Six

WHILE JOANNA waited for Alice Rogers’ body to be hauled out from among the cacti, a maroon Chrysler Concorde with dealer plates pulled up beside her and stopped. When the driver rolled down the window, Joanna peered inside. The man behind the wheel was wearing a buckskin jacket complete with six-inch-long fringe. His hair fell in shoulder-length golden locks.

“I’m looking for my wife,” he said, “Susan Jenkins. I heard there’d been some trouble out this way. I thought I’d better come check.”

Now that he had identified himself, Joanna recognized him. His picture often showed up in local newspaper ads along with his signature “Li’l Doggie” bargain vehicle of the week. “You must be Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said.

He clambered out of the car. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a deep tan and movie-star-quality good looks. Peeling off his Stetson, he walked toward Joanna, holding one hand extended. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That’s correct. Ross Jenkins is the name. Who might you be?”

“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she told him. “And your wife’s already on her way back home. I’m surprised you didn’t meet up with her along the way.”

He shook his head and peered back up the road the way he had come. “That woman drives like a bat out of hell,” he said. “She always has. The insurance premiums on that little red jitney of hers run me a fortune. So she’s gone then?”

Joanna nodded.

“What about that?” Jenkins jerked his head in the direction of Fran Daly’s van, the one bearing the logo of the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. “What’s going on?”

“We’re waiting for them to bring out the body,” Joanna explained.

“It is Alice then?” he asked.

“We don’t have a positive ID yet,” Joanna told him, “but that’s how it looks.”

“In that case I’d best be heading on home,” Jenkins said, turning back toward his car. “I don’t want Susie Q. to have to deal with this all on her own.”

After Ross Jenkins drove away, Joanna berated herself for not asking him at least one or two questions before he left. About that time, Fran Daly emerged from the cactus grove leading what looked like an impromptu funeral procession. Only when the body-laden stretcher was loaded into a van and hauled away and when the other vehicles had left the scene did Joanna settle into her Crown Victoria and switch on the ignition. Before putting the car in gear, she stopped long enough to consult her notes and find Father Thomas Mulligan’s phone number. She hadn’t yet punched it into the keypad when the cell phone chirped its distinctive ring, one that mimicked a crowing rooster.

“Hello.”

“Joanna,” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield announced brusquely. “Where in the world are you?”

Sighing, Joanna held the phone with one hand and eased the Civvy onto the roadway with the other. “Hello, Mother. I’m at a crime scene up near Tucson. Just leaving there, actually. I’m out on Houghton Road.”

“Houghton. That’s in Pima County, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a relief anyway,” Eleanor said. “This should be one case George won’t be called out on. We’re having company for dinner. I don’t want him coming home late.”

Dr. George Winfield, Eleanor’s new husband, was also Cochise County’s recently appointed medical examiner. At first Joanna had been concerned that her position as sheriff would create impossible complications with a medical examiner who also happened to be her stepfather. So far those worries had proved unfounded. If anything, her working relationship with George Winfield had become better since the wedding. On the other hand, relations with her mother continued to be thorny.

“And that’s what I’m calling about,” Eleanor added accusingly. “Dinner. I’ve been trying to reach you all day long—since early this morning—but you’ve been out. In fact, I called your house right around eight. Butch Dixon answered.”

Eleanor stopped cold. Joanna waited for her to continue, knowing the last sentence was more accusation than comment. “And…?” she said finally.

“I said, he answered the phone!”

“Of course Butch answered the phone,” Joanna replied. “I had to leave for work and, as usual, Jenny was running late. He offered to take her to school.”

“I spoke to Jenny,” Eleanor said stiffly. “She told me that Butch spent the night.”

There it was, out in the open—the source of Eleanor Winfield’s outrage. Butch Dixon had spent the night at Joanna’s house without Eleanor’s having approved the sleep-over in advance. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Joanna. She still remembered her own dismay the first time she had dialed through to George Winfield’s number and her mother—Eleanor Lathrop herself—had answered his phone bright and early in the morning. In that instance, it turned out that an unannounced but properly conducted wedding had already taken place.

