Tombstone Courage (13 page)

“T
HE SCRATCHES
don't show all that much,” was Eva Lou Brady's practical and unperturbed assessment of her daughter-in-law's appearance after viewing the videotaped version of Joanna's late-night victory speech. “Your eye looks real funny, though.”

“It doesn't feel very funny,” Joanna returned.

The previous night's fall had taken its toll. Gulping ibuprofen for her sore and stiffened muscles, Joanna had limped over to her in-laws' house that morning and gratefully accepted Eva Lou Brady's pampering breakfast that included eggs and bacon, mashed-potato patties, and hot homemade buttermilk biscuits. There was no hurry. Milo had ordered her to take the whole day off. With pay.

Using all the makeup tricks at her disposal, Joanna had done her best to camouflage the damage done to her face, but not even Helen Barco's considerable skill with foundation and blush could have successfully masked the purplish bruise that blossomed garishly beneath Joanna's right eye.

Carrying coat and schoolbooks, Jennifer stopped in front of her mother and studied her face with an unsmiling and reproachful gaze. “You promised
you'd be careful,” she said. “Scout's honor, you said.”

Those accusatory words were the first ones Jennifer had spoken to her mother that morning. “People were in danger,” Joanna answered. “I was afraid someone might get hurt.”

“It could of been you,” Jennifer shot back.

“Could
have
,” Joanna corrected reflexively.

“Have,” Jennifer repeated woodenly, scowling.

“Jenny, are you ready?” her grandfather called from the front door. “I don't want to be late.”

“Where's he going?” Joanna asked.

“Search and Rescue called this morning,” said Eva Lou. “Harold Patterson's turned up missing. With all the excitement last night, it took awhile for someone to figure out that his car was there in the convention-center lot, but he was nowhere to be found. He wasn't at home, either, so they're talking about organizing a search. Jim Bob wants to go to the meeting, since he's a whole lot better at talking these days than he is at searching.”

“Where are they going to look?”

“Out on the ranch, I guess, although since his car was in town, seems to me like that would be the first place they'd look.” Eva Lou sipped her coffee. “Those Pattersons do seem to be having their troubles, don't they?”

“They do that,” Eva Lou's daughter-in-law agreed.

Joanna had only seen the car as it careened toward them. Burton Kimball, standing off to the side, had insisted in his statement that the vehicle in question belonged to Rex Rogers, his cousin's
out-of-town attorney, and that the driver of the Allanté was none other than Holly herself. Joanna was more than mildly curious about what was going on, but she had no real official recourse, and she wasn't about to call up Dick Voland to ask him.

While Joanna scarfed down her breakfast, Eva Lou Brady poured two more cups of coffee and then sat down across the table. “What's Jenny so bent out of shape about?” she asked.

“Remember last night when Jenny said she didn't want me to win the election?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she's worried about me, afraid something bad will happen to me, just like it did to Andy.”

“Makes sense,” Eva Lou said. “And with your face all tore up the way it is, I can see why she might have some cause.”

“Eva Lou,” Joanna objected, “what happened last night could have happened to anyone. When there's an emergency like that, you do what you have to do because you're a person, because you care what happens to other people. It has nothing whatever to do with whether or not you've been elected sheriff.”

“True enough, I suppose,” Eva Lou agreed. “I mean, if a Methodist minister can end up in the hospital with a concussion, I guess it really could happen to anybody. How is Marianne, by the way?”

“They only kept her for observation. Jeff says they'll most likely let her out sometime today.”

After that, an awkward and unusual silence
seemed to spring up between the two women. Eva Lou Brady was the one who finally broke it.

“Lord knows I don't mean to pry, Joanna, but I have to ask. Have you made any kind of arrangements for Jenny? I mean, with this new job and all, what if something awful
did
happen? Jim Bob and I could take Jenny in if we had to, but we shouldn't. It wouldn't be good for her in the long run. She needs somebody younger, someone more your age.”

Joanna dropped her gaze and didn't answer. That in itself was answer enough. She hadn't made any such arrangements, although she understood all too well the ramifications of not doing so. Rewriting her will and appointing potential guardians to care for Jennifer were two of the nagging loose ends of her life. In the awful aftermath of Andy's death, those were two distasteful yet essential tasks she had not yet found courage enough to face.

“Maybe,” Eva Lou continued, not unkindly, “once you do get all those details straightened out, you should talk them over with Jenny. She's a smart little girl. I think just knowing you've handled things and prepared for the worst would make her feel better, less alone. After all, both of your lives had been put through a wringer. I don't blame her for being scared.”

