Tombstone Courage (20 page)

“And what was that I saw peeking out from under Lothario's shirt?”

“His shirt?” Marianne asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The top button of his shirt was open. I saw something that looked a whole lot like a tattoo.”

Marianne looked puzzled. “I wouldn't have any idea about that.”

“I would,” Joanna said. “It was a tattoo. Why?”

“Joanna,” Marianne said, “how did you…?”

“I've read about Russians with tattoos,” Burton Kimball went on. “In
The Wall Street Journal
.”

“What about them?” Joanna asked.

“It was in an article about Russian prisons. It talked about how Russian prisoners cover themselves with tattoos as a way of showing defiance of authority. Any kind of authority. It's a variation on a theme of
The Red Badge of Courage
.”

With rising excitement, Burton Kimball sat up straighter and continued. “What if this man is an ex-con? Or maybe he's an escaped criminal or a member of the Russian mafia. I've read about them, too. They're all over here in the States these days. They're all over here in the States these days. They're into everything from drugs, to money laundering, to arms smuggling. What if Ivy's being dragged into something like that?”

Kimball got up and started toward the door.

“Wait a minute, Burton,” Marianne said. “You're being ridiculous, jumping to all kinds of crazy conclusions.”

Burton paused at the door. “Maybe I am,” he said. “But you don't know Ivy the way I do. She's totally naïve. He probably…Wait a minute. Maybe that's what happened.”

“What?” Joanna asked.

“Maybe Yuri was here when I called to tell Ivy about what was going on with Harold. Maybe she
told him what was going on, and he decided to do something about it.”

“What exactly did you tell Ivy?”

Burton shrugged. “That Uncle Harold had decided to settle Holly's lawsuit out of court. He told me that morning that he was going to give Holly everything she wanted. I was worried Ivy would be left out in the cold, with very little to show for all her hard work and with no one to take care of her. It makes perfect sense now. That gold-digging bastard was worried about the same thing, so he killed Uncle Harold before he had a chance to change the provisions of his will.”

“No way,” Marianne objected. “I'm sure you've got it all wrong. These are two fine, upstanding, honorable people.”

But Burton Kimball was on a roll. “Oh, yeah?” he snarled back at her. “What do you know about him, really? About where he comes from, about what kind of background he has? If you ask me, he's nothing but a glorified wetback. Everybody knows getting married is a surefire way of turning a green card into U.S. citizenship. With what she was due to receive from Uncle Harold, Ivy must have looked like a sure thing.”

By then, Marianne Maculyea was as outraged as Burton was. “I'm telling you you're wrong about Yuri, Mr. Kimball,” she insisted. “I will personally vouch for him. He's a fine man who will make Ivy Patterson very happy.”

“Like hell he will!” Burton returned. “You goddamned preachers are all alike. Little Miss Goody Two-shoes. You ought to come down off your
high horse and your pulpit and grub around in the real world for a while. Come on up to the courthouse someday and just hang around, Reverend Maculyea. Maybe you can afford the luxury of taking everyone at face value, but the rest of the world can't. I can't. And I'm going to do my best to talk Ivy out of marrying him until we can find out more about him.”

With that, Burton Kimball stormed out of the house. Left alone in someone else's living room, Joanna Brady and Marianne Maculyea stared at one another in subdued silence.

“I guess I'd better go,” Marianne said. “If Jeff and I are having a wedding at the parsonage tonight, he may need help getting the place ready. It's a good thing I vacuumed before you conked me on the head.”

Joanna ignored Marianne's small attempt at humor.

“Doesn't it seem odd to you?” Joanna asked. “For Ivy to be getting married like that, in such a rush?”

Marianne stopped to consider the question. “Actually, the older I get, more and more strange stuff is starting to seem normal.”

“Is that because the world is getting weird, or because we are?”

“Maybe both,” Marianne replied. “Most likely both.”

They stepped outside onto the porch in time to witness the end of a fierce shouting match between Burton Kimball and Ivy Patterson. Finally, Burton slammed himself into his Jeep Cherokee
and raced out of the yard, sending Ivy Patterson's normally placid flock of chickens and peacocks scattering in all directions.

“It looks to me,” Marianne observed, “that the voice of sweet reason didn't prevail, and the Wedding March marches on.”

