“From what we can piece together this is a pair of relative newlyweds, been married less than a year. It turns out the husband’s something of a slob who tends to leave his clothes lying wherever they fall. His wife got tired of picking up after him, so she took a hammer and nailed them all to the floor wherever they happened to fall. He tore hell out of his favorite western shirt when he tried to pick it up. Made him pretty mad. He went outside and sliced up the tires on his wife’s Chevette.”
“Thank God it was only the tires,” Joanna breathed. “I guess it could have been worse.”
Frank laughed. “Wait’ll you hear the rest. One of our patrol cars happened to drive by in time to see her taking a sledgehammer to the windshield of his pickup truck—unfortunately with him still inside. She’s in jail tonight on a charge of assault with intent, drunk and disorderly, and resisting arrest. The last I heard of the husband, he took his dog and what was left of his truck and was heading back home to his mother’s place in Silver City, New Mexico.”
The way Frank told the story, it might have sounded almost comical, but Joanna was living too close to what had happened in the aftermath of similar violence between Serena and Jorge Grijalva. Right that minute, she couldn’t see any humor the situation.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Joanna said. “Especially with a young couple like that. It’s too bad they didn’t go for counseling.”
“Did I say young?” Frank echoed. “They’re not young. He’s sixty-eight. She’s sixty-three or so, but hell on wheels with a sledgehammer. The whole time the deputy was driving her to jail, she yelling her head off about how she should have known better than to marry a bachelor who was also a mama’s boy. Mama, by the way—the one he’s going home to—must be pushing ninety if she’s a day.”
Joanna did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. “I thought people were supposed to get wise when they got that old.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Frank advised. “So that’s what’s happening on the home front. What about you? How’s class?”
“B-O-R-I-N-G,” Joanna answered. “It’s like being thrown all the way back into elementary school. I can’t wait for Thanksgiving vacation.”
“And is Dave Thompson still the same sexist son of a bitch he was when I was there a couple of years ago?” Frank asked.
“Indications are,” Joanna answered, “but I probably shouldn’t talk about that now. You never can tell when somebody might walk in.”
“Right,” Frank said. “Well, hang in there. It’s bound to get better. What about Jorge Grijalva?” he asked, changing the subject. “Did you have time to check on him?”
“I just came home from seeing him a few minutes ago.”
“What do you think?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know what to think. I’m doing some checking. I’ll let you know.”
“Fair enough. Should I tell Juanita you’re looking to it?”
“For right now, don’t tell anybody anything.”
“Sure thing, Joanna,” Frank Montoya answered. “You’re the boss.”
There was no hint of teasing in Frank Montoya’s voice now. Joanna knew that he really meant what he said.
“Thanks,” Joanna said. “And thanks for keeping an eye on things while I’m gone.”
Once off the telephone, Joanna headed for her room. In the
