Rattlesnake Crossing

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Half a mile down the road, Joanna was so caught up in mulling over the confrontation with Marliss Shackleford that she barely noticed an early-eighties F-100 Ford pickup coming toward her. Only when the truck wheeled in a sharp U-turn and came speeding after her with its lights flashing on and off did she pay attention. She pulled over immediately. Stepping out of the Blazer, she was standing on the shoulder of Pomerene Road when the pickup stopped beside her. There were two men in the truck-Alton Hosfield, owner of the Triple C, and a younger man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

"Sheriff Brady, what the hell is going on out here?" Hosfield demanded, leaning forward to speak across the young man in the passenger seat. "The phone's been ringing off the hook. My ranch is crawling with people I don't know, but I can't get any of them to talk to me. I think I deserve some kind of explanation."

"We're conducting a homicide investigation," Joanna said. "Two actually. One body was found up on the ledges just below the cliffs last night. Another was found by Search and Rescue this morning."

"Two homicides," Hosfield echoed. "On my property? You can't be serious."

"I am," Joanna returned. "Katrina Berridge was the cook at Rattlesnake Crossing, just up the road. From the looks of it, the weapon that killed her may very well turn out to be the same one that killed your cattle and wrecked the pump. The other victim, Ashley Brittany, was a biology student from N.A.U. in Flagstaff. She was down here doing a master's degree internship."

Hosfield rammed the pickup into neutral and then climbed out. He came around the front of the truck, clutching a frayed Resistol Stetson in his hands. Meanwhile, his passenger stepped out of the truck as well.

"This is my son Ryan," Alton Hosfield said. "Ryan, this is Sheriff Brady."

Nodding politely in Joanna's direction, Ryan doffed his Denver Rockies baseball cap. He was tall and lean like his father, but his bright blue eyes, unruly mop of long blond hair, and finely chiseled features bore little resemblance to his red-haired father's craggy features. Had Joanna encountered Alton and his two sons on the street, she would have known at once that Alton Hosfield and Jake were father and son. Ryan, on the other hand, didn't look as though he was remotely related to either his father or his half brother.

Joanna acknowledged the polite greeting by offering her hand.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," he said.

Joanna turned back to Alton Hosfield, whose face was knotted with a puzzled frown. "Why does the name Ashley Brittany sound familiar to me?" he asked.

"As I said, she was a student intern," Joanna told him. "Working on a project for the U.S. Department of Agriculture."

"Wait a minute," Ryan offered helpfully. "I think I remember her. Wasn't she the cute little blonde who came around earlier this summer, talking about how we needed to get rid of all the oleanders in the yard because they were damaging the environment and killing off wildlife?"

Comprehension washed across Alton's tanned features. "That's right," he said. "The oleander lady."

"You knew her, then?"

"I talked to her that one time," Alton admitted. "Long enough to tell her to get the hell off my property. She showed up in one of those little Toyota 4x4s, wearing her ID badge around her neck and packing a laptop computer. Ryan's right. She was real full of business, too. She had been up to the house and had seen the oleander we have there-oleander my grandmother planted. Next thing I know she shows up in her shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes and wants me to get rid of it. Wants me to pull it out by the roots. 'Whatever you do, don't burn it,' she says to me. 'The smoke's poisonous, too.' Give me a break!"

"So what happened?" Joanna asked.

"I told her to take a hike. I told her if she wanted to do something useful, to get her ass up to Montana or North Dakota and do something about leafy spurge. Now, there's something the Feds ought to be worrying about. We've had oleander around the house for seventy-five years and it's never killed even so much as a damned horned toad to say nothing of cattle or deer. Now, leafy spurge, that stuff's a killer."

"Leafy spurge?" Joanna repeated. "I've never even heard of it."

"So far," Hosfield said ominously. "That's because it hasn't shown up in Arizona yet. But that's what I told this woman girl, really that it she wanted to do something useful, she should go to work on the spread of that. Euphorbia esula is nightmare stuff. That's the whole problem with the Feds. They get all hot and bothered about things that aren't important, like oleander, for God's sake, and totally ignore the kind of thing that will put me and hundreds of people just like me out of business."

