Dead to Rights

TWO

“Not Tigger and the porcupine again,” Terry Buckwalter said, peering over the reception desk as soon as Joanna le the quill-sprouting dog into the animal clinic’s waiting room

Joanna leaned down and rubbed the dog’s ears. “I’m sure it hurts, but he doesn’t seem to mind the quills as much we do. Still, you’d think he’d wise up after a while.”

“Some dogs can be pretty hardheaded,” Terry said.

Joanna laughed. “To say nothing of expensive. For what we’ve spent on porcupine quills, we probably could have ended up with a purebred puppy, as opposed to this ugly mutt. But Jenny loves him to pieces, and he’s great at catching Frisbees.”

“And porcupine quills,” Terry added with a smile. SI came around the counter and took Tigger’s lead. “We already have several surgeries scheduled for this morning,” she sail “Bucky probably won’t be able to get around to doing this until mini-afternoon. If it looks like Tigger’s starting to get dehydrated, we’ll start him on an IV.”

Joanna nodded. “What time do you think he’ll be ready to pick up? I won’t be off work before five.”

“He should be ready to go by then,” Terry said. “If not, we may have to keep him until tomorrow morning.”

“That’s all right with me,” Joanna said, “but Jenny isn’t going to like it.”

Terry Buckwalter led a subdued and unprotesting dog through a swinging door into a kennel area at the back of the clinic. The new arrival was greeted by frantic barking from the several dogs already in residence.

“Sounds like you have quite a crowd back there,” Joanna commented when Terry returned to the waiting room.

She nodded. “Some are patients and some are being boarded,” she said. “We also have three reject Christmas puppies that we’re hoping to find other homes for. You don’t happen to need another dog, do you?”

Joanna shook her head. “Two are more than enough. What do you mean, ‘reject puppies’?”

“It only takes a couple of weeks after Christmas for some people to figure out that owning a puppy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The reality turns out to be a whole lot different from those red-ribboned golden-retriever pups in all those cute Kodak photo ads.”

“You’re right.” Joanna grimaced. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an ad showing a dog with his nose full of porcupine quills.”

Terry went back behind the counter, searched through a file drawer, and pulled out a folder that was evidently Tigger’s treatment record, which she perused for a few moments. “Tigger’s due for his rabies shot next month. Do you want us to go ahead and handle that while he^’s here? It’ll save you an extra trip later on.^”

“Sure,” Joanna replied. “That’ll be fine.”

Terry Buckwalter added the file folder to several others that were already stacked on the counter. “I’m sorry you got stuck in all that mess outside,” she said. It was the first time either woman had referred to the earlier confrontation by the clinic’s entrance.

Joanna tried to pass it off. “It wasn’t any big deal,” she said reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Terry Buckwalter didn’t seem ready to let it go. “It just goes on and on,” she said, shaking her head. “This whole year has been a nightmare. Ever since Bucky’s accident…”

She broke off suddenly, as if concerned that she had said too much.

Terry Buckwalter was a slight, potentially attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She might have been better-looking if she had made the effort. She was tanned and solidly built, but whatever figure she had was perpetually concealed beneath the flowing folds of a man-sized, knee-length lab coat. Her shoulder-length, naturally streaked blond hair was pulled back into an unbecoming bun. And her tanned, sun-lined face showed not the barest hint of makeup. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a grim set to her mouth.

Looking at her, Joanna was struck by the thought that ‘Terry Buckwalter was living under the weight of some heavy emotional burden. Although Terry herself had been at home in Bisbee, some two hundred miles away from her husband’s fatal car accident, no doubt she had been dealing with fallout from that event ever since. Clearly, Hal Morgan wasn’t the only innocent victim suffering in the aftermath of Bonnie Morgan’s death.

“I’m sure it’s been difficult for you,^” Joanna said sympathetically. “Situations like that are tough on everyone connected to them.”

Terry nodded, biting her lip in agreement, although she said nothing more, and neither did Joanna. A few empty-sounding platitudes came to mind-”This too will pass,” for instance, and “Time heals all wounds.” The problem was, those were the very same supposedly comforting words that had been passed along to Joanna in the emotional devastation following Andy’s death. They hadn’t helped her much, and she cringed at the idea of inflicting them on someone else.

