Tombstone Courage (21 page)

Leaving the sheriff to find her own way out, Amy turned and hurried back up the stairs. As Joanna drove out through
Casa Vieja
's swinging
iron gates, she was thinking about what Amy had said concerning Holly's past drug use.

Was Holly Patterson really having drug-related flashbacks, or were her mental problems something else entirely, something more closely related to what had gone haywire with her mother years ago? Had Emily Patterson's mental instability passed genetically from mother to daughter?

Actually, from what Joanna personally had seen and heard during the course of the last few days, all the Patterson women seemed to be several bubbles out of plumb.

It was only after she had started down Cole Avenue toward the Warren Cutoff that Joanna remembered what she had forgotten to mention. Holly Patterson had been so upset by the news about her father that Joanna had failed to bring up the existence of that other victim.

What exactly was the connection between those two bodies? Joanna wondered. Surely, more than sheer coincidence had caused both corpses to turn up in the same glory hole. But in order to discover the connection between them, it was necessary to understand the relationship between all the other pieces on the board.

Joanna could have just left it alone. After all, it was Ernie Carpenter's case. She could either go sit in her corner office and begin trying to understand next year's budget, or she could try sticking her nose in where it didn't necessarily belong.

At the intersection of Cole Avenue and Arizona Street, it was decision time. If she drove down the Warren Cutoff, when she reached Highway 80, she
could either go home or head back to the office. Or she could go straight up Cole Avenue and keep right on not minding her own business.

After only a moment's hesitation, she switched off her left-turn blinker and headed for Eleanor Lathrop's favorite haven, Helene's Salon of Hair and Beauty.

W
HEN
J
OANNA
entered the beauty shop, Helen Barco stood stolidly behind the shop's single chair twisting pink plastic permanent-wave curlers into a client's hair while the woman handed her individual pieces of tissue-paper wrappers. Both women glanced up in surprise as Joanna made her entrance.

“My land, girl!” Helen exclaimed. “Whatever did you do to your face?”

In her hurry to dress that morning, Joanna had barely glanced in her own mirror. Now, seeing her battered reflection in Helen Barco's brightly lit vanity, she was startled to see how readily apparent the damage was. Put simply, Sheriff Joanna Brady looked like hell.

“It's nothing much,” she said with a shrug. “Just a black eye.”

“You call that nothing much?” Helen rolled her eyes. “People straight out of the emergency room look better than that. I know you don't have an appointment, but if you can wait around a few minutes, maybe I could squeeze you in between Mrs. Owens here and my next lady. We should
certainly do something about that eye of yours. What would your mother say?”

“Thanks anyway, Helen,” Joanna answered, biting back a comment that was sure to go straight to her mother. “I really don't have time today. I came by to ask a favor.”

“What kind of favor? I've already donated a permanent and manicure to the senior citizen's auction, if that's what you're here asking about.”

“No. It's nothing like that. You do get
People
magazine here, don't you?”

Helen nodded. “
People, Good Housekeeping
, and
Ladies' Home Journal
. I tried that
New Woman
for a few months, but my ladies didn't like it very much. They're mostly older, you know, and don't take to some of these newfangled ideas.”

“Do you keep any of the back issues?”

“Some. Why?”

“Do you still happen to have the one with the article about Holly Patterson in it?”

“Absolutely!” Helen answered. “I wouldn't let that one out of my sight. It's not every day that Bisbee gets that kind of coverage, thank the good Lord. Naturally, all the dealers in town sold out every last one of their copies. I was really lucky I had my subscription.”

“Could I maybe borrow it from you?” Joanna asked. “I never had a chance to read it, and now I think I ought to.”

“Sure,” Helen said. “As long as you promise to bring it right back. But how come you need to read it now? That was weeks ago. What's going on?”

Joanna knew from things her mother had told her over the years that Helene's was a place where beauty often took a backseat to small-town gossip. It wouldn't hurt Helen to have a real scoop for a change. It was possible that the useful flow of information might travel in more than one direction. Besides, the next-of-kin notifications had already been completed.

“We found Harold Patterson,” Joanna said. “He's dead.”

“No. Heart attack? Stroke?”

“We're not releasing any information on cause of death at the moment,” Joanna replied in what she knew Helen would consider a deliciously tantalizing nonanswer.

Helen's eyes widened. “Really? Why, forevermore! Who would have thought it! The strain musta been too much for the old duffer's ticker for him to just up and keel over like that. You wait right here, Joanna. I'll go get you that magazine.”

