“Does that include withholding the timely notification that a client’s wife has died?” Joanna asked.
Caroline Parker’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you telling me Ron Haskell’s wife is dead?”
“Yes,” Joanna answered. “I certainly am. Constance Marie Haskell was murdered over the weekend. She was last seen alive in Phoenix on Thursday. Our understanding, from her sister, is that Mrs. Haskell was on her way here to meet with her husband. Her body was found in Apache Pass Friday evening. Detectives Carbajal and Carpenter were here to notify Ron Haskell of what had happened.”
“Was my father aware of that?” Caroline asked.
“Was I aware of what?” a stern voice asked behind them.
Joanna turned in time to see a tall, stoop-shouldered man enter the room. In the dim light his wispy white hair formed a silvery halo around his head. Even in the gloom of that darkened room he wore a pair of sunglasses, and he made his way around the furniture by tapping lightly with a cane. Amos Parker was blind.
“Daddy,” Caroline said, “we have visitors.”
“So I gathered,” Amos Parker said, stopping just beyond the couch where Joanna and Frank were sitting. “And they are?”
Joanna stood up and went forward to meet him. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she said. “I’m sheriff of Cochise County. Frank Montoya is my chief deputy.”
Joanna held out her hand, but Amos Parker didn’t extend his.
Instead, he addressed his daughter. “What are they doing here, Caroline?” he demanded. You know nay position when it comes to police officers.”
“I’m the one who let them Caroline said. “‘They came to tell Ron Haskell that his wife is dead—that she’s been murdered. That’s why those two officers were here yesterday.”
“You know very well that Ron Haskell broke the rules and that he’s in isolation. Until his isolation period is over, he’s not to see anyone, including you, Miss Brady.”
“It’s Mrs.,” Joanna corrected.
“So you’re married, are you?” Amos Parker asked, easing himself into a chair that was off to the side from where the others had been sitting. “I should have thought a woman who would take on a man’s job and become sheriff wouldn’t have much use for men. I’d expect her to be one of those fire-breathing, cigar-smoking feminists who insists on wearing the pants in her family.”
“She’s wearing a dress, Daddy,” Caroline put in.
The fact that Caroline Parker felt constrained to defend Joanna’s manner of dress to this unpleasantly rude man was disturbing. Even so, whatever Sheriff Joanna Brady was or wasn’t wearing had nothing to do with the business at hand.
“The only part of my wardrobe that should matter to you, Mr. Parker, is the sheriff’s badge pinned to my jacket. Is Mr. Haskell still here?”
Amos Parker crossed his arms. “I have nothing to say,” he said.
“Oh, Daddy,” Caroline interceded. “Don’t be ridiculous. The man’s wife has been murdered. He needs to be told.”
Parker shook his shaggy head. “You know the rules,” he said. “Ron Haskell broke his contract. He’s in isolation until I say he’s ready to come out.”
“And I think you’re wrong.” Caroline blurted out the words and then looked stricken—as though she wished she could take them back.
Amos Parker turned his sightless eyes toward his daughter’s voice. “Caroline, are you questioning my authority?”
There was a moment of stark silence. As the brooding quiet lengthened, Joanna fully expected Caroline to cave. She didn’t.
“In this instance, yes,” Caroline said softly. “I believe you’re wrong.”
Another long silence followed. Finally, Amos Parker was the one who blinked. “Very well,” he conceded. “We’ll probably lose him now anyway. You could just as well bring him down.”
“From where?” Joanna asked.
“The isolation cabin is about a mile away,” Caroline said. “I’ll go get him and bring him here.”
Interviewing Ron Haskell in a room where Amos Parker sat enthroned as an interested observer seemed like a bad idea. Joanna glanced at Frank Montoya, who nodded in unspoken agreement.
“Why don’t we go with you?” Joanna suggested.
Caroline looked to her father for direction, but he sat with his arms folded saying nothing. “All right,” Caroline said, plucking her hat off a table near the door. “Come on then. Someone will have to ride in the back.”
“I will,” Frank volunteered.
Once they had piled into the Jeep, Caroline started it and drove through a haphazard collection of several buildings all of whose blinds were still closed. No one stirred, inside or out. Beyond the buildings, Caroline turned onto a rocky track that wound up and over an adjoining hillside.
“How did Ron Haskell break his contract?” Joanna asked.
“He was seen making an unauthorized phone call,” Caroline replied. “Clients aren’t allowed to contact their families until their treatment has progressed far enough for them to he able to handle it.”
“When was this phone call?” Joanna prodded.
“Thursday morning,” Caroline answered. “One of the kitchen help had gone to the store to pick up something. She saw him there and reported it to my father. Since Ron hadn’t asked for a pass, that meant two breaches of contract rather than one: leaving without permission and making an unauthorized phone call.”
The Jeep topped a steep rise. Halfway down the slope a tiny cabin sat tucked in among the scrub oak. “That’s it?” Joanna asked. Caroline Parker nodded. “And how long has he been here?”
“Since Thursday afternoon. When people are in isolation, we bring them up here and drop them off along with plenty of food and water. It’s our form of sending someone into the wilderness to commune with God. Even at Pathway, there’s so much going on that it’s hard for someone to find enough quiet in which to concentrate and listen.”
“No one has seen Ron Haskell since he was brought here last Thursday?”
“That’s what isolation is all about,” Caroline said. “You’re left completely alone—you and God.”
As the Jeep rumbled down the hill, Joanna fully expected that they would find the cabin empty, but she was wrong. As the Jeep rounded the side of the cabin, the door flew open and a stocky man hurried out, buttoning his shirt as he came. Ron Haskell was any-thing but the handsome Lothario that Maggie MacFerson’s acid descriptions had led Joanna to expect. He waited until the Jeep stopped, then he rushed around to the passenger side of the vehicle. As he flung open the door, his face was alight with anticipation. As soon as his eyes came to rest on Joanna’s face, the eager expression disappeared.
“Sorry,” he muttered, backing away. “I was hoping you were my wife.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was long after dark when Joanna finally rolled back into the yard at High Lonesome Ranch to the sound of raucous greetings from Sadie and Tigger. She was relieved to find that Jim
Bob and Eva Lou’s Honda was no longer there. Lights behind curtains glowed invitingly from all the windows.
Weary beyond bearing, Joanna was frustrated as well. The meeting with Ron Haskell had left her doubting that he had been involved in his wife’s death. And if that was true, they were no closer to finding out who had killed either Connie Haskell or Dora Matthews, which meant that Jenny, too, was possibly still in grave danger.