Glancing at the time, Joanna was ready to start for the door when Bucky Buckwalter’s voice burst in on them from another room, from somewhere beyond the swinging door.

“Is that son of a bitch still out there, or did he finally leave?”

Terry flushed with embarrassment. “Bucky,” she cautioned. “Sheriff Brady’s…”

If Bucky heard Terry’s warning tone, he disregarded it completely. “Just tell me whether or not he’s gone.”

“He’s still here,” Terry answered, “but-”

“That media-courting asshole!” Amos Buckwalter snorted. “Maybe I should take the hose out and water down the parking lot…” He charged through the swinging door, stopping abruptly when he finally realized that his wife wasn’t alone in the outer office.

He turned on Terry. “Why didn’t you tell me someone was here?” he fumed. “The least you could have done was let me know.”

Over the years, Bucky Buckwalter had established the reputation of having a great bedside manner where animals were concerned. His people-handling skills, however, were something less than wonderful.

She tried to, you arrogant jerk, but you weren’t listening, Joanna wanted to say.

Meantime, Bucky stopped in mid-tirade. Leaving off the harangue, he turned to Joanna with an instantly manufactured smile that oozed public charm. Joanna’s mother-in-law, Eva Lou Brady, would have called it turning on his company manners. The telling difference between Bucky Buckwalter’s public persona and his private one wasn’t lost on Joanna.

“Why, Sheriff Brady,” he said smoothly. “I had no idea you were still here. Hal Morgan isn’t filing some kind of complaint against me, is he?”

Joanna shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she said. “I’m here because Tigger has another faceful of porcupine quills.”

The vet frowned and looked at Terry. “Another?” he asked. “Have we removed quills from him before? I don’t remember doing it.”

“It happened while…” Terry paused, as if struggling to find the right thing to say. “… while you were away,” she finished lamely. “Twice. Dr. Wade took care of it both times.”

“Oh, I see,” the vet said, nodding and rushing on in a way that was calculated to smooth out any awkwardness. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be able to handle it just fine. Maybe we can juggle the schedule enough to work Tigger in sometime this morning.

“I’d appreciate it if you could,” Joanna told him. “And I’m sure Tigger would be more than happy to second that motion. I’ll be back to pick him up right after work. Right now, though, I have to run or I’ll be late for the board of supervisors meeting.

Joanna made it as far as the door before she paused and looked back. Tferry and Bucky Buckwalter were standing on either side of the counter. There was an almost palpable tension between them. Joanna sensed that they were holding off the beginning or, more likely, the continuation, of a serious family argument. No doubt, hostilities would resume the moment Joanna stepped outside. In the meantime, Bucky-with almost casual nonchalance-picked up the pile of folders and began thumbing through them.

“Dr. Buckwalter?” Joanna said.

He glanced up at her. “Yes. What is it?”

“Don’t worry about Mr. Morgan,” Joanna said, looking Dr. Amos Buckwalter straight in the eye. “He’s doing what he feels he has to do-what he has a constitutional right to do. If you just leave him alone, I doubt he’ll cause you any trouble.”

The practiced but phony smile dimmed. “You’re saying I have to let him stand out there and harass my customers without doing anything about it?” Bucky returned irritably.

Instead of being irate that Hal Morgan was outside the clinic gates of Buckwalter Animal Clinic protesting Bonnie’s death, Bucky might have shown a little contrition, acted as though he were sorry, even if he was only going through the motions. As far as Joanna was concerned, spending two months in jail, paying a hefty fine into the coffers of the Maricopa County Superior Court, and going through a drug-and-alcohol treatment didn’t seem like much of a punishment for the taking of a human life.

Joanna had known Bucky Buckwalter for years, not only as the family vet but also as an insurance client at the Davis Insurance Agency, where she had worked for years, both as office manager and as saleswoman, prior to her election to the office of sheriff. Bucky had always struck her as an egotistical, overbearing blowhard. As an employee of the Davis Insurance Agency, Joanna Brady had endured his tantrums because it was in the company’s best interests for her to do so. Now, though, she was out of the insurance business. Glossing over Bucky’s bad behavior was no longer necessary. Amos Buckwalter was accustomed to pushing people around. Sheriff Brady decided it was high time someone pushed back.

