“What’s this about ten years?” he asked.
“We couldn’t afford a ring when we got married,” she answered.
“You didn’t mind him spending three thousand bucks on one now?”
For the first time that morning, Joanna looked down at the glittering diamond on her finger. “He didn’t ask me Ernie,” Joanna told him. “It was a surprise.
Carpenter nodded. “All right. According to Hiram Young, Andy paid for it on Tuesday afternoon with a personal check written on your joint account.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?” Joanna asked. “If it were dishonest money, wouldn’t he have hidden it from me, put it somewhere else rather than in our joint account?”
“That’s one interpretation, I suppose,” Carpenter admitted.
“Give me another one,” Joanna retorted, her temper rising. Up to now, she had been patient, but now she was fast losing it as the questions moved away from mere intrusion to violation. She understood full well what another possible interpretation might be.
Carpenter was busily closing his notebook and putting it back in his pocket. “I’d rather not say at this time,” he said.
“You don’t have to mince words with me, Detective Carpenter,” Joanna said coldly. “Adam York of the DEA already spilled the beans. Whatever it is, all of you seem to think I’m in on it, don’t you.”
“Joanna,” Dick Voland put in, “nobody said anything like that.”
“But everybody’s hinting, and I’m damned sick of it.”
Ernie Carpenter was studying her face with undisguised interest. “One more thing, Joanna. This may be painful for you, but I have to ask. Has there been any prior difficulty with other women in Andy’s life?”
Joanna stared hard at the detective’s impassive face, and her eyes narrowed when she finally understood the full implication behind the question. Her voice lowered.
“Whatever makes you think there’s one now, Detective Carpenter? Get the hell out of here, both of you, and don’t come back. I’ve had enough.”
They stood up, headed for the door, and let themselves out. Joanna had planned on asking Dick Voland to be a pallbearer at Andy’s funeral, but right then, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
TWELVE
Still outraged at Detective Carpenter’s blunt insinuation of infidelity, Joanna churned gravel in the yard as she headed for town. Navigating as if on rails, the Eagle followed its usual route straight to her office with Joanna so engrossed in inner turmoil that she barely glanced at the now-empty wash as she sped along High Lonesome Road.
The Davis Insurance Agency, originally a father-and-son operation, had been a fixture on Arizona Street for thirty years, and the latest in Milo Davis’ long succession of Buicks al-ways occupied the front corner parking place. As office manager, Joanna usually parked in the spot next to his, but today that place was taken by a silver Taurus with government plates.
Adam York from the DEA. What the hell is he doing here? Joanna wondered. She pulled into the nearest parking place, several spaces away, and stormed into the office.
Lisa Connors, the receptionist, looked up in surprise when Joanna appeared at her desk. “Joanna, I’m so sorry about Andy, but I didn’t expect to see you today. What are you doing here?”
Joanna ignored the question. “Where is he?” she demanded.
“The guy from the DEA?” Joanna nodded. Lisa rolled her eyes and gestured toward Milo ’s private office. “He’s been in with Mr. Davis for half an hour or so. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” she continued. “Mr. Davis said you’d be out for at least a week.”
“I just stopped by for a few minutes,” Joanna answered. “There are at least three applications that should have gone out yesterday, and they all need special underwriting memos. I’ll be leaving again as soon as those are taken care of.”
The phone rang. While Lisa answered it, Joanna hurried to her own desk, picked up the files, and quickly began keying the necessary memos into her computer, all the while conscious of the unintelligible rumble of voices emanating from behind Milo ’s closed door. She completed writing the memos and was printing the last of the three when the front door opened and Eleanor Lathrop burst into the room. She rushed past Lisa’s desk and came straight to Joanna, reproach written on her face.
“I was driving past and saw your car out-side. What in the world are you doing at work today?” Eleanor demanded. “What will people think?”
“I have a job,” Joanna returned evenly. “People will think I’m doing it.”
Through the years Joanna had learned to shrug off most of Eleanor’s constant criticism. She had trained herself to disregard her mother’s steady barrage of pointed remarks which covered everything from Joanna’s poor choice of husbands to the fact that her daughter insisted on working outside the home. Oblivious to current economic reality, Eleanor Lathrop made no bones about disapproving of working mothers-all working mothers. She maintained that God intended for families to live within their means, and “means” meant whatever the husband brought home, regardless of how much or how little that might be.
This time Joanna wasn’t quite strong enough to simply ignore the jibe, and her cool reply left Eleanor flustered. “Well, if you’re here, where’s Jenny? With the Bradys, I suppose?”
“She’s at school,” Joanna answered.
The look of aghast dismay that flashed across Eleanor’s face was almost worth the price of admission. Joanna bit back a smile while Eleanor clutched dramatically at her throat.
“No. That can’t be.”
“It is. I gave her a choice,” Joanna returned. “I told her she could either go to school or stay home, it was up to her. She chose to go.”
“Children Jenny’s age aren’t old enough to have good sense. They have no business making choices like that. How could you…”
Just then the door to Milo ’s office opened and Adam York emerged, walked briskly through the reception area and out into the street.
“Excuse me, Mother,” Joanna said. Abandoning Eleanor to her uncharacteristic shocked silence, Joanna trailed York out the door, catching up with him in the parking lot when 1w stopped to unlock the Taurus.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. York?” she asked.
He turned toward her with a startled expression on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.
“Neither did anyone else,” she returned crisply. “What I want to know is, why are you here? Are you here checking on me or my husband?”
“We’re conducting an investigation,” he said in an answer that was less than no answer at all.
“What exactly is it about us you’d like to know, Mr. York? Maybe, if you asked me directly, I could tell you what you want to know. You’d get your information right from the horse’s mouth instead of sneaking around behind my back.”
“It’s no big thing really,” York acknowledged with a shrug. “Routine inquiries about your insurance situation, although I must say your friend Mr. Davis wasn’t particularly helpful.”
Joanna squared her shoulders. “There is such a thing as client confidentiality,” she declared. “It’s no wonder Milo wouldn’t tell you anything. He can’t, but I can. What would you like to know, Mr. York? That I’m the owner and beneficiary of a $150,000 policy on my husband’s life? I am. The policy is seven years old, five years beyond the two-year contestability period. In other words, the death benefit is payable regardless of cause of death.”
