Devil’s Claw

CHAPTER 19

Over dinner, Butch turned serious. “What’s this I hear about Reba Singleton making a scene at Clayton’s funeral?”

Joanna glowered at Jenny. “It wasn’t a big deal,” Joanna said. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“She did too,” Jenny insisted. “She said you wouldn’t get away with it. She sounded so mean when she said it, that it scared me. It really did.”

“And now that I’ve heard about that,” Butch said, “there’s something worrying me as well. When I came home, there was a car pulling out of the drive onto High Lonesome Road, but Jenny tells me there was no one here but the two of you.”

“What kind of car?” Joanna asked.

“I couldn’t tell,” Butch replied. “All I saw were headlights. Still, if someone came to the ranch without coming up to the house and talking to you…”

“It was probably somebody using the facilities,” Joanna said. “People do it all the time, especially regulars who are stuck driving Highway Eighty on a weekly or monthly basis. It’s a long pit-stop-free zone from Benson to, say, Rodeo, New Mexico. People will pull off the highway and then come up High Lonesome Road until they hit the dips. Figuring they’re out of sight, they’ll stop there to relieve themselves.”

“Mom!” Jenny objected. “That’s gross.”

“It may be gross, but it happens,” Joanna said. “I’ve seen them myself.”

Butch shook his head. “In other words, I’m not supposed to worry about whether or not a crazed Reba Singleton was parked down by the mailbox because you think it was probably just some weak-bladdered guy who couldn’t make it all the way from Bisbee to Douglas.”

“Right,” Joanna said, while Butch shook his head and rolled his eyes. Forty-five minutes later, dinner was over and cleared away. While Jenny and Butch settled down to play a game of dominoes in the breakfast nook, Joanna opened her briefcase and spread the contents out across the dining room table. Digging through the bale of paper, Joanna located Frank Montoya’s file folder labeled “Ridder, Thomas Dawson.”

The poor print quality on the faxed material made it difficult to read. There was no way for Joanna to tell which end of the process had the dying printer problem, but she suspected that if it was on the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department’s side of the equation, Frank Montoya probably had repaired it by now or was in the process of doing so.

Joanna read through the file’s contents one page at a time. True to his nature, Frank had arranged the material in meticulous chronological order. The first item-a single piece of paper-contained a copy of Thomas Dawson Ridder’s general discharge from the army. A separate document indicated he was being dismissed for cause, for behavior ill befitting an officer and a gentleman. Nowhere in the verbiage could Joanna find any indication that Ridder’s ill behavior had to do with assaulting a superior officer. Joanna made a note to herself: “Ask Frank where he picked up info on the alleged assault.”

Turning to a sheaf of copied newspaper clippings, Joanna discovered that the first newspaper account of the Thomas Ridder shooting incident was a small three-inch article in the Tucson Daily Sun that reported an unidentified male had been shot to death in his home on East Seventeenth Street in Tucson’s downtown area. It added that detectives from the Tucson Police Department were investigating the shooting as either the interruption of a robbery in progress or possibly as a domestic-violence incident.

That kind of surface-only reporting was typical of newspaper accounts that are written immediately after fatality incidents and before officials have an opportunity to notify next of kin. The second article was a more in-depth piece in which the reporter revealed the full names of both victim and alleged assailant.

The article recounted that at the time of Sandra Christina Ridder’s surrender and subsequent arrest, she had made a complete confession to investigators, saying that she had shot her husband in an effort to ward off another violent attack. Afterward, she had picked up her young daughter from a ballet class downtown and then had driven around for hours trying to come to terms with what she had done and also trying to decide what to do next. After disposing of the murder weapon at an undisclosed location, Sandra Ridder had finally contacted a friend, an attorney, who convinced her she should turn herself in to the authorities.

