about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.
Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”
Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”
The doorbell tinkled again. A young uniformed police officer wearing a City of Bisbee badge with a tag that said “Officer Jesus Romero” ventured cautiously into the room.
“Everything all right, Sheriff Brady?” Romero asked. “I was told there might be some kind of problem.”
Joanna felt embarrassed. The lights, siren, and call for backup had all proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s under control.”
The officer grinned at her. “I’d rather have it be nothing than something any day of the week. Glad to be of service.”
With that he left. As the doorbell chimed again, Joanna turned back to Dee Canfield, who looked pale and drawn. There was little resemblance between the woman seated at the desk and the angry hoyden who had raised such hell down in Naco a scant hour earlier.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“I’m fine,” Dee returned, though she didn’t sound it. “I’ve sunk everything I have into getting this gallery up and running. It’s fine for Bobo Jenkins to be all sentimental and altruistic with my money. It’s no concern of his. He’s got his military retirement and now he’s sold his business and has payments coming from that on a regular basis as well. But what the hell does he think I’m going to use to pay
“What about the prices?” Warren said, reappearing behind her. “I started changing them. Want me to keep on?”
“Absolutely.”
Joanna sighed. Obviously Bobo Jenkins’s visit hadn’t altered Dee Canfield’s intentions, but at least Joanna had been there to prevent any physical violence.
“All right, then,” she said. “Mind if I take a look around before I go?”
“Go ahead,” Dee said. “Help yourself.”
Joanna spent the next few minutes wandering through the gallery. The lovingly rendered subjects – a young girl shooting baskets, an old man sharpening his knife, a minister leaning down to speak to a young parishioner – were most likely the same living and breathing people who, by now, would be reeling from the terrible news that Rochelle Baxter was dead. Joanna noticed that the paintings in the first two rooms were priced from $850 to $1,000. In the room where Warren was hard at work, they were triple that. Bobo’s accusation of her being “money-grubbing” wasn’t wrong.
Shaking her head, Joanna returned to the front desk, where Dee Canfield was on the phone. Without saying a word, Joanna let herself out the door. She and her Civvie caught up with Bobo Jenkins halfway through town.
“Hey, Bobo,” she called. “That looks heavy. Care for a lift?”
He glared at her briefly, then shrugged his broad shoulders and headed for the car. Between them, they carefully loaded the painting into the Civvie’s backseat, then he climbed in the front next to her.
“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly. “Appreciate it.”
He sat in brooding silence until they started up O.K. Street. “Dee’s still going through with it, isn’t she – the opening and raising the prices?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied.
Bobo slumped deeper into the seat. “Damn!” he said. “What about Shelley’s family? Have you found them yet?”
“Not so far. We’re working on it.”
“Once Dee sells the paintings, Shelley’s family will never be able to afford to buy them back.”
“Probably not,” Joanna agreed. “But you tried, Bobo. You did your best.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Joanna stopped the car halfway down Youngblood Hill, right in front of the gate and the steep stairway that led to Bobo’s house. For the better part of a minute he made no move to exit the car. The depth of his misery was palpable, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.
“I’m sorry about all this, Bobo,” she said at last. “I can see Shelley meant a lot to you.”
He chewed his lip, nodding but saying nothing.
“And I’m sorry to burden you further,” she added. “But we’re going to need your cooperation.”
“What kind?”
“We’ll want you to stop by the department and give us a set of prints. Detective Carbajal is tied up right now. As soon as he’s free, he’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“You need my fingerprints? Why? I thought you said Shelley was sick.”
“She
“You’re saying someone killed her?” Bobo asked incredulously. “Who would have done such a thing? And why?”
“I can’t answer those questions, either,” Joanna said. “Not yet. We’re working on it, but it’s very early in the process. Investigations take time.”
“But you want my prints. Am I a suspect?”
“Not at all. Yours will be elimination prints. We print everyone who was known to have been at the crime scene prior to the event. That way we can sort prints that belong from those that don’t. From what you’ve told me, you may have been the last person to see Shelley alive.”
Bobo Jenkins nodded morosely. “I see,” he said. “Do I need to do that right away – the fingerprinting?”
“As soon as possible,” Joanna told him. “Time is always important, but you’ll need to call the department before you come by and make sure Casey Ledford is there. She’s our latent fingerprint tech. The last I heard, she was still at the crime scene. And Detective Carbajal is busy at the moment, too. I’m sure he’ll contact you once he’s free.”
“Crime scene.” Bobo repeated the words and then took a deep breath. “Detectives. I can’t believe all this is happening. I can’t believe Shelley was murdered.”
“Bobo, we don’t know that for sure, either,” Joanna reminded him patiently. “At this time, her death is regarded as suspicious. For all I know, it could have been a suicide.”
“No,” Bobo Jenkins declared. “Absolutely not! Whatever killed Shelley, it sure as hell wasn’t suicide!”
With that, he opened the car door, got out, and slammed it shut again. Joanna unlocked the back door. Then she exited the car, too, and helped him retrieve his painting.
“It’s a very good likeness,” she said, once he was holding it upright so she could see it clearly. “Your Shelley must have been a very talented woman, and very special, too.”
As Bobo Jenkins looked down at the painting, his eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away with one end of the grubby towel that still dangled, unheeded, around his neck.
“Thank you for telling me about this, Joanna,” he said quietly. “For coming in person, I mean,” he added. “You’re the boss. It would have been easy to send someone else instead of doing it yourself.”
Joanna nodded. “You’re welcome,” she said.
“And thanks for following me down to the gallery, too,” he continued. “I was so pissed off when I went down there that I might have done something stupid. I could have hurt somebody.”
Joanna looked up at him and smiled reassuringly. “No, Bobo,” she said. “I don’t think you would have. But for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re right about the paintings. There’s no question – they shouldn’t be sold. They should all go to Shelley’s family. Deidre Canfield is dead wrong on this one.”
“Thanks for that, too,” he said.
Carefully holding the painting in front of him, he angled his way through the gate and started up the stairs.
