Late as it was when Joanna arrived home, she started the washer the moment she walked in the door. She had used the last of her clean underwear that morning. If she didn’t stay up late enough to put a load of wash in the dryer, she’d have to wear a damp bra and pair of panties to work the next morning.
Ruth Voland is jealous of me? she thought. How can that be?
Once she staggered into bed, sleep came quickly, but so did morning. Feeling guilty about spending so much time away from Jenny, Joanna had set the alarm for six so she could drive into town early and have breakfast with Jenny before she left for school.
She was dressed and close to leaving the house when the phone rang. Hurrying back to answer it, she found her mother on the phone. “You never called me back yesterday,” Eleanor complained.
“I didn’t get home until almost midnight,” Joanna answered. “I didn’t think you’d want me to call that late.”
“Well, I suppose not,,” Eleanor agreed. “Were you out dealing with that awful mess up by Tombstone?”
Joanna sighed. “As a matter of fact, I was.”
“What I can’t understand is why those people keep on coming here in the first place. Why don’t they just stay in Mexico where they belong?”
“Why didn’t your great-grandparents stay in England?” Joanna asked.
“That was different,” Eleanor told her.
This was a long-standing argument-one that no amount of logic could win. Joanna closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “What is it you want, Mother?”
There was a slight pause before Eleanor answered. “Are you planning on attending the Buckwalter funeral this morning?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Well, good,” Eleanor said. “You should. Your father always did. Keeping up appearances, you know. In the face of this awful crime wave, it’s important that people see you out in public and know you’re on the job.”
Eleanor hadn’t been wildly in favor of her daughter’s running for office in the first place. Now that Joanna had won the election, however, Eleanor Lathrop seemed determined to do everything necessary to keep the job of sheriff in the family.
“Right, Mother,” Joanna said.
“You know,” Eleanor added, “I never remember anything like this number of homicides happening all at once when your father was in office.”
No doubt there was a hidden subtext behind that comment. Eleanor was probably building tip to letting Joanna know that everything that had happened was all Joanna’s fault. It was fine for Joanna to blame herself. It was definitely not okay for her mother to do the same.
“Neither do I,” Joanna said. “But times have changed, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” Eleanor admitted. “I suppose they have. By the way, did you ever talk to Reverend Maculyea? She called here looking for you.”
“Marianne called there? That’s odd. What’s going on?” “I don’t know. You’d better talk to her first thing.”
“I will,” Joanna agreed. “As soon as I get off the phone with you.”
It was only after she clicked the receiver that Joanna remembered that she still hadn’t tackled her mother on the subject of her relationship with Cochise County Coroner George Winfield. That conversation was going to come, though, eventually.
Joanna dialed Marianne Maculyea’s number without ever dropping the telephone receiver back on the hook. She was worried about calling too early, but when Marianne answered she sounded wide awake, if harried.
“I can’t talk long,” the pastor said. “I’m on my way out the door to catch a plane.”
“A plane. Where to?”
“San Francisco. Jeff sent me a telegram yesterday afternoon. First nothing happens for weeks on end. Then all of a sudden he sends word yesterday that I have to be in San Francisco by noon today. The expectation had always been for him to fly into Tucson and for me to meet him there. He didn’t send along any explanation about the change in plan, either. Nothing. Just ‘meet us in San Francisco,’ and a flight number from Hong Kong. But that’s something anyway. At least he said ‘us’. It means…”
Marianne’s voice faltered.
“It means he did get the baby, right?” Joanna finished triumphantly.
“That’s right.”
“How great! Mari, congratulations. Aren’t you excited?”
“Yes, but… It’s just that…”
“It’s just what?”
“I’ve been so worried that there was some kind of hitch and he wouldn’t be able to get her out, that I had sort of given up hope. Now I guess I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“Do you need a ride to Tucson? Can I come pick you up? God knows, I’ve put in enough hours at work this week.”
