Skeleton Canyon (24 page)

Dear Jenny,

For a long, long time, “Dear Jenny” were the only words that appeared on the paper.
Where should I start?
Joanna wondered.
How should I begin?

This afternoon’s storm was a real corker. The washes are running at home, so I’m writing this from Grandma and Grandpa Brady’s house. I tried calling for messages a little while ago, but the answering machine isn’t working, so maybe our phone is out of order as well. I hope the storm didn’t catch you out somewhere on a hike. If it did, you probably got soaked.

You’ve only been gone for a day and a half; but it feels much longer. And it turns out that there’s all kinds of news. The most important of which has to do with Grandma Lathrop.

As you know, she’s been going out with that Dr. Winfield. Well, you’ll never guess what happened! It turns out that they’ve been doing a little more than just “going out.” Dr. Winfield and I were working on a case together today and he told me that they
^’
re married. He said they eloped last month when they took that trip up to Las Vegas. They’re planning on a honeymoon cruise sometime in August. So, not only do you have a new grandfather, I have a new stepfather as well.

Joanna paused long enough to reread what she had written, hoping that it sounded breezy enough—breezy and nonjudgmental. After all, she didn’t know how George Winfield would measure up in the stepfather department, but he might be perfectly fine as a grandfather. Joanna didn’t want to write anything that would prejudice Jenny against him.

The animals are all fine. At least, they were fine when 1 left the house this morning, and I’m sure they still are. I’ve been off investigating a crime scene most of the day. The storm that blew through late this afternoon didn’t make things any easier.

Oh, I almost forgot. Search and Rescue had to be called out today to look for Angie Kellogg. She and a friend went bird-watching up in Skeleton Canyon. They got separated, somehow, and Angie was lost for several hours. She found her way out, however. Dispatch just told me that Marianne found her and brought her home safe and sound.

The telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” Joanna said before Jim Bob made it out of his easy chair. “That’s all right,” he said. “It’s probably for you anyway.”

And it was. “Sheriff Brady?” Ernie Carpenter asked. “What big ears?”

“Frankie Stoddard and her police scanner.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I forgot all about her. It’s a good thing I’m calling on a phone then.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Jaime and I just made arrangements for a deputy to come pick up Ignacio Ybarra and bring him in for questioning. I’ll ride back to the department in the patrol car with them while Jaime drives the van.”

Joanna was stunned. “Brianna’s boyfriend? You think he had something to do with what happened to her?”

“Wait until you see him,” Ernie said grimly. “He looks like hell. Claims somebody beat him up, but he won’t tell us who it was or where it happened.”

“If you’re bringing him to the department, I’ll meet you there.”

Joanna put down the phone.

Oops, I
^’
ve gotta go. I
^’
ll have to mail this tomorrow along with Saturday’s letter as well. You’ll probably get them both on the same day—Tuesday, I hope.

Love, Mom

Joanna didn’t even bother trying to go home a second time. Once her clothes finished drying, she dressed, said her goodbyes and thank-yous to her in-laws, and drove straight to the department. Jaime Carbajal wasn
^’
t there with the van yet, and neither was Ernie Carpenter. Waiting in her office, Joanna decided to give Angie Kellogg a call and see how she was doing. To her surprise, there was no answer at Angie’s house in Galena.

That’s odd,
she thought.
Maybe she’s working.

Except, when Joanna dialed the Blue Moon, no one answered there, either.

Concerned, Joanna finally tried calling Jeff and Marianne’s parsonage up Tombstone Canyon. Marianne herself answered.

“Mari,” Joanna said, “it’s me. I’m looking for Angie. I just wanted to make sure she’s all right, but I can’t find her. She isn’t at home and she isn’t at work, either.”

“You’ve called the right place,” Marianne Maculyea said cheerfully. “She’s here all right, but she’s in the tub right now, trying to soap her troubles away.”

“She’s okay, I hope,” Joanna said. “She’s not still upset about Dennis Hacker laughing at her, is she?”

