problems at home. He admitted that yes, there were. He said he and his wife were having marital difficulties. That things were so bad they might end up in divorce court. He said Lucy was the only reason he was hanging on and trying to hold things together.”
“Lucy’s grandmother claimed Tom Ridder had behaved violently with his wife,” Joanna said. “And from what I saw of the record and legal proceedings, the judge who sent Sandra Ridder to prison seems to have said pretty much the same thing-that Tom Ridder was prone to violence. Prior to the murder, did you see any evidence that would support that?”
Sister Celeste shook her head. “No,” she said. “I agree there was violence in the home, but I don’t think Tom Ridder was the culprit. One day, Lucy came to school with a handprint-shaped bruise on her face. Remember, this happened back before there were state laws requiring school personnel to report instances of possible abuse to the authorities. I asked Lucy about it-asked if her father had hit her. I’ll never forget what she told me. ”The only person in our house who hits people is my mom.“ She said that her mother had a temper. That sometimes she would do mean things to Lucy and to her father as well, but Lucy insisted that no matter what people said, her dad never hurt anybody.”
“And you believed her?” Joanna asked.
“I had no reason not to,” Sister Celeste replied.
“Did you mention the possibility of Sandra Ridder’s own violent tendencies to any of the detectives investigating Tom Ridder’s death?”
Sister Celeste shook her head. “I kept waiting for someone to ask me about it, but no one ever did. I suppose I would have come forward eventually, but then, when Sandra Ridder pleaded guilty, it didn’t seem as though what I had to say would make any difference one way or the other. After all, Lucy wasn’t being left in the care of an abusive parent. Child Protective Services had shipped her off to live with her grandparents-a grandmother, I believe. The family situation was already in enough of a crisis. I didn’t see any reason to heap fuel on the flames.”
“Sheriff Brady?” The voice of Tica Romero came wafting into the car through the speaker in Joanna’s police radio.
“I’m here, Tica. What is it?”
“We just had a call from Los Gatos PD out in California.”
“Los Gatos,” Joanna repeated. “What did they want?”
“They’re looking for Reba Singleton. Her husband, Dennis, just finished filing a missing-persons report. The detective working the case wanted to know if anyone here had seen her.”
“Of course, I saw her,” Joanna replied. “It was during the reception at the YWCA after her father’s funeral yesterday afternoon. She bitched me out in public and then left in a huff.”
“No one’s seen her since then?” Tica asked.
“Not that I know of. The last person I saw her with was Marliss Shackleford,” Joanna said. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Mr. Singleton said he sent his corporate jet to Tucson International to pick her up, but she wasn’t there to meet the plane when it arrived. He contacted the limo company, but they said her driver dropped her off at the airport late last night. He claims he knew nothing about a private jet being sent to get her. He says she asked to be dropped off at the ticketing level. He assumed that meant she was catching a plane. According to Mr. Singleton, she never showed up at home. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since. He seems concerned that she may have been kidnapped and is being held for ransom.”
Joanna sighed. “Tell the detective we’ll be happy to offer whatever assistance he needs. Put him in touch with Frank Montoya. He may be working with Detective Carpenter on something else just now, but he needs to be aware of this. And you might give Dick Voland a courtesy call as well. He was doing some work for Reba Singleton. He may know where she’s gone off to. In any event, he should be notified about what’s going on.”
“Will do.”
“Also,” Tica continued. “Kristin wanted me to let you know that you’re to contact Sheriff Forsythe up in Pima County. He left a number. Do you want me to give it to you?”
“Please.”
While Joanna groped unsuccessfully for a pen or pencil, Sister Celeste found one. “I can take the number for you if you like.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said. Once Joanna signed off with Tica, Sister Celeste handed Joanna a scrap of paper with the phone number jotted on it. Rather than dial the number right then, Joanna stuffed the piece of paper into her pocket. Whatever it was Sheriff Bill Forsythe wanted, it would have to wait until after Joanna no longer had a listening and more than moderately interested passenger riding in her vehicle.
That year, neither winter nor spring rains had materialized in southern Arizona. According to local meteorologists, the previous six months had been the driest on record. As a result, not even the usually hearty mesquite and paloverde had yet leafed out. Coming through the barren, badly eroded gullies south of town, Saint David, with its patchwork of artesian-well-irrigated fields, seemed even more of a desert oasis than usual. Beyond the fields stood a line of ancient and majestic cottonwoods whose sturdy presence marked the path of the now dry San Pedro River bed as it wound through the valley that bore its name.
Holy Trinity Monastery was set in among a grove of those old-growth cottonwoods just south of town and not far from the river itself. The monastery consisted of a tiny church, a ragtag collection of haphazardly parked mobile homes, as well as a library and a few other permanent buildings. It functioned throughout the year as a retreat center for Catholic clergy from the Tucson Diocese.
As soon as Joanna turned off Highway 80 into the parking lot, Father Thomas Mulligan emerged from his tiny adobe church and came striding across the gravel parking lot to meet the car. His white hair stood upright in the cool, blustery wind that caused his equally white robes to flap loosely around his long legs.
“Why, Sheriff Brady,” he said, hand extended. “How good to see you again, although I wish it were under somewhat less stressful circumstances. We really must stop meeting this way. But that reminds me: How’s my friend Junior doing these days?”
“As far as I can tell, he really seems to like living with his new guardians, Moe and Daisy Maxwell,” Joanna told the priest. “He works at Daisy’s restaurant most days-busing tables and washing dishes. He seems to like that, too. Every time I see him, it looks as though he’s having the time of his life.”
“I’ll have to stop by and check on him one of these days,” Father Mulligan said with a smile. “Now, I trust Sister Celeste has brought you up to speed with our latest little crisis? We do tend to gather unconventional strays around here.”
Joanna looked around. “Where are they?” she asked.
“Big Red and Lucy? I’m afraid the hawk was keeping far too close an eye on the fish in our reflecting pond,” Father Mulligan responded. “I suggested Lucy take him down by the riverbed in hopes he can rustle up something for dinner that isn’t one of my prize-winning koi.”
“Which way did they go?” Joanna asked.
Father Mulligan pointed. “Do you see that path between the church and the cemetery?” Joanna nodded. “Follow that,” he said. “It’ll take you right down to the river, but be careful. It’s been so dry lately that the bank is crumbling in spots.”
As Joanna set off in that direction, Sister Celeste made as if to follow. “I’ll come, too,” she said.
“No, Sister Celeste,” Father Mulligan said firmly. “That’s not necessary. Sheriff Brady will manage just fine on her own. I’ve seen this woman in action.”
Sister Celeste made as if to protest, but Father Mulligan shook his head and took her by the arm. “Come on,” he added. “Let’s you and me go into the rectory and wait there. I’m sure Brother Gregory will be happy to pour us a nice cup of his special herbal tea.”
Grateful to the priest for running interference, Joanna set off. Once she was out of sight behind the church and in the privacy of the well-kept cemetery, she stopped walking long enough to remove her cell phone from her purse. Fumbling Sister Celeste’s slip of paper out of her pocket, she dialed Bill Forsythe’s number.
“Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said to the woman who answered. “I’m returning Sheriff Forsythe’s call.”
The man who came on the line seconds later sounded far different from the person Joanna had spoken to earlier in the day. “Thanks for calling me back, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I just finished spending a good deal of time on the phone with Fran Daly. She’s our assistant medical examiner.”
“I know Dr. Daly,” Joanna said coolly.