Toward the end of the article was a paragraph that answered one of the questions Joanna had planned to ask Frank:

Thomas Dawson Ridder, a self-employed landscape gardener, had recently been dismissed from the army, where he had served as Staff Sergeant with STRATCom at Fort Huachuca. He was brought up on charges for assaulting an unnamed superior officer. Rather than face court-martial in that incident, Ridder accepted a general discharge, left the army, and moved with his wife and young child to Tucson. While the child’s mother is being held without bond in the Pima County jail and with her father deceased, the Department of Child Protective Services has taken steps to remove the minor child from the family home. She has been placed in the care of relatives.

Joanna stared at the end of the article for a long time after she finished reading it. She went back into the text of the article and underlined the word “weapon.” Then she made a note in the margin. “Was this missing weapon ever found? Is that maybe what was hidden in the Tupperware bowl?” Then, as soon as Joanna wrote that comment, she had another thought.

If Sandra Ridder drove all the way to Cochise Stronghold the night of the murder, Joanna wondered, if she knew she was going to be arrested, why didn’t she drop Lucy off at Catherine Yates’ nearby house right then, instead of taking the child back to Tucson with her? Why had she put her daughter in a position where she would have to be shuffled around by a bunch of bureaucracy-wielding strangers?

If Joanna hadn’t been a mother herself, she might not have considered that question, but it was one she wished she’d had a chance to ask Sandra Ridder in person. And she hadn’t been able to ask that question of Sandra’s attorney, Melanie Goodson, either. There was still one person she might ask-Sandra’s mother, Catherine Yates. After mulling the idea for a few moments, Joanna dismissed that one as well. It seemed unlikely to her that Sandra’s mother would have any more of an idea about the whys and wherefores of her daughter’s behavior than Eleanor Lathrop Winfield did about Joanna’s.

The next article was a short one that recounted the plea-bargain hearing. In it Sandra admitted that some of the injuries she suffered that night had been self-inflicted. That, although she claimed her husband had beaten her on other unreported occasions, on the night in question he had not. She had shot him as he sat in his chair in front of the television news and then had staged the ransacking of the house and her own injuries in order to be able to establish a claim of self-defense.

In making his decision, the judge said that based on Sandra Ridder’s account of self-inflicted injuries, he agreed with the prosecutor in disallowing any claim of self-defense. However, in view of Tom Ridder’s known violent tendencies, the judge did find some mitigating circumstances. As a consequence, his judgment of voluntary manslaughter was one full step down from the prosecutor’s previously arranged plea bargain of second-degree murder.

Studying that article, Joanna realized that one of the standard newspeak phrases was missing from the references to Melanie Goodson. Nowhere in that article or in any of the others was there any mention that Melanie Goodson was Sandra Ridder’s “court-appointed” attorney. That meant that Melanie Goodson had taken on Sandra Ridder’s case on a fee basis.

Joanna jotted down another note to herself. “Who paid Melanie Goodson’s fee? Sandra’s mother???”

The whole while Joanna had been working, Sadie and Tigger had been sprawled comfortably in the cave beneath the table. Now, acting in unison, the two dogs scrambled to their feet. Shoulder to shoulder, they dashed from the dining room into the living room, where they stood side by side, barking frantically at the front door.

As Joanna followed the dogs to the door, she remembered Butch’s concern about the unidentified car that had been lurking at the entrance to High Lonesome Ranch. She looked out in time to see a pair of headlights pull up and stop at the gate. Whoever it is doesn’t know us very well, Joanna thought. If they did, they’d be coming to the back door instead of the front.

“Who is it, Mom?” Jenny called from the kitchen.

Peering out between the window blinds, Joanna couldn’t tell. The vehicle hadn’t come far enough into the yard to trigger the motion-activated yard light located on the side of the garage. Feeling vulnerable and besieged, Joanna wished for the comforting presence of either one of her Glocks, but those were both under lock and key in her bedroom.

“Joey?” Butch asked. “Do you want me to go out and check?”