“No,” Joanna said, with a rueful shake of her head. “I don't blame her, either.”

The phone rang, and Eva Lou hurried to answer it. The caller was none other than Marianne Maculyea looking for Joanna. “When there wasn't any
answer out at the house, I figured I'd find you at the Bradys'. How's the candidate…? Excuse me, how's the sheriff doing this morning?”

“The sheriff-elect is stiff as a board,” Joanna returned. “Rolling around on sidewalks isn't good for me. I hurt in places I didn't know I owned. And I've got a shiner where you clipped me under the eye. How are you?”

Marianne laughed, sounding far more chipper than she should have. “Bored stiff. Ready to be out of here. If it comes down to a contest of who's more hardheaded, it's a toss-up. You've only got a black eye. They thought I had a concussion.”

“Let's call it even,” Joanna said, laughing into the phone herself, and starting to feel a little better. Maybe the painkillers were finally starting to do their stuff—the painkillers and, of course, a great breakfast. “What's on your agenda today?” she asked.

“The doctor says I'll be out by noon. It's time for me to get out of the campaign-manager business and go back to being just plain Pastor Maculyea,” Marianne replied. “But I wouldn't have missed this election for the world. It's been fun, hasn't it?”

“I'm not sure 'fun' is the word that applies. How's Linda Kimball doing?”

“Fine. They didn't even keep her overnight. Just put her arm in a brace and a sling and sent her home,” Marianne answered. “By the way,” she added after a pause, “speaking of the Patterson clan, have you heard anything more about Harold?”

“Just that they still haven't found him. Grandpa Brady left here a little while ago to go work on organizing a search.”

“He's dead, isn't he?” Marianne asserted quietly.

Joanna had been too preoccupied with her own concerns to give Harold Patterson's unexplained disappearance that much thought. Marianne's blunt pronouncement brought it home.

“Why do you say that?”

“I talked to Ivy just a little while ago. She wasn't home last night, either. I'm not sure what's going on, because she mentioned something about moving into an apartment. But she also said she went by the Rocking P early this morning. The city cops were getting ready to ticket Harold's Scout, so she drove it home and discovered that no one had done the chores. Based on that alone, Burton Kimball talked Judge Moore into granting a continuance.”

“Oh,” Joanna said.

Farmers and ranchers are among the last of the world's day-trippers. Their lives are like yo-yos with strings that stretch only as far as they can travel between morning and evening chores. If Harold Patterson had now missed both evening and morning chores, that was serious.

“You're right,” Joanna agreed. “Either he's dead or he's badly hurt. He's a tough old coot. It would take something serious to get that man down.”

“Heart attack, maybe?” Marianne suggested.

“I saw him yesterday morning,” Joanna said,

“at the office. Now that you mention it, he did seem awfully upset.”

“I guess we'll just have to hope for the best,” Marianne said. “Now, what about you? What are your plans?”

“Milo gave me the day off. I don't think he wants someone who looks this awful beautifying his office. I'm due to go see Dick Voland a little later. One of the deputies took my statement last night. They're supposed to have it typed up by this morning so I can sign it.”

“Why one of the deputies instead of one of the city cops?” Marianne asked. “After all, it happened inside the city limits.”

“I think it was so hectic, they just passed out numbers, and whoever drew yours, that was it. Some people got city cops; some ended up with deputies.”

“Speaking of deputies, did you talk to Dick Voland after the final election results came in?” Marianne asked. “You won by such a landslide that he's probably not a very happy camper this morning.”

“I haven't seen him since the party. He and Al ducked out as soon as they saw the way the vote was going and that there was no way for Freeman to catch up. Frank Montoya stayed around long enough to concede and shake my hand.”

“I wish I could have seen the look on Dick Voland's face when he finally figured out you were going to win. Do you think he'll quit before you take office, or will you have to fire him?”

“Fire him? Why would I do that?”

“Joanna,” Marianne said severely, “haven't you been listening to all the things that man had been saying about you out on the campaign trail? I have. I'm afraid he'll try to undermine you every step of the way.”

Joanna had been listening, but most of what Chief Deputy Voland had said in the previous six weeks Joanna had chalked up to campaign rhetoric. Voland had spent years working for the previous administration, much of that as second in command. So far, independent investigators had turned up no connections between Voland and any of the departmental drug-related skulduggery. He had been clean enough for the county board of supervisors to appoint him acting sheriff until a new one could be elected.