“No,” Marianne said. “I’d say Mr. Hacker is pretty far down the list of concerns at the moment. She’s a lot more upset about her car.

“Her car!” Joanna exclaimed. “What happened to that?”

“When she and Dennis Hacker went birding this morning, he lacked her up at work. She left her Omega parked in Brewery Gulch, sitting out in front of the Blue Moon. This afternoon, when a four-foot wall of water came pouring down the gulch, not only did it shut down all the telephone service in Brewery Gulch, it also picked up Angie’s car and carried it right along with it. Washed it down into the storm drain under Main Street.”

“Oh, no,” Joanna murmured.

“Oh, yes,” Marianne continued. “With the fire department’s help, a tow truck finally managed to pull it out, but I’m worried that it’s wrecked for good. The engine was completely under water. Not only that, it went nosefirst down into the drain. The whole front end is bashed in—the grill, the hood, and both front fenders. Angie’s just sick about it.”

So was Joanna. From what Marianne was saying, the Omega would probably end up being totaled. Although Angie had been extraordinarily proud of her little Omega, it was, nevertheless, a seventeen-year-old vehicle. As an inexperienced driver who had never before carried auto insurance, Angie Kellogg was in a high-risk/high-premium group. She carried the state-mandated coverages, especially liability, but her policy included nothing that would repair the physical damage.

“She’s staying with us for tonight, at least,” Marianne continued. “Jeff and I didn’t think she should be alone after all she’s been through today. As for tomorrow, I don’t know. It’s too far for her to walk from her house back and forth to work. We’ll have to work something out.”

“Other than her car, though, she’s all right?” Joanna asked.

She had heard Dennis Hacker’s lame version of what had gone on in Skeleton Canyon earlier that morning. But all day long, whenever she had thought about Angie Kellogg, Joanna had worried and wondered if that was all there was to it, or had there been something more? Dennis Hacker might have looked like the boy next door, but then so had Ted Bundy.

“She’s fine,” Marianne said. “She was wet to the bone, chilled, and hungry when I picked her up. Jeff gave her a little shot of medicinal brandy when I got her home and then he fed her some supper. He also administered a brotherly talk about some men being such incredible bums that women shouldn’t waste a minute of their time on them. By the time Jeff finished with her, I think she was feeling better. Once she’s
_‘
hone soaking in the tub, she’ll probably be ready to go night-night right along with the girls.”

“Give Jeff Daniels a hug for me,” Joanna said. “He’s one of the nicest people l know.”

“I’ll be glad to tell him,” Marianne said. “I happen to think so, too. In the meantime, can you tell me anything about what else was going on out in the mountains today? I’ve heard all kinds of awful rumors that Brianna O’Brien is dead.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Joanna said. “Unfortunately, they’re right. Brianna O’Brien is dead. Her mother identified the body a little while ago.”

“‘That’s dreadful,” Marianne breathed. “An accident of some kind?”

“We don’t know that yet,” Joanna told her. “And we won’t, not until after Dr. Winfield conducts the autopsy.”

There was a long pause while neither woman said a word.
^“
Are you all right?” Marianne asked at last.

Marianne Maculyea knew Joanna all too well. There was plenty of reason for Joanna
not
to be all right, but before she before go into any of it, including telling Marianne about Eleanor Lathrop’s latest caper, Joanna’s other line started ringing.

“Sorry, Mari. There’s another call. I’ve got to go.” She winched the other line. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but there’s a man out here named Burton Kimball. You know, the attorney. He says Detective Carpenter is bringing in one of his clients. Mr. Kimball is supposed to be present for the interview. I talked to Dispatch. They didn’t know anything about it. Kendall Evans said I should talk to you.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll be right out.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tall, broad-shouldered, and with his brown hair going gray at the temples, Burton Kimball stood in front of the lobby display case examining the photographs featured there—pictures of all the previous sheriffs of Cochise County, up to and including Sheriff Joanna Brady. Except for hers, all the black-and-white photos were formal portraits of the “lawman” variety—pictures of solemn, upright men staring back at the camera with unsmiling disdain. All of the men sported some variation of cowboy getup. A few of the portraits even included horses.