Before Joanna could answer, the car door swung open. In the dim illumination of the dome light, she caught a glimpse of Kristin Marsten’s cloud of blond hair as she climbed out of her Geo.

Almost sick with relief, Joanna turned back to Butch and Jenny. “It’s Kristin,” she said. “From work. If you’ll take these two barking dogs into the kitchen, I’ll let her in.”

As Jenny and Butch collected the dogs, Joanna opened the door in time to see Kristin stumbling forward. She fumbled with the gate latch. Once inside the gate, she staggered up the walkway and onto the porch looking for all the world as though she was drunk.

“Kristin!” Joanna exclaimed, stepping onto the porch. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Without a word, Kristin propelled herself across the porch. Sobbing, she fell against Joanna with such force that they both crashed into the wall.

“Kristin,” Joanna insisted. “Tell me. What’s happened?”

“My parents threw me out,” Kristin wailed. “My father told me to get out, that he didn’t want a daughter like me living in his house. He said that I had fifteen minutes to gather up what I needed and then he wanted me to clear out.”

Joanna was horrified. “What did your mother say?” she asked.

“Nothing. She sat there the whole time and listened to Dad yell at me, and she never said a word. Not a single word. I didn’t know where to go, Sheriff Brady. I couldn’t go see Terry, not like this. He already feels bad enough. So I came here. What am I going to do? What’s going to happen to me? Where am I going to stay?”

Joanna patted the younger woman’s heaving shoulder. “Come on inside,” she said. “It’s cold out here. You’re shivering. I’ll fix you something warm to drink, and we’ll try to decide what to do.”

“Joanna,” Butch said from just inside the door. “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kristin had taken a step toward the door. Now, hearing another voice, she broke away from Joanna’s hand and darted back across the porch. “I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t know you had company. I don’t want anyone else to know about this. I’ll just leave,” she insisted. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

Joanna reached out and captured one of Kristin’s flailing hands. “No, you won’t,” Joanna said. “It’s only Butch. You’ve met him, and I promise you he won’t bite. Be sensible, Kristin. Come on in now, please.”

“But I don’t want him to know,” Kristin pleaded. “I don’t want anyone to know. But now everybody will. Who knows what they’ll think. And say.” Once again she burst into incoherent sobs.

“Please, Kristin. It doesn’t matter what anyone says or thinks,” Joanna said calmly. “This is your business and Terry’s and nobody else’s. That includes your parents. Come on. Let’s get you inside and warmed up so we can talk things over and decide what to do. You said your father gave you fifteen minutes to pack. Do you have luggage along?”

Still sobbing, Kristin nodded. “It’s in the car.”

“Butch,” Joanna called. “Kristin’s going to spend the night. Would you mind bringing her luggage in from the car? Put it in Jenny’s room.”

“Oh, not Jenny’s room. I couldn’t do that,” Kristin hiccuped as Butch walked past her on his way to the Geo. “Couldn’t I sleep on a couch or something? I don’t want to put anyone out…”

“Nonsense,” Joanna said, bodily pulling her over the threshold and into the living room. “It’s all right. Jenny won’t mind.” As Joanna guided Kristin toward the couch, she called to her daughter. “Jenny, where are you?”

“Right here.”

“Go to your room and gather up whatever you’ll need for tonight, and for tomorrow morning as well. Kristin’s going to need to use your room tonight. You can sleep here on the couch. And as soon as Butch finishes bringing in the luggage, I’d like both of you to go to the kitchen and make some cocoa. I think Kristin needs some privacy.”

Joanna was grateful when Jenny did as she was told without so much as rolling her eyes or asking a single question. Once Jenny and Butch had retreated to the kitchen and closed the door, Joanna turned back to Kristin, who had managed to stop weeping by then and was noisily blowing her nose.

“I never thought they’d throw me out,” she choked miserably. “I always thought my parents loved me.”

“They do love you,” Joanna said. “They’re just hurt is all.”