Personally, Joanna wouldn't have given Richard Voland the time of day. Around the department and directly to his face, the chief deputy was referred to by his official title. Behind his back, in unofficial circles, he was dubbed “Chief Redneck.” Voland's “good ol' boy” mindset, one that had worked with Walter V. McFadden and would have been compatible with Al Freeman, wasn't nearly as good a fit with Joanna Brady.

“Dick will be fine,” Joanna answered confidently, glossing over Marianne's concern as well as her own. “He's been around the department since my father was there. We'll wait and see if he's a problem.”

Joanna and Marianne might have talked longer if one of the nurses hadn't showed up with a thermometer and a blood-pressure cuff. Marianne got
off the line with only a hint of ill grace. Hospitals were like that.

When Joanna put down the phone, Eva Lou once more refilled their coffee cups. “I get such a kick out of your mother,” Eva Lou said thoughtfully. “Eleanor was on the phone here bright and early this morning, excited as a little kid and wondering what kind of outfit I thought you should wear to your swearing-in.”

Joanna laughed. “That's my mother for you,” she said, but a moment later all trace of laughter was gone.

“Between now and January, there should be plenty of time for us to figure out what I should wear. Not that getting a new outfit will help. Mother had a fit yesterday because she wanted me to look great for the election-night television cameras. But even after she went to all the trouble of sending me to Helen Barco for the full, deluxe treatment, I still managed to show up on the news looking like the tail end of disaster. You'd think she'd finally just give up on me, wouldn't you?”

Eva Lou Brady shook her head. “No, Joanna, mothers don't give up,” she said. “Haven't you figured that out yet? No matter what, we never, ever, quite give up.”

S
TILL FEELING
spoiled by Eva Lou's breakfast, Joanna drove down the Warren Cutoff and past the huge Lavender Pit tailings dump on her way to the new Cochise County Justice Complex two miles east of town on Highway 80. Built and furnished with the county's share of confiscated drug moneys, the pink and tan stuccoed buildings nestled in a cleft in red iron-tinted hills, while a line of stark limestone gray cliffs marched across the horizon forming a backdrop.

Andy had been working as a deputy when the new complex opened, and the new jail's ongoing difficulties had been one of the hottest campaign issues. Still, in Joanna's mind's eye, the words “sheriff's office” still meant her father's cramped and shabby digs in the old Art Deco—style county courthouse uptown.

There, seated at a scarred wooden desk, her father had ruled supreme, running a much smaller but seemingly more effective Cochise County Sheriff's Department. In terms of crime statistics, Hank Lathrop's administration put all succeeding administrations to shame.

Just for curiosity's sake, once Joanna turned off
the highway into the County Justice Complex, she played tourist and drove all the way around the whole facility—past the jail with its razor-ribbon-lined exercise yards and auto-impound lot, past the building housing the county justice courts, and around to the back parking area where a large posted sign said
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. The parking lot was only partially full, but directly behind the building the reserved spaces with a shaded canopy over them were 100 percent occupied.

The county Blazer Dick Voland usually drove was parked in the spot marked
CHIEF DEPUTY
. His personal car—a late-model Buick Regal—sat squarely in the spot reserved for
SHERIFF
. From that space, a separate and seemingly private walkway led to a door that entered directly into the far back corner of the office complex.

Finding Dick Voland's car parked territorially in the sheriff's spot was probably fair enough, Joanna reasoned. He was, after all, the officially designated acting sheriff. But still, something about the way the car was parked there niggled at her, bothered her in a way she couldn't quite pin down.

Shrugging off that fleeting shadow of doubt, Joanna drove back to the designated visitor parking area at the front of the building. When she went inside and gave her name to the young woman behind the counter, the clerk didn't seem to make a connection or attach any particular significance to it. Certainly, no one in the outside office had been told to expect a possible visit from the incoming sheriff. For all the courtesy and attention lavished on her, Joanna Brady might just as well have
been a traveling ballpoint-pen salesman, with no advance appointment, wandering in off the highway for a cold call.

The clerk suggested Joanna take a seat, telling her that Mr. Voland was busy on the phone at the moment but that he would be with her as soon as possible. How soon was that? she wondered as she waited first five minutes, then ten, then fifteen.

While Joanna stewed in her own juices, the people behind the counters, apparently intent on their jobs, continued working, barely acknowledging her presence. It was almost as though she were invisible. After a while, impatient and unable to sit still any longer, Joanna got up and roamed the lobby, pacing over to the long lighted display case that decorated the spacious room's back wall.

