Shoot / Don't Shoot

To a private citizen, columnist Marliss Shackleford could be a bothersome annoyance. Now that Joanna was in the public eye, however, annoyance had escalated into something else. From the mo­ment Joanna Brady began making her bid for the office of sheriff, Marliss had chosen to regard everyth­ing related to Joanna and Jennifer Brady as possibly newsworthy material for her weekly column.

At first, Joanna hadn’t tumbled to her changed circumstances. Then one day, she was shocked to see her own words quoted verbatim in Marliss Shackleford’s column—words taken from a conversation with a third party in what Joanna had mistakenly assumed to be the relative privacy of an after-church coffee hour. Only in retrospect did she recall the reporter hovering in the background in the social hall during the conversation. Since then, Joanna had gone out of her way to avoid Marliss Shackleford.

Veering to one side, Joanna dodged the Marliss pitfall only to stumble into another one that proved almost equally troubling.

“Why, Joanna Brady!” Esther Brockner exclaimed, clasping the younger woman by the hand. “How are you and that poor little girl of yours doing these days?”

Two weeks after Andy’s death, Esther Brockner had been the first elderly widow who had felt free to advise Joanna that since she was so young and attractive, she wouldn’t have any trouble at all marrying again. That well-intentioned but tactless comment had left Joanna fuming. She had forced herself to bite back the angry retort that she didn’t want any other husband. Now, after being told much the same thing by several other thoughtless acquaintances, Joanna’s hide had toughened considerably.

Facing Esther now over a cup of coffee, Joanna had little difficulty maintaining her composure. “We’re doing fine, Esther,” she returned civilly. “How about you?”

“Every day gets a little better, doesn’t it?” Esther continued.

Not exactly, Joanna thought. It was more like one step forward and two back, but she nodded in reply. Nodding a lie didn’t seem quite as bad as telling one outright.

“Why, Sheriff Brady,” Marliss said, using her cup and saucer to wedge her way into the two-way conversation. “I guess you’re off to school in Phoenix this week.”

“Peoria,” Joanna corrected. “The Arizona Poll Officers Academy is based in Peoria, outside Phoenix.”

Marliss waved her hand in disgust. “What’s the difference? Peoria. Glendale. Tempe. Mesa. If you ask me, those places are all alike. From the outlet stores in Casa Grande on, there’s way too much traffic. I hear it’s almost as bad as L.A. All those people!” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s not like a small town. In a place like that, nobody cares if you live or die. In fact, I’ve heard it isn’t safe for a woman alone to drive around Phoenix. I wouldn’t go there if you paid me.”

Joanna felt a sudden urge to smile because she was, in fact, being paid to go to the Phoenix area. Not only that, some of Marliss Shackleford’s hard­-earned tax dollars were partially footing the bill.

“I’m sure most people in metropolitan Phoenix are just fine,” Joanna said.

Marliss drew herself up to her full five foot three. “I understand the course work at that school is pretty tough,” she said. “Aren’t you worried about that?”

“Why should I be?”

Marliss shrugged, in a vain attempt to look innocent. “If you didn’t pass for some reason, it might be a bad reflection on your ability to do the job, wouldn’t it?”

“I expect to pass all right,” Joanna replied.

“Speaking of doing the job, I need a picture of you.”

“What for,” Joanna asked, “the paper?”