“It’s not like I’m a seventeen-year-old kid,” Kristin continued. “I’m an adult. Even if I live at home. I have a job. Ever since I graduated from high school, my dad’s made me pay room and board. You should have heard some of the awful things he said to me, some of the terrible names he called me.” Kristin stopped and shook her head as another deluge of tears threatened to fall.

Joanna reached out and took Kristin’s hand. “You’re going to have to forgive your parents,” she said softly. “Both your mother and your dad.”

“Forgive them,” Kristin echoed. “Why should I? My father’s the one who called me a slut! He said I was no better than a common…” She faltered to a stop again, unable to continue.

“It doesn’t matter what your father called you,” Joanna said. “Forget about it. And it doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, either. This has far more to do with you and Terry than it does with either one of your parents. Have either of you changed your mind about what we discussed this morning?”

Kristin shook her head, tossing her wild tangle of blond hair around her tear-ravaged face. “Just like you suggested, we made an appointment to talk to Reverend Maculyea,” she said. “But the soonest she can see us together is tomorrow afternoon after work.”

“But you and Terry still want to get married?”

“Yes. Terry offered to come home with me to talk to my folks so I wouldn’t have to do it alone. He wanted to ask my father for my hand in marriage. Now I’m glad he didn’t. My father probably would have taken after him with a baseball bat.”

“Does Terry know where you are right now?” Joanna asked.

Kristin shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

Taking the telephone from its cradle, Joanna passed the handset to Kristin. “Call him,” she said. “Let Terry know where you are. That way he won’t call your house and antagonize your parents any more than they already are. That way, too, in case he already has called your house, he won’t have to worry about where you’ve gone. In the meantime, I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll go to the kitchen and see how that cocoa is coming.”

Joanna started to walk away, but Kristin reached out and stopped her. “You’re sure it’s all right if I stay here tonight? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Joanna replied with a rueful smile. “After all, it’s my fault. If you hadn’t been following my advice about telling your parents what was going on, they still wouldn’t know anything about it, so you’d still have a place to spend the night.”

Leaving Kristin alone, Joanna headed for the kitchen. There she found Butch and Jenny standing at the stove peering into a pan of made but not yet steaming cocoa. “What’s going on?” Butch asked.

“Kristin’s having a little disagreement with her parents,” Joanna explained. “She lives with them, and they asked her to leave the house tonight.”

“That sounds like a big disagreement to me,” Jenny said. “What’s it all about?”

“It’s private, Jenny,” Joanna said after a moment’s thought. “If Kristin wants to tell you, that’s up to her, but you’re not to ask-not under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

Jenny nodded and sighed. “Is it because I’m too young?” she asked.

“It’s because it’s nobody’s business but Kristin’s,” Joanna replied. “Now, how about that cocoa? Is it almost ready?”

“Coming up,” Butch said. “Jenny, get out the mugs, would you? I’ll pour. We’ll let your mother serve.”

Minutes later, Joanna returned to the living room taking two cups of cocoa and leaving Butch, Jenny, and the two dogs still confined to quarters in the kitchen. Kristin was just hanging up the phone.

“You talked to Terry?” Joanna asked.

Kristin nodded. “You were right. He had already called the house, talked to my father-or had been yelled at by my father-and he was worried sick. He wanted to come right over, but I told him not to. That I was fine and that I was going to stay here overnight. I told him I’d meet him for breakfast in the morning-before work.”

She took the cup of cocoa Joanna offered her, tasted it tentatively, and then set it down on the end table. “Is it true that the same thing happened to you and Deputy Brady? Or did you just say that to Terry and me this morning to make us feel better?”

“No,” Joanna said. “It really did happen.”

“And what did your parents do?”

“My father was already dead.”

“And your mother?”

“She was upset,” Joanna admitted. “She was actually very upset.”

“And how long did it take her to get over it?”

“Never,” Joanna said.

Kristin’s eyes widened. “Never? You mean she’s still mad about it?”

