Partner In Crime

Ten

JOANNA PULLED INTO THE YARD at High Lonesome Ranch and stopped the Civvie in a cloud of dirt and gravel. As she raced home, she had expected to find Jenny in hysterics, but that wasn’t the case. She found her daughter and both dogs grouped on the back porch. Tigger leaped off the porch and came to greet her while neither Jenny nor Sadie moved. Jenny sat with the dog’s head cradled in her lap, gently stroking Sadie’s long, floppy ears. The dog’s sides heaved as she struggled to breathe.

Stepping close to her daughter, Joanna saw there was ample evidence that Jenny had been crying, but she wasn’t crying now.

“She doesn’t like it when I cry,” Jenny explained. “It upsets her, so I stopped. And I already called Dr. Ross’s office. She says we should bring Sadie right over.”

Sadie was a big dog – seventy-five pounds at least, Joanna estimated. “How will we get her to the car?” she asked.

“We have to, that’s all,” Jenny replied.

“Wait here while I go get the keys to the other car,” Joanna said. “Sadie will be more comfortable in the Eagle than in the Civvie.”

Jenny nodded. “Hurry,” she said.

Joanna dashed into the house, grabbed the keys to the Eagle, and hurried back outside. Sadie and Jenny hadn’t moved.

“I tried giving her some water, but she wouldn’t drink it,” Jenny said. “That’s a bad sign, isn’t it.”

It was a statement, not a question. Joanna blinked back her own tears. “Probably,” she agreed.

Years of hefting hay bales had served both mother and daughter in good stead. As soon as they lifted the dog, though, it was clear Sadie no longer weighed what she once had.

When did she lose so much weight? Joanna wondered. Why didn’t I see what was happening?

Once Sadie was loaded into the car, Tigger wanted to go along. “No!” Jenny told him. “You stay.”

With his tail between his legs, the dejected mutt retreated into the yard and curled up, moping, on the porch. Joanna got in and turned the key in the ignition. The Eagle was driven so seldom nowadays that she worried if the battery was charged, but it started right away. Once the engine was running, Joanna expected Jenny to clamber into her seat. Instead, blond hair flying behind her, she darted back into the house. She emerged moments later carrying Sadie’s blanket.

“Good thinking,” Joanna said. For the remainder of the drive into town, neither mother nor daughter said a word.

Veterinarian Millicent Ross’s office was only a mile or so past the Cochise County Justice Center. Joanna was there less than ten minutes after leaving home. Millicent was a broad, more-than- middle-aged woman who had returned to college to become a vet only after her three children had graduated.

She came out to the parking area to meet them, bringing along a gurney that had been designed with animals in mind. Sadie, who had never liked going to the vet, started to struggle as Dr. Ross began to transfer her to the gurney. Jenny held Sadie’s head and spoke soothingly until Dr. Ross was able to strap the dog down. As they rolled the gurney toward the building, Joanna’s cell phone rang. She stayed outside to take the call and was grateful to hear Butch’s voice.

“Where are you?” he asked. “I came home and found your Civvie here, but no Eagle, no Joey, no Jenny, and no note. What’s going on?”

“It’s Sadie,” Joanna said brokenly. “She’s sick. We’ve brought her to Dr. Ross’s office. I’m afraid she’s not going to…” Her voice faltered. She couldn’t continue.

“I’ll be right there,” Butch said.

Hanging up, Joanna turned off her phone. For once her family’s needs would take precedence over the people of Cochise County. If something important came up, somebody else would have to handle it.

Inside the office waiting room, Jenny sat disconsolately on a chair, clutching Sadie’s blanket to her chest. “Dr. Ross took her into the back for X rays,” Jenny explained matter-of-factly. “To see if she can find out what’s wrong.”

Joanna sat down on the chair next to Jenny’s. “That was Butch on the phone,” she said. “He’s back at the house. He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

Jenny nodded. “Okay.”

Since Jenny wasn’t crying, Joanna didn’t either. Instead, she thought about how many years the long-legged bluetick had been part of their lives. Jenny was barely a year old when Andy brought the gangly, ill-mannered six-month-old puppy home from work. Another deputy had bought it for his son but had subsequently discovered that both his wife and son were allergic to dogs. Or perhaps just to that particularly energetic and rambunctious dog. He had been on his way to drop Sadie off at the pound when Andy had intervened.