“No,” Marianne said. “I’ve asked Billy Matthews from First Baptist to substitute for me at Bucky Buckwalter’s funeral. Meantime, I’m driving myself up in the Bug.”
Joanna knew her friend well enough to discern the undercurrent of concern beneath her business-as-usual words. “Mari,” Joanna said, “what’s wrong?”
Marianne laughed. “I’m that transparent?”
“To me you are. Now tell me. What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” Marianne Maculyea said.
“Scared of what?”
“Of becoming a mother. All of a sudden I realized I don’t know the first thing about it. What if she gets sick? What if she won’t eat or hurts herself? How will I know what to do?”
Joanna laughed at that. “Everybody feels that way in the beginning, but you’ll be fine. You and Jeff will be wonderful parents. Just remember, it’s all on-the-job training. How soon are you leaving for the airport?”
“Half an hour.”
“Promise me you won’t go until I get there. Jenny and have something that we want you to take along.”
“All right,” Marianne agreed. “I’ll wait.”
Joanna dropped that call and dialed the Bradys. Jenny answered the phone, sounding sulky. “Guess what?” Joanna announced. “Jeff is on his way to San Francisco with the new baby. Do you want to ride along up to the parsonage with me to give Marianne her present?”
Concerned that something might go wrong, Marianne had absolutely forbidden any presents or baby showers prior to knowing for sure that the adoption would go through. Once Jeff left for China, however, Joanna had bought a diaper bag. In the intervening weeks she and Jenny had added another item or two almost every time they had gone to the store.
The sulkiness went out of Jenny’s voice. “But it isn’t wrapped yet,” she objected.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Joanna said. “I’m leaving the house right now.”
“I’ll be ready,” Jenny said.
True to her word, Jenny was waiting on the porch when Joanna stopped in front of the Bradys’ neat duplex. In her arms she carried a bundle of pink yarn that turned out to be one of Eva Lou Brady’s down-soft broomstick-lace afghans.
In the Blazer, Jenny held the afghan against her mother’s face. “Isn’t it soft? I’ll bet the baby’s going to love it.”
“I’ll bet she is, too.”
At the parsonage up Tombstone Canyon, Marianne Maculyea was just loading her overnight bag into the VW when Joanna pulled up and stopped behind her. Jenny was out of the car almost before it stopped, carrying the bulging, bunny-covered diaper bag in one arm and the afghan in the other. As soon as Marianne saw then, she burst into tears.
“See?” Jenny said helpfully. “The straps are long enough so you can carry it over your shoulder. Like this.”
Laughing through her tears, Marianne slipped the diaper bag on one arm. “I guess this makes it real, doesn’t it?”
Crying too, Joanna reached over the beaming Jenny to hold Marianne close.
“Have you named her yet?” Jenny asked.
“Not so far. Sarah’s always been my first choice,” Marianne replied. “But Jeff and I agreed we wouldn’t name her until we both had a chance to get to know her.”
“Oh,” Jenny said.
“Promise you’ll call the minute you get back to town,” Joanna urged.
“I will,” Marianne said. “And thank you. Thank you for the bag and all the stuff you’ve put in it. But most of all, thanks for being my friend.”
The two women hugged once more. “It takes a friend to have one,” Joanna said.
She and Jenny stayed long enough to wave Marianne out of the driveway, then they set off for breakfast at Daisy’s. Marianne’s good news seemed to have put a golden haze over the whole morning. Jenny was bright and chatty.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” Joanna said as Jenny plowed through that morning’s stack of French toast. “Maybe after I’ve been doing this job awhile longer, I won’t feel like I have to be everywhere and do everything.”
“It’s all right,” Jenny said brightly. “It’s not like I’m a baby or anything.”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “You’re not a baby at all.”
They were almost at school before Joanna remembered to tell her daughter about Butch Dixon. “By the way,” she said, “a friend of mine from up in Phoenix has invited the two of us out for pizza tonight.”
“What friend?” Jenny asked.
“Butch Dixon. Remember the man you met up in Peoria?”