Because flat lots are at a premium in Bisbee, Helen Barco's house was built on a hill. The shop, built in what was formerly the garage, was in the basement, while the living quarters were upstairs. Huffing and out of breath from climbing stairs, Helen returned to the shop a few moments later and handed Joanna the dog-eared issue of the magazine. Written across the front cover in red Magic Marker were the words
DO NOT REMOVE
.

“You're sure you don't mind if I take this?” Joanna asked.

“Like I told you before, Joanna, honey,” Helen said. “You can take it wherever you like, just so
long as you bring it back. I mean, after all, you're the sheriff, aren't you? If you can't trust the sheriff…”

Helen broke off in sudden confusion, thinking, no doubt, of Walter V. McFadden who hadn't been nearly as trustworthy as he appeared.

“Well, anyway,” she continued. “I'd sure like to have it back when you finish with it. That issue could end up being a collector's item someday. You're positive you won't let me do something about that face of yours?”

“No,” Joanna said, heading for the door. “Not today. I'm in too much of a rush.”

It was well after one by then, and Joanna's growling stomach was complaining too much to be ignored. She resisted the temptation to go straight back to the department. After all, even the sheriff deserved a lunch break. With as much haste as the posted limits allowed, she hurried out to the High Lonesome, stripped out of her clothing, grabbed one of the world's shortest showers, and gulped down a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Still eating the last half of the sandwich, she headed for the Cochise County Justice Center dressed in some of her old insurance-agency work clothes.

This business of what to wear and what not to wear was fast becoming a pain in the neck.

Once at the Sheriff's Department, she noticed that several news vehicles were parked in front of the building. Driving around back, she pulled into the reserved parking spot marked
SHERIFF
. It was empty and waiting for her Eagle.

It would have been nice to use her own private entryway, but no one had as yet given her the push-button code. Instead, she had to buzz before she could be allowed in through the common entryway marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. She walked into the reception area of the back suite of offices just in time to catch Dick Voland railing at the unfortunate Kristin.

“Don't ask me what to do with all those reporters out in the lobby. It's not my problem anymore. Ask Sheriff Brady.”

“Ask me what?”

Voland turned the focus of his irritation on her. “We've got a swarm of killer-bee media out there in the lobby, all of 'em wanting to know what the hell's going on. Somebody should have called a press conference.”

“What a good idea,” Joanna said amiably. “Why don't you go ahead and do it?”

“Me?” Dick Voland objected. “Why me?”

“Why not you? Didn't you handle media relations back when Walter McFadden was in charge?”

“Yes, but…”

“And you can do it again,” Joanna interjected. “With a major story like this, we're a lot better off having someone experienced controlling that aspect of things. Kristin, call out front. Have them tell the reporters there'll be a press conference in fifteen minutes. By the way, where's Ernie? Is he back yet?”

“He's in his office,” Kristin put in. “He said he
wasn't to be disturbed. I think he's working on his paper.”

“Tell Ernie to come to my office anyway. It won't take long, but I want to see him before Chief Deputy Voland's press conference. I want you there as well, Dick. Before you talk to those reporters, the three of us need to put our heads together.”

Without waiting for either a reply or an argument, Joanna headed for the private corner office, the one she knew belonged to the sheriff. She more than half expected to find it still occupied by Dick Voland's messy paraphernalia, but she was wrong.

Overnight the piles of stacked papers and accumulated junk had entirely disappeared. Even the collection of Al Freeman yard signs was gone. The wooden surfaces of the desk, credenza, and coffee table were all polished to a high gloss. The overflowing, freestanding ashtray had been replaced by a heavy, velvet-bottomed marble one that sat in clean and solitary splendor on the upper right-hand corner of the desk.

Joanna paused in the doorway and then turned back to the receptionist's desk where both Dick Voland and Kristin Marsten still stood motionless as if frozen in place.

“And, Kristin,” Joanna added, “after you give Ernie my message, I need a supply of yellow pads, pens, and pencils in here.”

Joanna waited long enough to see whether or not the young woman would move. With a defiant scowl and an extra toss of her big hair, Kristin turned and bent over to use her telephone. “Detec
tive Carpenter,” Joanna heard her say a moment later. “The sheriff wants to see you in her office. Right away.”

Leaving the door open behind her, Joanna walked over to the desk and sat down in the massive leather chair behind it. The outsized chair was far too big for her. The tall back made her feel dwarfed and inconsequential. The office had the expectant, empty feel of a vacant apartment, but now was no time for Joanna to bring in her meager box of possessions or to think about putting her own personal stamp on the place. That would have to wait.