At the time, however, Joanna had been bowled over by the thought of her mother fooling around. Living in sin, as it were. Since that stunning revelation, Joanna had been struggling to come to grips with the idea of her mother as a sexual being. Joanna had also been forced to accept the idea that Eleanor had a right to live her own life however she chose.

From Joanna’s perspective, it seemed clear enough that those kinds of rights ought to be reciprocal. Sauce for the goose and sauce for the goose’s daughter.

“Yes, Butch spent the night,” Joanna said. “Things were happening at the office, and I was afraid I was going to be called out overnight. I couldn’t have gone off and left Jenny there on the ranch all alone. Besides, on school nights it’s too hard on her when I have to drag her out of bed and drop her off at Eva Lou and Jim Bob’s place or at yours.”

Eva Lou and Jim Bob Brady, Jenny’s other grandparents, maintained an extra bedroom in their home that was reserved for Jenny’s exclusive use. Usually, they were the emergency baby-sitters of choice. In a pinch, Jenny could have gone there. Joanna knew that, and so did Eleanor. Joanna also realized that out of deference to family harmony, she might have mentioned that Butch had spent the bulk of the night on the living room couch—that Jenny had found him there in the morning rather than in her mother’s bed. If Joanna had disclosed that fact, it might have gone a long way toward soothing Eleanor’s ruffled feathers.

Right that minute, however, Joanna Lathrop Brady was far more interested in establishing some privacy ground rules than she was in getting along. As a thirty-year-old widow—one local voters had chosen to elect to the office of sheriff—it seemed as though it was high time for Joanna to stand up to her own mother. Eleanor’s response to Joanna’s declaration of independence was utterly predictable.

“What in the world must Jenny think!” Eleanor exclaimed. “And what about everyone else? You’re a public figure in this town, Joanna. An elected official. You can’t have people going around talking about you this way.”

“How are they going to find out about it, Mother?” Joanna asked. “I’m not going to tell them. Are you?”

“Certainly not!” Eleanor huffed. “I’d never mention such a thing, but Jenny might. After all, she told me, didn’t she? Just like that. As though it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“It is the most natural thing in the world,” Joanna countered. “Birds do it. Bees do it. I suspect even you and George do it on occasion.”

When it came to Butch Dixon, Joanna was tired of sneaking around. With everyone but Jeff and Marianne, Joanna and Butch had acted with such vigilance and discretion that most people in town probably thought of them as little more than nodding acquaintances. Suddenly Joanna found herself running out of patience with keeping up appearances. Butch deserved better, and so did she.

There she thought. Now it’s finally out on the table. Let the chips fall where they may.

Which they seemed to be doing. As Eleanor’s ominous silence lengthened, Joanna knew she had crossed into some kind of emotional no-man’s-land from which there would be no return.

“Mother,” she said at last. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Eleanor said in a small voice. “I’m thinking about Jenny.”

“What about her?”

“She’s suffered so much already. How in good conscience can you put her through this kind of emotional wringer?”

“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.

Eleanor heaved a great sight. “Jenny’s not ready for a new father, Joanna. It’s way too soon.”

Joanna’s temper switched into high gear. “Who said anything about her having a new father?”

“But if you and Butch are…well…you know, then obviously you must be planning on getting married or something.”

“We’re not planning on anything,” Joanna said. “We’re enjoying ourselves. We’re enjoying getting to know each other. It may lead to something more serious, and then again, it may not. In the meantime, Mother, it’s our business and no one else’s. Now, Kristin said you called three times. Is this why, to bawl me out about Butch, or was there some other reason?”

“I was going to invite you to dinner.” Eleanor’s arch, unbending tone wasn’t likely to win friends, or daughters.

“Were,” Joanna repeated. “Does that mean that now you’re not?”

