on the west side of the building. Joanna pulled into one of them. Before she had time to consider what entrance to use, a door on the side of the house opened, and an older Hispanic woman stepped out onto a small utility porch and began vigorously shaking a dust mop. Joanna walked several steps toward her before recognizing Isabel Gonzales, the grandmother of one of Jenny’s classmates.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Gonzales,” Joanna said, “I had heard you were working here.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Me and my husband both. He retired from P.D. up in Morenci. We came home to Bisbee, but he was driving me crazy at home all day. Now we’re both working again, and it’s better.”
“You’re lucky to have him around to drive you crazy,” Joanna said, hoping the twinge of envy she felt didn’t come across as bitterness.
“I know,” Isabel said, nodding and leaning on her dust-free mop. “That’s what I keep telling my self. Miss Baxter is out front.”
Joanna hurried the way she’d been directed. The sunny front patio, warm and sheltered from the wind, was far different from the way she remembered it. For one thing, it seemed smaller, but better, too. The once-bare edges of the terrace were lined with huge pots filled with exotic and unidentifiable growing things, plants Joanna had never seen before and whose origins she could only guess. The rough-hewn picnic tables and home grown barbecue were gone, replaced by patio furniture that looked too expensive to leave out in the weather.
A woman with a short-cropped pageboy under a large straw hat sat at the table reading a book.
“Miss Baxter?” Joanna asked.
The woman looked up without closing her book.
“That’s right. Amy Baxter,” she said curtly. “I must inform you, Sheriff Brady, that Holly’s attorney has been called out of town again this morning. Since he won’t be able to be in attendance, I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Holly. It simply wouldn’t be responsible of me to let you talk to her under those circumstances.”
“May I sit down?” Joanna asked, letting her hand fall on the back of one of the chairs.
“Certainly. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to seem rude. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you. What circumstances do you mean, Miss Baxter? What exactly did you think I wanted to see Holly Patterson about?”
“The other night, naturally. I read the article in the paper, so I’m well aware of the part you played in averting a terrible tragedy, but still, with the possibility of litigation…”
“I’m not here about the other night,” Joanna interrupted. “I came to talk to Holly about her father. Harold Lamm Patterson has been found.”
Amy Baxter breathed a sigh of relief. “Really? You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear that. Holly’s been in a state of perpetual crisis ever since he turned up missing.”
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Joanna hastened to add. “He’s dead. I’m here to give her the benefit of an official next-of-kin notification.”
Amy Baxter’s face fell. “Oh, my God. That’s terrible. She’ll be devastated. She’s held herself some how responsible for his disappearance; now I’m afraid… What happened? Was it an accident? A heart attack? What?”
“If I could just speak to Holly, please.”
“of course. I’ll go get her right away.” Amy Baxter started toward the house. “Actually, if you don’t mind, it might be better if we went up to her room. She’s somewhat unstable at the moment, and I’m afraid…”
“I don’t mind,” Joanna said.
Amy Baxter stood up. “This way,” she said.
The interior of the house was magnificent. Outside of pictures in home-decorating magazine articles, Joanna had never seen a more beautiful home. polished hardwood floors, covered here and there by deeply luxurious Oriental rugs. The supple leather furniture blended subtly with the Mission-style interior details into a combination that was both elegant and comfortably inviting.
Discreet track lighting on the twelve-foot ceilings accented huge oil canvasses of boldly painted flowers, many of which resembled the plants growing in the pots outside on the patio.
“Pauli’s really very good, isn’t he?” Amy Baxter said, as Joanna admired a particularly vivid piece at the top of the winding staircase.
“Pauli?” Joanna repeated stupidly, thinking that must be the name of some artist or school of artists well known enough that she should have recognized the name on hearing it.
Amy laughed. “Paul Enders, the painter. He’s a costumer really; he only paints for a hobby. We all call him Pauli. This is his house,” she continued. “He’s letting us stay here until this situation gets straightened out. As you’ll soon see, the privacy we’ve enjoyed here has been a real blessing.”
At the top of the stairs, Amy Baxter turned to the right and led the way down a long corridor to the back of the house.
“There are better rooms, and Holly could have had any one of them,” Amy said apologetically “but for some strange reason, this is the one she wanted.” Amy stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. “Holly,” she called. “Are you in there? May we come in?”
Joanna heard no answering response, but Amy went ahead and tentatively twisted the old-brass knob on the door. The knob turned in her hand, and the door shifted open without protest.
The interior of the room was dark and stiflingly hot compared to the rest of the house, with the look and smell of a sickroom. In the far corner, near tall, drapery-shrouded windows, sat a high backed rocking chair, creaking slowly back and forth.
“Holly,” Amy said tentatively. “There’s someone here to see you.
“Tell them to go away,” Holly muttered ‘I don’t want to see anybody. Leave me alone.”
