“What’s going on?” Joanna asked softly. “It’s not like you just give up.”
Marianne’s gray eyes darkened with a film of tears. “It’s the Thanksgiving sermon,” she answered. “Because of bulletin deadlines, I’m always working two weeks ahead. I’ve been trying for days to think of something meaningful to say, but I can’t do it. I’m not the least bit thankful right now, Joanna. I’m outraged. If Marliss Shackleford tells me one more time how lucky we are to still have Ruth, I’m liable to punch the woman’s lights out.”
Marliss was a busybody columnist for the local paper and one of Marianne’s parishioners besides. She wasn’t one of Joanna’s favorite people, either. In fact, when it came to Marliss, Joanna had long since given up turning the other cheek. “It might do the woman a world of good,” she said.
Marianne favored Joanna with a wan smile and then looked off in the other direction, all the while continuing to stroke Sadie’s unmoving head. In times of crisis Joanna herself had drawn comfort from the dog’s uncomplaining, stolid presence, but she wondered if, given the present circumstances, merely petting a dog offered enough solace.
Marianne’s continuing crisis of faith was something the two friends had discussed often in the months since Esther’s death. Joanna had assumed that over time things would get better for Marianne, just as they had for her. But clearly the situation for Marianne wasn’t improving. Rather than pulling out of her morass, Marianne seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper.
Struggling to find something useful to say, Joanna rose from the porch swing and raked a few more leaves into the small bonfire where a collection of foil-wrapped potatoes was roasting. Raking leaves and baking potatoes in an autumn bonfire was something Andrew Roy Brady had done first with his father, Jim Bob, and later with his daughter, Jenny. With Andy gone, this was one of the small family traditions Joanna had been determined to carry on. She had worried that reviving that old custom might bring up too many memories for both mother and daughter. Instead, Jenny had thrown herself wholeheartedly into playing with Ruth and Tigger, while Joanna was too caught up in Marianne’s heartache to remember her own.
What can I say that won’t make things worse? Joanna wondered, as she leaned the rake against the fence and returned to her spot on the porch swim. Orwould I he better off just keeping quiet?
But keeping quiet wasn’t part of Joanna Brady’s genetic makeup. She was far too much her own mother’s daughter. “Have you talked to Jeff about this?” Joanna asked as she resumed her place.
Marianne’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. Her reply was sharp, aggrieved. “Of course I have,” she snapped. “He thinks I should have my head examined.”
Any other time, such a comment might have been nothing more than a light-hearted quip. Here it was no laughing matter. “What do you think?” Joanna asked.
“I already told you what I think,” Marianne replied. “If I don’t have anything of value to contribute, I should quit. I can type. I can probably get a regular job. Somebody around here must need a secretary or receptionist.”
Joanna closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye she visualized the Marianne of old standing behind the pulpit preaching. Before Esther’s death, and comfortable in her faith, Marianne’s face used to glow with certitude as she delivered her sermons. There had been an inner joy about her that had backlit every-thing she said. For months now, though, that glow had been absent. Joanna doubted she was the only one who realized that her friend was simply going through the motions, but even Joanna had never considered the possibility that Marianne’s inner glow might have dimmed for good.
“Have you thought about seeing a doctor?” Joanna asked.
“A doctor?” Marianne sneered impatiently. “See there? You’ve jumped to the same conclusion Jeff has. You think I should see a shrink.”
“I didn’t say shrink,” Joanna corrected. “And I didn’t mean shrink, either. I saw what happened today at lunch. You hardly ate anything at all. You pushed the food around on your plate until enough time had passed for the meal to be over. The only food that actually left your plate was what you gave Ruth. You’re not eating properly, and you look like you’re melting away to nothing. You’ve got deep, dark circles under your eyes.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Marianne cut in. “Food makes me sick these days. I can barely stand to look at it, much less swallow it.”
“And I’ll bet you’re not sleeping properly, either,” Joanna continued doggedly. “You know yourself that eating and sleeping disturbances are standard symptoms of grief-grief and depression both. You’re depressed, Mari. You need help. Go see a doctor.”
“And what good will that do?” Marianne demanded. “All he’ll do is plug me full of antidepressants-dose me with some kind of chemical joy juice. Take two of these and then wait for a sermon to pop up on the computer screen?”
“Not necessarily,” Joanna replied. “But seriously, Mari, maybe there’s something else wrong-something physical-that’s causing all this.”
“Come on, Joanna. Give me a break. Don’t you see? It’s not physical at all. I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve spent my whole life first believing and then preaching that life is eternal. Now that Esther’s gone, I don’t feel that anymore. I feel empty. There’s nothing left of that hope but a huge black hole and everything-my whole life-is collapsing into it. I don’t know what to do about it. If I’m not capable of living my beliefs in my own life, what business do I have passing them along to anyone else?”
“Maybe that’s what the sermon should be about,” Joanna suggested.
“About what?”
“About being thankful for the black hole,” Joanna said. “The people down front-the ones sitting out there in the pews-probably think they’re the only ones who’ve ever felt that way. A sermon like that coming from you would show them they’re not alone.”
Before Marianne had a chance to reply, a telephone rang inside the house. Joanna hurried to answer it. “Hello.”
“Sheriff Brady?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
With only a few seconds of emotional buffer between her private life and her public one, Joanna switched gears. “This is Sheriff Brady,” she replied. “Who’s this, and what can I do for you?”
“What’s the deal with this Frank Montoya guy?” her gruff caller continued. “Is he some kind of a dim bulb, or what?”
Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya, along with Chief Deputy for Operations, Richard Voland, were Joanna’s primary aides-de-camp in running the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Both men had initially opposed Joanna’s candidacy for the office of sheriff, but once the election was over, both had assumed important roles in her administration.
Listening intently, Joanna couldn’t quite place the voice, although she was sure she had heard it before. “Chief Deputy Montoya is anything but a dim bulb,” she replied. “He’s a dedicated and talented police officer. Who’s asking?”
“Mayor Rogers,” the man replied. “Mayor Cletus Rogers of Tombstone.”
Joanna sighed, took a seat, and prepared herself for the worst. In the aftermath of a bitterly divisive city recall effort, Clete Rogers had been the successful write-in candidate for mayor during a special election the previous July. A restaurateur with all the diplomacy of a mountain goat, Clete Rogers had assumed mayoral duties in the Town Too Tough to Die. Once sworn into office, he had immediately set about consolidating his power base by firing anyone who disagreed with him. One of the first victims of his displeasure had been Dennis Granger, formerly the town’s chief marshal.
Rogers had planned to fire Granger and replace him with a crony-somebody who would be more to his liking. Granger, however, refused to go quietly. After turning in his badge and city-owned weapons, he had filed a million-dollar wrongful-dismissal lawsuit. With litigation still pending, both sides were forbidden from discussing the matter in public. In the meantime, the Tombstone city attorney had advised Mayor Rogers that he had best not fill the marshal’s vacancy since, legally, the vacancy did not yet exist. Which was how Sheriff Joanna Brady and her department had been drawn into the fray.