Devil's Claw (29 page)

“Absolutely. You can count on me, Sheriff Brady,” the deputy replied.

“And if you want to take time off together,” Joanna continued, “it has to be arranged in advance through proper channels. No more of this instant comp time or ‘I feel a headache coming on, so I think I’ll go home.’ Understood, Kristin?”

The young woman nodded eagerly.

“Okay, then,” Joanna said, “it’s probably time we all went to work. Terry and Spike need to get over to Texas Canyon to help the Search and Rescue guys look for Lucinda Ridder. And I’m sure Kristin and I have a bale of incoming mail to handle. Right, Kristin?”

“Right.”

Kristin and Terry stood up together. So did Spike. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you,” Joanna said. “If anyone were to track down the records, you’d be able to see that, taking Andy’s and my wedding date into consideration, Jenny was born a lot sooner than she should have been. And since she weighed in at seven and a half pounds, we would have been hard-pressed to convince anyone that she was premature.”

Kristin Marsten caught her breath. “Sheriff Brady, you mean the same thing happened to you?”

“It happens to a lot of people, Kristin, and I’m here to tell you it’s not the end of the world. Talk to your parents about it. They just might surprise you.”

Nodding and holding hands, Kristin and Terry left Joanna’s office, closing the door behind them. Moments later there was a discreet knock.

“Come in,” Joanna called.

Frank Montoya poked his head around the door. “Time for the morning briefing?” he asked, waving a fistful of manila folders.

“Past time,” Joanna said. “Let’s get cracking.”

“I guess you didn’t have a chance to have that little chat with Deputy Gregovich and Kristin,” Frank suggested tentatively.

“But I did talk to them,” Joanna replied. “The two of them left my office just a few seconds ago.”

“Well,” Frank said. “It doesn’t appear that your talk did much good. You’d better give it another shot. When I came into the outer office just now, I caught them in the middle of a great big smooch. They broke it off, but they didn’t even have brains enough to look guilty about it.”

“Kristin Marsten and Deputy Gregovich aren’t guilty, Frank. They’re pregnant. They spent yesterday afternoon finding out for sure that it was more than just a late period and deciding whether or not to have an abortion. I think we can say Kristin was legitimately sick even if she wasn’t home when you went by to check. They were in Tucson seeing a doctor from Planned Parenthood.”

“Whoa! I’d guess that means you’re not going to fire them.”

“And I’d guess you’re right. I told them no more monkey business at work or during business hours, but we can probably overlook an engagement-launching smooch. Now let’s get down to business. What happened overnight?”

For the next forty-five minutes, Joanna and Frank went over the chief deputy’s usual collection of mundane stuff—incident reports, jail menus, scheduling and vacation approvals. None of it was critical, but it all had to be brought to Joanna’s attention.

“And here’s the information you wanted me to find,” Frank Montoya said when they had finally worked their way down to the last folder in his stack.

“What’s that?” Joanna asked.

“Faxes of the newspaper clippings on the Thomas Ridder shooting. I also found out why he got thrown out of the army. He decked a superior officer.”

“So at least he didn’t discriminate,” Joanna said.

Frank frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Most of the men who beat up their wives don’t have balls enough to pick on someone their own size who might hit back.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s discriminating, Joanna,” Frank said. “Remember, the army discharged Thomas Ridder over whatever happened. Sandra Ridder’s solution put the guy away in a pine box—permanently. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but I am saying there may have been other possible solutions that Sandra Ridder never considered. And the judge who sent her up must have thought so, too, or he wouldn’t have given her eight to ten.”

“Point taken,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Anything else?”

“Ernesto poked his head in my office a little while ago and told me to tell you the water is from Tucson. He said you’d know what he meant, but I don’t.”

“The water in the jugs with no fingerprints,” Joanna supplied. “And if the water came from Tucson, the jugs probably did, too. Which means that whoever put them there wasn’t a UDA from Mexico walking south into the US of A to find field-hand work.”

“I see what you mean,” Frank said. “Most of the UDAs are walking north, not south. So what else is going on that I don’t know about?”

“Dr. Daly came down from Tucson yesterday and did Clayton Rhodes’ second autopsy.”

“And?”

“And nothing. She came up with the same results Doc Winfield did—cerebral hemorrhage.”

“That’s a relief then,” Frank said. “At least we won’t have to have the FBI snooping around here and sticking their noses into everybody’s business. I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

“Neither was I,” Joanna agreed.

“And we’ll also have Reba Singleton off our backs.”

“Right.”

Frank was up and on his way to the door when Joanna thought to ask him about Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal.

“They took off for Tucson first thing this morning,” Frank told her. “They had an appointment with Melanie Goodson. They were also going to take the slug that killed Sandra Ridder up to the Department of Public Safety satellite crime lab in Tucson. Why, do you have something for them?”

“I talked to Melanie Goodson myself yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “And I had the distinct impression that she wasn’t being forthright with me. She claims she was at home asleep when Sandra took off in her Lexus, but—despite having a telephone in her bedroom—she still claims she didn’t hear Lucy’s phone call when it came in around three a.m. She let the call be picked up by her machine.”

“What do you want Ernie and Jaime to do about it?”

“I want them to bear that in mind when they talk to her. And when they finish up with everything else, I want them to go out to Melanie’s neighborhood on Old Spanish Trail and check it out. There’s always a chance that one of her neighbors saw or heard something unusual.”

“There’s a chance,” Frank Montoya agreed. “But not a very big one. If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

The moment Frank left Joanna’s office, a much-relieved Kristin Marsten appeared with that day’s worth of correspondence. For Joanna, dealing with the daily deluge of mail was an unending source of frustration. She worked for two golden and almost totally uninterrupted hours before her private-line phone rang.