“No. Of course not. You’re still invited—you and Jenny both.”

Jenny and I, but not Butch. Definitely not Butch.

“I’m working a case, Mother,” Joanna said. “I have no idea what time I’ll finish up. I wouldn’t want to keep you and your other guests waiting. I’ve got to go now. There’s construction on the highway, and I need to concentrate on my driving.”

Ending the call, she put the phone down and drove for several seething minutes before she picked it up again and scrolled through until she found Butch’s number. He answered on the second ring. When he realized who was calling, the pleasure in his voice was unmistakable. “I was hoping you’d call long before this so I could take you to lunch.”

“I missed lunch,” she said, realizing it for the first time. “I’ve been out on a crime scene.”

“Skipping meals isn’t good for you,” he observed.

“Neither is talking to my mother.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Jenny told her that you spent the night. She’s on the warpath about it.”

“You settled her down, didn’t you?” Butch asked. “You did let her know that I slept on the couch?”

“No,” Joanna admitted. “I didn’t. I let her draw her own conclusions.”

There was silence on Butch’s end of the call. “Why did you do that?” he asked finally.

“Because I’m sick and tired of her trying to run my life; of her telling me what to do. I want Eleanor Lathrop Winfield to mind her own damned business and leave me alone.”

“Well,” Butch observed thoughtfully. “Your mother didn’t like me very much to begin with. I doubt this will improve the situation.”

“So you think I did the wrong thing?” Joanna demanded. She was beginning to think so herself, but she didn’t want Butch to share that opinion. And, if he did, she didn’t want to hear it. That would only make it worse.

“No,” he said with an easy laugh. “Not wrong. But you never choose the easy way out, do you, Joanna,” he added. “That’s one of the things I like about you—one of the things I love.”

The word slipped out so smoothly, so naturally that for a second Joanna wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

“Oops,” he said. “That probably counts as pushing, and I promised you I wouldn’t—push, that is. Especially not over the phone.”

Joanna’s initial reaction was to tell him to take it back, to unsay it. And yet, if she didn’t want him to care about her and if she didn’t already care about him, what the hell was the fight with her mother all about?

Joanna took a deep breath and decided to sidestep the issue. “Mother’s position is that if we’re sleeping together, we ought to be getting married or we should already be married. She also thinks, because of Jenny, that it’s far too soon for us to even think about such a thing.”

“In other words, we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” Butch said.

“Right.”

“See?” he said. “Like mother, like daughter. Eleanor Winfield isn’t known for taking easy positions, either. Has either one of you thought about asking Jenny for her opinion?”

“Butch, she’s only eleven. What does she know?”

“You might be surprised,” he said. “Now if we’re not having lunch, why are you calling?”

“Is Jenny there?”

Lowell, the school Jenny attended, was only three blocks from Butch’s newly refurbished house in Bisbee’s Saginaw neighborhood. On days when she didn’t have after-school activities, she usually went to Butch’s house to have a snack, do her homework, and hang out until Joanna got off work and could come pick her up.

“She’s up the street riding her bike. Do you want me to go find her, or do you want to leave a message?”

“A message will be fine. Tell her I’m on my way to Tombstone to check on a crime scene investigation, and I’ll probably have to stop off in Saint David on the way. It may be late before I get there to pick her up.”

“Don’t worry,” Butch said. “She can stay as long as she likes. I’m making a pot of beef-and-cabbage soup. Soup and freshly baked bread are always a winning combination on a cold winter’s evening. There’ll be plenty for you, too, when you get here.”

“Thanks, Butch,” Joanna said. “By then I’m sure I’ll be hungry. I have to hang up now. I need to make another call.”

“Take care,” Butch said.

“I will.”

