“And you have no idea where her son lives or works?” Both men shook their heads.
“So she has the motor home. Is that her only vehicle?” Joanna asked.
“No, she also drives a Nissan Sentra,” ‘limn said. “Light pink. Irma told us she won it as a prize for selling Mary Kay cosmetics.”
“A pink Nissan Sentra,” Joanna said, writing it down. “With South Dakota plates?”
“No,” Tom answered. He pulled a cigarette pack out of his pocket, extracted one, lit it, and blew a plume of smoke into the air. “Her plates expired sometime in the last month or two. Since she was staying on here, she got Arizona plates.”
“I know exactly when it was,” Brent offered. “April fifteenth, remember? She was bent out of shape because everything came due at the same time. She had to get new plates, get her new driver’s license, and pay off Uncle Sam all on the same day.”
Tom Lowrey laughed. “If I was her, I would have kept the South Dakota plates and license. That way, at least, she wouldn’t have to pay Arizona income tax. But she said, no, she was starting her new life. She wanted all the t’s crossed and i’s dotted. There’s just no fixing some people.”
Frank Montoya got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check with the Department of Motor Vehicles and see if the son is listed on the licensing records as her next of kin.”
Joanna nodded, and he hurried off the porch. “You said Irma’s husband died?”
“Kurt. It was totally unexpected,” Brent Hardy offered. “The guy looked like he was in fine shape. He wasn’t overweight or any thing like that. He’d been a farmer and had worked hard all his life. One night they were sitting watching TV—they have one of thou little satellite dishes. He fell asleep in front of the set. When the news was over, Irma tried waking hint up and couldn’t. She came running up here, screaming for help. We called the volunteer lire department, and we tried CPR until the EMTs got here, but there was nothing they could do. She wanted them to airlift him into Tucson, but they told her it was no use—that she should save her money.”
“You said he died in December, but you still haven’t seen her son?”
Brent shook his head. “Not much of a son, right? But Tom and I are looking after her. We make sure her water and propane tanks get filled regularly, and we make sure her waste-water tanks get emptied as well.” He grinned. “And then there was the skunk that took up residence under her RV. We had to hire a guy to come in and trap him and take him away. I guess we’re a little more full-service than we planned to be, but Irma’s a nice lady and I don’t mind keeping an eye on her.”
There was a pause in the conversation, and Joanna wasn’t sure what to ask next. “This is a nice place you’ve got here,” she said, changing the subject slightly. “And I’m sure Irma Sorenson appreciates your full-service service. How long have you had it, by the way—Quartzite East, that is?”
Brent Hardy shrugged. “The farm itself has been in my family for years. My mother left it to me when she died three years ago. Tom and I sold our place in Santa Cruz and came here to retire, but we didn’t much like being retired, and neither one of us was any good at farming, either. So we decided to do something else. This is the end of our second year. Some of our clients are straight, of course, like Kurt and Irma. But a lot of them aren’t. We keep the welcome mat out for both.”
Joanna nodded. She had already surmised that Brent Hardy and Torn Lowrey were a couple, but she was a little taken aback to find them living and running a business in redneck Bowie. “So how are the locals treating you?” she asked.
“It’s not as though I’m an outlander,” Brent replied with yet another grin. “My mother, Henrietta, taught at Bowie High School for thirty-five years, just as her mother, Geraldine Howard, my grandmother, did before that. Between them, they pretty well fixed it so I can do no wrong. At least, forty years later, I can do no wrong. When I was in high school here, that was another matter. Now I’m back and I’m plugging money into the local economy. That makes me all right. And, since Tommy’s with me, he’s all right, too. Not that people say much of anything about us. It’s pretty much don’t ask/don’t tell, which, for Bowie, is progress.”
A car door slammed and Joanna caught sight of Frank Montoya sprinting back up the walkway. “I’ve got it,” he announced as he stepped onto the porch. “Irma’s son’s name is Whipple, Robert Whipple.”
Joanna frowned. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the name of the guard at Pathway to Paradise?”
Frank nodded. “That’s the one.”
