Instead, Jenny had thrown herself wholeheartedly into playing with Ruth and Tigger, while Joanna was too caught up in Marianne’s heartache to remember her own.
But keeping quiet wasn’t part of Joanna Brady’s genetic makeup. She was far too much her own mother’s daughter. “Have you talked to Jeff about this?” Joanna asked as she resumed her place.
Marianne’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. Her reply was sharp, aggrieved. “Of course I have,” she snapped. “He thinks I should have my head examined.”
Any other time, such a comment might have been nothing more than a light-hearted quip. Here it was no laughing matter. “What do
“I already told you what I think,” Marianne replied. “If I don’t have anything of value to contribute, I should quit. I can type. I can probably get a regular job. Somebody around here must need a secretary or receptionist.”
Joanna closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye she visualized the Marianne of old standing behind the pulpit preaching. Before Esther’s death, and comfortable in her faith, Marianne’s face used to glow with certitude as she delivered her sermons. There had been an inner joy about her that had backlit every-thing she said. For months now, though, that glow had been absent. Joanna doubted she was the only one who realized that her friend was simply going through the motions, but even Joanna had never considered the possibility that Marianne’s inner glow might have dimmed for good.
“Have you thought about seeing a doctor?” Joanna asked.
“A doctor?” Marianne sneered impatiently. “See there? You’ve jumped to the same conclusion Jeff has. You think I should see a shrink.”
“I didn’t say shrink,” Joanna corrected. “And I didn’t
“I wasn’t hungry,” Marianne cut in. “Food makes me sick these days. I can barely stand to look at it, much less swallow it.”
“And I’ll bet you’re not sleeping properly, either,” Joanna continued doggedly. “You know yourself that eating and sleeping disturbances are standard symptoms of grief-grief and depression both. You’re depressed, Mari. You need help. Go see a doctor.”
“And what good will that do?” Marianne demanded. “All he’ll do is plug me full of antidepressants-dose me with some kind of chemical joy juice. Take two of these and then wait for a sermon to pop up on the computer screen?”
“Not necessarily,” Joanna replied. “But seriously, Mari, maybe there’s something else wrong-something physical-that’s causing all this.”
“Come on, Joanna. Give me a break. Don’t you see? It’s not physical at all. I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve spent my whole life first believing and then preaching that life is eternal. Now that Esther’s gone, I don’t feel that anymore. I feel empty. There’s nothing left of that hope but a huge black hole and everything-my whole life-is collapsing into it. I don’t know what to do about it. If I’m not capable of living my beliefs in my own life, what business do I have passing them along to anyone else?”
“Maybe that’s what the sermon should be about,” Joanna suggested.
“About what?”
“About being thankful for the black hole,” Joanna said. “The people down front-the ones sitting out there in the pews-probably think they’re the only ones who’ve ever felt that way. A sermon like that coming from you would show them they’re not alone.”
Before Marianne had a chance to reply, a telephone rang inside the house. Joanna hurried to answer it. “Hello.”
“Sheriff Brady?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
With only a few seconds of emotional buffer between her private life and her public one, Joanna switched gears. “This is Sheriff Brady,” she replied. “Who’s this, and what can I do for you?”
“What’s the deal with this Frank Montoya guy?” her gruff caller continued. “Is he some kind of a dim bulb, or what?”
Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya, along with Chief Deputy for Operations, Richard Voland, were Joanna’s primary aides-de-camp in running the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Both men had initially opposed Joanna’s candidacy for the office of sheriff, but once the election was over, both had assumed important roles in her administration.
Listening intently, Joanna couldn’t quite place the voice, although she was sure she had heard it before. “Chief Deputy Montoya is anything but a dim bulb,” she replied. “He’s a dedicated and talented police officer. Who’s asking?”
“Mayor Rogers,” the man replied. “Mayor Cletus Rogers of Tombstone.”
Joanna sighed, took a seat, and prepared herself for the worst. In the aftermath of a bitterly divisive city recall effort, Clete Rogers had been the successful write-in candidate for mayor during a special election the previous July. A restaurateur with all the diplomacy of a mountain goat, Clete Rogers had assumed mayoral duties in the Town Too Tough to Die. Once sworn into office, he had immediately set about consolidating his power base by firing anyone who disagreed with him. One of the first victims of his displeasure had been Dennis Granger, formerly the town’s chief marshal.
Rogers had planned to fire Granger and replace him with a crony-somebody who would be more to his liking. Granger, however, refused to go quietly. After turning in his badge and city-owned weapons, he had filed a million- dollar wrongful-dismissal lawsuit. With litigation still pending, both sides were forbidden from discussing the matter in public. In the meantime, the Tombstone city attorney had advised Mayor Rogers that he had best not fill the marshal’s vacancy since, legally, the vacancy did not yet exist. Which was how Sheriff Joanna Brady and her department had been drawn into the fray.
Mayor Rogers had asked the county supervisors to allow the sheriff’s department to assume control of the town’s four remaining marshals. The job was more supervisory than anything else-a matter of assigning and coordinating the officers left to do the actual work.
In the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya was Joanna’s right-hand man, but before signing on with the county, he had served as marshal for the city of Willcox. Montoya’s background and experience made him the logical choice to take on the Tombstone assignment. He had been there-working out of city hall, staying in a motel, and with the city of Tombstone paying his salary-for the better part of two months. But as litigation threatened to drag on and on, both Frank and Joanna were beginning to wonder if he’d ever return to his office at the Cochise County Justice Complex outside Bisbee. Not only that, from what Joanna had heard, Mayor Rogers didn’t seem to appreciate Frank’s performance as marshal any wore than he had Dennis Granger’s.
“What’s the problem now?” Joanna asked.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Rogers returned. “My sister Susan is the problem. She came into my place of business just before noon and started a disturbance. Frank Montoya was sitting right there eating his lunch when it happened. He didn’t raise a finger.”
“What kind of disturbance?” Joanna asked.
“Do you remember the Smothers Brothers?” Rogers asked.
“The Smothers Brothers?” Joanna asked dubiously. “Who are they?”
“That’s right,” Rogers snorted. “You’re probably too young. Years ago, in the sixties, they were a comedy team. Used to have a great show called ‘The Smothers’ Brothers Comedy Hour.’ I loved it. Some of their best routines were all about how their mother liked the other one best. Believe me, when it comes to that, Susan could have given those guys lessons.”
“You’re saying the argument was about your mother, then?” Joanna asked.
“That’s how it started, and things went downhill from there. It ended up with Susan grabbing a tablecloth and pulling a whole table’s worth of glasses, dishes, and silverware onto the floor. Broke two plates, one mug, three