"Well, I can tell you that Ashley Brittany is out of business," Joanna said quietly. "Somebody shot her and then buried her under a pile of rocks up there on the ledge just under the cliffs. When's the last time you saw her, Mr. Hosfield?"

"I only saw her the one time, and I'm not sure when it was. A month ago? Three weeks, maybe? All I remember is, the river had flooded one of my pastures. I needed to get the cattle moved to higher ground or they were going to drown. And here's this little twit of a girl who wants me to drop everything else and chop down a bunch of oleander. Give me a break!"

"What happened?"

"I ran her off. I told her she must have missed the sign when she drove onto my property, or maybe she couldn't read it. But I told her that the little plastic badge with the USDA printed on it meant she was persona non grata on the Triple C and that she'd better get the hell out."

"And she left?"

"You bet."

"And you never saw her again?"

"Sheriff Brady, I already told you…

"Let me ask you another question, Mr. Hosfield. Have you seen any other strangers around here in the last couple of weeks-somebody who looked like he didn't belong?"

"On the Triple C?"

"Yes. Or anywhere in the neighborhood for that matter."

He considered. "Well," he said, "there are those stupid pretend Indians. Seems like there's always one or two of them wandering around where they're not supposed to, either on foot or riding horseback. Other than that, I don't guess I've seen anybody. But then, Ryan and I have had our hands full, too. I haven't been on the west side of the river since we finally managed to move the stock over here. With the river doing its thing all summer long, we've been keeping most of the stock in fenced pastures on this side. That way, we can get trucks to 'em if we need to."

"So you haven't seen anyone?" Joanna asked.

"Like I told you, nobody except those yahoos from Rattlesnake Crossing," Alton answered.

"What about you?" Joanna turned to Ryan. "Have you seen anyone?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "Not a soul. Dad and I are working pretty much sunup to sunset, so I don't have time to see anybody."

"There you are," Alton said with a shrug.

"Well," Joanna concluded, "keep your eyes open, and don't hesitate to call if you see anyone or anything suspicious. Right now my detectives are all tied up with crime-scene investigation. When they finish up with that, they'll be around asking questions. Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal will be spearheading the investigation, but they may be joined by officers from Pima and Maricopa counties as well, just so you'll be prepared."

"All right," Alton Hosfield said, clapping his hat back on his head. "I'll expect 'em to be dropping by in the next day or so. In the meantime, Sheriff Brady, I appreciate your taking the time to bring me up to speed. I was beginning to feel just a little paranoid." He paused and grinned. "If you ask Sonja, she'll probably tell you maybe even a bit more paranoid than usual. See you around."

With that he turned on his dusty Tony Lama hoots and returned to his truck. Joanna went back to the Blazer.

It was so late in the afternoon when she reached Benson that she should have driven past the ongoing press conference at the Quarter Horse Cafe without a trace of guilt. She had already put in a very long day after several other very long days. But her father, D. H. Lathrop, had imbued his daughter with his own fierce work ethic. In addition, Joanna Lathrop Brady had been raised in her mother's spotless household, where free-floating guilt outnumbered dust motes three to one. So she did drive past, but not without suffering a few guilty pangs over the fact that she was some-how shirking her duty.

She was still battling her attack of guilt when she reached the Rita Road overpass on I-10. That was when inspiration struck. Belle Philips. As soon as the woman's name crossed her mind, Joanna reached for her radio. Then, realizing that a dozen reporters probably had their all-hearing scanners tuned to Cochise County frequencies, she fumbled for her phone instead.

Dispatcher Tica Romero took the call. "Where's Detective Carbajal?" Joanna asked.

"Still at the Triple C crime scene, as far as I know," Tica replied. "Do you want me to put you through to him?"

"No. Ask him to contact me by phone rather than radio. Cell phones may not be one hundred percent secure, but they're better than broadcasting everything we say over the airwaves."

"I'll have him get right back to you," Tica said. And she did. Joanna was on the horn with Jaime Carbajal before she had made it as far as Tucson's Wilmot Road.

"What's up, Sheriff Brady?" he asked.