Joanna shook her head. “Maybe the whole clan has flipped out. Actually, speaking of that, do you know if anyone's called Holly to tell her what's happened? She's also Harold's daughter, you know. She has as much right to be notified as anyone else.”

“I don't remember anyone mentioning it to me,” Marianne returned.

Joanna shook her head. “Then maybe I'd better take a crack at that one, too. Better me than Marliss Shackleford.”

“By all means,” Marianne agreed, “but you'd best get a move on. If I know Marliss, she won't miss a trick. In fact, she may already be there by now.”

A
S
J
OANNA
drove toward
Casa Vieja
, she was once more conscious of her hopelessly ill-fitting clothing. What worked for a crime scene wasn't appropriate for paying an official call. Her mother would have had a fit to think her daughter would show up at a place like
Casa Vieja
dressed as she was.

Of all the houses in town, the venerable old mansion at the top of Vista Park was by far the most ostentatious. Two stories tall and massively built, the place was constructed out of thick brown stucco and accented by decorative strips of hand-carved wood moldings. The yard was surrounded by a low-slung stucco wall backed up by an interior barrier of fifteen-foot-high oleanders, giving the place an impenetrable, secretive look.

Definitely out of my league, Joanna thought, driving up to the gate in her Eagle.

It hadn't always been that way. For instance, during the time
Casa Vieja
was carved up into apartments, Joanna's favorite high school phys-ed teacher had lived there. In fact, her sophomore year, she had even attended a tennis-club barbecue
that had been held on the wide veranda overlooking Vista Park.

But that was long before
Casa Vieja
had been made over once again. According to Eleanor Lathrop, very few locals, even upscale neighbors from the immediate area, had been invited inside the refurbished place since its purchase by either the former owners—purported drug dealers—or this new one, who was supposedly someone important out in Hollywood. That stray thought caused Joanna to smile. By her mother's lights, everyone in Hollywood—no matter how obscure—was important.

Joanna pushed the bell fastened on the gatepost. “Who is it?” a disembodied voice asked.

“Joanna Brady,” she answered. “Sheriff Joanna Brady to see Holly Patterson.”

For an answer, the wrought-iron gate swung smoothly open, and Joanna drove in. Toward the back of the building was a garage where two open doors revealed both the fender-damaged red Allanté and a stretch limo. The thought crossed Joanna's mind that at least one Patterson girl seemed to have done all right for herself. A red Allanté was a long way from Ivy's battered Chevy Luv.

Several parking places had been marked on the pavement on the west side of the building. Joanna pulled into one of them. Before she had time to consider what entrance to use, a door on the side of the house opened, and an older Hispanic woman stepped out onto a small utility porch and began vigorously shaking a dust mop. Joanna walked several steps toward her before recogniz
ing Isobel Gonzales, the grandmother of one of Jenny's classmates.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Gonzales,” Joanna said, “I had heard you were working here.”

The woman smiled and nodded. “Me and my husband both. He retired from P.D. up in Morenci. We came home to Bisbee, but he was driving me crazy at home all day. Now we're both working again, and it's better.”

“You're lucky to have him around to drive you crazy,” Joanna said, hoping the twinge of envy she felt didn't come across as bitterness.

“I know,” Isobel said, nodding and leaning on her dust-free mop. “That's what I keep telling myself. Miss Baxter is out front.”

Joanna hurried the way she'd been directed. The sunny front patio, warm and sheltered from the wind, was far different from the way she remembered it. For one thing, it seemed smaller, but better, too. The once-bare edges of the terrace were lined with huge pots filled with exotic and unidentifiable growing things, plants Joanna had never seen before and whose origins she could only guess. The rough-hewn picnic tables and home-grown barbecue were gone, replaced by patio furniture that looked too expensive to leave out in the weather.

A woman with a short-cropped pageboy under a large straw hat sat at the table reading a book.

“Miss Baxter?” Joanna asked.

The woman looked up without closing her book. “That's right. Amy Baxter,” she said curtly. “I must inform you, Sheriff Brady, that Holly's attor
ney has been called out of town again this morning. Since he won't be able to be in attendance, I'm afraid you won't be able to see Holly. It simply wouldn't be responsible of me to let you talk to her under those circumstances.”