Moments later the miniskirted Kristin flounced into Joanna's office and unceremoniously dumped a stack of legal pads and three pens on the desk. “We're out of pencils,” she mumbled through a mouthful of gum.

“Who's in charge of ordering supplies?” Joanna asked.

“I am.”

“Well, order some then. I want pencils.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I want you to have whoever is in charge of Motor Pool to make arrangements for me to have a vehicle, one with a radio.”

“What else?”

Joanna studied the young receptionist. Twenty-two or twenty-three at the most, Kristin Marsten bristled with ill-disguised hostility. Up to a point, Joanna understood that. It was a necessary part of the way politics worked. When someone new won an election and took over the helm of an elected
office there was always a period of adjustment with the staff, a time when, although loyalties were shifting, the work still had to be done.

“Have you ever worked for a woman before?” Joanna asked.

Startled, Kristin lowered her eyes and shifted on her feet. “Not really. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Joanna said. “You enjoyed working for Mr. Voland, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Kristin said. “Very much.”

“Let me ask you a question. When he was in this office, did you ever bring him coffee?”

“Yes. Sometimes. He likes his black.”

“And Ernie Carpenter?”

“He takes his black, too.”

“I see,” Joanna said, leaning back in the chair. “That makes three of us. All black. We'll just continue the tradition then, if you don't mind. And since the three of us have already had a very long morning, why don't you bring in three cups of black coffee as soon as Ernie and Dick get here.”

Kristin started toward the door. “Is that all?”

“One more question. Why exactly did you come to work here?”

Kristin shrugged. “It was a job, I guess. But I kinda thought it would be interesting, being in law enforcement.”

“And is it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever thought about doing anything more around here rather than just working as a receptionist? Have you thought about maybe being a deputy or doing something in Dispatch?
Something responsible that would give you a chance at better pay?”

Kristin shook her mane of hair. “I don't think so,” she said. “I mean, being a dispatcher is really serious stuff. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I'm not really an airhead, but you know all those blonde jokes, and I…”

“It's difficult for men to take you seriously when they're spending all their time trying to look down your blouse or up your skirt,” Joanna returned. “By the way, that's a very nice set of underwear you have on today. I particularly like that shade of turquoise, especially for a bra and matching panties. I'm sure the guys around here like them, too. I've noticed several of them looking. It's possible, though, if you want the men to take you seriously, that a longer skirt would help.”

Shocked, Kristin opened her mouth, but no words came out. Blushing furiously, she spun around and nearly ran over Dick Voland in her rush to escape Joanna's office and her steady, appraising gaze.

“What's the matter with Kristin?” Dick asked, as he shambled in and sank down into one of the side chairs.

“I believe it's called culture shock,” Joanna replied. “Where's Ernie?”

“He'll be here in a minute.”

“Thanks for having the office ready for me to move into, Dick,” Joanna said. “That was thoughtful of you. I don't know when you had time.”

The chief deputy shrugged grudgingly. “No big thing,” he said. Although Joanna knew it was.

Ernie appeared moments later. The man may have spent the entire morning grubbing around at a crime scene in a pair of much-used sweats and tennies, but by the time he appeared in Joanna's office, he was wearing a well-pressed suit, a tie, and a stiffly starched white shirt, to say nothing of highly polished wing tips. Looking at him, Joanna was glad she'd taken the time to go home and clean up.

“What's going on?” he asked irritably. “I'm busy as hell.”

“I'm sure you are, but we've got a press conference coming up in a few minutes,” Joanna told him.

“Since when?”

“Since I called it. This is a big case, and we're going to handle it in a way that won't have the press tearing us apart. Dick will be running the show, but I want a united front on what he says and what he doesn't.”

Kristin walked in right then, bringing the three cups of coffee. Wordlessly, she delivered Joanna's cup to the desk. When she turned back to the two men, she paused for a moment in front of the coffee table, struggling to find a way to deposit the cups on the low surface of the table without having to bend over to do it. She finally solved the problem by passing the cups directly to their hands.

“So where do we stand?” Joanna asked, once Kristin left the room.

“Two stiffs for the price of one,” Ernie Carpenter replied. “I've got Harold Patterson's body
pulled up to the surface. The coroner has taken charge of him, and we've packed out most of the skeleton in a body bag. The sump pump is doing the job, but it's still too wet down there to finish searching the bottom of the glory hole.”