Partner In Crime (27 page)

Joanna nodded. “Dee Canfield is dead, Harve,” she said. “Some boys found her body in an abandoned house down in Naco several hours ago, but that’s not for public knowledge just yet. We need to notify her family.”

Harve sighed and nodded sagely. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “In fact, I pro’ly should have said as much to that other detective of yours when I talked to him earlier this afternoon, but I’m no gossip. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You talked to Detective Carbajal today?” Joanna asked.

“Oh, no. Not Jaime—that other fellow, the big one with the salt-and-pepper crew cut. He must be new. I don’t remember ever seein’ him around before. Can’t tell you his name, but I’m sure you know who I mean.”

Joanna knew exactly whom Harvey Dowd meant.
Mr. Beaumont, I presume,
she thought.

“What all did you tell him?” she asked.

“Nothin’ much. About that fight the other day, the one you had to break up. I was surprised that he didn’t seem to know nothin’ about it.”

I’m not,
Joanna thought.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him this afternoon,” she said innocently. “Did you tell him anything else I should know about? Or have you seen anything unusual going on around the gallery in the last day or two?”

Harvey Dowd took a final, thoughtful drag on the end of his cigarette, then he dropped the stub into the gutter and ground it out with the sole of his boot. “Had a long talk again this evening with that nice black lady, the one whose sister was killed down in Naco earlier this week. She keeps coming by hoping to get a look at her sister’s paintings, but, of course, nobody’s been there.”

Cornelia Lester,
Joanna thought.

“She was all wore out from walking so far uphill,” Harve Dowd continued. “She’s from Georgia, you see. She’s not accustomed to this here elevation of ours. My shop was closed for the day, but I let her come in and sit a spell in one of my old rockers until she got her breath back. I offered to bring my car down from the parking lot and give her a ride back to the hotel, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said walking was fine.”

Harve paused long enough to shake another cigarette out of his pack of Camels. “What about that boyfriend of Dee’s?” he asked.

“So far there’s no sign of him,” Joanna answered.

Sheltering a flickering match with his cupped hand, Harvey Dowd lit his next cigarette. “Not surprised,” he drawled when he finished. “I’m guessing you’re not gonna find him, either. Never did like Warren Gibson much. Struck me as sort of underhanded, know what I mean? Didn’t seem like the type who’d stick around if there was any sign of trouble. I knew as soon as I heard the ruckus that Bobo Jenkins meant trouble.”

“You think Warren Gibson is underhanded?” Joanna asked. “What makes you say that?”

“When I’m out prospecting in the desert, which I do every now and again, I sometimes get this funny feeling. I call it feeling snaky. It’s like my body is picking up signals that I can’t see or hear, but it’s tryin’ to let me know all the same; tryin’ to tell me there’s a rattlesnake out there somewhere, and I’d best be careful. First time or two it happened, I ignored it and damned near got myself bit. Then I learned to pay attention. Now I stop and look around until I find the snake before it finds me.

“Warren Gibson’s the first human being ever who gives me that same kind of snaky feeling. It happened right off, the first time Dee introduced us, and for no real reason I can explain.”

“He makes you feel snaky?” Joanna asked, trying keep the disbelief out of her voice.

Harvey Dowd nodded. “Not exactly the same, but sort of. Like he’s dangerous or somethin’, although he never done nothin’ to me and never said anything out of line, so I could be mistaken about the man. Like I said, it’s just a feelin’.”

“Did you ever mention any of this to Deidre Canfield?”

Harve shook his head. “Did you ever have any dealings with that woman?”

“A few,” Joanna replied.

“I liked old Dee well enough, but she could be a screaming meemie when she wanted to. She seemed to think the sun rose and set on that man of hers, so far be it from me to try to tell her otherwise. Like I told you before, I’m not the gossipin’ kind. If I’d a told Dee Canfield that Warren was two-timing her, she would’ve bit my head clean off.”