“The one with the restaurant with all the toy trains?”
“That’s right,” Joanna said. “What do you think?”
“I love pizza,” Jenny said.
Joanna laughed. “So do I,” she agreed.
She walked into her office right on time, only to be greeted by the sound of raised voices. Out in the other room, Dick Voland and Frank Montoya were going at it hot and heavy. She opened her door and walked directly into the melee.
“All right, guys,” she said. “What seems to be the problem? And how about if we come into my office to hash this out over three civilized cups of coffee.”
Stiff-legged, like squabbling little boys separated by a school principal, the two men came into Joanna’s office and took seats at either end of her desk.
“Chief Deputy Voland has deputies stationed in every damned hospital from here to Phoenix,” Frank began. “I keep trying to tell him, we can’t pay for that kind of staffing without blowing the budget come the end of the year.”
“And I keep trying to tell Mr. Montoya that these U.D.A.s are our responsibility. The two that are on life support-one at Tucson Medical Center and the other at University-aren’t much of a threat for taking off. But that’s not true of most of the others-the ones who weren’t so badly injured. The hospital administrators expect some help on this one. They’re worried about the safety of their other patients.”
Joanna sometimes suspected Voland of empire-building, of playing the old my-department-is-more-important-than-your-department game. “Wait a minute,” she said. “These guys are just ordinary wetbacks-field hands mostly, right?”
“Right,” Voland agreed.
“Not an ax murderer in the bunch?”
“Probably not,” Voland allowed. “At least not as far as we’ve been able to ascertain up to now.”
“So why would they pose a threat to any of the other patients?”
“What if they just walk out?”
“What if?”
“Then we lose whatever case we have against the driver.”
“No, we don’t,” Joanna argued. “The accident was witnessed by an officer from the Arizona Department of Public Safety. He has most of it recorded on video. Even if all the walking wounded were to take off for parts unknown or were deported back to Mexico compliments of the I.N.S., we would still have the ones who are physically incapable of leaving.”
“You’re saying I should pull the guards?” Voland asked.
“Dick, Frank is right,” Joanna said. “I don’t think the board of supervisors is bluffing on the budget business. If we don’t take their threats seriously, if we don’t do everything possible to curtail all unnecessary overtime expenditures, come next fall we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll pull them, every last one of ‘em, but I’m going to lodge a formal, written protest. I’m going to say in writing that I disagreed with that decision.”
“You go right ahead and do what you have to do,” Joanna told him.
“And if one of them disappears, or if there’s any other problem., it’s on your head.”
“I accept full responsibility,” Joanna said.
He stood up and stormed off to the door, meeting Kristin Marsten, who was on her way into the room with three cups of coffee,. Voland graphed one of them and hulled off to his own office, leaving Kristin to bring the others inside for Joanna and Frank. Frank waited until Kristin had gone out and shut the door before he said anything.
“What the hell’s the matter with that guy?” Frank Montoya demanded. “He’s been a complete jerk all week long.”
“Give him a break,” Joanna said. “I think he’s having a tough time of it right now.”
“If you ask me,” Frank Montoya said, “he’s always having a tough time of it.”
“Let it go, Frank,” Joanna said. “Now, besides the disaster up by Tombstone, what else happened overnight?”
Without Dick Voland present, Frank went ahead with the morning briefing. “Nothing much,” he said, checking the printed contact sheets himself. “We had so many deputies dragged out of their cars and standing guard duty in hospitals that coverage was a little light county-wide. That’s why I was trying to tell Dick…”
“Don’t beat a dead horse, Frank,” Joanna warned. “Go on.
“Naturally the press is waiting for me to make some kind of statement about this latest incident. As of today, Cochise County is two ahead of Pima in terms of homicide victims for the year. That’s an unwelcome statistic, especially in view of the difference in population. So far this morning I’ve had several calls from Tucson and Phoenix stations, radio and television both, asking what’s going on down here. Everybody seems to think we’re wallowing around in a pool of murder and mayhem.”