Joanna drove down I-10 all the while rehashing both conversations. Butch had slipped that four-letter word into the conversation so unobtrusively that she might well have missed it altogether. Still, he had said it—had admitted aloud that he loved her. Now the ball was in Joanna’s court. Was she going to let their affair grow into something more? Did she love him back or not? And if so, how long before she’d be ready to admit it to herself, to say nothing of anyone else, including her own mother?

Turning off the freeway in Benson, Joanna belatedly realized that she still hadn’t called Father Mulligan. She used the pause at one of Benson’s two red lights to key his number into her phone. He must have been waiting beside the phone. Joanna’s call was answered after only one ring.

“Father Thomas Mulligan here.”

“It’s Sheriff Brady,” she told him. “I’m returning your call. What can I do for you?”

Joanna had met Father Mulligan when she had come to Saint David for a Drug Awareness Resistance Education meeting, along with her department’s DARE officer, earlier in the fall. Joanna had been surprised to encounter the man at an evening PTA meeting in the local public elementary school, since he was prior of a Catholic monastery in a largely Mormon community. She had also been surprised to learn that the priest himself had been instrumental in raising money to fund that year’s worth of DARE activities and prizes in the community.

“We’ve got a little problem here.”

“What kind of problem?” Joanna asked.

“Well, we had our annual autumn arts and crafts fair here over the weekend.”

“Yes, I know,” Joanna said. “My department helped out with traffic control, remember?”

“That’s right. Of course I remember. And there was absolutely no difficulty with that. Your officers were terrific.”

“So what’s the trouble then?”

“It’s a lost-and-found problem.”

Joanna knew that in the aftermath of local festivals, rodeos, and fairs, lost-and-found items could include everything from livestock to motor homes.

“What happened?” she asked. “Did somebody wander off and forget they left a Bounder parked in your RV-park?”

Father Mulligan didn’t laugh. “Actually,” he said seriously, “it’s a bit worse than that. And since I know you personally, I thought you’d be the right person to call to discuss it.”

“So what is it?” Joanna asked.

The priest took a deep breath. “Someone left their son here,” he said. “His name is Junior. I found him in the church this morning before mass. He must have slept there overnight.”

“You need to call CPS,” Joanna said at once. “Child Protective Services has case workers who are trained to take charge of abandoned children. They get them into foster care, locate their parents, that kind of thing. The sheriff’s department just isn’t equipped—”

“He’s not a child,” Father Mulligan interrupted. “I can’t tell you exactly how old he is. He could be fifty or so, maybe even older. He told me his name—his first name—and that’s about it. He couldn’t give us his parents’ names or the name of the town where he lives. I checked to see if he was carrying any kind of identification, but he wasn’t. And then I thought maybe there’d be some identifying mark sewn into his clothing, maybe on the labels. But there aren’t any labels on his clothing, Sheriff Brady. They’ve all been removed. I think someone cut them out on purpose, so we’d have no way of following a trail and finding out where they and he came from.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Joanna asked. “I can’t very well put him in jail.”

“You might have to,” Father Mulligan said. “He was all right at breakfast this morning, probably because he was famished. But at lunchtime he was agitated. As near as we could tell, he wanted his mother. He wanted to know where she was and when she was coming for him. I had a meeting right after lunch. I left one of the sisters in charge of Junior. I thought he could sit quietly in the library and look at books. He got restless, though, and wanted to go outside. When Sister Ambrose told him he couldn’t do that, he knocked her down and went outside anyway. I found him wading in the reflecting pond, chasing the fish. So you see, we can’t keep him here. It’s not that we’re uncharitable or unchristian, but some of the brothers and sisters are quite elderly. They can’t be expected to handle someone like that—someone that unpredictable.”

“No,” Joanna agreed, “I suppose not. I’m on my way, Father Mulligan. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m just now crossing the San Pedro River on the far side of Saint David.”

She ended the call and immediately radioed into the department and spoke to Dispatch. “Do we have any missing persons reports on a developmentally disabled male named Junior, forty-five to fifty-five years old, and last seen at the Saint David Arts and Crafts Fair yesterday afternoon?”