“I hope you’re happy,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I don’t see how the Dixons could have felt very welcome when you and George and Frederick locked yourselves up in the kitchen that way. I suppose it could have been worse, though. If you had come outside and started discussing all those gruesome things . . .”

“Mother, look,” Joanna said. “This is a complicated week for all concerned. It was wonderful of you and George to host last night’s dinner, and I’m sure everyone enjoyed it. Those tamales were incredible.”

“I’m glad
you
liked them,” Eleanor sniffed. “The food was all right, but the atmosphere was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Why, even Eva Lou was snappish with Maggie when she and Jim Bob were getting ready to leave.”

She was snappish a lot earlier than that,
Joanna thought.
I wonder what Maggie Dixon said that finally pushed even sweet-tempered Eva Lou over the edge?

Joanna’s unspoken question was never uttered aloud, but Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, chattering on, answered it anyway.

“All Maggie did was ask a few questions about Andy—nothing out of line as far as I could see, but all of a sudden Eva Lou stands up and says, ‘I can’t imagine why you’d be asking such a personal question.’ It was an answer straight out of ‘Dear Abby,’ and I was absolutely floored. Can you imagine Eva Lou being so . . . well . . .” Eleanor Winfield paused as she groped for the proper word. “So outspoken,” she finished at last.

When it comes to Maggie Dixon,
Joanna told herself,
anything is possible
.

CHAPTER 18

Because Molly Rhodes had been a behind-the-scenes linchpin in Bisbee’s YWCA, the post-service social hour was held there. Always with a keen eye for spotting readily available refreshments, Jenny chose seats at a table within easy striking distance of silver trays laden with artfully arranged decorated cookies. A few minutes after Joanna and Jenny sat down, they were joined at the table by a tiny, bird-boned woman Joanna had never seen before.

“I’m Carol,” she said, smiling cordially at Jenny. “Carol Hubbard from Tucson. Who are you?”

“I’m Jennifer Brady, and this is my mom, Joanna,” Jenny answered brightly. “Mr. Rhodes was our neighbor. He used to feed our animals and stuff.”

Carol looked at Joanna. “Oh, I know about you. You’re the woman whose husband was killed, and now you’ve been elected sheriff. Isn’t that right?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes. The name’s Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Clayton spoke very highly of you—and of you, too, Jenny,” Carol Hubbard continued. “And don’t you have some kind of funny-looking dog? I seem to remember Clayton saying his name is Tiger.”

“Tigger,” Jenny corrected. “Not like the golfer. Like the character from
Winnie the Pooh
. And Tigger’s really funny. He’s half golden retriever and half pit bull, and he loves to jump.”

“How did you know Clayton?” Joanna asked. “Are you a relative?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just friends. He and my first husband, Hank, met during the war,” Carol Hubbard replied. “World War Two, that is. They were in the U.S. Air Force— the Air Corps back then. Hank was stationed in India with the Four Hundred Ninety-first Bomber Squadron and worked intelligence for them. According to him, his major task assignment was sobering up pilots so they were straight enough to fly the Hump. He was a voice major in college, though—a talented soloist—and later on in the war he was pulled into entertaining the troops. He and a group of other performers went to bases all over India and Burma putting on variety shows. That’s where he met Clayton.”

“Mr. Rhodes could sing?” Jenny asked.

Carol Hubbard laughed. “Actually, he couldn’t sing a note, and he couldn’t dance, either, but they had him in every show—moving his lips and acting like he was singing his heart out. You know how these days they have those traveling Broadway productions that go all over the country? I believe they call them bus-and-truck shows. Well, this was the same thing, only it was a plane-and-truck show. According to Hank, Clayton Rhodes was the best mechanic in India. They flew from show to show in planes that were so old and rickety that they were in danger of falling out of the sky every time they took off, but by hook or crook Clayton somehow managed to keep them running and in the air. Hank and some of the others had wonderful voices. Hank was the soloist for Saint Philips in the Hills up in Tucson for many years after the war. But he always said that if it hadn’t been for Clayton, those shows in India never would have gotten off the ground.”

“So Clayton and your husband stayed in touch after the war?”

Carol nodded. “You may remember seeing my husband. He was a news anchor in Tucson for many years.”

Suddenly the name finally clicked in Joanna’s head, and she remembered a handsome, smooth-voiced, silver-haired man sitting at a television news desk.
That
Hank Hubbard.

“He was a big deal up in Tucson, but even so, there was nothing Hank liked better than coming down here to Bisbee for a few days and staying with Clayton and Molly. The two of them—Clayton and Hank, that is—would go out hunting in Clayton’s old beat-up Ford. During the gas shortage back in the mid-seventies he added an extra gas tank so they could go as far as they wanted without having to worry about having to stop for gas.

“The two of them would come dragging home with whatever they’d caught—venison and javelina and dove, and Molly—bless her heart—and I would figure out a way to cook whatever it was on Molly’s old woodstove.” Carol Hubbard paused. “Have you ever cooked javelina?” she asked Joanna.

“Venison and dove, yes,” Joanna said. “But I have to admit, no javelina.”

Carol grinned. “The best thing to do with that is cook it the way the Indians do—in a pot of Anaheim chili paste and let it simmer for hours. Otherwise, it’s tough as it can be. Still, the four of us had great times together. I know Rhodes Ranch was real life for Clayton and Molly, but for Hank and me, the time we spent there was like time apart—like camping out.