“That’s right,” she replied firmly. “You’re to do nothing at all. Leave Hal Morgan alone. And just to be on the safe side, don’t water down your parking lot as long as he’s out there, either. Some of that icy spray just might make it over the fence into the public right-of-way. That would be unfortunate. Don’t forget, Dr. Buckwalter, harassment is a two-way street.”

Before Bucky could respond and before Joanna could complete her exit, the clinic’s front door slammed open. A disheveled woman darted inside. Joanna recognized her as Irene Collins, a retired schoolteacher who lived up Tomb-stone Canyon in Old Bisbee. One arm cradled a huge calico cat. The other hand clutched one of Hal Morgan’s M.A.D.D. brochures.

“Oh, Dr. Buckwalter!” Irene exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re here. Murphy Brown has some kind of bone stuck in her throat. I’ve been trying for almost an hour to get it out with a pair of tweezers, but I can’t do it myself. She just won’t hold still long enough so I can grab it.”

“Come on,” Bucky said at once, holding open the door to one of the examining rooms. “Bring Murphy right on in here. I’ll see what I can do for her.”

Irene Collins dropped both her purse and the brochure on the counter as she hurried toward the examining room. Terry Buckwalter left the purse where it was, but with a glance in her husband’s direction, she snatched up the brochure and tossed it into the trash. She wasn’t quite fast enough at removing the offending piece of paper. Bucky had already seen it. They all had.

Irene and the ailing Murphy Brown disappeared into the examining room. Shaking his head, the vet stalked after them. Joanna turned back to the door.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Terry Buckwalter called after her. “It’s so embarrassing.”

Terry was clearly stuck in a no-win situation. Maybe Bucky Buckwalter didn’t feel any regret over the death of Hal Morgan’s wife, but Joanna was convinced that his wife did. “Don’t worry about it, Terry,” Joanna said. “It’s no big deal. Besides, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. It’s Bucky’s problem.”

Terry Buckwalter’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she mumbled. “It’s a problem for both of us.”

Joanna left the clinic then. As she drove through the gate, she gave Hal Morgan a passing wave, but she didn’t stop to talk. Instead, she headed straight for the county administration building on Melody Lane, where the board of supervisors meeting was already in session. Frank Montoya, Chief Deputy for Administration, had saved a seat next to him in the far back row.

“How’s it going?” she whispered.

“It’s a good thing you got here when you did,” he said. “You’re up next. From the treasurer’s report of another downturn in expected tax revenues, it isn’t going to be any kind of picnic.”

And it wasn’t, either. Joanna spent the better part of the next three hours in the hot seat being grilled about exactly how she intended to reduce her departmental budget by the required seven and a half percent across-the-board cuts that were being demanded of all of Cochise County ’s department heads. When twelve o’clock rolled around, she was relieved to head for Daisy’s Cafe in Bakerville for a quiet lunch with the Reverend Marianne Maculyea, her pastor and also her best friend.

Their friendship had started with their first day in seventh grade at Lowell School. During lunch recess, one of the boys had made the mistake of calling Marianne Maculyea a half-breed. Marianne’s Hispanic mother and Irish father had met and married in Bisbee at a time when such unions were regarded with a good deal of disapproval. Marianne’s two younger brothers had inherited both their mother’s lustrous dark hair and brown eyes. Like her brothers, Marianne had come away with Evangeline Maculyea’s hair, but that was combined with Timothy Maculyea’s arresting gray eyes as well as his volatile temper.

The half-breed comment had been a typical grade school taunt, delivered with casual indifference and with zero expectation of consequence. What Marianne’s hit-and-run tormentor failed to realize was that Marianne Maculyea was a confirmed tomboy and the fastest sprinter ever to come out of Horace Mann Grade School up the canyon in Old Bisbee. The boy-a year older and half a head taller than his victim-never anticipated that she would turn on him in pint-sized fury, chase him to the far end of the playground, capture him by his flapping shirttail, and then proceed to beat the crap out of him. Joanna Lathrop, a fellow seventh grader and also a confirmed tomboy, witnessed the whole drama, cheering for Marianne at the top of her lungs. Once Marianne escaped her sentence of detention in the principal’s office, Joanna had been the first to offer her congratulations. They had been best friends ever since.

