Partner In Crime

Fourteen

AFTER MARLISS SHACKLEFORD LEFT, I found I needed either a drink or some air and space. Upon reflection, I took myself for a walk. It was well after dark by then and much chillier than the toasty daytime temperatures would have led me to expect. I was glad I was still wearing my wrinkled blazer as I wandered through narrow, crooked streets. The two- and three-story buildings I saw reminded me of those in downtown Ballard back home in Seattle. I wondered what Bisbee must have been like back in its heyday, back when domestic copper production was still a moneymaking proposition.

Here and there streetlights revealed ghostly traces of old signs painted on the sides of brick buildings, just barely still legible. They testified to the more abundant and diverse commercial past in small-town America – Western Auto, Woolworth’s, JCPenney. But those bedrock businesses had long since deserted Bisbee, just as they had deserted countless other communities across the nation. Now the buildings had different occupants. It looked as though the current crop of merchants and organizations catered to tourism – a mining museum, an antiques mall, and a mostly used bookstore. The bars, of course, hadn’t gone away. Maybe you couldn’t buy a hammer and nails on Main Street in Bisbee, Arizona, anymore, but Coors on tap was readily available.

Naturally, as I walked, my mind strayed back to Anne. Had she walked this winding canyon street as a little girl? Had she bought an Etch A Sketch in Woolworth’s or an Easter outfit in JCPenney?

And, as often happens when I think of Anne, I see her again as I did that very first time. It’s a cloudless spring afternoon in Seattle’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Wearing that bright red dress, she’s striding across the green grass toward Angela Barstogi’s open grave. The dowdily dressed mourners from Faith Tabernacle all stand aside to let her pass, parting before her commanding presence as the waters of the Red Sea did for Moses.

She stops only when she reaches the grave. Her hair is long and dark. A slight breeze ruffles it around her face, and I realize I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful or so undeniably sad.

The crowd is dumbstruck, and so am I. No one moves. Even the overbearing Pastor Michael Brodie is stunned to silence. Then slowly, gracefully, she raises her hand. A single rose drifts away from her open fingers and falls gently onto the casket of a small, murdered child.

And then the scene shifts. The funeral is over and when I see her again, she is coming down the hill. She is walking purposefully, with a certain goal in mind. Eventually I realize she’s coming to me – directly to me. I am her goal, and my life will never again be the same.

Lost in thought, I nearly blundered into Cornelia Lester, who was making her way down Main Street.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I was thinking of something else. Mind if I join you?”

“But you were going in the other direction,” she objected.

“That’s all right. I was about to turn back anyway.”

She laughed. “Help yourself, then, Mr… I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me. I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“Beaumont,” I supplied, falling into step beside her. “J.P. Beaumont. You can call me Beau.”

Once again, Cornelia Lester’s clothing rustled as she walked. Despite her ample girth, she set a brisk pace, moving much more swiftly than I had been on my own. Only the fact that we were now going downhill made it possible for me to keep up.

“I went up to the art gallery again,” she explained. “I keep hoping someone will show up there and let me in.”

I wrestled with whether or not I should tell her what Marliss Shackleford had just told me – that Dee Canfield had now been identified as a murder victim as well – but I decided against it. A reporter’s unsubstantiated tip might very well be wrong. That kind of information needs to come from someone officially connected to the investigation. Marliss Shackleford certainly wasn’t official and, as far as this latest incident was concerned, neither was I.

“There were lights on inside,” Cornelia continued. “They must be on a timer so they come on automatically. I was able to catch a glimpse of a couple of Tizzy’s paintings through the window. The one of Daddy…” She stopped talking abruptly, swallowed hard, and wiped at her eyes.

“Did you know our father was a minister?” she asked finally when she found her voice again. “He was a United Methodist minister at a mostly black church in Macon, Georgia. You ever been to Georgia?”

“Never,” I said.