"Jaime, have you had a chance to interview Belle Philips yet?"

“Are you kidding? We've been so busy since the medics hauled her away in the ambulance that I've barely given the woman another thought. Why?"

"Where is she?"

"University Medical Center," he replied. "At least that's where I understood they were taking her."

"It happens that I'm on my way there myself," Joanna told him. "That's where Marianne Maculyea and Jeff Daniels' daughter had surgery today. I was thinking, though, as long as you and Ernie are still tied up with the crime scene, I could just as well stop by and see Ms. Philips. She might actually know something about her husband's business."

"It couldn't hurt," Jaime agreed.

Armed with both official and unofficial reasons for being in Tucson, Joanna fought her way through rush-hour traffic and drove straight to the hospital. After stopping in the gift shop long enough to buy a small bouquet of daisies, she headed upstairs. As the elevator rose through the building, Joanna was grateful that the pediatric ICU was in a different part of the hospital from the adult surgical ICU, where Andy had died. That meant Jeff and Marianne would be in a different waiting room.

Expecting to find one or the other of them inside, Joanna stepped off the elevator and pushed open one of the swinging doors that led into the waiting room. To her surprise, the first person she encountered was Butch Dixon. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

He had been working on a small laptop computer. As soon as he saw Joanna, he closed the lid. "I've been waiting for you," he said.

"What's going on? Are you on your way back to Peoria?"

"Not exactly," he replied. "When Kristin called and said you were coming here to visit Jeff and Marianne, I decided I would, too. That may be the only way I'll have a chance to see you-to turn up wherever you are-sort of like a bad penny. You're not avoiding me, are you?"

"No. Of course not." Joanna was flustered by finding him there. To her consternation, she could feel a hot-faced blush blooming at the base of her neck. "And we did have lunch today," she reminded him.

"That wasn't what I call having lunch," Butch objected. "You breezed in and sat down, but before we had a chance to exchange two words, that woman…"

"Marliss," Joanna supplied. "Marliss Shackleford."

"Whatever-her-name-is showed up and monopolized the conversation for as long as you were there."

"I'm sorry," Joanna said. "That's what she's like. Pushy."

"And you're skittish," Butch said.

She nodded. "Well, I suppose I am. I'm afraid people will talk, I guess. Afraid of what they'll think."

"What will they think?"

"That you and I are involved. Seriously involved."

"Are we?"

Butch was making it tough for her. Standing there with the little vase of daisies in her hand, while she fielded his questions like a complete ninny. "Yes, we're involved," she said. "But I'm just not ready to be serious. You understand what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm trying," he said. "So far, the signals are a little mixed. Look, Joanna, I want to have a chance to talk." He glanced around the waiting room. "As far as I'm concerned, this isn't the place to do it. How about dinner? Eight o'clock. I'll pick you up here, and we can go someplace nice. The Arizona Inn is just a few blocks away…"

Along with the hospital itself, the Arizona Inn was an-other place that held painful memories for Joanna Brady. She'd been there, in the dining room talking to Adam York of the DEA when Tony Vargas had walked into Andy's hospital room to finish the job he had started a day earlier in a wash off High Lonesome Road.

"No," Joanna said quickly. "Not there."

"I'll figure it out, then." Butch stood up and headed for the door. "See you here at eight. No excuses."

Joanna nodded. "But where are Jeff and Marianne?"

"Jeff's in Esther's room for this hour's ten minutes' worth of visiting. He should be out any time. Marianne's at their hotel taking a nap. See you."

Butch turned and walked out, leaving Joanna still standing and holding the flowers. She wasn't exactly alone. There were at least two other clumps of people, family members commiserating in low, solemn voices. A chill ran down Joanna's spine; she knew the kinds of crises they must be enduring where the only thing they could do was to keep their long, helpless vigils-waiting, hoping, and worrying.

Jeff Daniels burst into the waiting room. "Joanna," he said. "You're here."

"How's Esther?"

"All right so far," he replied. "They're keeping her pretty well sedated."

"And Marianne? How's she?"