There, among a collection of photos dating back to Arizona's territorial days, Joanna found the official portrait of her late father, Sheriff D. H. “Big Hank” Lathrop. She had seen the display before, but seeing her father's picture there among the others caught her by surprise and made Joanna wonder what her father's reaction would be if he could see her now. Would he be proud of her for running and ultimately winning the election? Would he understand why she did it, or would he be puzzled or upset or even disappointed? Without having the opportunity to know him as an adult, there was no way for his daughter to guess at his possible reactions.

Afraid to return to her seat for fear her tumbling emotions might betray her, Joanna examined the entire display, carefully reading through an encap
sulated and officially photographed history of the Cochise County Sheriff's Department. The last photo in the group, the one on the far right, was also the newest one—a portrait of Walter V. McFadden. Next to his was a blank spot.

With a lump in her throat, Joanna realized that, had things been different, Andy's picture most likely would have hung there eventually. Now that spot would be hers instead, filled no doubt by the picture she'd used for her campaign brochure.

Realizing that eventually her picture would be there with her father's did something to her—stiffened her spine and strengthened her resolve. Most of those previous sheriffs of Cochise County had been fine, upright citizens, doing the best job they could under whatever difficult circumstances had been handed them.

Her father, Big Hank Lathrop, had been a straight shooter in every sense of the word. In his book of sherifflike behavior, scheduled appointments always came first, taking precedence over everything else—including the always unscheduled demands of a ringing telephone.

And thinking about that reminded her of stories Andy had related to her from time to time, stories about how Dick Voland was prone to throwing his considerable weight around. He had sometimes bragged about leaving people with appointments cooling their heels in the lobby for as long as he wanted. For the fun of it. Because he felt like it. Because he could.

By the time Joanna turned away from the display case, twenty minutes had passed, and her
temper was on the rise. More than 140 people were employed by the Cochise County Sheriff's Department. Once she was sworn into office—whether in one week or after the standard two months—she would be those employees' chief administrator. Their boss. And whether they liked it or not, some things about the Sheriff's Department were about to change.

Joanna hit the wall at exactly twenty-three minutes and counting. She left off pacing in front of the display case and started for the outside door just as Dick Voland sauntered into the waiting room carrying an unsightly brown-stained mug filled with newly poured black coffee.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he drawled casually. “Got tied up on the phone and just couldn't get away.”

“That's all right,” Joanna returned coolly. “I'm sure you're very busy.”

Noisily sipping away, Dick Voland nodded sagely, making no move to invite Joanna away from the public part of the building.

“What with everything that went on overnight, I'm afraid we're a little behind on our paper,” he said. “I just checked with the transcription clerk. She hasn't had a chance to get cracking on any of last night's work yet. She says it'll probably be another fifteen or twenty minutes, if you don't mind waiting that long.”

Joanna was taller than Dick Voland expected, and she caught sight of the supposedly well-concealed smirk that leaked out over the top rim of his coffee mug. Seeing the look, Joanna Brady
knew intuitively that Marianne Maculyea was right, and she was wrong.

Dick Voland's being a professional law-enforcement officer made not the slightest difference. His car being parked in the sheriff's space outside and not in the chief deputy's was in fact, an open declaration of war. He knew it, she knew it, and so did all the people toiling away in the outer office. The same thing went for being kept waiting.

“That's unfortunate,” she said without raising her voice. “I didn't really have a spare half hour when I arrived here twenty-four minutes ago. I have even less now. I came here as a courtesy to sign that statement. If I still happen to be here when it's ready, I'll be happy to sign it. Otherwise, you'll have to have someone from here bring it to me.”

Her curt response wasn't quite what Dick Voland expected. The self-satisfied smirk faded.

“I do have another minute or so, however,” Joanna continued without giving him an opportunity to respond. “If you don't mind, I'd like to get an advance look at my office.”

Dick Voland might have read the election results in the newspaper. He might have seen them on television. But Joanna Brady saw the man's face at the moment her words hit home, when the reality of the election outcome finally sank in.

His jaw stiffened. “You mean right now?”

A moment before, no one else in the public area had showed the slightest interest in Joanna Brady, but now an almost electric charge seemed to crackle through the room. Every eye and ear was
aimed in their direction, hanging breathlessly on every gesture, every word. It was a test of wills, a critical first step that Joanna Brady could ill afford to fail.

She smiled. “Of course I mean now.”