The Maculyeas had moved to Safford by the time Marianne announced her intention of leaving the Catholic Church to become a Methodist minister. Eventually, Marianne had been appointed pastor of Canyon Methodist Church. When she returned to town, bringing along her easygoing husband, Jeff Daniels, the two women had resumed their long-term friendship as though the ten intervening years of separation had never existed.

“You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder,” Marianne said as Joanna sat down across from her and slid wearily across the booth’s sagging orange bench seat.

“I’m sorry it shows that much,” Joanna said with a rueful shake of her head. “But meat grinder just about covers it. Actually, slaughter of the Christians might be more apt.”

Joanna paused long enough to study Marianne’s face. Usually, Marianne Maculyea’s whole being radiated a kind of glowing confidence. Today the glow was missing completely. Marianne’s tan skin had a sallow look to it. The sparkle had disappeared from her eyes.

“Besides,” Joanna added. “Who’s calling the kettle black? You don’t look all that chipper yourself.”

“You’ve got me,” Marianne said with a grin.

Daisy Maxwell, the cafe’s rail-thin, seventy-year-old owner, plunked an empty cup and saucer down in front of Joanna. Knowing her regular clientele’s habits and preferences, Daisy poured two cups of coffee from the regular pot without having to ask if coffee was what they both wanted.

“It’s Tuesday,” she announced, setting the pot down on the table and pulling a pencil from her towering beehive hairdo and a tablet of tickets from the pocket of her uniform. “The lunch special today is two tacos with a side of beans. That, or meat loaf and gravy.”

Joanna and Marianne both ordered tacos.

“You go first,” Marianne said, once Daisy had taken the pot and their order and headed back to the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“If the board of supervisors wanted me to do a seven and-a-half percent across-the-board budget cut,” Joanna groused, “why didn’t they tell me that before I took delivery on all those new Crown Victorias? They were all contracted for last year by Walter McFadden’s administration. It seems to me it would have been easier to renege on the purchase of several vehicles than it’s going to be to cut head count in either patrol or jail personnel. I’ve got a fifteen percent increase in caseload and an eighteen-percent increase in jail population, but I’m supposed to handle all of it with seven and a half percent less money than we originally budgeted. And that, I might add, was far less than the department should have had to begin with.”

Marianne smiled at Joanna over the top of her coffee cup. “Sounds like loaves and fishes time. You’ll just have to take what you have and make it stretch.”

“Right,” Joanna said. “But how? They won’t let me move any of the money from one category to another. According to Melanie Hastings, the funds used to pay for the cars came out of the capital-improvement budget. That money had to he spent for the vehicles or we would have lost it entirely. According to her, those figures were frozen. So here I sit with ten brand new cars in a department where I’m expected to gel by with two fewer deputies to drive them. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Since when do bureaucracies have to make sense, Joanna?” Marianne asked.

Joanna sat back in the booth. “All right now,” she said. “Your turn.”

Marianne shrugged. “Same song, second verse. Bureaucracies are the same all over.”

“The adoption people?” Joanna asked.

Marianne nodded. “That’s right,” she said.

Jeff Daniels, Marianne’s career homemaker husband, had left for China the day after Christmas on what was supposed to be a two-week expedition to bring home an orphaned baby girl. Those two weeks had stretched into three and now al-most four, with no end in sight.

“What do you hear from Jeff?” Joanna asked.

“Not much,” Marianne replied. “I talked to him last night. He said there’s lots of coal dust in the air. I’m worried sick.”

Joanna frowned. “How come? Is Jeff allergic to it or some-thing?”

“It’s code,” Marianne explained. “We talked to some of the other parents who’ve gone through this same agency. They warned us that the Chinese authorities sometimes monitor phone calls, so before we left, Jeff and I established a code. The orphanage is located in Chengdu. People there mostly burn coal for heat, so in the winter especially the whole city is hazy with smoke and soot. The coal dust gets into everything.

“Since visiting Americans always complain about the coal dust, Jeff’s talking about it on the phone shouldn’t worry the authorities, but it does me. It means trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know, but he did tell me that he’s got to have more money. I spent the rest of the night worrying about where I’m going to get it.”

“How much more money does he think he’ll need?” Joanna asked.

Marianne sighed. “Five thousand dollars.”

Joanna whistled. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It is,” Marianne told her. “It’s exactly double what we’d been told to expect. What I’m afraid is that the authorities have changed their minds. Maybe the baby is sick and they don’t want to release her. From what Jeff said, it sounds as though, if we don’t come up with the extra money, they won’t let us have her.”

