Devil's Claw (20 page)

“But how many towns in Mexico chlorinate and fluoridate their water?” Casey asked back.

“Not many,” Joanna said. And then, seeing where Casey’s line of thought was leading, she added, “Same goes for ranchers and stock tanks between here and the border. Is it possible to get a match on where the water came from?”

“Maybe,” Casey said. “Ernesto’s making some follow-up phone calls on that right now.”

“Good work, Casey. Have him call me with his results. In the meantime, give Dick Voland whatever assistance he needs.”

“Will do,” Casey replied.

Sitting on the far side of Joanna’s desk, Frank Montoya had followed enough of the conversation to know what was going on. “That Casey Ledford has a good head on her shoulders,” he said. “It’s a shame we have to keep her locked up in the print lab.”

“Casey
likes
the print lab,” Joanna reminded him. “She’s good at what she does, and as long as she’s not afraid to think outside the box from time to time, we have the benefit of her smarts in more than one direction.”

“Sheriff Brady?” Once again Kristin’s disembodied voice came over the intercom. “Is Chief Deputy Montoya still in there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell him that Marliss Shackleford is out in the public lobby waiting to speak to him?”

Frank stood up. “Time to go earn my keep,” he said. “Why do you suppose she wants to talk to me?”

“The last I heard, you were still our Media Relations officer,” Joanna said.

“Media Relations!” Frank snorted, heading for the door. “For this I ought to qualify for hazardous-duty pay.”

CHAPTER 12

“So how is my partner in crime this morning?” George Winfield asked. “According to Reba Singleton, you and I are schemers of the first water—conflict of interest, collusion. The woman seems to have a whole laundry list of grievances. Is there anything you and I aren’t guilty of?”

“How’s it going, George?” Joanna said, swallowing her disappointment.

She felt more than a little guilty about talking to him. Despite his having left two separate messages on Saturday, all of Sunday had passed without Joanna actually speaking to the medical examiner. She had attempted to call him—once each at home and at the office—but when he hadn’t answered after several rings, she hadn’t left messages and she hadn’t attempted to reach him again, either. She might have tried harder, if she had known exactly what to say.

Sheriff Joanna Brady cringed at the idea that the mere existence of a relationship between the two of them had caused the medical examiner’s professional integrity to be called into question. It made her feel responsible and more than a little embarrassed. She was also cautious. Eleanor Lathrop hadn’t mentioned a word about the situation to Joanna during their ride out to the High Lonesome after the Sunday-afternoon wedding shower. Joanna had taken her mother’s lack of comment to mean that Eleanor Lathrop Winfield was still in the dark about Reba Singleton’s allegations. And, since George hadn’t had nerve enough to broach such a touchy subject with his wife, Joanna thought it wise to follow suit. Still, given the seriousness of the situation, she hardly expected George to be joking around about it.

“Does Mother know what Reba Singleton is up to?” Joanna asked.

“Not exactly,” George admitted. “At least not yet. I didn’t want to discuss it with her and get her all wound up until you and I had a chance to talk. However, I just left Madame Singleton in the courthouse lobby in what can best be described as a state of high dudgeon. The way the grapevine works around here, it’s probably only a matter of hours before Ellie hears about it and the you-know-what hits the fan. What’s this about the FBI’s being expected to ride to Reba’s rescue at any moment?”

“As far as I know,” Joanna told him, “all that’s happened so far is that she’s hired Dick Voland to investigate. His task assignment is to dig up enough evidence of wrongdoing to bring in the Feds.”

“Dick Voland?” George Winfield asked. “Your ex-chief deputy?”

“That’s the one.”

“What is he now, a PI?”

“Right again. He was here at the department just a few minutes ago picking up fingerprints records on me. You see, since I’m the one who found the body, my prints are on Clayton’s ignition key.”

“Why, that ungrateful son of a bitch!”

“George,” Joanna interjected. “Dick Voland is only doing the job he was hired to do. And give the man some credit. He did me the common courtesy of stopping by yesterday afternoon to clue me in about what was going on. Giving me that advance warning wasn’t something he had to do. In fact, if Reba Singleton knew about it, I’m sure she’d be pissed as hell. Which reminds me, what was she doing in court?”

“Seeking a court order to require me to have another autopsy done by an outside medical examiner—with the county paying the tab, of course. She lost. Superior Court Judge Cameron Moore told her to take a hike. Then, once the hearing was over, she demanded that I release her father’s body immediately, along with my results and tissue samples so she can hot-foot it up to Tucson for a second-opinion autopsy which she’ll pay for.”

“What did you tell her?”

“ ‘No dice, lady. You can’t have it both ways.’ If she wants a second opinion, fine. She’s more than welcome to one. But I’m not sending my results out of town. And I’m not releasing tissue samples, either. That means Clayton Rhodes’ body stays in my morgue until Ms. Singleton’s second-opinion autopsy is complete. She wanted to know what she’s supposed to do about a funeral. I told her that depends on how soon she can find some circuit-riding ME to come down here to Bisbee to do it. If Reba Singleton wants accountability, I’ll show her accountability. In spades.”

George Winfield wasn’t joking now. He was hot. Joanna recognized that his earlier attempts at humor had been entirely for her benefit—to make her feel better. Clearly he was as disturbed by Reba’s unfounded allegations as she was. And, far more than his earlier joking, knowing that
did
make Joanna feel better.

“I’m sorry I got you into all this, George,” she murmured.

“You?” he demanded. “How did you get me into anything? Did you have any idea you were a beneficiary under Clayton Rhodes’ will?”

“No.”

“The man died of a cerebral hemorrhage, Joanna. You didn’t cause that either. You could have turned that ignition key on and off a hundred times, and it wouldn’t have made a speck of difference. There isn’t an ME on the planet who isn’t going to rule on Clayton’s death the same way I did.”