“May I sit down?” Joanna asked, letting her hand fall on the back of one of the chairs.

“Certainly. Excuse me. I didn't mean to seem rude. Can I get you something—coffee, tea?”

“I'm fine, thank you. What circumstances do you mean, Miss Baxter? What exactly did you think I wanted to see Holly Patterson about?”

“The other night, naturally. I read the article in the paper, so I'm well aware of the part you played in averting a terrible tragedy, but still, with the possibility of litigation…”

“I'm not here about the other night,” Joanna interrupted. “I came to talk to Holly about her father. Harold Lamm Patterson has been found.”

Amy Baxter breathed a sigh of relief. “Really. You can't imagine how happy I am to hear that. Holly's been in a state of perpetual crisis ever since he turned up missing.”

“I'm afraid it's not good news,” Joanna hastened to add. “He's dead. I'm here to give her the benefit of an official next-of-kin notification.”

Amy Baxter's face fell. “Oh, my God. That's terrible. She'll be devastated. She's held herself somehow responsible for his disappearance; now I'm afraid…What happened? Was it an accident? A heart attack? What?”

“If I could just speak to Holly, please.”

“Of course. I'll go get her right away.” Amy
Baxter started toward the house. “Actually, if you don't mind, it might be better if we went up to her room. She's somewhat unstable at the moment, and I'm afraid…”

“I don't mind,” Joanna said.

Amy Baxter stood up. “This way,” she said.

The interior of the house was magnificent. Outside of pictures in home-decorating magazine articles, Joanna had never seen a more beautiful home—polished hardwood floors, covered here and there by deeply luxurious Oriental rugs. The supple leather furniture blended subtly with the Mission-style interior details into a combination that was both elegant and comfortably inviting. Discreet track lighting on the twelve-foot ceilings accented huge oil canvasses of boldly painted flowers, many of which resembled the plants growing in the pots outside on the patio.

“Pauli's really very good, isn't he?” Amy Baxter said, as Joanna admired a particularly vivid piece at the top of the winding staircase.

“Pauli?” Joanna repeated stupidly, thinking that must be the name of some artist or school of artists well known enough that she should have recognized the name on hearing it.

Amy laughed. “Paul Enders, the painter. He's a costumer really; he only paints for a hobby. We all call him Pauli. This is his house,” she continued. “He's letting us stay here until this situation gets straightened out. As you'll soon see, the privacy we've enjoyed here has been a real blessing.”

At the top of the stairs, Amy Baxter turned to
the right and led the way down a long corridor to the back of the house.

“There are better rooms, and Holly could have had any one of them,” Amy said apologetically, “but for some strange reason, this is the one she wanted.” Amy stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. “Holly,” she called. “Are you in there? May we come in?”

Joanna heard no answering response, but Amy went ahead and tentatively twisted the old-fashioned knob on the door. The knob turned in her hand, and the door shifted open without protest.

The interior of the room was dark and stiflingly hot compared to the rest of the house, with the look and smell of a sickroom. In the far corner, near tall, drapery-shrouded windows, sat a high-backed rocking chair, creaking slowly back and forth.

“Holly,” Amy said tentatively. “There's someone here to see you.”

“Tell them to go away,” Holly muttered. “I don't want to see anybody. Leave me alone.”

“It's Sheriff Brady,” Amy explained. “She came to talk to you about your father.”

The rocking ceased abruptly. Suddenly, Holly lurched to her feet. Out of a stark, pale face two deeply troubled eyes stared at Joanna. “Where is he?” Holly demanded. “Tell me where he is. I have to see him. He was supposed to make arrangements for a settlement. He promised. But then he disappeared. No one knows where he is.”

“I'm afraid your father won't be able to carry through on any promises,” Joanna said quietly.

“He's dead. He died sometime between Tuesday night and now. They'll be able to fix the time better once they do the autopsy.”

“My father dead?” Holly Patterson repeated slowly, sinking back into the chair as though her legs no longer had the capability of supporting her. “He's dead?”

“Yes, you see…”

Holly Patterson doubled over, as with a sudden attack of appendicitis, clutching her abdomen and sobbing. “Nooooooo. He can't be dead. I won't let him. I never wanted him dead. Never!”