“What are you going to do?” Joanna asked.

“There’s a special board of directors meeting going on up at the church right now. I’ve asked them to advance me the money. Jeff told me last night that he needs it right away. Today, if possible. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jeff and Marianne, almost thirty and childless not by choice, had been on several potential adoption lists for years. Andy Brady’s sudden death the previous fall had infused a whole new urgency into the process. When the possibility of adopting a little girl from China had presented itself, they had jumped at the chance.

Having both of them fly across the Pacific to pick up the baby had turned out to be prohibitively expensive, so they had opted for Jeff to go on his own. That somewhat unorthodox behavior-the idea of having an adoptive father show tip to collect the baby rather than an adoptive mother-had proved to be a real stumbling block. What had seemed like a perfectly sensible idea to Jeff and Marianne-having the primary caregiver pick up the baby-seemed somehow suspect in the eyes of officials in the Chinese orphanage. For weeks now, they had been throwing up one obstacle after another.

“Do you think it would help if you were there?” Joanna asked.

Marianne shrugged. “Probably not,” she said. “Besides, having me there would make it far more expensive. It would only complicate things that much more. We’d be having to worry about my schedule and about finding someone to substitute for me while I was gone. At least this way, Jeff’s time is totally his own.”

With a disconsolate Marianne staring into her almost empty coffee cup, Joanna tried to offer some words of encouragement.

“Come on,” she said. “Jeff Daniels may seem like the most mild-mannered guy on earth, but that’s only on the surface. Once he gets his back up, you know as well as I do that he’ll shrivel up into a little old man before he’ll come back home empty-handed.”

Acknowledging Joanna’s support with a wan smile, Marianne changed the subject. “Speaking of world travelers,” she said, “what do you hear from your mother?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. “Her plane’s due into Tucson International around four. She was bound and determined to be back in time for the women’s club luncheon tomorrow. That’s when the Historical Committee presents the framed picture of me to hang in the lobby out at the department.”

Marianne smiled. “I know,” she said. “I’m on the committee.”

Joanna continued. “Since today is a workday, I told Eleanor I wouldn’t he able to come hick her up. Jim Bob and Eva Lou offered to go get her, but Mother insisted on having her friend, Margaret Turnbull, meet her instead. They’ll have an early dinner in Tucson and then be home around nine or so.”

“Has she had fun?” Marianne asked.

Joanna nodded. “It sounds like it. Marcie and Bob must have seen to it that they’ve hit every tourist attraction and museum for miles around. I’m sure my mother has been in seventh heaven.”

The previous Thanksgiving, Joanna’s long-lost brother had resurfaced. As a baby, he had been given up for adoption prior to Joanna’s parents’ wedding. Joanna had grown up without ever knowing that her mother and father, Eleanor and Big Hank Lathrop, had an out-of-wedlock child that Eleanor’s parents had insisted they not keep. After the death of both his adoptive parents, forty-four-year-old Bob Brundage had come searching for his biological mother. Eleanor Lathrop had welcomed him with open arms. The feeling was evidently mutual. For Christmas, Bob and his wife, Marcie, had invited Eleanor to come visit them in Washington, D.C., for two weeks.

“She’s never had a chance to do anything like that before, has she?” Marianne asked.

“Never,” Joanna said. “She was widowed young and had a snotty teenager to deal with, sort of like yours truly and a certain hot-tempered nine-year-old.”

“Well then,” Marianne said, “I’d say she’s earned the right to have some fun.”

Joanna nodded. “Me, too,” she admitted.

The very fact that Joanna was finally able to concede that maybe the difficulties between her and her mother weren’t all Eleanor’s fault was in itself a gigantic first step. Eleanor was tough to live with, but perhaps Joanna hadn’t been all sweetness and light, either. Still, it was difficult for Joanna to forget or forgive Eleanor all the years she had spent carping about Joanna’s shotgun wedding when she herself had been guilty of a very similar transgression.

Maybe, Joanna thought, it’s time for me to stop acting like a big, overgrown kid. Maybe I should just shut up, and get in the damned car.

“Where did you go?” Marianne asked.

“I was thinking,” Joanna said. “Maybe I’ve been too hard on my mother.”

