Joanna Brady found something; life-affirming and grounding in watching animals munch their oats and hay. On Sundays when she had time to do her own chores, she found that performing those menial tasks gave her respite from the day-to-day pressures of running her department. Not only that, sharing those mundane duties with Jenny made Joanna feel that she was keeping faith with Andy-that she was continuing to raise their daughter in the way they had both intended.
“Is Marianne all right?” Jenny asked once the feeding frenzy was over. Mother and daughter were standing outside Kiddo’s stall, and Jenny was reaching through the wooden slats to scratch the big sorrel’s smoothly muscled shoulder.
“Why do you ask that?” Joanna returned.
“No fair,” Jenny pointed out. “Remember, you’re not supposed to answer a question with a question. If I can’t, you can’t.”
Joanna laughed. “That’s fair enough, I guess. And no, Marianne’s not all right.”
“What’s wrong with her? Is she still sad about Esther?”
Joanna nodded. “I think that’s it,” she said.
Jenny considered that answer for some time before she spoke again. “When somebody dies, it takes a long time to get better, doesn’t it?”
Joanna reached over and ran her fingers through Jenny’s tangle of blond hair. “Yes, it does,” she agreed. “But then, you and I both know something about that, don’t we?”
Jenny nodded. “I guess we do,” she said.
Back in the house and putting things to rights, Joanna was dimly annoyed by the fact that so much time had passed with-out Frank Montoya’s returning her call. In fact, it wasn’t until well after dark and after Jenny had scooted off to the bathroom for her evening bath when the telephone finally rang.
“What took you so long?” Joanna asked when she heard her chief deputy’s voice on the line.
“It’s hunting season, so naturally we’ve got spooked deer everywhere,” Frank replied. “Right after you called, a big buck put himself through the windshield of a motor home just outside the Tombstone city limits. The Department of Public Safety officer who responded to the incident needed some help, and I happened to be handy. Sorry about that.”
“What about the accident?” Joanna asked. “Not a fatality, I hope.”
“It was fatal for the deer,” Montoya answered. “The people in the motor home both got hit by flying glass. The seat belt did a pretty good job of bruising the woman’s collarbone, but other than that, I think she and her husband will both be fine. What was it you wanted?”
“To know what’s going on with Clete Rogers.”
Frank sighed. “That’s another whole can of worms. I’m just now getting ready to file the missing person’s report.”
“What missing person’s report?” Joanna demanded.
“On Clete’s mother-Alice Rogers.”
“She’s missing?”
“Evidently. According to the family, she drove to Sierra Vista yesterday afternoon to have dinner with her daughter and son-in-law, Susan and Ross Jenkins. Ross owns Fort Apache Motors, the Chrysler dealership on Fry Boulevard. According to the daughter, Alice left their place around eight-thirty, but she never made it home. At least, that’s the way it looks so far. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was also a problem earlier at noontime between Susan Jenkins and her brother.”
Joanna cut in. “I know about that. Mayor Rogers himself called to give me a full report.”
Frank Montoya groaned. “Which was probably none too complimentary regarding yours truly.”
“Right. Clete couldn’t understand why you didn’t arrest her. I’ve been wondering about that myself. If the woman was doing property damage, why didn’t you?”
“Because they were both out of line,” Frank Montoya replied. “I don’t suppose Clete mentioned that.”
“No.”
“No surprises there,” Montoya continued. “I’ve worked with the man long enough to know that when it comes to points of view, he has only one-his. I can also tell you that Clete Rogers doesn’t exactly exude sweetness and light. By the time brother and sister finished bitching one another out in the middle of the restaurant, I had two choices. I could either arrest them both or let them off the hook. It was a judgment call, Joanna. Considering the current political climate, I chose the latter. I sent Susan Jenkins on her way. Told her to go home and cool off. She didn’t, however. Instead, she went over to her mother’s house looking for her. My guess is she planned to raise a little more hell, except her mother wasn’t home. The Sunday paper was still on the porch.
“Afraid her mother might be sick or something, Susan let herself inside. She had a key. Once there, she found the place looked like it had been ransacked. Instead of calling us, she climbed right back into her car and drove out to Gleeson and proceeded to raise more hell, this time with Farley Adams.”
“Her mother’s boyfriend,” Joanna supplied.
“Right,” Frank responded, “although that’s not what Susan Jenkins called him. Scumbag, for one. Gold digger, for another, along with a few other choice expressions that shouldn’t be repeated in mixed company. I tell you, that woman’s a piece of work!”
“You were there?”
“For part of it. He told her to leave-he lives in a motile home parked at Alice Rogers’ mining claim on Outlaw Mountain. When Susan refused to leave, he called for reinforcements. After what happened at the restaurant earlier, I didn’t waste any time getting there. She was still raising holy hell with the man when I drove up. That’s when she told me her mother was missing. I asked Susan if she suspected foul play, and the woman fell all apart on me. She went to pieces-hyperventilating and the whole nine yards. I ended up having to call her husband to come drive her home. The thing that really corks me is that Clete Rogers is probably right on this one-I should have arrested her to begin with.”
“Where is she now?”
“Back home in Sierra Vista. Once I unloaded her, I went back to Tombstone and checked out the mother’s house myself. And she’s right. It looks as though the mother has disappeared, all right. At least she didn’t come home overnight. Her car’s gone. Somebody has ripped through the old woman’s house and torn it to pieces, although there’s no way to tell what, if anything, is missing.”
“Did you have a chance to talk to the boyfriend?” Joanna asked.
“A little. Not that much because, like I said, I had my hands full with this Jenkins woman. Then, after that, I was helping with the car wreck.”
“What did Farley Adams have to say?” Joanna asked.
“He claims the last time he saw Alice was when she came out to his place yesterday morning. According to him, she planned on leaving home early in the afternoon because she had some errands to run in Sierra Vista before she was due at the Jenkins’ place for dinner. Adams claims he hasn’t seen or heard from her since. He says that he wasn’t particularly concerned about that-about not seeing her earlier this morning-because he expected to see her later. They were supposed to have dinner together tonight.”
“What time did you say Alice left her daughter’s house last night?”
“About eight-thirty. Susan says she usually takes the Charleston Road back and forth to Tombstone.”
Charleston Road, named after a long-gone mining town near the San Pedro River, was a short cut from Sierra Vista to Tombstone. It was a ribbon of cracked, curvy, up-and-down pavement. Because it crossed the San Pedro River, Charleston Road had its own share of meandering animals that sometimes came to grief with speeding vehicles.
“Had Alice Rogers been drinking?” Joanna asked.
“Some. According to the daughter, they had drinks before dinner and wine with the meal.”
“There’s not much nighttime traffic on Charleston Road,” Joanna said. “Is it possible she hit a cow or a deer? Maybe she ran off the road somewhere between Sierra Vista and Tombstone. Her car may be out of sight in a ditch or a wash. Maybe that’s why no one has spotted her.”