“Whatever you do,” Joanna cautioned, “don’t let them talk to my mother. Eleanor Lathrop shares that opinion.”
“Are you going to the Buckwalter funeral?” Frank Montoya asked, abruptly switching gears.
“Ernie will be there working, of course,” Joanna said. “But I think I’d better put in an appearance as well.”
Frank nodded. “By all means,” he said.
Just then there was a knock on Joanna’s door. Ernie Carpenter opened it a crack and stuck his head inside. “Did you know about this?” he asked, waving a piece of paper in the air.
“What is it?”
“A court order. Bebe Noonan has gotten herself a lawyer and has formally requested a DNA sample from Bucky Buckwalter’s body as part of a paternity suit.”
“I did know about it,” Joanna said. “So did Dick Voland.”
“She’s pregnant with Bucky’s baby?”
“That’s right.”
“If you knew about it and Dick knew about it, why the hell didn’t I?”
“I found out yesterday afternoon. I told Dick on the way over to Tombstone last night, but with all the mess over there, I guess we both forgot about it.”
“Thanks a lot,” Carpenter muttered. “Thanks a whole hell of a lot.” With that he, too, stalked out of the office.
Joanna looked at Frank and grinned. “Well,” she said. “I’m two for two. Aren’t you going to stomp out and slam the door shut as well?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Whatever the provocation, I think it’s bad form to slam doors until after everyone in the office has had a chance to finish at least one cup of coffee.”
Frank did leave Joanna’s office fairly soon after that. Between then and nine-fifteen, when it was time for her to leave for Bucky Buckwalter’s funeral, Joanna at last had some time to make a little progress on the paper debris that covered her desk. As she shuttled through the messages once again, she threw away the ones from her mother and Marianne Maculyea. When she rediscovered the one from Larry Matkin, the mining engineer, she tried to return the call. He had left only one number, however, and there was no answer.
At thirty-five years of age and a height of six feet six, Little Norm Higgins was both the youngest and the largest of Norm Higgins’ three sons. He collected Joanna Brady at the door of Higgins Funeral Chapel and Mortuary. Taking her arm and speaking in low, respectful tones, he led her to the third row of seats, a place evidently reserved for dignitaries unrelated to the deceased. She was seated between Agnes Pratt and Alvin Bernard, Bisbee’s mayor and chief of police, respectively.
Agnes had a tendency to develop skin cancer. On doctor’s orders, she always wore hats, although the wide-brimmed, flowered and/or feathered affairs she favored might not have been exactly what her dermatologist had in mind. The one she preferred to wear to funerals was an enormous black straw contrivance with a velvet ribbon and single peacock leather. Over time the feather had become quite bedraggled. Her Honor inclined her head as Joanna slipped past her into an empty seat. “So sad,” Agnes murmured. “So very sad.”
Seated as close as she was to the front of the chapel, it was impossible for Joanna to see who all was present. From the noise level it was clear that the place was jammed to the gills. Joanna wondered if the attendance was due to Bucky’s prominent position in the community or if, somehow, word had already leaked out that the murdered vet was about to become a posthumous papa.
Shortly before the Reverend Billy Matthews from the First HU~Ie Baptist Church took to the podium, Little Norm was forced to go to the front of the chapel. There, in his whispery, bowling announcers’ voice, he urged people to move closer together in order to allow a few more attendees to squeeze in at the end of each cushioned pew.
As the organist droned on and on, playing something mournful but totally unrecognizable, Joanna wondered how Billy, pinch-hitting for Marianne Maculyea, would be able to pull together a meaningful service. If Terry Buckwalter wasn’t particularly grief-stricken over her husband’s death, would anyone else be?
It turned out that the answer was yes. Any number of people had been touched and saddened by Bucky’s passing, and a few of them were willing to come forward and say so. The selection of speakers wasn’t exactly standard funeral fare, but they all did well.
