out a bony hand as Joanna approached. He was a tall scarecrow of a man who towered over her. After retiring as a Congregational minister, he had seen a need at the jail and had gone to work to fill it. His new voluntary job was, as he had told Joanna, a way to keep himself from wasting away retirement.
“How are things?” Joanna asked.
“Not good,” he said. “Leon’s in with her right now.” Leon Canedo was Yolanda’s husband.
Joanna sat down next to Mrs. Ortiz, who sat with a three-ring notebook clutched in her arms. “I’m so sorry to hear Yolanda’s back in here,” Joanna said. “I thought she was doing better.”
Olga nodded. “We all did,” she said. “But she’s having a terrible reaction to the chemo—lots worse than anyone expected. And it’s very nice of you to stop by, Sheriff Brady. When I called to ask you to come, Yolanda wasn’t in the ICU. I thought seeing you might cheer her up, but then . . .” Olga Ortiz shrugged and fell silent.
“They moved her into the ICU about ten this morning,” led Chapman supplied.
“Is there anything I can do?” Joanna asked. “Anything my department can do?”
Olga Ortiz’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the notebook she was still hugging to her body. “Mr. Chapman brought me this,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to show it to Yolanda yet. She’s too sick to read it now, but it’ll mean so much to her when she can.” Olga offered the notebook to Joanna, holding it carefully as though it were something precious and infinitely breakable.
Joanna opened it to find it was a homemade group get-well card. Made of construction paper and decorated with bits of glued-on greeting cards, it expressed best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery. Each page was from one particular individual—either a fellow jail employee or an inmate. All of the pages were signed, although some of the signatures, marked by an X, had names supplied in someone else’s handwriting, Ted Chapman’s, most likely.
Joanna looked at the man and smiled. “What a nice thing to do,” she said.
“We try,” he returned.
Joanna closed the notebook and handed it back to Olga, who once again clutched it to her breast. “What about Yolanda’s boys?” Joanna asked. “Are they all right? If you and Leon are both up here, who’s looking after them?”
“Arturo,” Olga said. “My husband. The problem is, his heart’s not too good, and those boys can be too much for him at times.”
“Let me see if there’s anything we can do to help out with the kids,” Joanna offered. “We might be able to take a little of the pressure off the rest of you.”
“That would be very nice,” Olga said. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Just then Joanna’s cell phone rang. Knowing cell phones were frowned on in hospitals, she excused herself and hurried back to the elevator lobby. She could see that her caller was Frank Montoya, but she let the phone go to messages and didn’t bother calling back until she was outside the main door.
“Good afternoon, Frank,” Joanna said. “Sorry I couldn’t answer a few minutes ago when you called. What’s happening?”
“We found Dora Matthews,” Frank replied.
“What do you mean, you found her?” Joanna repeated. “I thought Dora Matthews was in foster care. How could she be missing?”
“She let herself out through a window last night and took on. Once the foster parents realized she had skipped, they didn’t rush to call for help because they figured she’d cone back on her own, No such luck.”
The finality in Frank Montoya’s voice caused a clutch of concern in Joanna’s stomach. “You’re not saying she’s dead, are you?”
Frank sighed. “I’m afraid so,” he said.
Joanna could barely get her mind around the appalling idea. “Where?” she demanded. “And when?”
“In a culvert out along Highway 90, just west of the turnoff to Kartchner Caverns. A guy out working one of those 4-H highway cleanup crews found her. Ernie Carpenter and