"She's hardly slept for days," Jeff said. "I finally convinced her to go back to the room to nap. I called and found out she'd left a wake-up call for five. I canceled it. I want her to sleep until she actually wakes up. She's been running on adrenaline for months now, ever since the girls got here. She's tough, but the strain is starting to show."

"In other words, she's a wreck," Joanna concluded.

Jeff managed a rueful grin. "We both are," he agreed.

Looking down, Joanna remembered the flowers. "These are for you," she said, handing them over. "They're for all of you. I brought them, but they were Jenny's idea."

"Thanks." Jeff put the vase down in the middle of a small conference table that sat next to the vending machines. "We're not allowed to take flowers into the ICU itself," he explained. "But if we leave them here, everyone can enjoy them. Besides, for the next day or two, we'll probably be spending more time here than anywhere else."

Stuffing his hands in his pocket, Jeff sighed. "It was nice of Butch to stop by. He and I had a good visit. Just guy stuff-cars and baseball, mostly. But I was glad to have a chance to think and talk about something else. I can only deal with this for so long before I start to lose it." He broke off and shrugged. His eyes welled with tears. "Butch is a nice guy, Joanna. A real nice guy. You're lucky he's around."

"I know," she said. That was part of the problem. Butch Dixon was a very nice guy.

The door to the ICU waiting room swung open and several people came in at once. Joanna recognized them all-people from Bisbee's Canyon United Methodist Church come to offer prayers and moral support.

"It looks like you have another whole batch of company," she told Jeff. "I'll leave you to visit with them."

"You don't have to go."

"No," she said. "There's someone else in the hospital I'm supposed to see. I'll come back a little later when I finish up with her."

After pausing long enough to say hello to the newcomers, Joanna hurried back down to the lobby and was given directions to Belle Philips' room. Since Belle was a possible homicide suspect, Joanna had briefly considered posting a guard outside her hospital room, but then, with all the confusion of dealing with multiple cases, she had forgotten about it. Seeing Belle swathed in bandages and with casts on both an arm and a leg, Joanna realized that a guard wouldn't be necessary. Belle lay like an immense beached whale on her hospital bed, gazing up at a wall-mounted television set.

She flicked her eyes away from the set as Joanna entered the room. "I can't never answer any of these questions, can you?" she asked.

Jeopardy! was playing on the screen. "I can some of the time," Joanna replied, "but I don't watch it very often."

"I suppose not," Belle said. "You're a busy lady."

They were quiet, letting the television fill the room with low-level noise while Joanna searched for some way to start. "I'm sure this will be painful for you, Ms. Philips, but I need to talk to you about Clyde."

Belle bit her lip and nodded. "It's all right," she said. "I don't mind. What do you want to know?"

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Saturday," she said. "He came by the restaurant and I cooked him breakfast."

"What about Sunday?" Joanna asked.

"I never saw him on Sunday," Belle said.

"But you did go by the house," Joanna pressed.

For a long time Belle Philips didn't answer. "Yes," she said finally. "I did go by, but I didn't see him."

"Did you go into the house?"

"Yes, but he must have been asleep," Belle said. "I didn't wake him up and I didn't see him, neither. I went in and came straight back out."

"If you didn't go to see him, why were you there?" Joanna asked.

Belle sighed. "I needed money," she said. "To pay my utilities. So I did that sometimes, when I was short. Went by aid helped myself to a dollar or two. He always had money in his wallet. And he never seemed to miss it. Least-wise, he never complained about it. But I never killed him, Sheriff Brady. I never did nothin' to hurt the man. You're not sayin' I did, are you?"

"No," Joanna responded, "I didn't say you did. I'm just trying to understand what all was going on in Clyde's life the last few days before he died. We don't have autopsy results yet, but Dr. Daly-the investigator for the medical examiner's office-thinks Clyde may have committed suicide. What do you think?"

"He never," Belle said flatly. "Clyde never would of done that, not less'n he got a whole lot sicker than he was already."

"You knew he was sick, then?" Joanna asked.

Belle shrugged. "I guess."

"With what?"

"Who knows? All I know is, the last few months he was always tired. Just dragging. Like he could barely stand to put one foot in front of another. Losing weight no matter how much food I stuffed into him. But Clyde wasn't one to go to doctors much. Didn't believe in 'em."

