“Yes, I understand you do,” Sheriff Forsythe said quickly. “She mentioned something to that effect. Anyway, she’s completed the Melanie Goodson autopsy. She tells me the victim died of homicidal violence-smothered, to be exact. Whether it was done with or without the benefit of drugs remains to be seen. The toxicology report will take something over a week. At any rate, Dr. Daly suggested that we work in conjunction with your detectives on this one.”
“So,” she added, testing the water, “do your detectives have any theories so far?”
Bill Forsythe paused momentarily. “Melanie Goodson has a real estate investment partner by the name of Edward Masters. My detectives have been trying to locate him for the better part of two days. No success so far, I’m afraid.”
At that juncture, Joanna Brady might have volunteered the fact that she was about to interview Lucy Ridder, but she didn’t. Sheriff Bill Forsythe had left her hanging earlier.
The groomed path that led from the church to the riverbank was an immaculately maintained mini nature trail complete with homemade hand-etched signs and arrows identifying the various plants along the way. Halfway to the river, Joanna caught sight of a huge shadow sweeping across the sky overhead. It was only after spotting the shadow that she caught sight of Big Red himself. Watching the magnificent hawk glide gracefully through the air, Joanna was stunned by the bird’s tawny beauty and grace. She was still watching in transfixed wonder when the bird launched himself into a steep dive.
After plummeting for several seconds he disappeared from view, flying beak-down into a stand of tall, winter- dried grass. Joanna waited for the sound of a crash and the accompanying explosion of feathers. Neither came. Moments after disappearing, the hawk reappeared, holding in his powerful talons the squirming, writhing figure of some living creature-a field mouse, perhaps, or maybe a baby rabbit. Whatever prize Big Red had bagged, it was heavy enough to interfere with the big bird’s complex aerodynamics. Coming up out of the tall grass, he had to struggle to become airborne once more. Flapping awkwardly, he disappeared into the lower branches of one of those age-old cottonwoods.
From his hidden perch he let out a blood-curdling screech-a cry of triumph, most likely-one that pronounced to all concerned a successful end to his hunt. That sound alone was enough to raise the hackles on the back of Joanna’s neck, but then his cry was followed almost immediately by an answering screech that sounded so much like the first as to be almost indistinguishable. This one came from far closer to Joanna, and from the ground rather than from the sky or a sheltering tree branch. Searching for the source, Joanna spotted a young woman sitting on a tumbled boulder in the middle of the sandy, bone-dry riverbed.
In the spot where Joanna stood, the bank was some eight feet high. Climbing gingerly, Joanna scrambled down, cringing as the powder-dry dirt gave way beneath her every step. Once on flat ground, Joanna trudged over to where the girl was sitting and sank down nearby on a neighboring boulder. Lucy Ridder, sitting cross-legged with her chin raised, didn’t even glance in Joanna’s direction. Instead, she continued to stare through her thick glasses up into the tree branches where Big Red had disappeared.
“How’d you learn to do that?” Joanna asked.
“Do what?” Lucy asked.
“The bird call,” Joanna answered. “You and he sounded just alike.”
“Big Red taught me,” Lucy said. She grimaced and then turned her face toward Joanna. “I guess you’re the sheriff.”
Joanna nodded. “Sheriff Brady,” she said. “Joanna Brady.”
Lucy sighed. “Father Mulligan told me about you. He likes you and says I should talk to you, tell you what happened.”
“It would be nice if you did,” Joanna agreed.
Two enormous tears leaked out from under the thick lenses of Lucy Ridder’s glasses. They slipped down her cheeks and then dripped, unchecked, onto a worn blue flannel shirt that was several sizes too large for her.
“My mother’s dead,” Lucy said. “For years I hoped she would die in prison so I’d never have to see her again. But now that she really is dead, I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her, to ask her the reason. Why did she have to do it?”
“Why did she do what?” Joanna asked.
“Why did she have to kill my father?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Joanna said. “But it’s why I’m here. To find out.”
Lucy blinked. “About my father?”
“About both of them,” Joanna said. “During the last few days, I’ve become convinced that what happened to your father years ago is related to what happened to your mother last week. And I think you know that as well.”
Lucy Ridder nodded once. “Yes,” she said with a ragged sigh, and then she began to cry.
CHAPTER 23
Several minutes later, when Lucy Ridder finally stopped sobbing and turned to face Joanna, the full force of the afternoon sun struck a shiny knot of silver dangling on a chain at the base of the girl’s throat.
“That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing,” Joanna said. “What is it?”
Unconsciously, one of Lucy’s hands strayed gracefully to her throat and clasped shut around the necklace. “Grandma Bagwell, my grandmother’s mother, gave it to me before she died,” Lucy said. “It’s a devil’s claw.”
“May I see it?” Joanna asked.
Shrugging, Lucy’s hands went to the clasp. Within seconds Joanna was cradling the gleaming silver-and- turquoise amulet in her own hand. The two tiny pronged horns of the devil’s claw seemed to grow out of an equally tiny turquoise bead. She hadn’t seen the necklace George Winfield had given to Catherine Yates along with Sandra Ridder’s other personal effects, but she was sure this one was similar, if not an exact copy. The two necklaces were so alike that even Catherine Yates had been fooled into believing the one Sandra had been wearing actually belonged to her daughter.
“It’s lovely,” Joanna said. “What does it mean?”
“Indians use devil’s claw to weave in the patterns when they make baskets.”
“I know,” Joanna said. “I’ve seen them before.”
“Grandma Bagwell, my great-grandmother, used to say that people can make baskets without using devil’s claw, but that’s what they need to make the basket interesting, to make it tell a story. When she gave me the necklace, she told me it was because she thought I was interesting, too.”
“Did you know your mother had a necklace just like this-one that’s almost identical?” Joanna asked after a pause. “She was wearing it when she died. When your grandmother saw it, she thought it was yours.”
Once again Lucy’s eyes clouded over with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t know that. Grandma Bagwell must have given her one at the same time. But why? I thought when Grandma Bagwell gave this one to me it meant I was special, but I guess I was wrong.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Joanna offered. “Maybe she thought you were both special. That in your own way you both had interesting stories to tell.”
“No,” Lucy Ridder said, shaking her head.
Still holding the silver necklace in her hand, Joanna studied Lucy Ridder as the blustery late-March wind sifted through her light brown hair. Of the Native Americans Joanna had met, most had black, straight hair very unlike Lucy Ridder’s, which was both light brown and wavy. Behind the girl’s glasses her eyes were a striking gold-flecked
