Devil’s Claw

probably overlook an engagement-launching smooch. Now let’s get down to business. What happened overnight?”

For the next forty-five minutes, Joanna and Frank went over the chief deputy’s usual collection of mundane stuff-incident reports, jail menus, scheduling and vacation approvals. None of it was critical, but it all had to be brought to Joanna’s attention.

“And here’s the information you wanted me to find,” Frank Montoya said when they had finally worked their way down to the last folder in his stack.

“What’s that?” Joanna asked.

“Faxes of the newspaper clippings on the Thomas Ridder shooting. I also found out why he got thrown out of the army. He decked a superior officer.”

“So at least he didn’t discriminate,” Joanna said.

Frank frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Most of the men who beat up their wives don’t have balls enough to pick on someone their own size who might hit back.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s discriminating, Joanna,” Frank said. “Remember, the army discharged Thomas Ridder over whatever happened. Sandra Ridder’s solution put the guy away in a pine box-permanently. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but I am saying there may have been other possible solutions that Sandra Ridder never considered. And the judge who sent her up must have thought so, too, or he wouldn’t have given her eight to ten.”

“Point taken,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Anything else?”

“Ernesto poked his head in my office a little while ago and told me to tell you the water is from Tucson. He said you’d know what he meant, but I don’t.”

“The water in the jugs with no fingerprints,” Joanna supplied. “And if the water came from Tucson, the jugs probably did, too. Which means that whoever put them there wasn’t a UDA from Mexico walking south into the US of A to find field-hand work.”

“I see what you mean,” Frank said. “Most of the UDAs are walking north, not south. So what else is going on that I don’t know about?”

“Dr. Daly came down from Tucson yesterday and did Clayton Rhodes’ second autopsy.”

“And?”

“And nothing. She came up with the same results Doc Winfield did-cerebral hemorrhage.”

“That’s a relief then,” Frank said. “At least we won’t have to have the FBI snooping around here and sticking their noses into everybody’s business. I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

“Neither was I,” Joanna agreed.

“And we’ll also have Reba Singleton off our backs.”

“Right.”

Frank was up and on his way to the door when Joanna thought to ask him about Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal.

“They took off for Tucson first thing this morning,” Frank told her. “They had an appointment with Melanie Goodson. They were also going to take the slug that killed Sandra Ridder up to the Department of Public Safety satellite crime lab in Tucson. Why, do you have something for them?”

“I talked to Melanie Goodson myself yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “And I had the distinct impression that she wasn’t being forthright with me. She claims she was at home asleep when Sandra took off in her Lexus, but- despite having a telephone in her bedroom-she still claims she didn’t hear Lucy’s phone call when it came in around three a.m. She let the call be picked up by her machine.”

“What do you want Ernie and Jaime to do about it?”

“I want them to bear that in mind when they talk to her. And when they finish up with everything else, I want them to go out to Melanie’s neighborhood on Old Spanish Trail and check it out. There’s always a chance that one of her neighbors saw or heard something unusual.”

“There’s a chance,” Frank Montoya agreed. “But not a very big one. If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

The moment Frank left Joanna’s office, a much-relieved Kristin Marsten appeared with that day’s worth of correspondence. For Joanna, dealing with the daily deluge of mail was an unending source of frustration. She worked for two golden and almost totally uninterrupted hours before her private-line phone rang.

“I hope you’re happy,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I don’t see how the Dixons could have felt very welcome when you and George and Frederick locked yourselves up in the kitchen that way. I suppose it could have been worse, though. If you had come outside and started discussing all those gruesome things…”

“Mother, look,” Joanna said. “This is a complicated week for all concerned. It was wonderful of you and George to host last night’s dinner, and I’m sure everyone enjoyed it. Those tamales were incredible.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” Eleanor sniffed. “The food was all right, but the atmosphere was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Why, even Eva Lou was snappish with Maggie when she and Jim Bob were getting ready to leave.”

She was snappish a lot earlier than that, Joanna thought. I wonder what Maggie Dixon said that finally pushed even sweet-tempered Eva Lou over the edge?

Joanna’s unspoken question was never uttered aloud, but Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, chattering on, answered it anyway.

“All Maggie did was ask a few questions about Andy-nothing out of line as far as I could see, but all of a sudden Eva Lou stands up and says, ”I can’t imagine why you’d be asking such a personal question.“ It was an answer straight out of ”Dear Abby,“ and I was absolutely floored. Can you imagine Eva Lou being so… well…” Eleanor Winfield paused as she groped for the proper word. “So outspoken,” she finished at last.

When it comes to Maggie Dixon, Joanna told herself, anything is possible.

CHAPTER 18

The service for Clayton Rhodes was a simple affair held at Higgins Funeral Home and Mortuary up in Old Bisbee and conducted by Clayton’s longtime pastor, the Reverend Lonnie Dodds of the Double Adobe Baptist Church. Reba Singleton sat stiffly in the front row and spoke to no one. Joanna and Jenny sat near the back. When the minister announced that Clayton had been preceded in death by his beloved wife, Molly Louise, and his infant son, Cyrus Andrew, Joanna reached over and squeezed Jenny’s hand. Had it not been for Jenny, Joanna wouldn’t have had any previous knowledge about the existence of Clayton’s second child.

Because Molly Rhodes had been a behind-the-scenes linchpin in Bisbee’s YWCA, the post-service social hour was held there. Always with a keen eye for spotting readily available refreshments, Jenny chose seats at a table within easy striking distance of silver trays laden with artfully arranged decorated cookies. A few minutes after Joanna and Jenny sat down, they were joined at the table by a tiny, bird-boned woman Joanna had never seen before.

“I’m Carol,” she said, smiling cordially at Jenny. “Carol Hubbard from Tucson. Who are you?”

“I’m Jennifer Brady, and this is my mom, Joanna,” Jenny answered brightly. “Mr. Rhodes was our neighbor. He used to feed our animals and stuff.”

Carol looked at Joanna. “Oh, I know about you. You’re the woman whose husband was killed, and now you’ve been elected sheriff. Isn’t that right?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes. The name’s Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Clayton spoke very highly of you-and of you, too, Jenny,” Carol Hubbard continued. “And don’t you have some kind of funny-looking dog? I seem to remember Clayton saying his name is Tiger.”

“Tigger,” Jenny corrected. “Not like the golfer. Like the character from Winnie the Pooh. And Tigger’s really funny. He’s half golden retriever and half pit bull, and he loves to jump.”

“How did you know Clayton?” Joanna asked. “Are you a relative?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just friends. He and my first husband, Hank, met during the war,” Carol Hubbard