“Nothing like that,” Larry Kendrick, Cochise County’s lead dispatcher, told her. “Why?”

Joanna gave Larry a brief summary of everything Father Mulligan had told her. “What are you going to do with him?” Larry asked when Joanna finished.

“I don’t know yet.”

“It sounds like it could be iffy for you to handle this alone. Do you want me to send out a deputy?”

“Who’s available?” Joanna asked.

“Nobody right this minute,” Larry replied. “We’ve had a bit of a problem out at Sierra Vista. Those environmental activists showed up on the Oak Vista construction site right at quitting time. They came armed with sledgehammers and spikes and sugar to put in gas tanks. In other words, they came prepared to make trouble and to do as much damage to the contractor’s equipment as possible. It was quite a donnybrook. Terry Gregovich had to call for reinforcements. Dick Voland ordered every available deputy out there on the double.”

“I’m the sheriff,” Joanna said brusquely. “Why wasn’t I notified?”

“I’ve been trying to page you ever since it happened, but your pager must be off line and your cell phone’s been busy. I figured if you were in your car you would have heard the radio traffic and would have known something was up.”

Guiltily,. Joanna glared at her radio. She had turned down the volume while she was making her phone calls. And the pager, back in her purse, must have somehow turned itself off. “Sorry, Larry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be incommunicado. Should I forget about Saint David and head out to Sierra Vista?”

“No. Chief Deputy Voland was on his way to Tombstone, but now he’s going to Sierra Vista instead. He said if you called in, you’d better go check on the two teams working in Tombstone. Detective Carbajal is there, but other than that, the crime scene investigators are on their own.”

Joanna shook her head. Even with almost two hundred people working for her, the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department was chronically short-staffed. On those occasions when several major things happened at once, that chronic shortage instantly turned critical.

“All right,” she said. “Radio Chief Deputy Voland and let him know I’ll take care of Tombstone. And Saint David,” she added under her breath.

After all, someone has to do it.

When Anglos first showed up in southern Arizona, the area along the San Pedro River, a few miles south of what is now Benson, was a mosquito-infested, swampy wasteland. Despite the hardships, a few hardy souls had settled there. When a severe earthquake rocked the Sonora Desert on May 3, 1887, no one in the Saint David area was injured, nor was there much structural damage, primarily due to the fact that so few people lived there. The non-killer quake left lasting evidence of its handiwork by instantly draining the swamp and forcing much of the San Pedro watershed underground. The former swamp turned into a fertile farmland oasis studded by ancient cottonwoods.

It was late afternoon when Joanna Brady slowed her Crown Victoria at the three wooden crosses that marked the entrance to Holy Trinity Monastery, a Benedictine retreat center beyond the eastern boundary of Saint David. The center had been there for as long as Joanna remembered. It was only as an adult that she had considered it odd for the Catholic Diocese in Tucson to have established a retreat center in the middle of Mormon farming country in southeastern Arizona.

Nestled under the San Pedro’s towering cottonwoods, the monastery contained a small, jewel-like church—Our Lady of Guadalupe—a bird sanctuary, a pecan orchard, an RV park, and a library/museum, as well as a used-clothing thrift store. Living quarters for monks, sisters, and resident lay workers consisted of a collection of mobile homes clustered about the property in a haphazard manner. Throughout the year Holy Trinity held Christian Renewal retreats for various groups from the Catholic Church. Twice a year—spring and autumn—the monastery hosted a fund-raising arts festival and fair.

Shimmering golden leaves captured the setting sun and reflected off the surface of a shallow pond as Joanna parked in front of the church. As soon as she switched off the ignition, a tall, angular man in a long white robe and sandals came flapping out of the church to meet her.

“I’m so glad you came right away, Sheriff Brady,” Father Thomas Mulligan said. “I’ve been quite concerned.”

“The sister who was left with him wasn’t hurt, was she?”