“Macon’s a quiet place. Comfortable. But Tizzy couldn’t wait to get out of town, and out of Daddy’s church, too. We both did that, Tizzy and I, left home and neither of us set foot inside a church for years.” She shrugged. “That’s kids for you. They have to rebel. Daddy was a man of prayer. Tizzy loved action. He believed in nonviolence. He wanted his daughters to go to church and get educated. What did Tizzy do? She joined the Marines and went off to war. I finally got over what was bugging me. I went back home to Macon for keeps and to Daddy’s church as well. I made my peace with our parents. Tizzy never did, and it broke Daddy’s heart. I think that’s part of what killed him, but that one picture…”

Again she paused, overcome by emotion.

“Which picture?” I asked.

“It’s one of Tizzy’s paintings in the gallery. Have you seen them?”

“No.”

“Well, one of them shows Daddy standing outside his church on a sunny Sunday morning. He’s wearing that old robe of his – the bright red one that he loved so much and wore every summer until it was so thin you could practically see through it. Tizzy captured everything about it, even the little patch Momma darned into the arm. I could almost smell it, reeking of Daddy’s Old Spice.

“The picture was so true to life that it took my breath away. It might have been a photograph. And there’s little T. J. Evans, standing there looking up at Daddy with those big brown trusting eyes. I’d know that boy anywhere; he was such a cute little thing. T. J.’s gone now, of course. Died in a car wreck three or four years ago, but Tizzy painted him just the way he was back then when he was a little-bitty sprout. It’s like her mind was a camera, with everything stored there just like it used to be.”

We walked the distance of a block in silence, although with no cross-streets, it’s hard to measure blocks in Bisbee.

“That picture just got to me, I guess,” Cornelia Lester continued eventually. “Made me think maybe she was intending to come back after all. Not home, of course. I know she couldn’t have done that, but maybe she was ready to come back to the fold. Like she was finally ready to make peace with Daddy and with all he stood for. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But maybe so.”

“Did you happen to notice that United Methodist Church back there, just across the street from the gallery?” Cornelia asked.

I hadn’t. “No,” I said.

“Tombstone Something, I think. The sign says services start at ten-thirty. I believe I’ll go there tomorrow morning. I like to do that – visit other churches when I’m traveling.”

I’ve never had a sibling, but if I had just learned one of them had been murdered, I doubt I would have been out looking for Sunday-morning services in a strange church in a strange town. Cornelia Lester had a depth of belief that made me half envious.

We had come to a small plaza, an almost level spot in an otherwise up-and-down town. We crossed a one-way backstreet and were making our way through a postage-stamp-size park when three Cochise County patrol cars came roaring past us, one right after the other. None of them had their flashers or sirens on. Even so, they were moving at a good clip. I was pretty sure one of them belonged to Sheriff Brady, and I theorized that they had come from the crime scene in Naco and were probably headed for Castle Rock Gallery.

I really wanted to turn on my heel and go there, too. But I didn’t. I was certain that if I showed up somewhere uninvited, Sheriff Brady would send me packing. Again.

Call me a slow learner, but I’ve finally figured out that sometimes I’m better off not going where I’m not wanted.

Cornelia Lester and I made our way up the steps on the far side of the park and then across a narrow side street and up into the hotel lobby. By the time we topped the last set of stairs, we were both huffing and puffing. I fully expected Cornelia Lester to head directly for the elevator and her room, but she didn’t. Instead she made her way toward one of the leather couches.

“Wouldn’t you mind sitting with me awhile?” she asked. “I’d really appreciate it. I feel a need to talk to someone tonight, but it’s past midnight back home by now. Everyone there is probably sound asleep.”

“Sure,” I agreed.

After all, it may have been my birthday, but I had nothing else to do but listen. And with memories of Anne Corley haunting me once more, it was either that, find an AA meeting, or go to the bar and have a drink. Faced with those three alternatives, listening to Cornelia Lester was by far the best choice.

WHILE FRANK MONTOYA STAYED with the crime scene investigation in Naco, Joanna took her Civvie and followed Casey and Ken Junior back into town and up to Castle Rock Gallery in Old Bisbee. Joanna had parked her car and was locking the door when a man smoking a glowing cigarette materialized unexpectedly next to her.

“Oh, Harve,” she said, recognizing the owner of Treasure Trove Antiques. “You startled me. I didn’t see you there.”

