“We won’t be able to find out for sure until the fire chief lets us go inside the building to check. Until we make a positive identification of the victim, it’s best not to speculate. Meanwhile, we’re going to need your help.”
Bebe nodded mutely.
“Chief Deputy Voland said you were the one who discovered the fire. Is that true?”
Bianca Noonan nodded again. “I also found the other man. When I went into the barn to get Kiddo, I stumbled over him. There was so much smoke that I couldn’t see. I fell right on top of him. At first I was afraid he was dead. The only thing I could do was grab him by one arm and drag him outside. Then I went back in for Kiddo. I saw the ambulance leave. Is the man all right?”
Joanna shook her head. “We don’t know that, either,” she said. “As soon as we hear something, I’ll let you know.”
For several seconds, Joanna and Bianca stood there in silence. “What about the clinic?” Joanna asked finally. “When you went in there, was there anything amiss-anything out of place, or else anything in there that didn’t belong?”
Bebe shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered. “As far as I could tell, everything seemed fine.”
The young woman shuddered and took a ragged breath. “I guess you could go inside and look for yourself, Sheriff Brady,” she offered. “I have the keys right here.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Joanna said hurriedly. “We shouldn’t do that. We might inadvertently disturb some important piece of evidence. Detective Carpenter will be here in a few minutes. He’ll need to go through it, of course. Until then, however, the fewer people inside, the better. The detective will probably want to talk to you as well.”
The horse stirred restlessly. “It’s okay, Kiddo,” Bebe said, stroking the horse’s long, smooth neck. That action seemed to have as much of a soothing effect on the tearful young woman as it did on the horse.
“But I already told Deputy Voland everything I know,” Bebe objected.
“What about Mrs. Buckwalter?” Joanna asked. “Her car isn’t here in the lot. Where’s she?”
Bebe sniffed and brushed away tears. “Like I told Mr. Voland, it’s Tuesday,” she said. “Terry’s pro’ly off playing golf. That’s what she does most afternoons.”
“Where?”
“At that new place out by Palominas-the Rob Roy. She plays there three or four times a week-for sure on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”
Several years earlier, a wealthy and decidedly gay couple-motorcycle-riding California transplants with more money than good sense-had shown up in Cochise County prepared to buy a golf course. When their initial plan to buy one course was derailed at the last minute, they bought them-selves a chunk of cow pasture along the San Pedro River where they built a brand-new state-of-the-art course, starting from the ground up.
Locals who had grumbled and gritched and said it would never work had long since been proved wrong. Rob Roy Links-named after a gloomy biker-frequented bed-and-breakfast in Folkstone, England -had become a rousing success. Peter Wilkes, the younger of the two, served as the resident golf pro, while his partner of twenty years’ standing, Myron Thomas, along with Esther Thomas, Myron’s seventy-something mother, ran the food concessions.
The course was so well-maintained and the food so out-standing that the Rob Roy had become the county’s destination golf course and a popular watering hole/dining establishment as well. Not only had it attracted a loyal local following, it was also frequented by golf-crazy touring gays who sometimes stayed for weeks at a time in one of the Rob Roy’s five stand-alone casitas.
Over time even the most recalcitrant local golfers had been won over. Members of the two vastly divergent clienteles-locals and visiting gays-mingled together in tee-time forged foursomes under the same rule that applied to the armed forces: “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” As Peter Wilkes liked to point out on occasion-the rule might be new to the army, but it was one of golf’s enduring traditions of etiquette.
“Do you want me to call out there and talk to Terry?” Bebe Noonan offered. “I could pro’ly get Mr. Thomas to go get her off the course to tell her what’s happened.”
Joanna shook her head. “Not right now,” she said. “It’s too soon. We should have some kind of positive ID before we do that. Even if the dead man does turn out to be Dr. Buckwalter, we try not to deliver that kind of news over the telephone. It’s better if someone talks to her in person.”
Bebe nodded dully while a new cloudburst of tears streamed down her cheeks. “I understand,” she said.
“Sheriff Brady,” a man called from behind them.
Joanna turned in time to see Detective Ernie Carpenter come trudging across the graveled parking lot. Dressed in his characteristic suit and tie, he carried a small battered suitcase.
“Detective Carpenter,” Joanna said. “This is Bebe Noonan, Dr. Buckwalter’s assistant.”
“The one who discovered the fire?” Carpenter asked, giving Bebe a quick appraising once-over.
When Bebe didn’t reply, Joanna answered for her. “She’s the one.”
Briskly businesslike, Carpenter looked around. “Is there a place where I could change clothes?” he asked.
This time the young woman nodded. “There’s a bathroom right inside the door at this end of the building.”
“Is it locked?”
“Most likely. I can let you in, though. I have a key.”
Leaving the tethered Kiddo on his own, Bebe led Ernie around the side of the building. Moments later she returned alone. “I still can’t believe any of this,” she said. “I’m from out in the valley,” she added. “Things like this just don’t happen out there.”
Joanna felt like telling her that in this day and age no one was immune to crime. The Noonans lived in Double Adobe, just a few miles away from the spot along High Lonesome Road where Andy Brady had been gunned down a few months earlier.
“Is Detective Carpenter the one you were telling me about?” Bebe continued. “The one who’ll be asking questions?”
Joanna nodded. “Right,” she said. “He’ll be in charge of the investigation.”
“But why do I have to answer more questions?” Bebe wailed as more tears spilled down her forlorn cheeks. “Like I said, I already told the deputy everything I know.”
Joanna tried for a reassuring snide. The realities of a homicide investigation were no doubt a long way from Bebe Noonan’s rural experience. Hoping to bolster the young woman’s morale, Joanna attempted to give her a little advance warning of what would take place.
“It will probably seem to you as though the detectives do nothing but ask the same questions over and over. It’s cumbersome, but that’s how the process works. By gathering details from everyone involved, homicide investigators eventually pull together a picture of what really happened.”
“I see,” Bebe murmured.
“Just as long as you tell the truth,” Joanna continued, “you don’t have a thing in the world to worry about. All right?”
There was a long pause. “I’ll do my best,” Bebe replied finally in a strangled whisper. “I promise I will.”
Seconds later, Detective Ernie Carpenter came striding back around the corner of the building. Most of the time, Cochise County ’s lead homicide detective looked as though he had just stepped out of a department-store window. Sometimes called Gentleman Jim Carpenter, he was forever being teased by his fellow officers for conspicuous overdressing. While other plain-clothes officers went for a less formal look with sports coats and maybe an occasional bolo tie, Carpenter customarily turned up at the office wearing brightly polished wingtip shoes, white shirt, a spotless tie, and a crisply pressed suit.
What went for office attire, however, didn’t work when it came to crime scenes. For those he always carried a little brown suitcase, one he had inherited from his wife, Rose, after her second trip to the Copper Queen Hospital to have a baby. The now battered case went with him everywhere. Called to a crime scene, a dapper Detective Carpenter would arrive, suitcase in hand. Soon he would disappear into a rest room or behind his vehicle. Minutes later, he would emerge looking more like a second-rate plumber than a fashion plate