Joanna stared. Dr. Daly had taken one look at Clyde Philips' body and suspected that the man was suffering from AIDS. If Clyde didn't go to doctors, was it possible that he himself hadn't known what was wrong with him? Or was his former wife the one who didn't know?

"So as far as you know, Clyde didn't have a personal physician?"

"If he did, he never told me. And what's the point? Even if he was sick when he died, once he's dead, can't see how it matters."

It matters, all right, Joanna thought, to anyone else who's ever been with the man. It matters to you. She said, "So after you moved out, Ms. Philips, did you maintain any kind of relationship with your former husband?"

"I cooked for him," Belle admitted. "Did his wash. Cleaned for him when the house got so filthy that I couldn't stand to see it. He paid me for it, too, for doing all those things, but I probably would of kept right on doin' even if he hadn't had no money to pay me."

"But you and he weren't… well… intimate."

Belle's laugh was hollow. "We weren't hardly ever what you call intimate when we was married, so why would we be after we was divorced? He told me real early on that I wasn't his type. That I wasn't no good in the bedroom department. So I put as good a face on things as I could and acted like we was just like any other normal married couple. You know, complainin' about it sometimes the way women do, about their husband all the time wantin' 'em to come across. That kind of thing. 'Cept in our family, it was me all the time doin' the wantin' and him sayin' he had a headache."

And that's probably a good thing for you, Joanna thought.

For a few minutes the television set droned on overhead while Joanna considered her next question. "Pomerene's a small town," she said finally. "It's the kind of place where people know things even though they may not necessarily want to. So do you have any idea who any of Clyde's partners were after you left?"

For the first time, Belle Philips' eyes strayed from the flickering television screen. "Sex partners you mean? I can't rightly say I do. And even if I did, I don't know that 1'd say. Since Clyde's dead, what people say about him now really don't matter. But I draw the line at spreadin' gossip about the livin'. Gossipin' ain't my style."

"What made you divorce him, then? Did you leave be-cause he was getting sick?"

Belle sighed. "Clyde was sick a long time before I divorced him, and not with nothin' catchin', neither. I just always kept thinkin' I could make him better. 'Fix him, like. They're all the unit tellin' folks that at church, sayin' that the unbelievin' spouse can be saved by the believin' one if'n they just pray hard enough. 1 prayed. Lord knows, 1 prayed for years, but it wasn't never enough."

"What do you mean he was sick then?"

"Sheriff Brady, the man is dead. Can't we just let sleepin' dogs lie?"

"No, we can't, Belle," Joanna returned. "You just told me yourself that you don't believe Clyde committed suicide. If that's the case, then he was murdered. Somebody else did it-some unidentified person put that bag over his head and closed it up tight. In order to find out who that person is, we need to know everything we can about Clyde himself. Everything. Good and bad."

"But he's already dead," Belle objected stubbornly. "What does it matter?"

Joanna took a deep breath. Maybe Dr. Daly was right and Clyde Philips had committed suicide. Even so, someone who knew him-someone who might have discovered the body before Belle had-could have stolen the guns. And Joanna was convinced that person with the guns was responsible for what had happened at the Triple C. One way or the other, Sheriff Brady needed Belle Philips' cooperation.

"It's not just Clyde," Joanna said. "It could be that other people are in danger as well. Someone wiped out Clyde's gun shop."

"Wiped it out? What does that mean?"

"I mean all of Clyde's guns are gone, Belle. A whole shop full of guns is empty. And all the paperwork that went along with them is missing. If Clyde didn't sell those guns, then someone stole them-probably the same person who killed him. Not only that, there's a very good chance that one of those weapons was used to murder someone up on the Triple C night before last."

"Someone else? Who?"

"A lady from Rattlesnake Crossing. Her name's Katrina Berridge. So far, we have possible links from that case to two others, not even counting what happened to Clyde. His death would make it four. We have to find out who's doing this, Belle. Find him and stop him. Whatever you can tell us about Clyde may help lead us to the person or persons responsible."

Again there was a long silence. "Boys," Belle said at last.

"Boys?" Joanna echoed.

