. Part of the time Big Hank Lathrop was your basic a-number-one clown. The rest of the time he was out trying to save the universe, even if it meant leaving his own family out to dry.

“I almost feel sorry for Frederick at times,” Eleanor added after a pause. Even now, less than a week before the wedding, Joanna’s mother still refused to call Butch Dixon by anything other than his given name. “I doubt the poor man has any idea of what he’s letting himself in for.”

“I believe you’re wrong there, Mother,” Joanna said quietly, thinking back over the events of the last two nights. Both times she had left Butch minding the store, and both times he had come through like a champ. “Butch is nobody’s dummy. I’m pretty sure he knows what’s coming.”

CHAPTER 11

“How’s the bride?” he asked cheerfully, popping his head in the door. “And how was the shower?”

“The shower was fine,” Joanna replied, rubbing her eyes. “As for the bride, she’s not doing all that well at the moment. Butch and I had a hell of a fight last night. Since I have yet to hear from him this morning, I have to assume we’re still not exactly on speaking terms.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Frank said, setting a stack of incident reports down on the corner of Joanna’s desk before easing himself into one of her two captain’s chairs. “Pre-wedding jitters, I assume?”

“Some people would call it that, I suppose,” Joanna replied.

The previous evening the oven had been sparkling clean and she and Butch had tackled cleaning grout on the kitchen counter when she had happened to mention Dick Voland’s visit at the end of the shower.

Butch’s reaction to the news had been instantaneous and in hindsight, quite predictable. “You can’t be serious!” he had exclaimed. “You mean you’re actually going to cooperate with that jerk?”

“Of course I’m going to cooperate,” Joanna replied. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Ignore him.”

“Butch, I can’t do that,” an exasperated Joanna had explained. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, if I refuse to give him what he needs, it’ll make matters that much worse.”

“I don’t see how. I think he’s got a hell of a lot of nerve—”

“Dick Voland stopped by Daisy’s to let me know what was going down,” Joanna said. “It was quite nice of him, considering.”

“And you’re so naive, you fell for it.”

“Fell for what?”

“The nice-guy routine,” Butch growled. “Dick Voland wasn’t being nice. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s a disgruntled ex-employee who came by to let you know that he’s about to stab you in the back. And while he’s at it, he wanted to ask you if you’d mind giving him a hand.”

“That’s not how it was,” Joanna said.

“Right.”

“Butch, I happen to know Dick Voland better than you do.”

“I’m sure
that
’s true.”

That was where the conversation had ended, and the evening, too. A few minutes later, Butch had stalked out of the house and left for home. Energized by anger, Joanna had kept on cleaning right up until midnight. She was angry with Butch for flying off the handle and angry with herself for not managing the issue in a more diplomatic fashion. The last thing she had wanted to do the week before her wedding was quarrel with Butch over Dick Voland. But the more she scrubbed and cleaned and the more she thought about it, the more she began to wonder if perhaps Butch was right. Joanna had assumed a mutual respect existed between her and her former colleague. Was it possible that respect was totally one-sided?

Finally, worn out by work and worry both, she had gone to bed but not to sleep. In fact, she had tossed and turned until almost time for her alarm to sound.

Frank took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t your new in-laws arrive today? I’ve heard rumors that they’re always good for at least one fight.”

“This has nothing to do with Butch’s family,” Joanna said. “The beef was over Dick Voland.”

“Dick Voland? I would have thought Butch had moved beyond worrying about Dick Voland a long time ago. That’s all water under the bridge.”

“New water, new bridge,” Joanna said. “Dick showed up at the shower yesterday afternoon.”

“He was there?” Frank demanded. “How come? Who invited him?”

“He wasn’t invited. He stopped by afterward to tell me that Clayton Rhodes’ daughter, Reba Singleton, is on the warpath. She believes one way or another that I’m responsible for her father’s death. She’s hired Dick and wants him to gather enough evidence to bring the situation to the attention of the FBI.”

At that juncture, Frank actually choked as a sip of steaming coffee caught in his throat. “Why, for God’s sake, would she—”

“Because Clayton left me his place in his will.”

“His place?” Frank blinked. “You mean Rhodes Ranch—the land, house, and everything?”