First to step forward was an adorable little girl named Winnette Jeffries who also happened to be Agnes Pratt’s great-granddaughter. Barely able to see over the podium, a breathless Winnette told how Dr. Buckwalter had saved her puppy after someone had fed the animal poison.
Maggie Dodd, one of Bisbee’s most outspoken animal-rights activists, told about how the Buckwalters had saved numerous strays from the fate of lethal injection by offering an adoption service alternative to the local animal shelter.
Last of all was Irene Collins. She tottered up the steps to the podium to give a tearful account of how, on the last day of his life, Bucky Buckwalter had removed a stuck chicken bone from the throat of Irene’s poor little kitty, Murphy Brown.
Knowing some of the background, Joanna wasn’t surprised that the speakers stressed Bucky’s skill as a vet rather than mentioning his interpersonal relationships with human beings. Terry Buckwalter, dressed in a properly conservative navy-blue suit, sat in the first row almost directly in front of Joanna. The widow listened to the various speakers with no show of emotion at all. Bebe Noonan, on the other hand, seated on the far side of the chapel in the same row as Joanna, sobbed uncontrollably from the moment the service started until it was over.
It was only then, when people congregated outside, trying to decide who would be going from the chapel to the Ladies Aid’s luncheon, that Eleanor Lathrop managed to catch up with her daughter.
“What a wonderful service,” Eleanor crooned. “Very uplifting, for a funeral. Terry’s holding up remarkably well, buy did you see how devastated that poor little Bebe Noonan was? Why, the way she carried on, you’d have thought her heart was broken. Bucky must have been a wonderful boss for her to be that torn up over his death.”
Joanna looked at Eleanor then, shocked to realize that, for the first time in her life, she knew the whole story behind something while her mother had less than a glimmer. For once Joanna’s personal knowledge had outpaced even Helen Barco’s incredibly reliable gossip mill. That realization made Joanna feel odd somehow, and old as well. In that instant, it seemed as though their roles were suddenly reversed-as though Joanna were the mother and Eleanor Lathrop the innocent child in need of protection. Not only did Joanna know what was going on, she wasn’t at liberty to say.
“You’re right, Mother,” she said. “Bucky Buckwalter certainly was a boss in a million.”
At Evergreen Cemetery, winter had turned the sparse gross yellow. As the vehicles in the funeral cortege emptied, Joanna stayed near the fringes of the group coalescing around Bucky Buckwalter’s open grave. In the funeral chapel Joanna had been so close to the front that it had been difficult to get any kind of an overview of what was going on. Maintaining a little bit of distance in the cemetery allowed for better observation.
Bebe Noonan, dressed all in black, continued to carry on in chief-mourner fashion. Her behavior had already sparked several derogatory comments that, Joanna knew, would only get worse once the real story came out. As it was, her wild abandon of grief stood in marked contrast to Terry Buckwalter’s stony reserve. As far as Joanna was concerned, her long talk with Terry at the clinic the previous afternoon had eased some of her concerns about Terry’s possible involvement in her husband’s death. How Detective Carpenter was viewing the unmoved widow’s performance, however, was another question entirely.
Joanna caught sight of Dr. Reggie Wade making his way toward Bebe Noonan. He spoke to her briefly for a few moments. When he finished whatever he had to say, Bebe threw herself into his arms, weeping with renewed vigor. Reggie, looking uncomfortable, held her for a moment before setting her aside and moving on.
Reggie headed toward where Terry Buckwalter was standing, talking to someone else. It took a moment for Joanna to recognize who it was-Larry Matkin. No wonder Matkin had been unavailable to answer his phone. He had already been on his way to the funeral.
Seeing him there, Joanna couldn’t help wondering why. Larry Matkin was a relative newcomer to town. What was his connection to Amos and Terry Buckwalter? The thought crossed her mind, but only briefly. It was quickly obscured as Reggie Wade walked up to Matkin and Terry. He moved between them and reached out to pat the widow’s shoulder. During the whole ordeal of the day, that simple gesture caused a crack in Terry Buckwalter’s unbending self-control. She looked up at Reggie and gave him a wan smile.