Belle nodded sadly. "Clyde liked boys. If he had been messing around with other women, maybe I could of handled it. But boys was somethin' else. It just beat all."

"You're saying Clyde Philips was a pedophile?"

"That's a pretty highfalutin-soundin' word, Sheriff Brady. I don't know exactly what it means, but if it means someone who likes to screw boys instead of women, then that's right. Clyde was one of them. I didn't catch on to it for a long time. I s'pose you think I'm just stupid or some-thin'. And maybe I am. I thought he just liked havin' all those young folks around on account of us not havin' any kids of our own. And then when I finally did figure it out, my pastor kept telling me to love the sinner and hate the sin. So that's what I did. For as long as I could stand it. But he kept goin' up to Phoenix and hangin' out with them boy prostitutes. Finally I just gave up. Gave up and got out, especially seein’ as how I'd come into a little bit of money to help me get set up on my own."

Belle lapsed into silence once more, and Joanna had the good sense to realize that her questions were plumbing the depths of an open wound. "Do you know any of their names?" she asked.

Belle blinked. "Only one," she said.

"Who's that?"

"Talk to Ruben Ramos," Belle replied.

"Ruben Ramos? You mean Chief Ramos over in Benson? You're saying the Benson police chief is one of Clyde's friends?"

Belle shot her head slightly. "The chief's son. Ask him about his son. Ask him about Frankie."

That was what Joanna had come to Belle's room looking for-a single name that would put her inside Clyde Philips' circle of intimates. Now that Joanna had one, she rose to go.

"Before you take off, Sheriff Brady, tell me what I'm s'posed to do."

"About what?"

"About a funeral. I ain't Clyde's wife no more, but there ain't nobody left but me to plan a service. That's pretty hard to do with me lyin' here flat on my back."

"The body's been transported to the morgue here in Tucson," Joanna told her. "It's over at the Pima County Medical Examiner's office. Dr. Fran Daly is the investigator who'll be doing the autopsy. When that's done, she can release the remains to whatever funeral home you choose. You'll have to let her know which one."

"I ain't worried about no funeral home," Belle said. "It's what comes later's got me spooked."

"Later? What do you mean?" Joanna asked.

"The funeral part is what bothers me. What do I do? Go ahead and have a regular one in church with a casket and all that? Or what?"

"That's up to you, of course. You said something earlier about your pastor. Ask him. I'm sure he'll be happy to ad-vise you, and he could probably conduct an appropriate service for you as well."

"You mean in the church?"

"Why not?"

"Clyde never went to church. Never so much as set foot inside one, not even when we got married. A justice of the peace did that."

"Check with your pastor," Joanna urged. "I don't think Clyde's attendance will matter. Besides, funerals are for the living. Have the kind of service that will give you the most comfort. And remember, the last I heard, churches were supposed to welcome sinners."

"That's true," Belle Philips said. "But only up to a point. My pastor talks a good game," she added. "But when it comes to livin' it, he sometimes falls a little short."

Don't we all, Joanna thought. Just ask Marianne Maculyea.

After leaving Belle's room, Joanna walked as far as the elevator before turning around and walking back to the nurses' station, where a young man stood perusing a chart. His name badge read "Tony Morris, R.N." Finally seeming to sense Joanna's presence, he looked up. "May I help you?"

"You do blood work when patients come in here, don't you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And you check for AIDS and HIV?"

"Yes."

"Do the patients know that?"

"They should. It says so plain as day right there on the admission form."

"If someone tested positive, would you let them know?"

Tony Morris's hackles seemed to rise. "Look-"

Joanna cut him off by handing over one of her cards. "I'm not faulting your procedures," she said. "You know Belle Philips, the lady down the hall with casts all over her body?"

Tony Morris nodded.

"There's a good chance that her former husband had AIDS when he died," Joanna continued. "I just talked to the woman. I don't think she has a clue about what was going on."

"You're saying her husband might have infected her and she has no idea."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

The nurse shook his head. "Christ," he said. "People like that deserve to be shot."

Maybe nobody shot Clyde Philips, Joanna thought. All the same, it sounds as though he got what he deserved.