“No,” Father Mulligan said. “She bruised her elbow when he knocked her down, but other than that she’s fine.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the church. There are lots of lighted candles in the sanctuary, and he seems to like them.”

“Is it safe to leave him there alone?” Joanna asked.

“He isn’t alone. Brother Joseph is with him. Back when Brother Joseph was a high school gym teacher, he taught judo. According to him, judo is like riding a bike. You never forget the moves.”

Half-trotting to keep up with Father Mulligan’s long-legged stride, Joanna followed the priest into the adobe-walled church. The setting sun, shining in through stainedglass windows, filled the small, carefully crafted sanctuary with a muted glow. Two men sat in the front pew. One was an elderly white-robed priest. The other was a wizened, hunched little man whose huge ears and doleful face reminded Joanna of an elf.

“Junior?” she said, holding out her hand.

Slowly he raised his eyes until he was staring up into her face. Politely, he held out his hand as well, but his grip barely clasped Joanna’s.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Brady.”

Without a word, Junior scooted sideways in the pew until he was huddled next to Brother Joseph. Then, burying his head in the priest’s robe, he began to moan. “Didn’t do it. Didn’t do it. Didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?” Joanna asked.

“Not bad,” Junior wailed, pressing even closer to the priest, who by then had wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders. “Junior not bad. No jail, please. No jail. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt Junior.”

Seeing that he was utterly terrified of her, Joanna stood for a moment trying to decide what to do. Then, from some far recess of memory, she recalled one sunny spring afternoon years earlier. She had been in her Brownie uniform, stationed in front of the post office in Warren, hawking Girl Scout cookies. A man had ridden up to her on a bike, a girl’s bike. He had stopped and stood beside her, staring down into her wagonload of cookies.

He had stood there for a long tune, and his silent staring presence had worried her. After all, he was wearing a badge and a bolstered gun. Joanna had been petrified that she was doing something wrong, that he was going to arrest her for it.

Then a gray-haired woman had emerged from the beauty shop next door to the post office. The man had smiled at the woman, called her Mama, and pointed at the cookies, saying he wanted some. That was when Joanna realized there was something wrong with him. That he was a grown-up who was also somehow still a child. His mother had bought a box of cookies—Thin Mints—and she had explained that her son “wasn’t quite right,” that he liked to “pretend” to be a policeman. Both the gun and the holster were toys. The sheriffs badge was a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks.

From that long-ago memory came the seed of inspiration.

“I’m not here to take you to jail,” Joanna said. “Did you ever want to play policeman?”

Junior quieted and peeked up at her from behind Brother Joseph’s robe. “Play?” Junior asked.

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Would you like to play policeman?” Reaching into her pocket, Joanna extracted her leather ID folder and handed it over to him. Inside were both her identification and her badge—the badge with the words “Serve and Protect” engraved in square gold letters. Looking at it, Junior’s eyes bulged with excitement. He fingered the metal.

“Would you like to put it on?” Joanna asked kindly. “You could wear it while we go for a ride in my car and look for your mother.”

“Junior wear it?” he repeated wonderingly. “Me wear it?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “But you’ll have to come with me. Okay?”

Junior nodded his head emphatically, eagerly. “Me wear. Me wear. Put on. Put on now.”

Carefully Joanna pinned the badge to the pocket of Junior’s shirt. “All right now, can you raise your right hand?”

Both hands shot high in the air. “Do you swear to be a good deputy, Junior?” Joanna asked.

Junior’s face split into a wide smile and he jumped to his feet. “Me good,” he said. “Junior very good de-de-deputy.” It took several times before he could finally make his lips form the unfamiliar word. “Go now,” he added. “Go right now. Get in car.”

“Right,” Joanna said. “We’ll go get in the car.”

Junior raced down the aisle, with Joanna and Father Mulligan following behind. “That was very impressive,” the priest said under his breath. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Desperation,” she told him. “Desperation plain and simple.”