Outlaw Mountain (4 page)

A bad case of writer’s block and a mutual interest in old cars had drawn him into an easy friendship with Jeff Daniels and his business, Auto Rehab, The two men had joined forces to recondition a ‘5(1 Chevrolet Bel Air. Working together, they had bought the car for a song and than refurbished it on speculation. The previous afternoon the two men had gone off to Scottsdale together, towing their pride and joy behind Jeff’s International and hoping to unload the Bel Air for a modest profit at one of Scottsdale’s collector car auctions.

The fact that Jeff and Butch were both out of town was one of the reasons Joanna had invited Marianne and Ruth out to High Lonesome Ranch that Sunday after church. She had thought waiting for the menfolk together would be more fun than waiting separately.

“It was work,” Joanna said, in answer to Marianne’s query.

“Is something wrong?” Marianne asked. “Are you going to have to go in to the department?”

“I doubt it. It sounds as though everything is under control, although Frank Montoya will probably be giving me a call in a little while.”

By then Ruth had tired of the leaf game and clambered up onto the porch, displacing Sadie’s long-eared head from Marianne’s lap. The child lay there, struggling to keep her eyes open while a worn-out and panting Tigger flopped down in the grass nearby. Jenny, both elbows planted on the ground, lay beside him. She looked up at her mother.

“I hope he doesn’t call,” Jenny said with a pout. “You never used to have to work on Sundays. Now you almost always do.”

“We’ve been over this before many times, Jenny,” Joanna said. “The kind of job I have now doesn’t come with set nine-to-five hours.”

Unconvinced, Jenny tossed her blond hair. Still pouting, the child turned to Marianne. “What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?” Marianne returned.

“Don’t you hate it that you have to work on Sundays?”

For the first time all day a seemingly genuine smile spread across Marianne Maculyea’s haggard face. “I never have minded,” she said, “but I must confess, I never thought about it quite that way.”

CHAPTER TWO

As the sun sank behind the Mule Mountains, a sudden chill settled over the porch. Raking the steaming, foil-wrapped potatoes out of the remaining embers, Joanna announced it was time to move the party inside. One by one, the fully cooked spuds were divested of blackened foil and scooped onto dinner plates where they were smothered with butter, sour cream, and chopped green onions and joined by thick slices of freshly baked meatloaf. After hours of play, the two girls were famished. Joanna, too, was surprisingly hungry. Once again, how-ever, Marianne Maculyea pushed food around on her plate and made only the slightest pretense of eating it.

Dinner was over, the table cleared, and dishes mostly in the dishwasher before the telephone rang again. Joanna had left the cordless phone sitting by her place at the dining room table. Jenny raced to answer it before her mother could dry her hands.

“It’s for you,” Jenny announced, carrying the handset into the kitchen. “It’s Butch. I already told him we’re saving him a potato and some meatloaf.”

“Does that mean Jeff and I are invited out to the ranch when we get home?” Butch Dixon asked when Joanna came on the line.

“Sure,” Joanna said.

“Anything besides potatoes and meatloaf on the menu?” Butch asked.

Knowing his slyly stated question had nothing at all to do with food, Joanna ducked her face away from Marianne and Jenny in order to conceal the crimson blush that swept up her neck and face. Her best line of defense was to ignore his remark altogether.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Tucson,” he said. “We’re making a pit stop, getting gas, and grabbing some coffee.”

“When do you expect to be home?”

“Not much later than an hour and a half.”

“Where are they?” Marianne asked from across the room. Joanna held the phone away from her mouth. “In Tucson,” she answered. “Getting gas.”

Marianne nodded. “Have Butch tell Jeff that Ruth and I will meet him at home. If we don’t go home until after he gets here, it’ll be too late for Ruth to have a bath before bedtime. Tell him we’ll bring his dinner home and he can eat it there.”

“Did you hear that?” Joanna asked Butch.

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll have Jeff drop me off at my place so I can pick up my car. I’ll be out at the ranch as soon as I can. See you then.”

“Be careful,” Joanna said. The warning was out of her mouth before she could stop it. No matter how hard she tried, Joanna could never quite forget that she had failed to say those cautioning words to Andy as he left home on the morning he died—the morning he went off to work never to return. With Butch those once unspoken words were never far from her lips or her heart.

“Don’t worry about Jeff and me,” Butch replied. “Neither of us is big on taking chances.”

By the time Joanna put down the phone, Marianne was already gathering her stack of traveling-mother equipment—a diaper bag, an old briefcase packed with toys and books, as well as a purse. She loaded the collection into the backseat of her venerable VW bug. When it came time to strap Ruth into her car seat, the weary child turned suddenly cranky. She fought the seat belt and was screaming at the top of her lungs as they headed down the road for the seven-mile trip back uptown to the Canyon United Methodist parsonage in Old Bisbee. As Ruth’s earsplitting wail receded into the distance, Joanna felt a sudden wave of gratitude that Jenny had grown far beyond the unreasoning tantrums of toddlerhood.

“Come on, Jenny,” Joanna said. “Fun’s over. Time to do the chores.”

Six days a week Clayton Rhodes, Joanna’s octogenarian neighbor, took care of the animal husbandry duties on High Lonesome Ranch. Sunday was Clayton’s one day off.

For the next half hour Jenny and Joanna worked together, feeding and watering the High Lonesome’s menagerie of animals. There was Kiddo—Jenny’s quarter horse gelding; four head of cattle; two dogs; and half a dozen noisy, squawking chickens. The flock of birds had started out as cute and cuddly, living decorations for in-town children’s Easter baskets, but once the chicks sprouted feathers and stopped being cute, they had all been discarded. The animal control officer who had convinced Joanna to take the first one knew when he had found a soft touch. He soon brought her several more, and she took those as well.

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.”