Joanna’s picture was different. Cropped from an ordinary snapshot and then enlarged, it showed her as a smiling child, dressed in a Brownie uniform and posing with her Radio Flyer wagon stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

“The Women’s Club did a great job of putting this display together, but how come most of these guys look like they have a corncob stuck up their butts?” Burton asked Joanna when she walked up beside him.

After a day filled with thorny complications and unrelenting tension, Cochise County’s leading defense attorney
^’
s comment was so unexpectedly lighthearted and welcome that Joanna burst out laughing. “Probably because they did,” she replied. Sill smiling, she offered him her hand. “How’s it going, Burton? I understand you’re waiting for a client.”

I le nodded and looked around. “I take it they’re not here yet?”

“Not so far. You’re welcome to wait in my office if you like.”

She led him through a security door and down the long hallway to the suite of private offices at the back of the building. Joanna’s was in the far back corner. “Have a chair,” she invited as they entered.

Gratefully, Burton sank down on the long leather sofa that, along with the oversized desk and all the other furnishings, were hand-me-downs dating from the administration of Walter V. McFadden, Joanna’s immediate predecessor. Folding his arms behind his head, Burton leaned back into them. “‘Tell we,” he said. “How’s Ruby Starr holding up? Is she still cooking up a storm around here?”

In local law enforcement circles, Burton Kimball had a reputation for attracting an oddball and sometimes difficult clientele. Ruby Starr qualified on both counts. She and her husband had come to Bisbee with the intention of opening a fine dining establishment. The husband had been supposed to provide the business expertise while Ruby was expected to do the cooking. Their partnership and marriage both had come to grief in a domestic dispute that started with Ruby going through the house and nailing her husband’s discarded dirty clothes to the hardwood floor. The battle had escalated into a sledgehammer-to-windshield finale that had put Ruby Starr in the county jail charged with criminal assault.

She just happened to be there—with Burton Kimball on retainer as her attorney—when the jail’s previous cook made off in the middle of the night, taking with him all the fixings for the jail inmates’ Thanksgiving dinner. In an act of civic generosity, Burton and his wife had provided dinner, replacing the missing turkeys and other necessary ingredients as well. Ruby Starr had been drafted out of her jail cell to do the cooking. She had done such an admirable job that, upon her release, she had been offered the jail cook’s job on a permanent basis. Seven months later, she was still there.

Joanna smiled. “Ruby’s doing fine,” she answered. “Now the only inmates who complain about the food are the ones who weren’t here before and who don’t have any idea how bad it can be. One of our repeat offenders usually sets the griper straight in a big hurry.”

After a few minutes of small-town talk about whose kids were doing what over the summer, Joanna steered the conversation toward the business at hand. “How do you know Ignacio Ybarra?” she asked.

“I hardly know him at all,” Burton admitted. “His uncle, Frank, and I played football at the same time. Not exactly together, since we were on opposite teams. Still, we knew one another by reputation. Over the years, I’ve done some work for Frank, including legalizing Frank and Yolanda’s informal guardianship of their nephew—Frank’s sister’s son—Iggy.”

“That’s what they call him, Iggy?”

Burton shook his head. “No, I picked that up from reading a newspaper article about his football exploits. His family calls him Pepito.”

The phone rang just then and Joanna answered. “They’re here,” she told the attorney moments later.

Burton Kimball rose to his feel and smoothed his jacket, twitching at once from his at-ease demeanor to something far more businesslike. “If it’s at all possible, I’d like to meet with my client in private for a few minutes before we go into one of the interview rooms.”

“Certainly,” Joanna said. She rang the desk clerk. “Tell Detective Carpenter to bring Mr. Ybarra into my office. Mr. Kimball would like to speak to him in private.”

Joanna stood up. “I’ll go into the outer office to wait.” She started toward the reception room door and then paused, glancing at the private door from her office that led back outside to the parking lot.

Burton Kimball seemed to read her mind. “Don’t worry, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “Ignacio Ybarra won’t take off. I give you my word.”