“We’re not releasing any information on cause of death at the moment,” Joanna replied in what she knew Helen would consider a deliciously tantalizing nonanswer.
Helen’s eyes widened. “Really? Why, forever more! Who would have thought it! The strain musta been too much for the old duffer’s ticker for him to just up and keel over like that. You wait right here, Joanna. I’ll go get you that magazine.”
Because flat lots are at a premium in Bisbee, Helen Barco’s house was built on a hill. The shop, built in what was formerly the garage, was in the basement, while the living quarters were upstairs.
Huffing and out of breath from climbing stairs, Helen returned to the shop a few moments later and handed Joanna the dog-eared issue of the magazine. Written across the front cover in red Magic Marker were the words DO NOT REMOVE.
“You’re sure you don’t mind if I take this?” Joanna asked.
“Like I told you before, Joanna, honey,” Helen said. “You can take it wherever you like, just so long as you bring it back. I mean, after all, you’re the sheriff, aren’t you? If you can’t trust the sheriff…” Helen broke off in sudden confusion, thinking no doubt, of Walter V. McFadden who hadn’t been nearly as trustworthy as he appeared. “Well, anyway,” she continued. “I’d sure like to have it back when you finish with it. That issue could end up being a collector’s item someday. You’re positive you won’t let me do something about that face of yours?”
“No,” Joanna said, heading for the door. “Not today. I’m in too much of a rush.”
It was well after one by then, and Joanna’s growling stomach was complaining too much to be ignored. She resisted the temptation to go straight back to the department. After all, even the sheriff deserved a lunch break. With as much haste as the posted limits allowed, she hurried out to the High Lonesome, stripped out of her clothing, grabbed one of the world’s shortest showers, and gulped down a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
Still eating the last half of the sandwich, she headed for the Cochise County Justice Center dressed in some of her old insurance agency work clothes.
This business of what to wear and what not to wear was fast becoming a pain in the neck.
Once at the Sheriff’s Department, she noticed that several news vehicles were parked in front of the building. Driving around back, she pulled into the reserved parking spot marked SHERIFF. It was empty and waiting for her Eagle.
It would have been nice to use her own private entryway, but no one had as yet given her the push-button code. Instead, she had to buzz before she could be allowed in through the common entryway marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. She walked into the reception area of the back suite of offices just in time to catch Dick Voland railing at the unfortunate Kristin.
“Don’t ask me what to do with all those reporters out in the lobby. It’s not my problem anymore. Ask Sheriff Brady.”
“Ask me what?”
Voland turned the focus of his irritation on her.
“We’ve got a swarm of killer-bee media out there in the lobby, all of ‘em wanting to know what the hell’s going on. Somebody should have called a press conference.”
“What a good idea,” Joanna said amiably. “Why don’t you go ahead and do it?”
“Me?” Dick Voland objected. “Why me?”
“Why not you? Didn’t you handle media relations back when Walter McFadden was in charge?”
“Yes, but…”
“And you can do it again,” Joanna interjected. “With a major story like this, we’re a lot better off having someone experienced controlling that aspect of things. Kristin, call out front. Have them tell the reporters there’ll be a press conference in fifteen minutes. By the way, where’s Ernie? Is he back yet?”
“He’s in his office,” Kristin put in. “He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. I think he’s working on his paper.”
“Tell Ernie to come to my office anyway. It won’t take long, but I want to see him before Chief Deputy Voland’s press conference. I want you there as well, Dick. Before you talk to those reporters, the three of us need to put our heads together.” Without waiting for either a reply or an argument, Joanna headed for the private corner office, the one she knew belonged to the sheriff. She more than half expected to find it still occupied by Dick Voland’s messy paraphernalia, but she was wrong. Overnight the piles of stacked papers and accumulated junk had entirely disappeared. Even the collection of Al Freeman yard signs was gone. The wooden surfaces of the desk, credenza, and coffee table were all polished to a high gloss. The over flowing, freestanding ashtray had been replaced by a heavy, velvet-bottomed marble one that sat in clean and solitary splendor on the upper right hand corner of the desk.
Joanna paused in the doorway and then turned back to the receptionist’s desk where both Dick Voland and Kristin Marsten still stood motionless as if frozen in place.
“And, Kristin,” Joanna added, “after you give Ernie my message, I need a supply of yellow pads, pens, and pencils in here.”
Joanna waited long enough to see whether or not the young woman would move. With a defiant scowl and an extra toss of her big hair, Kristin turned and bent over to use her telephone. “Detective Carpenter,” Joanna heard her say a moment later. “The sheriff wants to see you in her office. Right away.”
Leaving the door open behind her, Joanna walked over to the desk and sat down in the massive leather chair behind it. The outsized chair was far too big for her. The tall back made her feel dwarfed and inconsequential. The office had the expectant, empty feel of a vacant apartment, but now was no time for Joanna to bring in her meager box of possessions or to think about putting her own personal stamp on the place. That would have to wait.
Moments later, the miniskirted Kristin flounced into Joanna’s office and unceremoniously dumped a stack of legal pads and three pens on the desk.
“We’re out of pencils,” she mumbled through a mouthful of gum.
“Who’s in charge of ordering supplies?” Joanna asked.
