Paradise Lost

.’I’ve been sheriff here for several years,” Joanna said. “Until the last few days, I didn’t know you existed.”

“That’s exactly how we like it,” Caroline Parker returned. “We’ve been here for almost thirty years. We prefer to maintain a low profile, although the people in need of our services have an uncanny way of finding us.”

“Only thirty years?” Joanna questioned. “This room looks older than that.”

Caroline nodded. “Oh, the buildings are, certainly. In the thirties, the place was a dude ranch. It fell on hard times and was pretty much a wreck when Daddy and I bought it.”

“Why the armed guard?” Joanna asked.

“To keep out troublemakers. We set up shop here because we wanted privacy and affordability. The same holds true far any number of our neighbors who are looking for privacy and cheap land, too. The problem is, some of them aren’t necessarily nice people. We had a few unfortunate incidents early on. We found we were too far off the beaten path to ask for or receive timely help, so we created our own police force. That’s also part of our creed here: God helps those who help themselves.”

“That doesn’t explain what happened to my officers,” Joanna said. “They had a legitimate reason for coming here, and they were turned away.”

Caroline shook her head. “Over the years we’ve heard all kinds of stories,” she said. “You’d be surprised at the number of off duty police officers who turn out to be moonlighting process servers trying to get to our clients because a disgruntled spouse is trying to file for a divorce, for example. We’ve had to become very proactive in the area of looking out for our clients. They’re often in extremely vulnerable states, especially when they first arrive. We have an obligation to see to it that they’re not trampled on by anyone, be it angry ex-spouses or parents or even officers of the law. If our clients have legal difficulties, it’s our belief that they’ll be better able to deal with those problems after they’ve gotten themselves square with God.”

“Does that include withholding the timely notification that a client’s wife has died?” Joanna asked.

Caroline Parker’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you telling me Ron Haskell’s wife is dead?”

“Yes,” Joanna answered. “I certainly am. Constance Marie Haskell was murdered over the weekend. She was last seen alive in Phoenix on Thursday. Our understanding, from her sister, is that Mrs. Haskell was on her way here to meet with her husband. Her body was found in Apache Pass Friday evening. Detectives Carbajal and Car­penter were here to notify Ron Haskell of what had happened.”

“Was my father aware of that?” Caroline asked.

“Was I aware of what?” a stern voice asked behind them.

Joanna turned in time to see a tall, stoop-shouldered man enter the room. In the dim light his wispy white hair formed a silvery halo around his head. Even in the gloom of that darkened room he wore a pair of sunglasses, and he made his way around the furniture by tapping lightly with a cane. Amos Parker was blind.

“Daddy,” Caroline said, “we have visitors.”

“So I gathered,” Amos Parker said, stopping just beyond the couch where Joanna and Frank were sitting. “And they are?”

Joanna stood up and went forward to meet him. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she said. “I’m sheriff of Cochise County. Frank Montoya is my chief deputy.”

Joanna held out her hand, but Amos Parker didn’t extend his.

Instead, he addressed his daughter. “What are they doing here, Caroline?” he demanded. You know nay position when it comes to police officers.”

“I’m the one who let them Caroline said. “‘They came to tell Ron Haskell that his wife is dead—that she’s been murdered. That’s why those two officers were here yesterday.”

“You know very well that Ron Haskell broke the rules and that he’s in isolation. Until his isolation period is over, he’s not to see anyone, including you, Miss Brady.”

“It’s Mrs.,” Joanna corrected.