“Wasn’t,” he said. “Came down when I heard them other two cop cars drive up. See you’ve got some officers in there now,” he added, nodding in the direction of the gallery. “Did you find her? Something bad must have happened.”

Joanna nodded. “Dee Canfield is dead, Harve,” she said. “Some boys found her body in an abandoned house down in Naco several hours ago, but that’s not for public knowledge just yet. We need to notify her family.”

Harve sighed and nodded sagely. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “In fact, I pro’ly should have said as much to that other detective of yours when I talked to him earlier this afternoon, but I’m no gossip. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You talked to Detective Carbajal today?” Joanna asked.

“Oh, no. Not Jaime – that other fellow, the big one with the salt-and-pepper crew cut. He must be new. I don’t remember ever seein’ him around before. Can’t tell you his name, but I’m sure you know who I mean.”

Joanna knew exactly whom Harvey Dowd meant. Mr. Beaumont, I presume, she thought.

“What all did you tell him?” she asked.

“Nothin’ much. About that fight the other day, the one you had to break up. I was surprised that he didn’t seem to know nothin’ about it.”

I’m not, Joanna thought.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him this afternoon,” she said innocently. “Did you tell him anything else I should know about? Or have you seen anything unusual going on around the gallery in the last day or two?”

Harvey Dowd took a final, thoughtful drag on the end of his cigarette, then he dropped the stub into the gutter and ground it out with the sole of his boot. “Had a long talk again this evening with that nice black lady, the one whose sister was killed down in Naco earlier this week. She keeps coming by hoping to get a look at her sister’s paintings, but, of course, nobody’s been there.”

Cornelia Lester, Joanna thought.

“She was all wore out from walking so far uphill,” Harve Dowd continued. “She’s from Georgia, you see. She’s not accustomed to this here elevation of ours. My shop was closed for the day, but I let her come in and sit a spell in one of my old rockers until she got her breath back. I offered to bring my car down from the parking lot and give her a ride back to the hotel, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said walking was fine.”

Harve paused long enough to shake another cigarette out of his pack of Camels. “What about that boyfriend of Dee’s?” he asked.

“So far there’s no sign of him,” Joanna answered.

Sheltering a flickering match with his cupped hand, Harvey Dowd lit his next cigarette. “Not surprised,” he drawled when he finished. “I’m guessing you’re not gonna find him, either. Never did like Warren Gibson much. Struck me as sort of underhanded, know what I mean? Didn’t seem like the type who’d stick around if there was any sign of trouble. I knew as soon as I heard the ruckus that Bobo Jenkins meant trouble.”

“You think Warren Gibson is underhanded?” Joanna asked. “What makes you say that?”

“When I’m out prospecting in the desert, which I do every now and again, I sometimes get this funny feeling. I call it feeling snaky. It’s like my body is picking up signals that I can’t see or hear, but it’s tryin’ to let me know all the same; tryin’ to tell me there’s a rattlesnake out there somewhere, and I’d best be careful. First time or two it happened, I ignored it and damned near got myself bit. Then I learned to pay attention. Now I stop and look around until I find the snake before it finds me.

“Warren Gibson’s the first human being ever who gives me that same kind of snaky feeling. It happened right off, the first time Dee introduced us, and for no real reason I can explain.”

“He makes you feel snaky?” Joanna asked, trying keep the disbelief out of her voice.

Harvey Dowd nodded. “Not exactly the same, but sort of. Like he’s dangerous or somethin’, although he never done nothin’ to me and never said anything out of line, so I could be mistaken about the man. Like I said, it’s just a feelin’.”

“Did you ever mention any of this to Deidre Canfield?”

Harve shook his head. “Did you ever have any dealings with that woman?”

“A few,” Joanna replied.

“I liked old Dee well enough, but she could be a screaming meemie when she wanted to. She seemed to think the sun rose and set on that man of hers, so far be it from me to try to tell her otherwise. Like I told you before, I’m not the gossipin’ kind. If I’d a told Dee Canfield that Warren was two-timing her, she would’ve bit my head clean off.”