Initially, Joanna had voiced the same kinds of objections to Sadie that she would attempt to use years later when Jenny wanted Kiddo. They didn’t need a dog. Dogs were too much trouble, too much work. But Andy had insisted, and Jenny had been ecstatic. “Mama” or “Dada” may be the first words most children speak, but for Jennifer Ann Brady, it was “’Adie.” It would be another two years before she’d be able to get her little tongue around that initial S.

And if Jenny was crazy about the dog, the feeling was mutual. The two were inseparable. Joanna could recall few family snapshots of Jenny that didn’t have Sadie lurking, lop-eared and panting, in one corner or another. Only in more recent ones had Sadie been joined by Tigger’s clownish presence.

Fifteen minutes after his phone call, Butch drove up and parked beside the Eagle. When he entered the waiting room, a buzzer in the back of the office announced the newcomer’s arrival. The sound of the buzzer reminded Joanna of the jangling bell over the door of the Castle Rock Gallery. Determinedly, she shut the thought away. Now was not the time.

Butch took the chair on Jenny’s far side. “What’s happening, Tiger?” he asked.

Jenny looked at him for a long minute before she answered. Then her long-lashed blue eyes filled with tears and she threw herself into Butch’s arms. “It’s Sadie,” she croaked. “She’s sick. I think she’s going to die.”

Butch held her and stroked her hair. “There, there,” he said, while his eyes sought Joanna’s over the weeping child’s head.

Joanna bit her lip, nodded in confirmation, and wondered why Jenny had gone to Butch for comfort rather than to her own mother. The obvious snub hurt Joanna in a way that surprised her.

“I’m sorry, Jen,” Butch continued, holding her tightly. “I’m so very sorry.”

Jenny’s desperate sobs subsided finally, but they were all still sitting that same way – with Jenny in Butch’s arms and Joanna off to one side – a few minutes later, when Dr. Ross emerged from the backroom. “Joanna, if you’d like to come with me and…”

Seeing the grim expression on the vet’s face, Joanna knew it was bad news. By taking Joanna aside, Millicent Ross hoped to spare Jenny further heartache. But in this instance, Joanna decided, Jennifer Ann Brady had earned the right to be treated as a grown-up.

“Sadie is Jenny’s dog,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “Whatever’s going on – whatever has to be decided – we’ll all hear about it together.”

Millicent sighed and nodded. “Very well,” she said. She eased her stocky frame into another of the waiting-room chairs. “I’ve looked at the X rays. Sadie has a large tumor on one of her lungs and a smaller one on the other. The larger one is affecting her heart.”

“Tumors?” Jenny asked. “How can that be? She hasn’t been sick or anything.”

“It’s like that with animals sometimes,” Millicent Ross explained gently. “Tumors come on swiftly. A few months ago, when Sadie was here because of that poisoning incident, there was no sign of a tumor. Now there are two. Her lungs are filling up with fluid. That’s why she’s having such difficulty breathing.”

Jenny’s lower lip trembled. “What can you do?”

Dr. Ross shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing, really,” she said. “Sadie’s in pain and she’s suffering. The longer we wait, the harder it will be for her.”

“You mean we should put her to sleep?”

While Joanna found herself unable to speak, Jenny had asked the questions.

“Yes,” the vet replied.

“When? Now?”

“There’s no sense in prolonging it, Jenny. I can do it this afternoon – as soon as you leave.”

“No,” Jenny said at once. “We’re not leaving. I want to be with her.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Dr. Ross said. “She’s still strapped to the gurney…”

“Sadie doesn’t like being at the vet’s, and she hates those metal tables,” Jenny said determinedly. “They scare her. I have her blanket right here. Let’s take her off the gurney and put her on that. I’ll sit on the floor and hold her while you do it. That way she won’t be afraid.”

Millicent Ross nodded. “Good thinking,” she said. “If you’ll come with me, then…”

Still clutching the blanket, Jenny stood up. She glanced briefly at Joanna, then she stiffened her shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

As the door to the back office closed, Joanna burst into tears. She fell into Butch’s arms. As he moved to comfort her, his eyes, too, were brimming.

“Jenny knew it was coming,” Joanna managed in a strangled whisper. “That’s why she brought along the blanket.”

“She’s one smart kid,” Butch said admiringly. “I wonder where she gets it.”

I MADE MY WAY back uptown and located the Copper Queen Hotel. The closest parking place was two perpendicular blocks away. There was no bellman, but my room was ready. I checked in and then took myself downstairs to the restaurant. My scanty airline breakfast had long since disappeared. I was more than happy to mow my way through one of the Copper Queen’s generously greasy hamburgers. I hadn’t had one that good since Seattle’s old Doghouse Restaurant closed up shop years ago.