“Two-timing?” Joanna asked. “Are you saying you saw Warren Gibson with another woman?”

“Didn’t see,” Harvey Dowd corrected. “Heard. Maybe not even heard, either, as far as that goes, but I’m as sure of it as I’m standing here. Why else would someone, with a perfectly good phone at home and another one right there in the gallery, spend so much time standing around on Main Street yakkin’ away on a pay phone? Maybe I’m all wet. Maybe it’s not a girlfriend, but I saw him talking on those pay phones down by the post office a lot—well out of Dee’s sight, you see. And what crossed my mind at the time was that, whoever it was he was talking to and whatever he was up to, he sure as hell didn’t want Dee Canfield to know about it.”

Joanna knew that Frank Montoya would be looking at the phone records for both the gallery and Dee Canfield’s house, but without Harve Dowd’s tip, no one would have thought to check the pair of pay phones on Main Street.

Thanking Harvey Dowd for his help, Joanna stuck her head into the gallery long enough to let Casey Ledford know where she was going. Then she got back into the car and drove down to the post office, where two waist-high public telephones stood side by side. After jotting down all the numbers, she radioed them into Dispatch, asking Tica to pass them along to Frank Montoya so he could ask for phone logs as soon as possible.

With that call completed, Joanna started to return to Castle Rock Gallery but changed her mind. The more people who showed up at a potential crime scene, the greater the potential for contamination, and the longer it would take for Casey and Ken Junior to process the place.

Across the street, through a tiny park, and up a concrete stairway, Joanna glimpsed the creamy-lit facade of Bisbee’s Copper Queen Hotel. Inside the hotel Joanna knew she would find Cornelia Lester. Latisha Wall’s sister was someone who had yet to have a face-to-face visit from the Cochise County sheriff. Joanna owed the woman that much courtesy, and some information as well.

With a sigh, Joanna put her Crown Victoria in gear and headed for the hotel. Once there, she stopped at the desk and asked for Cornelia Lester’s room. “She’s not there,” the clerk responded. “She’s right around the corner on the far side of the stairs.”

Walking around the sheltering stairway, Joanna saw a large African-American woman sitting on a leather-backed chair speaking to someone. Reluctant to interrupt, Joanna paused for a moment—long enough to see that the person opposite Cornelia Lester was none other than Special Investigator Beaumont.

All afternoon, the man had dogged her heels. Now he was interviewing Latisha Wall’s sister. Refusing to give way to a budding temper tantrum and steeling herself to be civil, Joanna stepped forward. “Good evening, Mr. Beaumont,” she said as she walked past him. She stopped in front of the woman. “You must be Cornelia Lester,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your sister.”

I
F LOOKS COULD KILL
, I would have keeled over dead when Joanna Brady walked into the lobby of the Copper Queen Hotel and shook hands with Cornelia Lester.

“Thank you,” Cornelia said graciously. “I take it you and Mr. Beaumont here already know each other?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve met.” Her cool response was less than enthusiastic.

Settling into a nearby chair, Joanna leaned toward Cornelia as she spoke again. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Lester, but we’ve had another homicide this evening. Actually, I’m guessing that the death happened a day or so ago, but we’ve only just now discovered the body.”

Cornelia Lester didn’t blink. “Who?” she asked.

“Deidre Canfield.”

“The woman who owns the gallery?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes.”

“If she’s dead, too,” Cornelia speculated, “and if she and my sister were friends, then her death must have something to do with Tizzy’s, don’t you think? I’m sorry, Sheriff Brady. I mean with Latisha’s. Tizzy is what we always called my sister back home. But tell me, please, is there any progress now?”

Joanna glanced at me before she answered. “Not much,” she admitted. “We have only preliminary autopsy results for your sister at the moment. We believe she ingested some kind of poison, which may have been placed in your sister’s iced tea.”

“Who did it?” Cornelia asked. For her it was a simple question that should have had an equally simple answer—one Joanna Brady was currently unable to give.