“Two-timing?” Joanna asked. “Are you saying you saw Warren Gibson with another woman?”

“Didn’t see,” Harvey Dowd corrected. “Heard. Maybe not even heard, either, as far as that goes, but I’m as sure of it as I’m standing here. Why else would someone, with a perfectly good phone at home and another one right there in the gallery, spend so much time standing around on Main Street yakkin’ away on a pay phone? Maybe I’m all wet. Maybe it’s not a girlfriend, but I saw him talking on those pay phones down by the post office a lot – well out of Dee’s sight, you see. And what crossed my mind at the time was that, whoever it was he was talking to and whatever he was up to, he sure as hell didn’t want Dee Canfield to know about it.”

Joanna knew that Frank Montoya would be looking at the phone records for both the gallery and Dee Canfield’s house, but without Harve Dowd’s tip, no one would have thought to check the pair of pay phones on Main Street.

Thanking Harvey Dowd for his help, Joanna stuck her head into the gallery long enough to let Casey Ledford know where she was going. Then she got back into the car and drove down to the post office, where two waist-high public telephones stood side by side. After jotting down all the numbers, she radioed them into Dispatch, asking Tica to pass them along to Frank Montoya so he could ask for phone logs as soon as possible.

With that call completed, Joanna started to return to Castle Rock Gallery but changed her mind. The more people who showed up at a potential crime scene, the greater the potential for contamination, and the longer it would take for Casey and Ken Junior to process the place.

Across the street, through a tiny park, and up a concrete stairway, Joanna glimpsed the creamy-lit facade of Bisbee’s Copper Queen Hotel. Inside the hotel Joanna knew she would find Cornelia Lester. Latisha Wall’s sister was someone who had yet to have a face-to-face visit from the Cochise County sheriff. Joanna owed the woman that much courtesy, and some information as well.

With a sigh, Joanna put her Crown Victoria in gear and headed for the hotel. Once there, she stopped at the desk and asked for Cornelia Lester’s room. “She’s not there,” the clerk responded. “She’s right around the corner on the far side of the stairs.”

Walking around the sheltering stairway, Joanna saw a large African-American woman sitting on a leather-backed chair speaking to someone. Reluctant to interrupt, Joanna paused for a moment – long enough to see that the person opposite Cornelia Lester was none other than Special Investigator Beaumont.

All afternoon, the man had dogged her heels. Now he was interviewing Latisha Wall’s sister. Refusing to give way to a budding temper tantrum and steeling herself to be civil, Joanna stepped forward. “Good evening, Mr. Beaumont,” she said as she walked past him. She stopped in front of the woman. “You must be Cornelia Lester,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your sister.”

IF LOOKS COULD KILL, I would have keeled over dead when Joanna Brady walked into the lobby of the Copper Queen Hotel and shook hands with Cornelia Lester.

“Thank you,” Cornelia said graciously. “I take it you and Mr. Beaumont here already know each other?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve met.” Her cool response was less than enthusiastic.

Settling into a nearby chair, Joanna leaned toward Cornelia as she spoke again. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Lester, but we’ve had another homicide this evening. Actually, I’m guessing that the death happened a day or so ago, but we’ve only just now discovered the body.”

Cornelia Lester didn’t blink. “Who?” she asked.

“Deidre Canfield.”

“The woman who owns the gallery?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes.”

“If she’s dead, too,” Cornelia speculated, “and if she and my sister were friends, then her death must have something to do with Tizzy’s, don’t you think? I’m sorry, Sheriff Brady. I mean with Latisha’s. Tizzy is what we always called my sister back home. But tell me, please, is there any progress now?”

Joanna glanced at me before she answered. “Not much,” she admitted. “We have only preliminary autopsy results for your sister at the moment. We believe she ingested some kind of poison, which may have been placed in your sister’s iced tea.”

“Who did it?” Cornelia asked. For her it was a simple question that should have had an equally simple answer – one Joanna Brady was currently unable to give.

“At this point, Ms. Lester, I’m afraid we have no viable suspects. My investigators are working on it, of course, but it’s still very early.”

