Skeleton Canyon

“I already told you. It’s totaled,” Frank said. “Once we knew what it was going to cost to replace that damaged head liner and all the upholstery, he said it wasn’t worth fixing. We’re lucky we have all those Crown Victorias.”

“I don’t want a Crown Victoria,” Joanna insisted. “I want my Blazer back. I need a vehicle that can get over running washes and doesn’t have to be parked for twelve hours or so on the nearest bank.”

“But we can’t afford to fix-”

“Don’t fix it then,” Joanna said. “Take the head liner out and leave it out. All I want is a vehicle that runs. It doesn’t have to be pretty.” With that Joanna wandered over to see her lead homicide detective. “How are things going, Ernie?” she asked.

“Not so hot,” he answered. “I sent Jaime Carbajal down to Montgomery Ranch to pick up the body.”

“Body?” Joanna returned. “What body?”

“The one that washed up on the banks of Sycamore Creek overnight,” Ernie answered. “Old man Montgomery himself came all the way up here to tell us about it. Found the guy in one of his cow pastures earlier this morning.”

“Montgomery?” Joanna asked, trying to place the name.

Ernie nodded. “Marshall Montgomery from Montgomery Ranch, a few miles north and west of here. Jaime just now radioed me to say that ID on the body identifies the dead man as one Alf Hastings.”

“Did he drown?” Joanna asked.

“Sure did,” Ernie replied glumly. “But not before somebody poked him full of holes. Jaime says he’s got at least half a dozen stab wounds to the heart and lower chest. I’ll bet money that his blood will match up with the mess we found on the rider’s seat of Meadows’s Suburban.”

“You think Aaron Meadows did it, then?” Joanna asked.

Ernie nodded. “Most likely,” he said. Joanna started to walk away, but Ernie stopped her. “Hold on,” he said. “I think I may have found something that belongs to you.”

Reaching into the glove box of his van, he pulled out a glassine bag and handed it over to Joanna. Inside was her bra-or what was left of it anyway. The material of both cups had been shot full of holes by pellets from Aaron Meadows’s final shotgun blast.

“It’s a good thing you weren’t wearing this at the time,” Ernie said with a grin.

Joanna looked at the shredded remains of what had been one of her favorite bras. “Not much left of it, is there?” she said ruefully. “I filled this with rocks and threw it up in the air in an effort to decoy the guy away from Dick Voland.”

“I’d say it worked like a charm,” Ernie told her. “Maybe Dick will buy you a replacement.”

The last thing Joanna Brady wanted from Chief Deputy Richard Voland was a new bra. “Please,” she said, “don’t even mention it. I was about to retire this one anyway.” Then, in an attempt to change the subject, she motioned toward the deputies still combing the rocky hillside.

“How much money have they recovered so far?” she asked.

“Two hundred thou, give or take,” Ernie answered.

“And where does somebody like Aaron Meadows-somebody with no job, no bank account, and no visible means of support-come up with that kind of cash?”

“Nothing legal,” Ernie told her. “You can count on that. My best guess is that Meadows was opting out of the smuggling business and making a run for it. Whatever the case, I expect Adam York will get to the bottom of it. Have you heard from him, by the way?”

“From Adam?” Joanna nodded. “Just a message that said Meadows underwent surgery late last night to amputate his left arm. He’s still under sedation, or at least he was earlier. He’s also under a twenty-four-hour guard. In the meantime, the guys from the U.S. Customs Service have put Stephan Marcovich under arrest.”

“Great,” Ernie said. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

Frank Montoya had joined them just in time to hear the last few exchanges. “If they’re keeping Meadows under guard, I hope no one is expecting us to pay.”

Joanna turned to her chief deputy for administration. “You know, Frank,” she teased. “You used to be a lot more fun before you started worrying about the budget all the time.”

He rubbed his balding head. “Somebody’s got to do it, you know.”

“Right,” Joanna agreed. “Better you than me.”

Joanna stayed at the crime scene only long enough to see how things were going, then she hitched a ride back to her Crown Victoria with Frank, who was on his way to give a press briefing. Other than a few traces of sand still left in the dip, there was no sign that the day before the wash had been a dangerous, raging flood.

Once in her car, Joanna drove herself back to Bisbee. It was early afternoon when she pulled into the justice complex and parked in her reserved parking spot just outside her office door.

Inside, she sat down at her desk, kicked off her shoes, and closed her eyes for a moment before punching the intercom button. “I’m here, Kristin,” she said. “You might as well bring in today’s mail.”

When Kristin brought in the stack of mail, Joanna found that the topmost item was a homemade postcard with a Polaroid picture of Jenny glued to the front. Soaked to the skin and grinning from ear to ear, she stood in a downpour outside the door to an eight-person tent. The hand-painted sign over her head said, BADGER. The message on the other side of the card was cheery and brief:

Dear Morn,

It rained today, but we had fun anyway. Wish you were here. Hello to the G^’s.

Love, Jenny

Joanna reread the note several times, struck by what it didn’t say more than by what it did. There was no remark to indicate that Jenny was lonely or homesick or that she missed her mother or the dogs. It also didn’t say that Joanna should come right back up to Tucson to bring her daughter home. Joanna turned the card over and was still studying the picture when her private line rang. The caller turned out to be Eleanor Lathrop.

“Hello, Mother,” Joanna said. “What’s up?”

“I just had the strangest call from that little friend of yours. You know who I mean. That blonde girl-Angie Kellogg.”

“What kind of call?”

“She wanted to know where in Bisbee she could buy Wedgwood. I told her I didn’t know of anyplace at all anymore, but why did she want to know? She says her boyfriend broke a piece of his Kutani Crane china. The set was a gift from the young man’s grandmother. Angie is trying to find a way to replace it. Do you believe that?”

“That Angie would want to replace something that’s broken? That doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s a very kindhearted-”

“I know Angie’s kindhearted,” Eleanor Lathrop agreed irritably. “What I want to know is where in the world would she find somebody who has a set of Wedgwood china. Not only that, she says he uses it for everyday!”

“She found him up in the mountains,” Joanna said. “She and Dennis Hacker went hummingbird-watching together.”

“Wedgwood for everyday,” Eleanor repeated morosely. “Now, why couldn’t you find someone like that?”

Smiling, Joanna thought of the serviceable and often-chipped Fiesta Ware that was used on the Formica tables in Butch Dixon’s Roundhouse Bar and Grill up in Peoria, Arizona. It was a long way from Wedgwood, but it suited the rough-hewn Butch.

“I guess,” Joanna said, “Wedgwood users just aren’t my type.

“I suppose some bald-headed, twice-divorced motorcycle rider is?”

Over the past several months, Frederick “Butch” Dixon had made several trips to Bisbee on his Goldwing. Each time, Eleanor had been quick to voice her disapproval, which, Joanna realized, probably only served to make the man that much more appealing.

“He isn’t bald,” she said now. “He shaves his head.”