Joanna Brady may not have won any Miss Congeniality awards, but something she had said stuck with me. She had called me a plumber, and I supposed that was true. The sheriff of Cochise County wasn’t pissed at me so much as she was at Ross Connors for taking so long in getting back to her department with the needed information. I admit I was puzzled by that, too.

None of the information in Latisha Wall’s file had seemed so volatile or critical or even confidential that it couldn’t have been faxed back and forth to Cochise County without a problem. Due to that AG-enforced lag time, Joanna Brady was going to make me cool my heels for a while. I had told her I would spend my down- time looking for people from Anne Corley’s past. And maybe I would, but there was something almost physically addictive about once again sinking my teeth back into an active homicide investigation. Being benched and put on the sidelines by the likes of Sheriff Brady wasn’t how J.P. Beaumont played the game.

And so, using a paper napkin from the other, unused, place setting at my table, I began making notes. There were really only a few possibilities. One: Rochelle Baxter/Latisha Wall had died of accidental or natural causes. In either of those instances, no one was responsible, and both Joanna Brady’s department and mine were off the hook. Two: The victim had indeed been murdered. Why? A: She had died as a result of something that had happened while living in Bisbee. If that was true, the solution was entirely Joanna Brady’s responsibility. Whatever her “investigators” might or might not have discovered had nothing to do with me.

Or B: The woman Bisbee knew as Rochelle Baxter had been murdered because she was really Latisha Wall. The trail there would likely lead back to her having blown the whistle on UPPI. In that case what had happened to her definitely was my business. Ross Connors had blundered along and dragged his feet for two days. Homicide cops call those first forty-eight hours after an incident the magic time. It’s then, right after the death and before the trail goes cold, that most homicides are solved. In Latisha Wall’s case, those hours had been allowed to elapse with no help from the state of Washington.

So who all had information concerning Latisha Wall’s whereabouts? I asked myself.

As far as I know, I’m not on a nodding-acquaintance basis with anyone currently or formerly in a witness protection program. Even so, I understand that programs like that can operate successfully only so long as the fewest possible people know details of the arrangements. Cumbersome bureaucracies leave behind paper or computer trails with far too many opportunities for unauthorized personnel to access the same information. Computers are susceptible to hacking. Stray pieces of paper can end up damned near anywhere.

I remembered that among the supposedly confidential pieces of paper Harry I. Ball had given me before I left town was one with a list of telephone numbers scribbled on it. I had been directed to guard that scrap of paper with my life. It contained all the confidential phone numbers that belonged to Washington State Attorney General Ross Alan Connors.

“Home, office, and mobile phones,” Harry had said, pointing at each of them with the tip of his pen. “Whatever you do, don’t lose them. You’re to report directly to him by phone on this. No intermediaries. No left messages. No e-mail. Understand?”

“Got it,” I had said, reveling in the first case I could ever remember that came complete with an actual prohibition against writing reports. “This is my kind of case.”

“We’ll see,” Harry I. Ball had muttered in return.

“Ask the AG who knew,” I jotted on the napkin.

There was a stir in the room. Two guys at the table next to me and a woman one table away peered at the dining room entrance with avid interest. As the door swung shut, a hint of flowery perfume wafted through the room. The hostess, carrying a single menu, strode past my table leading a tall, heavyset African- American woman wearing low heels and a gray silk suit that rustled as she walked. The hostess seated the newcomer at a table for two next to a lace-curtained window.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the hostess asked.

“Coffee,” the woman said in a thick Southern drawl. “Coffee and water, please.”

“It takes one to know one,” my mother used to say, and on this occasion that trite old saying was true. I was a stranger in Bisbee, Arizona, and so was the black woman seated three tables away. A single photo of Latisha Wall had been in the file I’d handed over to Sheriff Brady. It had been taken on the occasion of Latisha’s graduation from USMC boot camp. Except for an extra hundred pounds or so, the woman seated across from me could have been Latisha’s older twin.

A waitress brought coffee and water. While the woman studied the menu, I studied her. Long black hair was drawn back into a cascade of neatly braided cornrows that flowed past her shoulders. Her teeth were large, straight, and very white. The fingers that held the menu were topped by long scarlet-tipped nails. Everything except the nails spoke of solemn dignity – and unspeakable sorrow.

“What can I bring you, ma’am?” the waitress asked.

“What’s the soup today?”

“Tortilla/green chili,” the waitress offered cheerily. “It’s really very good.”

The woman look unconvinced. “I’ll have the tuna salad,” she said.