“If it was in Tizzy’s tea, could it be a random-tampering case that has nothing to do with Tizzy being in the witness protection program?”

I have to give the lady credit. Cornelia asked tough questions. Joanna shook her head. “We can’t say one way or the other.”

“What are the chances that this second dead woman – this Deidre Canfield who was supposedly Tizzy’s friend – was somehow connected to the people who ran UPPI, the people Tizzy was so afraid were going to try to kill her?”

“That is a possibility,” Joanna conceded. “So far we’ve found nothing that would bolster that theory.”

“What about this?” Cornelia asked. “First they use Deidre Canfield to get to my sister, and then, with Tizzy gone, they get rid of Dee Canfield, too. Those UPPI folks are not nice people, Sheriff Brady.”

“I’m convinced your sister was right to be scared,” Joanna agreed. “But as for Deidre Canfield being tied in with them, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“What about Tizzy’s boyfriend then?” Cornelia asked, switching directions. “What’s his name again?”

“Jenkins,” Joanna supplied, glaring at me. “His name is Bobo Jenkins, but I must object to Mr. Beaumont here giving you access to confidential information. He may be a special investigator with the Washington State Attorney General’s Office, but he has no business…”

Oops. I should have come clean with Cornelia Lester and told her who I was. Now the cat was out of the bag. My ears reddened under her shrewdly appraising look.

“Mr. Beaumont?” she said finally. “Why, he never told me a thing about Mr. Jenkins. It was that nice man up at the antiques store. What’s his name again?”

“Harvey Dowd?” I asked tentatively.

Joanna Brady shot another baleful look in my direction. I had noticed earlier that her eyes were a vivid shade of green. In the dim light of the hotel lobby, however, they looked more like chips of slate.

“That’s right,” Cornelia said with a nod that somehow conveyed she had forgiven me my sin of omission. “Harvey Dowd is the one. He gave me to understand that Mr. Jenkins has quite a temper. He told me about a serious confrontation of some kind up at the gallery the other day – serious enough that police officers had to intervene.”

“That’s true,” Joanna said. “There was a confrontation. In fact, I’m the one who broke it up, but in Mr. Jenkins’s defense, you have to understand that he had just learned of your sister’s death – the death of the woman he had known as Rochelle Baxter and whom he had cared about deeply. When he discovered that Deidre Canfield still planned to go ahead with her grand-opening party, he was outraged. And when he learned Dee was raising the prices on the pictures…”

“Raising the prices?”

“Yes. Her position was that, with the artist dead, the few paintings that did exist would be that much more valuable. Mr. Jenkins took exception to that. He thought the show should be canceled and the pictures turned over to their rightful owners – the artist’s family.”

“He wanted the paintings returned to us?” Cornelia asked.

Joanna nodded. “That’s what the big fuss at Castle Rock Gallery that morning was all about.”

“He was trying to keep the gallery from selling them?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “So they could be given to you.”

Cornelia Lester shook her head thoughtfully. “Mr. Dowd didn’t say a word about that,” she said, after a moment.

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I’m sure he didn’t, because he didn’t know it.”

Cornelia Lester sighed. “I’ve never met Mr. Jenkins, but when I do, I owe him an apology and my thanks. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’d better go on upstairs and go to bed. My body’s still on East Coast time. I’m running out of steam.”

She used the arms of the deep leather chair to raise herself to her feet. “There’s a lot more I’d like to discuss with you, Sheriff Brady, but not tonight. I’m just not up to it.”

“I understand,” Joanna said. “I know you already have my phone numbers. Feel free to call anytime.”

Nodding, Cornelia started toward the elevator. As she rounded the stairs, she stopped and turned back to us. “By the way,” she added. “I’m glad to know you and Mr. Beaumont are working on this situation together, Sheriff Brady. It gives me a lot more confidence that something will come of it.”

Not wanting to be chewed up and spit out by Sheriff Brady, I stood up, too. “I could just as well be going,” I said.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

I sat back down and slumped down on the couch. Here it comes, I thought, remembering being hauled on the carpet by the daunting Miss Heard.