Joanna recognized the entire pantomime-the wordless gesture, the answering smile. She herself had been the recipient of the same kind of awkward pats. They had con mostly from Andy’s buddies, from men who had found themselves helpless and tongue-tied in the face of Joanna’s awful loss. Seeing the whole scene reenacted there in the cemetery brought back far too much of Joanna’s own pain. She had to look away.
Eva Lou arrived just then. “What is the matter with that girl?” Eva Lou Brady whispered to her daughter-in-law, nodding in Bebe’s direction. “Doesn’t she realize that she’s making a complete spectacle of herself?”
Still almost strangling on her own flashback of grief Joanna shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think she does. And even if she did, I don’t think it would make any difference.”
Eva Lou abruptly changed the subject. “Are you coming to the luncheon?” she asked.
By then, all Joanna Brady wanted to do was escape the whole thing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m so far behind that I really shouldn’t be away from the office that long.”
Eva Lou peered at her closely. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Eva Lou said. “You’re so pale that you look as though you might keel right over. You must be working too hard.”
‘‘Probably,” Joanna agreed.
“Well, cut it out,” Eva Lou said severely. “It’s tempting to try to be everything to all people, but you can’t keep it up forever. It’s too hard on you. You forget to stop and smell the roses. As you know, when those roses are gone, they’re gone forever.”
It was as close as Eva Lou Brady had ever come to bawling her out. Deservedly so. Joanna took Eva Lou’s hand and squeezed it. “That’s good advice,” she said. “I’ll try not to forget it.”
Someone else arrived-Don and Louise Watson, bringing Jim Bob with them. After somber greetings all around, the four of them left Joanna where she was, and moved closer to where the other mourners were gathering around the casket-topped grave. There were only a few latecomers still straggling in when Ernie Carpenter sidled up to Joanna.
She had barely glimpsed at Ernie earlier in her office. Now she was shocked by the look of him. His color was bad. There were dark circles under his eyes. The snowballing events of the past few days had put a terrible strain on every-one in the department, but with Ernie as the sole homicide detective, the brunt of the pressure had landed squarely on his broad shoulders.
“The L.P.G.A.?” he muttered. “I still think it’s just too damned convenient that Terry Buckwalter happens to have her big-deal golf tryout this weekend. What do you think?”
Joanna looked up at him. Ernie was a good cop, a capable cop. Unlike Joanna, Ernie hadn’t recently lost his spouse. Every aspect of Bucky Buckwalter’s murder seemed to tug on Joanna Brady’s still raw emotional heartstrings. Ernie’s judgment may have been impaired by sheer exhaustion, but not by his own prejudices.
As sheriff, Joanna Brady had only one clear option--to step aside and let her investigator do his job. “It’s your case, Ernie,” she said. “I don’t have an opinion on this one.”
“Now that I know about this paternity thing, I need t talk to Terry again. Late this afternoon is probably the firs I’ll be able to get to it.”
“What about sleep?” Joanna asked.
Ernie stopped cold. “Sleep?” he repeated, as though were a totally foreign word. “Who needs sleep?”
“You do,” Joanna answered. “You’ve been juggling on case after another. How much rest have you had in the past three days?”
“Some,” Ernie admitted.
“Five hours? Ten?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“That’s about what I thought,” Joanna said. “I can tell jus by looking at you. Don’t try to talk to Terry today, Ernie. Le it go. Once the funeral is over, I want you to take the rest o the afternoon off. And the weekend, too. I don’t want you near the department any before Monday morning.”
“But what about Terry going up to Tucson? What if she takes off and doesn’t come back?”
“Then let it be on my head. If she runs away, we’ll find her,” Joanna said. “But right now, you need some time off. You’re off duty from noon today on. That’s an order, Detective Carpenter. You’ve already put in some sixty-odd hours this week. Monday will be time enough to start getting a handle on all of this. If you work yourself into the ground or into the hospital, then where will we be?”