Marianne Maculyea laughed. “It’s possible,” she said. “But then, haven’t we all?”

Daisy Maxwell brought their lunches right then. That was pretty much the last chance the two women had to talk. During the course of the meal, several people stopped by to visit with one or the other of them-parishioners from Canyon Methodist Church who were worried about how the organ repairs were going, or someone trying to sign them up to bake cakes to be sold at a local charity auction.

Joanna and Marianne had finished up the last of their coffee and were standing in line at the cash register when a fire truck, siren blaring, roared past the outside door. The truck was headed north on Bisbee Road.

“Somebody’s probably trying to burn down Brewery Gulch again,” Daisy Maxwell quipped as she took Joanna’s money and handed back a fistful of change. In the past few months there had been a series of arson fires up in Old Bisbee, where a combination of steep terrain and tinder-dry conditions had made fire fighting difficult.

“Let’s hope not,” Joanna answered. “If the wind happens to he blowing in the wrong direction, wt^. could end up with a disaster on our hands.”

Out in her vehicle, Joanna turned the Blazer in the direction of the department, heading north on Bisbee Road, following the same route the fire truck had taken. When she came through the underpass that had been used to carry mine waste out to the tailings dump, she could see smoke just off to the right over the crest of the hill.

Beyond the underpass, a traffic circle had been installed to facilitate movement of traffic on Highway 80 and in-town vehicles moving from one area of Bisbee to another. Half a mile east of the traffic circle, Joanna could see a flock of emergency vehicles gathered on either side of the roadway at a spot she knew had to be right by the entrance to the Buck-waiter Animal Clinic. Not only was there a clot of emergency vehicles, there was also a cloud of smoke billowing up into a deep-blue sky.

Joanna’s heart fell. If the clinic had somehow caught fire, what did that mean for the animal patients there awaiting treatment? What about Tigger? What if he was dead? Jenny was already an emotional powder keg. After everything else that had happened to her, would she be strong enough to withstand the loss of a beloved pet?

Traffic had come to a halt, backing up for the better part of a mile, almost as far as the traffic circle itself. Turning on both flashers and siren, Joanna made her way into the left-hand lane, but even there she had to swerve around vehicles that had simply stopped in the middle of the road. As she picked her way forward, she pulled the Blazer’s two-way radio microphone out of its holder and thumbed the push-to-talk butt_/m.

“Dispatch,” she said. “‘This is Sheriff Brady. I’m just east of the traffic circle on Highway 80. What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a fire at the Buckwalter Animal Clinic,” dispatcher Larry Kendrick answered.

“I can see that from here,” she returned. “What kind of fire?”

“It’s confined to the barn.”

“Not the clinic?”

“No, the clinic is fine.”

Joanna allowed herself the smallest sigh of relief. Tigger wouldn’t have been anywhere near the barn, so he was obviously fine. “As many emergency vehicles as they have out here, it must be some fire.”

“That’s because of the body,” Kendrick answered. “One of the deputies on the scene just radioed in asking me to locate Ernie.”

Veteran Detective Ernie Carpenter was the Cochise County Sheriff Department’s lead homicide investigator.

“What body?” Joanna demanded. “My pager’s been on. Nobody’s tried to contact me.”

“There hasn’t been time. The deputy on the scene only called a few minutes ago.”

Just as he said that, an ambulance pulled out from the clinic grounds and came shooting west along the highway, leaving Joanna no choice but to cut back in between two of the stopped cars lining the right-hand side of the road.

Sitting there waiting for the ambulance to drive past, Joanna couldn’t help thinking about the confrontation at that same entrance several hours earlier. She had assured Deputy Pakin that everything was fine-under control were the words she remembered using. But if a body had turned up there, Joanna must have been dead wrong about that. She had mistaken grievances under wraps for grievances under control. Now someone had paid for that mistake with his or her life.

It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that whoever was dead was most likely Bucky Buckwalter. If that was the case, it followed naturally enough that his killer would turn out to be none other than Hal Morgan, the bereaved, sign-wielding protester.

Joanna’s two-taco lunch staged a sudden rebellion in her gut. If that was true, how much of the responsibility for what had happened would rest squarely on the all too inexperienced shoulders of Sheriff Joanna Brady?

Too much, she thought grimly, clutching the steering wheel. Too damned much!