Without moving, Dick Voland stared back at her. Joanna stood still and waited.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled irritably, reaching for the hefty key ring that dangled from his belt. “This way.” Frowning, Voland unlocked the door, opened it, and then stepped back, holding it open for Joanna to enter. “After you,” he said with a slightly exaggerated and too-polite bow.

Joanna recognized the implications at once. It was a none-too-subtle issue of control, of who was in charge and who wasn't. Someone who hadn't grown up as the daughter of a sheriff might not have paid any attention, might not have caught it, but Joanna did.

In the world of law enforcement, prisoners walk in front; guards follow. Suspects walk in front; police officers follow. The person in the back is the one in charge, the one calling the shots. Nobody ever forgets that, not for a moment.

“No,” she said, still smiling and stepping aside. “You lead the way.”

Seconds passed—it might have been eons—while neither of them moved and while the whole office waited to see the outcome. Finally, with a disgusted shake of his head, Dick Voland gave in and lumbered off ahead of her.

Not daring to let down her guard, Joanna kept her shoulders ramrod straight as she followed him
down the hall. She might have won the first minor skirmish. No doubt, the people in the front office would be talking about it for days to come. But it was a damn long way from winning a single battle to winning the war.

And it was another long way from winning the election to winning your stripes.

Joanna followed Dick Voland down a hallway to the far back corner of the building, where he led her into a suite of comfortable offices built around a common reception area. The upholstered furnishings—a couch and several side chairs—were from the
nouvelle
Southwest school of design—dusty roses and browns and turquoises. Brass-and-glass coffee and end tables created the atmosphere of an upscale attorney's office.

Everything about the place was a far cry from what Joanna remembered of D. H. Lathrop's old industrially furnished courthouse days. Back then, scarred wooden chairs and battered gray metal desks had been the order of the day.

A slim blonde sat at a spacious desk in the common reception room, busily typing on a computer terminal. As she typed, she leaned forward and frowned nearsightedly at the screen. Joanna suspected that she needed glasses but was too vain to wear them. D. H. Lathrop's four-by-four secretary—Miss Imogene Wyatt of the Coke-bottle glasses—had been every bit as industrial strength and no-nonsense as the serviceable old courthouse furniture.

Sensing that someone had entered the room, the young woman glanced up from her screen. Seeing
Dick Voland, she grinned at him knowingly as soon as he walked through the doorway. “Well?” she said with a coyly raised eyebrow. “How'd it go with the dragon lady?”

Joanna managed to glimpse the almost imperceptible movement of Dick Voland's head. The warning shake may well have been accompanied by a cautioning wink. If so, it was outside Joanna's sight line. Obviously, the secretary had missed it as well.

“Kristin,” Dick Voland said hurriedly, “I'd like you to meet Joanna Brady. The new sheriff. At least she will be.”

Instantly, the grin disappeared from Kristin's impeccably made-up face. “Oh,” she said, scrambling uncertainly to her feet as Joanna came into view. “Glad to meet you.”

I'll bet, Joanna thought.

When the long-legged young woman stood up, the hem of her eye-popping leather miniskirt barely skimmed the surface of her desk. Joanna sometimes wore short-shorts that were longer than that almost nonexistent skirt.

Pointedly leaving the staring to Dick Voland, Joanna held out her hand. For a moment, a look of utter confusion washed over the younger woman's startled features. Obviously, the “dragon lady” hadn't been expected to venture uninvited down the hall. When Kristin finally came to her senses, she had presence of mind enough to offer her own hand.

After the weeks she'd spent practicing on the campaign trail, Joanna's handshaking skills were
considerable. She took no small pleasure in firmly grasping Kristin's limp, flaccid fingers. Smiling cheerfully, Joanna thoroughly ground Kristin's knuckles into one another. She pretended not to hear the satisfying crunch of bone on bone and seemed not to notice the surprised wince of pain that darted across the younger woman's petulant features.

“What did you say your name was?” Joanna asked.

“Kristin Marsten.”

“And how long have you been working here, Miss Marsten?” Joanna inquired formally.

“I started out as a clerk/intern last summer,” Kristin answered. “The old secretary/receptionist quit a few weeks ago. Mr. Voland asked me to work in here for a while, to fill in on a temporary basis.”

“I see,” Joanna said. And she did, too.

She glanced around the room, assimilating all the details at once. Several separate doors opened off the reception area. A light was on in the far corner office, the one with the private walkway and private door leading in from the sheriff's designated parking place. Without having to be told, Joanna knew that was the office she was looking for, but she asked anyway, just for form's sake.