The waitress took my plate away and dropped off the bill. It was a subtle hint for me to move along. “Could I please have another cup of coffee?” I asked.

For some time I sat and wondered about my next move. Clearly this was a relative of Latisha Wall’s – an aunt or a much older sister perhaps – come to bring the dead woman’s body home for burial. Most likely the woman had been summoned by a local coroner or medical examiner’s office in order to make a positive identification. After all, if none of the people in Bisbee knew that Rochelle Baxter was really Latisha Wall, they could hardly be counted upon to make a positive ID.

The woman’s tuna salad arrived at the same time my coffee refill did. She picked at her food with faint interest, as though she was going through the motions of eating because she knew she should rather than because she was hungry. By the time she put down her fork and pushed away her still-laden plate, I had made up my mind.

I stood up and walked over to her table. “Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing. You look so much like Rochelle that you must be related. Please accept my condolences.”

She nodded. Her eyelashes were thick and almost as long as her fingernails. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind. And, yes. Her real name was Latisha, you know. She was my sister, my younger sister.” She held out her hand. “My name is Cornelia Lester. And you are?”

I wondered if, to maintain the subterfuge, I should ask about the Rochelle Baxter alias, but decided against it. At that point, the less said, the better.

“Beaumont,” I told her, returning her solid handshake. “J.P. Beaumont.”

“Have a seat.” She motioned me into the table’s other chair. “I hate eating alone,” she said, as if to explain her uneaten salad. After a pause she added, “Did you know her?”

I sat down and shook my head. “Not really,” I lied. “But I know about her. Bisbee’s a very small town.”

“Yes,” Cornelia agreed. “Small towns are like that. Did you know she was an artist?”

“No.”

“Tizzy was always sketching away when she was a kid. That’s what we called her back home, Tizzy. Other kids would be out playing ball or swimming, or just hanging out, but Tizzy always had a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Even back then we all knew she had a God-given talent, although our parents weren’t much in favor of art for art’s sake. They wanted us to have jobs that would actually pay the rent. It’s bad enough that she’s gone, but to die like that, the night before her first show…” Cornelia Lester shook her head and lapsed into silence.

“Show?” I asked.

“Yes. A one-woman exhibition of her paintings at a place called Castle Rock Gallery. The opening party was to be held Thursday night, but Latisha died on Wednesday. I’d really love to see the paintings, but I haven’t been able to. The gallery isn’t open. I checked on my way through town.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s after one,” I suggested helpfully. “Maybe they’re open now.”

Once again Cornelia Lester shook her head. The beads on her cornrows knocked together with a sound that reminded me of a baby’s rattle. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. I talked to a man who owns the antique store next door. He said this is the second day in a row the gallery has been closed. He’s heard rumors that something bad may have happened to the owner. Dee Canfield, I think her name is. She’s been missing for two days now, ever since she posted the notice canceling the show and locked the place up on Thursday afternoon.”

“That’s odd,” I said.

“Yes. I thought so, too,” Cornelia Lester agreed. “Since this Canfield woman and Latisha were evidently friends, I intend to ask Sheriff Brady about this the first chance I can.”

“You haven’t spoken with Sheriff Brady then?” I asked.

“No. I tried calling a few minutes ago and was told the sheriff is currently unavailable. I left a message, but she hasn’t called back. That’s all right. There’s plenty of time. I’ll be here until Tuesday at least. That’s the very soonest the medical examiner may be able to release the body.”

This was all very interesting. It would have been nice if Joanna Brady had bothered to mention that another woman was missing, especially since she was someone closely connected to Latisha Wall, making it more than likely that the two incidents were related. Since Sheriff Brady hadn’t said a word, I decided it was time to follow up on my own leads.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, standing up, “I really must go. It was rude of me to barge in on you this way.”

“Not at all,” Cornelia Lester said. “I enjoyed the company. I was glad to have a chance to talk.”

“Same here,” I said.

I charged lunch to my room and then hurried out to the desk, where I borrowed a local telephone book. Castle Rock Gallery wasn’t listed in the dog-eared copy the clerk handed me, so I asked him instead.

“Oh, that,” he said. “No wonder. The phone book came out last spring. Castle Rock Gallery is brand-new – too new to be listed, but it’s not hard to find. Go straight out here, cross the street, cut through the park, and then turn right on Main Street. The gallery is several blocks up on the right. If you find yourself walking past a big chunk of gray limestone two or three stories tall, that’s Castle Rock. It means you’ve missed the gallery and gone too far. Come back down and try again.”

