involving a murder investigation-in a place where the entire legal system was completely foreign. Not only that, he was having to sort through all the strange customs through a veil of stilted, inflexible classroom English.
Joanna’s own four years of classroom Spanish, two in high school and two in college had been difficult enough and barely qualified her to speak “menu Spanish” in unfamiliar Stateside Mexican restaurants. Had she been foolish enough to head for Spain or the interior of Mexico with only that rudimentary background, she could probably survive-order food and make her most basic needs known-but she had no illusions about her ability to communicate or to be understood. Complex ideas would have been far beyond her.
But here was Yuri Malakov, a grown man able to communicate only basic messages. No doubt he had taken a good deal of classroom instruction in English years earlier-his formal, nonidiomatic way of speaking indicated as much. But still, it -had to be terribly difficult to be living and coping with complex day-to-day issues in a foreign country where virtually no one other than perhaps a few second-generation Slavic miners spoke some version of his native tongue.
As someone who had lived in one small Arizona town all her life, Joanna found the very idea of Yuri Malakov fascinating. What would drive a man to turn his back on everything familiar? To leave behind all family and friends? What kind of work had he done before coming here, and what career path had he abandoned in order to work as a hired hand for strangers on an isolated Arizona ranch? And what would possess a man, some where in his mid- forties, to set himself the task of grasping the intricacies of a whole new culture?
Maybe that was it, Joanna theorized. Perhaps Yuri’s concern for Ivy Patterson was based primarily on her helping him make that difficult transition; gratitude for the invaluable role she was playing in his life as his English- language tutor.
For a few moments, Joanna considered asking him, but then she let the idea go. He sat staring out the window, effectively shutting out any more questions. Besides, it didn’t seem worthwhile to fight her way through the difficulties of the communication barrier in order to discuss something simple as motivation. Instead, they drove the rest of the way to the Rocking P ranch house in silence.
As they entered the yard, the place looked typically idyllic. With a plume of inviting smoke curling out the chimney, the house and surrounding ranch seemed an improbable setting for two unexplained deaths. Several loose chickens scratched lazily in the dirt, and a fully adorned watchdog peacock strutted his stuff in the clear November sunlight. Marianne’s VW was still parked beside the gate, as was Ivy Patterson’s Chevy truck.
The ranch house was surrounded by a white picket fence that set off the yard proper with its blanket of winter-yellowed Bermuda grass from the rest of the grounds. The house was an early twentieth-century period single story of even space topped by a steeply pitched tin roof.
The metal roof shone with a coat of freshly applied paint as did the wooden siding, shutters, and trim.
Everything about the place looked neat and properly maintained.
A wide covered porch ran the entire length of each outside wall, creating a good eight feet of extra overhang and shade to help cool the house’s interior from Arizona’s scorching summer heat.
Although the porch had to be close to ninety years old, none of the flooring sagged. Not a single spindly rail was missing or broken from the long span of banister. If some pieces of woodwork were no longer original, it didn’t show. They had been replaced and repaired so carefully that it was impossible to tell old millwork from new.
Two massive wisteria vines, thick-trunked with age, stood guard on either side of the front entrance, sending out a tangle of naked gray branches that clung tenaciously along the front lip and gutters of the overhang. In the spring, the porch would be all but obscured by a curtain of lush greenery and cascading lavender flowers.
Joanna was quick to note that the grounds of the Rocking P were surprisingly clear of junk. The outbuildings were all fully upright and freshly painted. No hulks of dead cars or rusting farm equipment had been left to crumble within sight of the house. Joanna’s High Lonesome suffered terribly in comparison.
The wheels on the Eagle had not yet come to a complete stop before Yuri Malakov had the door open. He would have leaped out and been long gone if Joanna hadn’t stopped him. “Let me tell her,” she said. “It’ll be better if I do it.”
Yuri glowered at her, but he subsided in the seat. “You do it then,” he said.
As if on cue, the front door of the house opened.
Ivy Patterson and Marianne Macula appeared on the porch together. Not surprisingly, Ivy’s usually cheerful face was shrouded in grief, but even Marianne’s features were frozen in an atypically grim mask.
Joanna opened the gate and started up the walk way. To her surprise, Ivy left Marianne on the porch and came running forward. Instead of stopping when she reached Joanna, Ivy darted past and threw herself sobbing against Yuri Malakov’s massive chest. He reached down, folded her in his arms, and touched his chin to her hair.
Yuri clicked his tongue soothingly. “is okay. Yuri is here.”
That small series of loving gestures turned all of Joanna’s previous conjecture on its ear. Yuri and Ivy might have known each other for only a matter of weeks, but clearly they meant far more to one another than simple teacher and pupil. They were in love. Even the desolation of her grief didn’t entirely obscure the glow on Ivy’s face as she abandoned herself to the comfort of Yuri’s encircling arms.
Joanna cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Ivy, but I need to talk to you. There’s something you need to know.”
Instead of looking at Joanna, Ivy stared up at Yuri’s stolid face, as if whatever she needed to know would be clearly written on his broad facial features. He shook his head. “She tells,” he said, nodding in Joanna’s direction.
“Tell me what?” Ivy asked. “What’s wrong now?”
This was Joanna’s first experience at delivering bad news in some kind of official capacity. Like a child thrust suddenly into the spotlight of a Sun day-school Christmas pageant, she was instantly out of her depth, stymied about what to say or where to begin.
“Maybe we should go inside and sit down,” she suggested lamely.
Glaring at her but holding tightly to Ivy’s hand, Yuri strode up onto the porch and inside the house. “What about me?” Marianne asked, as Joanna started by.
“Come ahead if you want to,” Joanna said.