Before Ernie had a chance to reply, the Reverend Billy Matthews launched off into the “dust to dust, ashes to ashes” part of the service. Moving close enough to hear, Joanna watched as Bucky Buckwalter’s coffin slowly slid out of sight. As it did so, Joanna was gripped once again by the terrible sense of loss and finality that had assailed her months earlier as Andy’s coffin, too, had disappeared from view. The tears that surprised her by suddenly spurting from her eyes had nothing at all to do with Bucky’s death.
Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the distant part of the cemetery that held Andy’s low-lying granite marker. She and Jenny had been there together only once since the marker was installed. That was on Veterans Day, when they had gone to place a tiny American flag beside the grave.
The service wasn’t yet over when Joanna quietly drifted away toward that other part of the cemetery. Almost blinded by her tears, it was all she could do to keep from stumbling headlong over gravestones.
Once there, she stooped to pluck the faded flag out of the ground. Slipping it into the pocket of her coat, she knelt over the plain red granite marker. Chiseled into the smooth red rock was Andy’s full name-Andrew Roy Brady-along with the dates of both his birth and his death. At the very bottom of the marker, almost melting into the long yellowed grass, were four simple words: “To serve and protect.”
One at a time, she ran her fingers over each of the letters. To serve and protect. That had been Andy’s job-his whole mission and purpose in life. It was the reason he had joined the service after high school and it was the reason he had signed on as deputy sheriff once he was discharged from the army. Now those same words constituted Joanna’s mission in life as well.
“They can be mighty tough to live by,” Jim Bob Brady observed, walking up behind her and laying a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Startled by her father-in-law’s voice and touch, Joanna hurried to wipe the tears from her eyes. She scrambled to her feet.
“They are,” she mumbled. “Especially right about now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Joanna shook her head. “It feels like the bad guys are winning, Jim Bob.”
He shook his head. “Aw now,” he said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Seems to me you and your people are doin’ all right.”
Joanna gave him a frail smile. “It’s possible you’re prejudiced,” she said.
“Nope,” he declared, “not me. I admit it’s been a bad week around here for lots of folks, but I’m sure that before too long you’ll sort it all out.”
“Sort it all out?” Joanna snorted. “What good will the do? Several people are dead, all of them in my jurisdiction. Five in all, with a couple more lives hanging by a thread. In at least two of those cases my own actions, or inactions on the part of some of my people, are partially responsible for what happened.”
“So?” Jim Bob returned. “Most likely those people would be dead regardless of who was sheriff. The only thing you can do is try and see to it that whoever’s responsible get what’s comin’ to him.”
Unable to say anything in return, Joanna turned an, looked back toward the mound of flowers next to Buck Buckwalter’s grave. “When people are dead,” she said finally, “punishing the killer always seems like too little too late.”
“Maybe so, but it’s the best you can do. Come along now,” Jim Bob added. “It’s too chilly for you to be out here very long.”
Reaching out, he took Joanna by the hand and pulled her close, then he headed off across the cemetery, leading her back in the direction of the parked cars. “Eva Lou saw you walk off, and she sent me to fetch you. She was concerned.”
“I’m sorry to worry you,” Joanna said. “That was thoughtless of me.”
“That’s all right. Problem is, we’re in a little bit of a hurry because Eva Lou’s due to help serve at the Ladies’ Aid’s luncheon. I need to drop her by the church before too long. You see, that’s Eva Lou’s thing, Joanna. Servin’ lunch may not seem like much of anything. On the scale of things, it’s sort of like you said-too little, too late. But when people are hurtin’, fixin’ and servin’ food is the best Eva Lou can do. You’re so busy looking at the murder part of all this that you’ve plumb forgot it’s the lunches and the little things that glue us all together.”
Looking up at her father-in-law gratefully, Joanna realized what he was saying was absolutely true. “Thanks, Jim Bob,” she said. “I needed that.”