“How long have you been in town?” Joanna asked.

“Since around one P.M.,” I said.

“And who all have you talked to since then?”

I pulled a tattered notebook out of my pocket and consulted the list of names I had jotted there. “Cornelia Lester, Harvey Dowd, Angie Hacker, Archie McBride, and Willy Haskins. Later on I spoke to your chief deputy Mr. Montoya and also to a reporter named Marliss Shackleford.”

Sheriff Brady’s eyes registered surprise when I mentioned the last name on the list. “You’ve talked to Marliss?” she asked.

“You know her, I take it?”

Joanna nodded grimly. “We’re not on the best of terms.”

I suppose I should have let it go at that, but I felt constrained to tell her the rest. “You should be aware that I met with her earlier this evening,” I said. “Marliss introduced herself to me down at the crime scene, the one where you sent me packing. Then, a little while ago, she came here, to the hotel, and interviewed me.”

“About?”

“She wanted to know why I was in town,” I said.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I was sent as an observer for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. I doubt that was what she was really after, though. She seems to be under the impression that Ross Connors doesn’t think your department can handle the Latisha Wall case. I believe her exact words were: ‘Ross Connors has no faith in Sheriff Brady’s ability.’ Something to that effect, anyway.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That both Mr. Connors and I thought you were doing fine.”

Joanna blinked. “Thanks,” she said.

“There’s something else,” I added.

“What’s that?”

“She started asking questions about the Bobo Jenkins interview.”

“How did she know about that?” Joanna demanded.

“I sure as hell didn’t tell her,” I responded quickly. “I may be a royal pain in the ass as far as you’re concerned, Sheriff Brady, but I know better than to compromise an ongoing investigation by leaking information to the press. The same can’t be said for everyone in your department, however. Someone on your staff needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

There was a long period of silence after that. The longer Joanna Brady went without speaking, the more I figured I had blown it for sure. If there had ever been a remote chance of the two of us working together successfully, it was gone for good.

“Thanks for telling me,” she said finally. “I’m pretty sure I know who Mr. Big Mouth is, but I haven’t figured out what to do about him.”

“If I were you,” I told her, “I’d kick ass and take names later.”

She laughed then. “I’ll take that suggestion under advisement.” Her single burst of laughter seemed to put us on a whole new footing. “Cornelia Lester isn’t the only one who needs to hand out apologies,” she said. “I believe I owe you one as well.”

“What for?”

“You’ve been in town for less than twelve hours, Mr. Beaumont. And yet, without any help from me or my people, you’ve managed to sort out most of the major players in this case.”

“I used to be…” I began.

“I know. You used to work homicide at Seattle PD. I’m guessing you must have been pretty good at it. The truth is, we are shorthanded at the moment, so if you’re still willing to help, please be at my office tomorrow afternoon at one. I’m creating a task force, and you’re more than welcome to join it.”

Nothing short of flabbergasted, I said, “I’ll be there.”

Joanna stood up then and held out her small hand with that surprisingly firm grip. “It’s late,” she said. “My daughter’s dog had to be put down today. I should be at home with Jenny instead of out here traipsing all over the county. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

I nodded. “One o’clock.”

“Sharp,” she added.

“I’ll be there.”

As she walked away, I was still shaking my head in utter befuddlement. It may have been my birthday, but I was no closer to understanding women than I was on the day I was born.

I sat for several minutes listening as the noise from the bar got louder and louder. It kept tugging at me. Finally, breaking free, I headed up to my room. Once there, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight, but my night-owl grandparents would still be wide awake.

I dialed their number and was relieved when my new stepgrandfather, Lars Jenssen, who is also my AA sponsor, answered the phone. “Ja sure,” he said. “If it isn’t the birthday boy! Beverly tried calling you off and on all day, but there was no answer on your dang cell phone. She’s in getting ready for bed. Hang on. I’ll go get her.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t do that. This isn’t that kind of call.”

“You having a tough time?” Lars asked, immediately switching gears. “You thinking about having that first drink?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I am.”

“Well, then,” he said. “Let’s talk about it.”

And we did.