“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.
“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 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.”
“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.