“At this point, Ms. Lester, I’m afraid we have no viable suspects. My investigators are working on it, of course, but it’s still very early.”

“If it was in Tizzy’s tea, could it be a random-tampering case that has nothing to do with Tizzy being in the witness protection program?”

I have to give the lady credit. Cornelia asked tough questions. Joanna shook her head. “We can’t say one way or the other.”

“What are the chances that this second dead woman—this Deidre Canfield who was supposedly Tizzy’s friend—was somehow connected to the people who ran UPPI, the people Tizzy was so afraid were going to try to kill her?”

“That is a possibility,” Joanna conceded. “So far we’ve found nothing that would bolster that theory.”

“What about this?” Cornelia asked. “First they use Deidre Canfield to get to my sister, and then, with Tizzy gone, they get rid of Dee Canfield, too. Those UPPI folks are not nice people, Sheriff Brady.”

“I’m convinced your sister was right to be scared,” Joanna agreed. “But as for Deidre Canfield being tied in with them, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“What about Tizzy’s boyfriend then?” Cornelia asked, switching directions. “What’s his name again?”

“Jenkins,” Joanna supplied, glaring at me. “His name is Bobo Jenkins, but I must object to Mr. Beaumont here giving you access to confidential information. He may be a special investigator with the Washington State Attorney General’s Office, but he has no business . . .”

Oops. I should have come clean with Cornelia Lester and told her who I was. Now the cat was out of the bag. My ears reddened under her shrewdly appraising look.

“Mr. Beaumont?” she said finally. “Why, he never told me a thing about Mr. Jenkins. It was that nice man up at the antiques store. What’s his name again?”

“Harvey Dowd?” I asked tentatively.

Joanna Brady shot another baleful look in my direction. I had noticed earlier that her eyes were a vivid shade of green. In the dim light of the hotel lobby, however, they looked more like chips of slate.

“That’s right,” Cornelia said with a nod that somehow conveyed she had forgiven me my sin of omission. “Harvey Dowd is the one. He gave me to understand that Mr. Jenkins has quite a temper. He told me about a serious confrontation of some kind up at the gallery the other day—serious enough that police officers had to intervene.”

“That’s true,” Joanna said. “There was a confrontation. In fact, I’m the one who broke it up, but in Mr. Jenkins’s defense, you have to understand that he had just learned of your sister’s death—the death of the woman he had known as Rochelle Baxter and whom he had cared about deeply. When he discovered that Deidre Canfield still planned to go ahead with her grand-opening party, he was outraged. And when he learned Dee was raising the prices on the pictures . . .”

“Raising the prices?”

“Yes. Her position was that, with the artist dead, the few paintings that did exist would be that much more valuable. Mr. Jenkins took exception to that. He thought the show should be canceled and the pictures turned over to their rightful owners—the artist’s family.”

“He wanted the paintings returned to us?” Cornelia asked.

Joanna nodded. “That’s what the big fuss at Castle Rock Gallery that morning was all about.”

“He was trying to keep the gallery from selling them?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “So they could be given to you.”

Cornelia Lester shook her head thoughtfully. “Mr. Dowd didn’t say a word about that,” she said, after a moment.

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I’m sure he didn’t, because he didn’t know it.”

Cornelia Lester sighed. “I’ve never met Mr. Jenkins, but when I do, I owe him an apology and my thanks. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’d better go on upstairs and go to bed. My body’s still on East Coast time. I’m running out of steam.”

She used the arms of the deep leather chair to raise herself to her feet. “There’s a lot more I’d like to discuss with you, Sheriff Brady, but not tonight. I’m just not up to it.”

“I understand,” Joanna said. “I know you already have my phone numbers. Feel free to call anytime.”

Nodding, Cornelia started toward the elevator. As she rounded the stairs, she stopped and turned back to us. “By the way,” she added. “I’m glad to know you and Mr. Beaumont are working on this situation together, Sheriff Brady. It gives me a lot more confidence that something will come of it.”