Joanna nodded.

“But you seem to get along all right,” Kristin objected. “I mean, your mother calls and talks to you. I saw her at the shower on Sunday. She seemed to be having a good time.”

“We get along all right now,” Joanna said. “About as well as we’ve ever gotten along, but that one issue is always between us. We hardly ever talk about it, but it’s still there. That’s probably how it will be with your father, too. Eventually he won’t be so angry. In fact, once the baby’s born and he’s a grandfather, your dad will probably come around. But things have changed between you and him, Kristin. Your father is used to always having the last word. Now he’s come up against a situation where you’re making your own decisions without consulting him and without doing things the way he wants you to, either. He’s just now learning the hard lesson that he’s going to have to let you go, and he doesn’t like it.”

“You make it sound like an ordinary part of growing up.”

“It is an ordinary part of growing up,” Joanna said. “Being pregnant is a complicating factor, but it’s not the only one. This may seem to be a big deal to your parents, but in the larger scheme of things, it’s not important. You and Terry love each other. You’re going to get married and raise this child together. That’s what’s important. That’s all that’s important.”

Once again Kristin’s blue eyes brimmed with tears. “When you first came to the department, Sheriff Brady, I didn’t like you very much,” she admitted after a moment. “I’m sorry I made things so tough for you.”

Joanna smiled. “I didn’t like you very much, either. I think we both felt threatened, and now we’re over it.”

“The same way my parents may get over this?”

“Exactly the same way,” Joanna replied. “Just give them time.”

By the time Kristin finished drinking her cocoa, Joanna could see that the day’s emotional upheaval had taken its toll. “Go to bed, now,” she said. “The bathroom’s that way. We have only one, so we’ll all have to take turns. Once you have a decent night’s rest, you’re going to see the world through much different eyes. I have a feeling you haven’t been sleeping very well the last few nights. There’s nothing like tossing and turning to wear a person down.”

“How did you know that?” Kristin asked.

“Believe me,” Joanna replied, “it was more than a lucky guess.”

Once Kristin had retreated to Jenny’s room and while Jenny was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, Joanna walked Butch out to his car.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what she said to you on the porch. How pregnant is she?”

“Just barely,” Joanna said. “But remember, there’s no such thing as slightly pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”

“If her parents threw her out, what kind of people are they?”

“Fallible people,” Joanna answered. “People who are doing the best they can. They’re like parents everywhere-wanting what’s best for their children and being upset when results come short of the mark.”

“Wait a minute,” Butch said. “Are we talking about Kristin Marsten’s parents, or are we talking about some other parents I could name?”

“All parents,” Joanna said after a moment. “Your mother and my mother included.”

“No! You can’t mean it.”

Joanna reached up and kissed him. “But I do mean it,” she said. “Maybe after all this time I’m finally growing up, too. Now good night. Drive carefully.”

Back in the house, Joanna hurried to clear the dining room table of paperwork before Jenny emerged from the bathroom. By the time a pajama-clad Jenny headed toward the couch, Joanna had refilled the briefcase and snapped it shut.

“Mom,” Jenny said, as Joanna stopped with her finger on the light switch.

“What?”

“Will you ever get so mad at me that you’ll kick me out of the house?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, Kristin must have done something really awful for her parents to get that mad at her.”

“It wasn’t so very awful,” Joanna replied. “And it’s something a lot of people have done before her-your mother included.”

“Really? Whatever it is, you did it, too?”

“Yes. Good night, now. I told you it was none of your business.”

“Good night.”

Thoughtfully, Joanna went into her own bedroom and undressed. When she first lay down on the bed, she thought she would have a hard time falling asleep. But she didn’t. In fact, she fell asleep sooner that night than any night in recent memory.

Maybe it was because on that night she went to bed knowing that one way or the other, the long warfare with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield might finally be coming to an end. Well, maybe not a complete end, but at least Joanna could see the possibility of a truce.