“Christopher,” Amy Bernard objected in dismay. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true.”
“Excuse me,” Alan Stouffer said, leaping into the fray. “I’m sure Chris has no way of knowing for sure if he was the father of that baby, and I must advise him—”
“I was too the father,” Chris insisted. “Dora told me on the phone Friday night that she thought she was pregnant. I told her she needed to go to the drugstore and get one of those test kit things so she could find out for sure. I told her if she was, we’d run away to Mexico together and get married. Dad says I’ll never amount to anything, but I do know how to be a man. If you have a kid, you’re supposed to take care of it. That’s the way it works. I have my trust money from Grandpa. We would have been all right.”
The dining room was suddenly deathly quiet. From another room came the steady ticking of a noisy but invisible grandfather clock.
“Really, Chris,” Alan Stouffer said. “You mustn’t say anything more.”
“But I want to,” Chris argued, his face hot and alive with emotion. “Dora’s dead, and I want to find out who did it. I want to know who killed her. I want that person to go to jail.”
With that, Chris buried his head in his arms and began to sob. Meanwhile Joanna grappled with a whole new sense of respect for this homely and seemingly disaffected kid whom she had been prepared to write off as a privileged, uncaring jerk. She could see now that her own and Eleanor Lathrop’s hopes had indeed been granted. The boy who had impregnated Dora Matthews had cared for her after all. Somehow, against all odds and against all rules of law and propriety, the two of them had met and fallen in love. And even though Dora was dead, Christopher Bernard loved her still.
Amy Bernard reached out and patted his shoulder. “There, there, Chris, darling. It’s all right. Shh.”
“Sheriff Brady,” the attorney said, “I really must object to this whole situation. You haven’t read Christopher his rights. Anything he has said so far would be automatically excluded from use in court.”
“No one has said that Christopher Bernard is suspected of killing Dora Matthews,” Joanna said quietly. “I’m just trying to get some information.”
“It’s all right, Alan,” Dr. Bernard said. “It’s my understanding that Dora Matthews died sometime Sunday night. Is that correct?” Joanna nodded.
“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Amy went to see a play at the Convention Center that night, and Chris was with me and some of our friends. Two of the other doctors at the hospital—at TMC—have sons Christopher’s age. The six of us spent Sunday night at a cabin up on Mount Lemmon. We went up Sunday before noon and didn’t come home again until Monday morning.”
“What play?” Joanna asked.
“Annie Get Your Gun—one of those traveling shows,” Amy said. “Richard doesn’t care for musicals all that much.”
Joanna turned to Dr. Bernard. “You can provide us with the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of all these friends?”
“Certainly,” he returned easily. “Amy, go get my Palm Pilot, would you? I think it’s on the desk in my study.”
“They’re not my friends,” Chris put in bitterly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Dad. Those guys were jocks. I’m not. If it was supposed to be a ‘bonding experience,’ it sucked.”
Amy Bernard returned from her errand. After placing her husband’s electronic organizer within easy reach, she once again patted her son on the shoulder. He shrugged her hand away. “Would any one care for something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee?”
“Oh, sit down, Amy. This isn’t a social visit. We’re not serving these people hors d’oeuvres.”
With bright spots of anger showing in both of her smoothly made-up cheeks, Amy Bernard resumed her seat. With the plastic stylus, Richard Bernard searched through his database and then read off names, addresses, and telephone numbers for Drs. Dan Howard and Andrew Kingsley and their two sons, Rick and Lonnie. While Jaime jotted down the information, Joanna turned her attention back to Christopher.
“When’s the last time you spoke to Dora?” she asked gently.
The boy blinked back tears and took a deep breath before he answered. “Saturday,” he said. “Saturday morning. Dora was staying at someone’s house, a friend of hers, I guess. She gave me the number Friday night. When I talked to her on Saturday, she said that she couldn’t go to a drugstore in Bisbee because all the people there would know her. So I told her we’d get the test kit after I picked her up that night.”
“In Bisbee?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go?”
Chris nodded. “I tried to. Dora had given me directions, and I went there, only there was this huge mess on her street, with all kinds of emergency vehicles and everything. I parked the car and walked back up the street. At least, I tried to. It turned out that the problem was at Dora’s house. I couldn’t tell what had happened—if someone had been hurt or if the place had caught fire or what. I tried to get close enough to see if I could find Dora, but the cops chased me away, told me to get lost. I waited and waited, but she never showed up. Finally I gave up and came back home. I thought she would call me again, but she never did. And then Sunday, Dad made me go on that stupid trip to Mount Lemmon. He probably thought if I hung around with jocks long enough, maybe I’d turn into one, like it was catching or something.”
“It sounds as though we’re finished here,” Alan Stouffer began. “Chris has been entirely cooperative. I don’t see how he can
“Do you know when Dora’s funeral is?” Chris asked Joanna.
“Christopher,” Amy said, “I know you were friends, but that isn’t—”
“Do you?” he insisted.
Joanna nodded. “I believe it’s sometime on Friday afternoon. I don’t know the time exactly, but if you call Norm Higgins at Higgins Funeral Chapel and Mortuary in Bisbee, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you.”
“What’s his name again?”
Joanna pulled out one of her cards and jotted down Norm Higgins’s name on the back of it. “I’m sorry I don’t know the number,” she said, handing the card to Christopher.
“That’s all right “ he sniffed. “I can get it from information.”
“Chris,” Amy said. “You really shouldn’t go. It just wouldn’t be right.”
“I’m going,” Christopher Bernard said fiercely. “And you can’t stop me!”
“And we should be going, too,” Joanna said, rising to her feet. “You’ve all been most helpful. And, Chris,” she added, offering him her hand, “please accept my sympathy for your loss. I know you cared deeply about Dora Matthews. She was lucky to have had you in her life.”
Out in the car, Jaime Carbajal slammed the car door and turned on Joanna in exasperation. “Why did you just quit like that?” he demanded. “I have a feeling there was a whole lot more Chris could have told us.”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “But I want it to be admissible.”
“You still think he did it?”
“No, I don’t,” Joanna replied. “When you turn around to drive out, I want you to stop as close as you can to the front of that Lexus. I want to get a peek at the front grille and see if there’s any damage.”
“But . . .” Jaime began.
“Humor me on this one, Jaime. All I want is a peek. And we’re not violating anybody’s rights here. The car isn’t locked up in the garage. It’s parked right out here in front of God and everybody.”
Hopping out of the van, Joanna made a quick pass by the vehicle. And there it was: a slight depression in both the front bumper and the hood of the LS 430; the left front headlight cover had been shattered. The Lexus had hit something and had hit it hard. Seeing the damage took Joanna’s breath away. In that moment, she knew Jenny wasn’t the target—never had been. Uttering a prayer of thanksgiving, Joanna darted back to the open door of the van. “Anybody see me?” she asked.