“No. The general assumption is natural causes. The victim had evidently been terribly ill. There was no sign of forced entry – until the EMTs had to break in to get to her, that is. The place was locked up tight, and the screeching security alarm almost drove the medics nuts while they were working on her.”
“They closed everything back up once they left?” Joanna asked.
“The night-watch commander is sending a deputy out to make sure that’s taken care of.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the body?”
“The woman’s young,” Tica Romero replied. “Somewhere in her thirties. The hospital has asked Doc Winfield to take charge of the body and do an autopsy, just to make sure that whatever she had isn’t transmittable. Since the ME’s been called out on the case, he’ll handle next-of-kin notification.”
Joanna allowed her body to relax. Dr. George Winfield, Cochise County ’s medical examiner, was married to Joanna’s mother, Eleanor. Unfortunately, George would have more on his hands than simply unmasking the cause of death, communicable or not, and locating next of kin. He’d also have to explain to his demanding wife why he was going back to work at eleven o’clock on a weekday evening.
“Better him than me,” Joanna murmured.
“Have to go,” Tica said urgently. “Another call’s coming in.”
Joanna took the phone back over to the table with her. By then, her once-crispy Cheerios had turned soggy. She went out to the laundry room and dumped the remainder, dividing it evenly between the two dog bowls. She was straightening up from doing that when Butch’s Outback pulled into the yard. She waited on the porch, watching as he opened the luggage-gate door, letting Sadie and Tigger bound out onto the ground. Together the dogs raced to the water dish and eagerly lapped up what sounded like a gallon of water each.
“You’re spoiling them,” she said, kissing Butch hello. “Sadie and Tigger are ranch dogs, remember? They’re supposed to run, not ride.”
“They ran from here over to Clayton’s place,” Butch said.
That was how they still, months after his death, referred to the ranch Joanna’s octogenarian handyman, Clayton Rhodes, had left them in his will.
“When it was time to come home,” Butch continued, “Tigger was the only one hot to trot. Sadie wasn’t interested. Once I let her into the car and Tigger figured out she was riding, he wanted a ride, too.”
“Sibling rivalry,” Joanna said with a smile. “But like I said, you’re spoiling them. Did you eat anything?”
“I had a sandwich when I got home from the funeral. What about you?”
“I just fixed myself a bowl of cereal.”
“Not very substantial,” Butch observed.
“It was all I wanted.”
He studied her face closely. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Joanna shrugged. “Going to law enforcement funerals isn’t exactly my favorite afternoon pastime.”
Butch opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Do you want anything?”
“Nothing,” Joanna said. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I just got off the phone with Dispatch,” she replied. “The EMTs hauled a DOA up to Copper Queen Hospital from Naco a little while ago.”
“Does that mean you have to go back out?”
Joanna shook her head. “No. Tica Romero said it looks like natural causes. The woman was evidently terribly sick. She’s George’s problem now, not mine.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Butch muttered.
“What’s going on with the house? Have you been working with Quentin all this time?”
Quentin Branch was the contractor Joanna and Butch had hired to build their new rammed-earth home.
“No,” Butch said. “The meeting didn’t last that long, but there were things I needed to do. Puttering, mostly. Making myself useful.”
While Joanna was having trouble at work with Ken Galloway, Butch Dixon was dealing with his own identity crisis. He had yet to adjust to his relatively new role as stay-at-home spouse. He had completed writing his first mystery novel, but now, while he lived through the interminable months of waiting to see if a literary agency would agree to handle his work, Butch had tackled the job of overseeing construction on the house.
Quentin Branch would be in charge of the major aspects of the job. Butch was doing some of the hand excavation and finish carpentry. It was a way of passing time and keeping his hand in. Joanna had seen Butch’s previous remodeling projects. She had no doubt as to his ability, and his do-it-yourself skill would wring more than full value out of their home-building dollars. Her only qualm had to do with how long the process would take.
Butch finished his beer, and they went to bed. Within minutes, Butch was snoring softly on his side of the bed while Joanna lay awake and wrestled with the Devil in the guise of Ken Galloway. She was sorry now that she hadn’t answered truthfully when Butch had asked what was bothering her. He might have had some useful suggestions about dealing with the recalcitrant president of Local 83. Still, Ken Junior was Joanna’s problem and nobody else’s. If she hauled him on the carpet again and made an issue of the deputies’ collective snub of the funeral reception, it would probably do more harm than good. For all concerned. It certainly wouldn’t make things any easier for Leon Canedo, and it wouldn’t improve intradepartmental relations, either.
The last time Joanna looked at the clock, it was nearly two in the morning. A ringing telephone jarred her awake at ten past seven. Butch was already long gone from his side of the bed when Joanna opened her eyes and groped for the bedside phone.
“Hope I didn’t waken you,” George Winfield said.
“That’s all right,” Joanna mumbled sleepily. “It’s time for me to be up anyway. What’s going on?”
“It’s about that DOA from last night,” the medical examiner said.
Joanna forced herself to sit up. “What about her?” she asked.
“The name’s Rochelle Baxter,” George returned. “Her driver’s license says she’s thirty-five. My preliminary examination says she was in good health.”
“What did she die of?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might want to have a detective on hand when I do the autopsy, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case she was poisoned.”
Joanna was wide awake now. “You think she was murdered?”
“I didn’t say that. But for an apparently healthy woman to become as violently ill as she was, I’m thinking she may have ingested something.”
“What about the water?” Joanna asked. “Could contaminated water have made her that sick?”
For years the local water system had been under investigation by the Arizona Department of Ecology due to sewage from across the line in Old Mexico that had been allowed to seep into the water table and possibly contaminate the wells that provided water for the entire Bisbee area. Lack of money, combined with lack of enthusiasm, had resulted in nothing much being done.
“It could be, but I doubt it,” George replied.
“What are you saying – it’s a homicide?”
“At this time I won’t say anything more than it’s a suspicious death,” George said. “But if you’re not treating the victim’s place as a crime scene, Joanna, you probably should.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll get right on it. When are you planning to do the autopsy?”
“As soon as you can have one of your detectives up at my office. I’m here now. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
“Ernie’s on vacation, so it’ll have to be Jaime,” Joanna said. “I’ll get ahold of him at home and give him a heads-up. Thanks for the call, George.”
“Just doing my job.”
Butch appeared at the bedroom door carrying a mug of coffee. “What’s up?”
“The DOA from last night just turned into what George is calling ‘a suspicious death.’ In case it turns out to be a homicide, I’ve got to get Jaime to witness the autopsy. The victim’s home down in Naco needs to be designated as a crime scene and then investigated.”
Butch glanced at the clock, which now showed twenty past seven, and shook his head ruefully. “Sounds like a full day to me. Joey, don’t you sometimes wish you had a regular nine-to-five job?” he asked, handing Joanna her
