“Rotary?” Joanna asked.
“Yes. The San Pedro Valley Rotary Club luncheon. It’s today 301
at noon out at the Rob Roy Country Club. You and Ken Junior are both scheduled to speak.”
“Ken’s on his own then,” Joanna said. “Work comes before politicking, and this is work. Please call them and explain.”
“When will you be back?” Kristin asked.
“I’m not sure,” Joanna said. “I’ll let you know.”
It was a two-hour, one-hundred-mile drive from the Justice Center to Tucson, and the long period of relative quiet gave Joanna time to think about what she would say once she located Andrea Mossman. Is it best to show up with no advance warning?
Joanna wondered. Or, since I’m accosting her at work, should I call to let her know that I’m on my way?”
Eventually, she opted for the latter choice and used her cell phone’s direct-connect feature to reach the Chemistry Department at the University of Arizona.
“Andrea Mossman,” Joanna said.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Mossman isn’t in today.” The female voice on the telephone sounded young, probably a student putting herself through school on a work/study program.
“I believe there’s been a death in her family.”
“I know,” Joanna responded, thinking quickly. “I’m with Grant Road Flowers. I have a bouquet for her. I was directed to bring it to her at work, but if you happened to have her home address available …”
“Of course,” the young woman on the telephone said, falling for what Joanna considered to be a lame ploy. “If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll be glad to get that for you.”
Half an hour later, Joanna pulled up in front of a small redbrick house on South Fourth Avenue in an old barrio neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. The tiny house, with its steeply pitched roof and old-fashioned front porch, looked as 302
though it might once have served as a mom-and-pop grocery store. A sign in faded Chinese characters still lingered over the front door, which was inset into the right front corner of the building. Inside, the shades on all windows were pulled all the way down to the wooden sills. Parked in a space just to the left of the door was a bright green late-model VW Beetle.
With no sign of movement coming from inside the house, Joanna took the time to pull in behind the Bug and run the plates. The results were back within moments, confirming that Andrea Mossman was the VW’s registered owner.
Her sense of apprehension growing, Joanna turned off the Ciwie’s engine and stepped out of her air-conditioned vehicle into Tucson’s midday midsummer heat. The one-hundred plus-degree temperature pounded into her head. Sunlight glared off the sidewalk with blinding intensity while, from somewhere nearby, the too-sweet smell of freshly baked bread filled Joanna’s nostrils. Usually the scent of bread baking would be a welcome one, but not today. That odor, combined with the almost unbearable heat, teamed up to leave Joanna feeling more than slightly woozy.
There was no bell, so Joanna knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again, hard enough to hurt her knuckles. Finally, just when she was considering whether or not she should call Tucson PD and ask for help, there was the smallest motion on the corner of a pull-down shade in one of the front windows.
“Who is it?” a female voice asked. “Go away. I don’t want any.”
“It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna replied. “From Cochise County. I need to talk to you about your sister’s death.”
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“Show me your badge,” Andrea Mossman replied. “Drop it through the mail slot.”
Grateful to hear that Andrea Mossman was exercising some caution, Joanna did as she was told. Moments later, after a series of locks had been unlatched, the door opened and she was allowed inside.
Compared to the humble exterior the building showed to the world, Andrea Mossman’s home wasn’t at all what Joanna had expected. The tiny living room was a full thirty degrees cooler than the outside temperature, a feat performed by new and highly efficient air-conditioning equipment. The rooms Joanna could see had been fully remodeled and painted in bright colors paired with an assortment of mismatched but highly whimsical furniture. A hardwood floor, broken by thick rugs, gleamed underfoot. And, although shades remained drawn, the recessed lighting and well-placed lamps made the small room seem both bright and cozy, which was more than could be said for Andrea Mossman.
Joanna had never seen Carol Mossman in the flesh, but the resemblance between Andrea and her younger sister, Stella Adams, was downright spooky. Both had the same mousy light brown hair that must have come from their mother, Cynthia. Both had the same haunted-looking eyes, although Andrea wore glasses and Stella didn’t. Andrea wore a faded cotton robe and carried a box of tissues. She looked as though she’d been crying.
“I had no idea Pam and Carmen were dead,” she said, half sobbing. “Not until a few minutes ago, when Grandma called to tell me. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Joanna said gently, “but it is true, Ms. Mossman.”
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Andrea Mossman sank into an overstuffed easy chair covered in a fabric with a pattern of bright-pink peony blossoms and yellow butterflies. “I was about to get dressed and come to Bisbee to talk to you,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“May I sit down?” Joanna asked.
Andrea nodded woodenly and motioned Joanna onto a small bright yellow leather couch.
On her way out of the office, Sheriff Brady had paused long enough to collect a pocket-size tape recorder. She