Amy Baxter moved forward quickly and knelt beside the chair. “It's okay, Holly. Hush now. Everyone knows it's not your fault.”

“Oh, but it is,” Holly groaned. “Don't you understand? It is my fault. All of it. I didn't want him dead. I just wanted him to tell me to my face that he was sorry for what he did to me. That's all. I never should have come back to this terrible place. Never!”

“Please, Holly,” Amy begged, “don't take it all on yourself. You didn't do it.”

“How did he die?” Holly was asking, her mouth still muffled by her hand. “Please don't tell me he committed suicide. I can stand anything but that.”

Joanna could see no sense in pulling punches. Better to let all the bad news out at once and give her a chance to start assimilating it while she had someone like Amy Baxter there to help as needed.

“We're investigating his death as a possible homicide,” Joanna answered carefully. “I wanted
you to hear that from someone in an official capacity….”

“You mean he didn't kill himself then?” Holly asked, suddenly sitting up straight and pulling her hand away from her face. “You mean someone else did it?”

“That's the way it looks….”

Holly Patterson let out a long sigh. “Thank God. I couldn't have stood it if he had done it himself. It would have driven me crazy, but if somebody else did it…”

“Good girl,” Amy said, rubbing the back of Holly's neck as if to remove some of the tension. “Let it go. Don't hold on to it.”

Holly Patterson closed her eyes and leaned back into the neck rub. “I should go see Mother about this,” she whispered softly. “Mother will know what to do.”

Amy caught Joanna's eye, shook her head, and held the fingers of one hand to her lips while she continued massaging Holly's neck with the other.

“You can't go see your mother, Holly. I've already explained that to you. Your mother is dead, remember? She died five years ago. We've been over to the cemetery and seen her grave.”

“But I saw her. The other day in town, remember?”

“That was your sister, Ivy. She looks just like your mother used to look when you last remember her.”

“That can't be my sister. Ivy's a little girl. She's a baby.”

“Of course she is,” Amy said soothingly. “A
little baby. Why don't you rest awhile now, Holly? When you wake up later, maybe we can make better sense of this.”

Holly nodded but said nothing. There was a minute or so of silence. By the end of it Holly was sound asleep.

Amy turned to Joanna. “I could call Mrs. Gonzales, but if you don't mind, would you help me get her back into the bed? She hasn't been eating right, and she's barely been sleeping at all during the night. After something like this during the day, though, she'll nap for hours.”

Holding Holly Patterson between them, Amy and Joanna wrestled the dozing woman from the chair to the bed, then Joanna followed Amy down both the hall and stairs.

“What's wrong with her?” Joanna asked.

“What isn't wrong with her is probably a better question,” Amy Baxter said. “It's just what I was afraid of. Being here has been way too hard on her. You're looking at a textbook case. Start with a dash of incest, add in a mostly dysfunctional family, stir in some recreational drug use and a fistful of self-loathing, and you end up with a very troubled woman.”

“Ernie Carpenter is the homicide detective on her father's case. He may need to talk to her. Do you think she'll be able to handle answering questions?”

Amy shrugged. “That's anybody's guess. He's more than welcome to try, but I don't know how much good it will do. Sometimes she's better than
others. Have him call first to see what kind of shape she's in.”

“She acts like she's on drugs,” Joanna observed thoughtfully.

Amy Baxter answered with a nod. “Not recently, though. She still suffers from flashbacks, occasional echoes of LSD from her misspent youth.”

Amy Baxter and Joanna were standing at the bottom of the stairway with Amy Baxter's hand still on the polished mahogany banister.

“Thanks for all the help,” she said.

“It was no trouble,” Joanna returned.

“I hope you won't think me too ungrateful, but I hope you never find out who did it. I'm glad that asshole father of hers is dead, and I'm hoping that whoever killed him gets away scot-free, because, whatever Harold Patterson got, that dirty old man
deserved
it!”

“What exactly did he do to her?” Joanna asked reflexively.

Amy Baxter had no business answering, but she did. “He raped her,” she answered, her words as brittle as shards of ice. “He raped his own daughter from the time she was two years old. So whatever happened to Harold Patterson is fine with me. He may be dead and out of the picture now, but you saw Holly upstairs. She's an emotional cripple, and she'll live with the damage he did to her for the rest of her life.”