The uncomplicated directions made it sound fairly close, so I left the Sportage parked where it was and set out on foot. Getting there took me just ten minutes, but it was real walking – all of it uphill. I remembered seeing a sign that said Bisbee’s elevation was over five thousand feet. By the time I arrived at Castle Rock Gallery, I felt every damned one of them.

I was out of breath and sweating up a storm by the time I reached the place. Cornelia Lester had been right. Castle Rock Gallery was locked up tight even though the posted hours said the gallery was open from ten to six on Saturdays. A hand-lettered sign taped to the inside surface of a window next to the door said the grand opening of Rochelle Baxter’s one-woman show had been canceled until further notice.

I looked around. Cornelia Lester had mentioned speaking to the man who ran an antique shop next door. Because the gallery meandered down the street and filled three adjacent storefront buildings, next door was actually three doors away in a place called Treasure Trove Antiques.

I went there and let myself into a musty, dusty place stacked high with mountains of junk some people had thrown out of their lives. No doubt other people would be happy to part with far too much of their own hard-earned cash to bring the cast-off crap into theirs.

A bow-legged guy in cowboy boots and a Western shirt sat in a faded leather morris chair with a thousand-dollar price tag. He took off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses as he looked up from the paperback he was reading. “Howdy,” he said. “Let me know if I can be of any help. Don’t like to smother people. Not my style.”

I pulled out my badge and held it up for him to look at it. I hoped the combination of bad lighting and slightly below-par eyesight would fix it so he didn’t get that good a look. “Actually,” I said, “I understand the lady who owns the gallery next door has gone missing.”

“Sure enough,” he said. “Dee’s gone, and so is that jerk of a boyfriend of hers – Warren something or other. They’ve been gone almost two full days now. If Dee’s come to any harm, I’m guessing that Bobo Jenkins from up Brewery Gulch way might’ve had something to do with it. He was in there raising so much hell the other day – Thursday morning, it was – that the sheriff had to show up with her siren screaming and lights flashing just to calm things down. This here’s a quiet little town,” he added. “Don’t get a lot of that – lights and sirens, I mean.”

I jotted down the name. “You said Bobo Jenkins?”

“Yup. Used to own a place called the Blue Moon Saloon up in Brewery Gulch. I believe he sold it a couple of months back. I was outside having a smoke Thursday morning. That’s the thing with all the dad-gummed rules and regulations we have nowadays. A man can’t smoke in his own shop even when he ain’t hurtin’ nobody but his own damned self. So I was outside smoking when ol’ Bobo comes charging up the street like the devil hisself is after him. I do mean he was movin’. Not jogging. Not trotting along, but outright running. Looked mad enough to chew nails. Next thing I know, he’s in the gallery and him and Dee are screaming at each other something fierce.”

“Did you hear what was said?”

“I’m not one of them eavesdroppers. Even if I had heard, I pro’ly wouldn’t say. But it was loud, I can tell you that much. And they didn’t stop carrying on until Sheriff Brady showed up and made ’em. I didn’t vote for her, you understand, but I got to give her credit. She’s no bigger ‘n a minute, but the sheriff’s a feisty one, I’ll say that for her. She busted that argument right up. The next thing I know, Bobo was walkin’ down the street carryin’ this big old picture, and lookin’ like someone’d just told him to shut up and get the hell out.”

Sheriff Brady may be feisty, I thought, but she’s also one closed-mouthed little bitch!

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate the help. Your name is?”

“Harvey,” he replied. “Harvey Dowd. Most people call me Harve. And you?”

“Beaumont,” I told him. “J.P. As I said, you’ve been a big help, Mr. Dowd. Now, if you could direct me to the place you told me about. The one that Mr. Jenkins owns…”

“The Blue Moon?”

I nodded.

“Sure. That’s no trouble. You walkin’ or drivin’?”

“Walking.”

“Well, sir, you just go right down this here hill. Stick to the main drag. You’ll go through town and past the park. Turn left at the end of the park and just walk straight ahead until you get there. It’ll be on the left. Believe me, you can’t miss it.”

You’d be surprised, I thought, but I set out with a spring in my step. Part of the spring was due to the fact that I’d finally gotten around to having the bone spurs removed from my heels. And it helped that it was all downhill. But something else – something perfectly simple – made me feel downright gleeful as I walked back down through the narrow two-lane street Harve Dowd had called Bisbee’s “main drag.” Nothing could possibly have improved my state of mind more than having a lead Sheriff Joanna Brady hadn’t given me and obviously didn’t want me to have.

Now, before she had a chance to stop me, I was going to see what I could do with it.