“It’s still a hassle.”

“So’s having Dick Voland show up at your office asking for copies of your prints,” George countered. “How are
you
doing?”

“I’m okay,” she replied without enthusiasm. “We’re trying to get a handle on that case that turned up over by Pearce.”

“Sandra Ridder?”

“That’s the one.”

“I had planned to start the autopsy on her first thing this morning, but I ended up having to go to court instead. Thank God Judge Moore doesn’t believe in wasting a man’s time. But now both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter have been called out of town. I won’t be able to start the autopsy until one or the other of them gets back.”

“That’s fine,” Joanna assured him. “As far as I can see, there’s no big hurry. There’ll be time enough for that later.”

After she finished talking to George Winfield, Joanna hung up the phone. Then she sat staring at the face of it for several long seconds—wondering if it would ring again and willing Butch to be the first to call. When no call came through, she picked up the next piece of mail in her stack of correspondence—an invitation to attend the annual Arizona Sheriffs’ Conference the last week in May.

She started to fill out the form. Would she attend? Yes. Would anyone be accompanying her? Yes. What kind of accommodations did she require—single or double? Smoking or nonsmoking? Two double beds, queen, or king? Frustrated, she tossed down her pen and reached for the phone, but when she picked it up to dial Butch’s number, there was no dial tone.

“Hello?” she demanded into the silent receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

“Does this mean great minds think along the same lines?” Butch Dixon asked.

“My phone didn’t even ring.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I dialed and you answered before the ringer had a chance. Who were you calling?”

Joanna hesitated. “You,” she admitted finally.

“So can we both say we’re sorry at the same time and get this over with?” he asked. “And will you have a late breakfast or an early lunch with me? And could we do it right now, since my parents just called from El Paso? I’d like to have one last quiet meal for just the two of us before all hell breaks loose.”

Relief washed over her. “Yes, yes, and yes,” Joanna answered with a laugh. “I’d like that, too.”

“Good. How soon can you get away?”

Joanna looked at the stack of correspondence on her desk. She needed to make as much headway on it as she could before the current day’s batch arrived. “Let’s make it eleven at Daisy’s,” she said. “That’ll give me time to finish up what I’m doing. Which reminds me. The reason I was calling you was to ask if you’d like to attend the annual sheriffs’ conference with me.”

“You mean you weren’t calling to apologize?”

“I was calling for both reasons,” Joanna said.

Butch laughed. “In that case, when’s the conference?”

“The week before Memorial Day. We finish up on Friday. It’s up at Page. We could probably stay gone over that three-day weekend, too.”

“Just you and me?” he asked.

“As long as we can find someone to take care of Jenny and the animals.”

“Sounds good. Only what’ll I do all day while you’re in meetings?”

Joanna shrugged and glanced back at the form. When that told her nothing, she browsed through the brochure. “It says here that wives—”

“Wives?” Butch interrupted.

“It does say ‘wives,’ “ Joanna told him. “Remember, at this point I’m still the only sheriff who’s a woman. They’re probably not used to the idea of sheriffs who show up with husbands in tow.”

“I’m not used to it yet, either,” Butch said. “Now, what does it say again?”

“That wives will be offered their choices of several tours, including a bus trip to Canyon de Chelly, visiting a trading post on the Navajo Nation, and possibly doing some antiquing.”

Butch sighed. “Well,” he said. “That’s a relief, anyway.”

“What’s a relief?”

“I was afraid you were going to tell me we’d all be doing makeovers and having our colors done.”

“I’m hanging up now,” she told him with another laugh. “See you at lunch.”

When she went back to working on the correspondence, it was with a good deal more energy. She started by filling out the registration form and authorizing the check that needed to go with it. Then she marched through the stack of mail. Would she come speak to the Willcox Kiwanis Club? Would she agree to be marshal of the Tombstone Heldorado Parade? Would she come to Douglas High School to be a part of their career-day program?

Responding to those requests and putting the various appointments into the calendar, Joanna was well aware that the job of sheriff consisted of far more public relations work than she had ever thought possible. No wonder her father, Sheriff D. H. Lathrop, had been at work so much of the time. It was also no wonder that his wife, Eleanor, had often been in an uproar about it.

How will Butch react to all those demands on my time?
she wondered. He had been understanding enough in the past, but that was when they were just dating. Would his attitude change once he was at home keeping dinner warm for someone who never managed to make meals on time?

Finished with as much paperwork as she could handle right then, Joanna gathered up the stack of letters in need of envelopes and mailing. When she came out through her office door, her secretary was talking on the telephone. She hung up abruptly once she realized Joanna had stopped in front of her desk. Joanna noticed that Kristin seemed uncharacteristically flustered.

“Sorry,” Kristin said hurriedly. “I didn’t see you. Did you want something?”

“I’m going to lunch,” Joanna said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get these all copied, addressed, and mailed. I’ve already put the appointments in my calendar, but you may want to add them to yours as well so you’ll know where I’m supposed to be and when.”

“All right,” Kristin said. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”

“Probably no later than twelve-thirty.”

Joanna started to walk away, then turned back. “How’s Deputy Gregovich this morning?”

Kristin flushed. “He’s fine,” she stammered.

Joanna nodded. “Tell him hello for me next time he calls.”

Out in the parking lot, Joanna stopped for a moment in the bright March sunshine. It wasn’t especially warm, and once again a blustery, chill wind was blowing in out of the west. Up on the hillside behind the department, the only visible clumps of green were either bear grass or scrub oak. At nearly five thousand feet, the mesquite was still nothing but gaunt black trunks and branches. Spring would come to the high desert country eventually, but not quite yet. It was still too soon for the emerald-green mesquite leaves to burst forth in search of sunlight.