“That’s one of the reasons I became a cop,” Ernie continued. “And a detective, too. I always felt as though I owed Molly that much-to do what I could to help others, even though I couldn’t help her. I’ve run into Slim around town on occasion. He’s always civil, if not pleasant. Helen cuts me dead whenever she sees me. It would be useless for me to try to talk to her about Terry Buckwalter.”
The room grew still. “Should I go see her?” Joanna suggested at last.
Ernie nodded. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “If you don’t mind, that is. Otherwise, I could ask Jaime Carbajal to do it, but I just sent the poor guy home to get some shut eye himself.”
“I don’t mind,” Joanna said. And then, because Ernie looked so beaten up, she tried to lighten his load. “I’ve been needing a haircut for weeks anyway. This would be a good excuse, and subtle, too, don’t you think? Sort of like going in undercover?”
Ernie Carpenter stood up and gave Joanna the ghost of a grin. “You may be able to get away with that line,” he said, “but it wouldn’t work for me. Not in a million years.”
Once back in her office, Joanna picked up the phone and dialed Helene’s Salon of Hair and Beauty. The first time she dialed the number, the line was busy. While waiting to dial again, she thumbed through her newest stack of correspondence. Halfway down, she found that morning’s issue of the Bisbee Bee.
Curious, Joanna picked it up. There staring back at her was her own picture. The photographer had caught her in the flash of the camera as she exited her Blazer. Next to that was a very uncomplimentary mug shot of Hannah Green.
The caption under Joanna’s picture said, “Sheriff Joan, Brady returns to her office by a back entrance following the suicide of a Cochise County Jail inmate.”
“That wormy little son of a bitch!” Joanna said.
‘Fussing the paper aside, Joanna dialed Helen’s numb once again. This time it rang. Helen Barco herself answered the phone.
“Joanna Brady here,” Joanna said. “‘There isn’t a chance you could work me in for a haircut sometime today, is there?”
“How soon can you be here?” Helen returned. “Lonnie Taylor canceled just a few minutes ago because she has to take her mother out to Sierra Vista to see the doctor. If you can be here in the next twenty minutes or so, I can work you in with no problem. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”
“I’m on my way,” Joanna said. “Hold the chair for me.”
She drove into town feeling as though she were privy to something she didn’t want to know-to a part of Ernie’s history as well as of Helen Barco’s that shouldn’t have been any of Joanna Brady’s business. But it was. She felt as though, with her newfound knowledge, she owed Helen Barco the courtesy of a condolence. And yet, since Helen herself hadn’t mentioned her daughter, Joanna realized that her saying anything at all about Molly Barco would be a rude intrusion.
When Joanna walked into the beauty shop that day, she felt weighted down by all that secret knowledge. The eye-watering smells of permanent-wave solution and chemicals made her want to run for cover. A woman Joanna didn’t recognize sat enthroned under a beehive-shaped dryer with a dog-eared People magazine thrust in front of her face. She looked up and nodded in greeting when Joanna opened the door.
“How’s Jenny’s hair doing these days?” Helen asked as she flipped a plastic cape over Joanna’s shoulders.
Two months after Jenny’s ill-fated permanent, the solution-damaged hair was finally beginning to grow out. “It’s much better,” Joanna said. It was easy for her to be gracious at that point. Alter all, she had a good deal to be thankful for. Jenny was alive and well. Her hair would eventually outgrow the effects of that bad permanent. Helen Barco’s daughter was dead.
Helen shook her head sadly. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I haven’t had a disaster like that since bill when I was first going to beauty school. Your mother and I just got carried away talking and I plumb forgot to set the timer.”
“We all make mistakes,” Joanna said.
It wasn’t until after her hair was shampooed and Helen Barco was snipping away that Joanna finally got down business. “I saw Terry Buckwalter yesterday,” she said. “She looked great.”
“Doesn’t she though!” Helen Barco agreed with a smile. “She was my first appointment yesterday morning. She had a complete makeover, including letting me do her colors. I fixed her up with new lipstick and nail enamel as well. Those new spring lines do a lot for her. They’d be fine for you, too, Joanna. You should try them.”
“I’ll think about it,” Joanna said. “But I’m still not ready. Getting back to Terry, though, I barely recognized her. People will be surprised when they see her at the funeral tomorrow.”
“That’s what she said, too,” Helen said. “That people will be surprised. They’ll have plenty to talk about when Little Miss Mousie shows up at the funeral looking like a fashion plate.” Helen clicked her tongue. “It does make such a difference. It’s a crying shame she didn’t have it done years ago. But I don’t think that’s why she did it now-the funeral mean. It sounded to me like she had some kind of important appointment coming up this weekend. She wanted to look her best for that.”
“Did she say what kind of appointment?” Joanna asked.
“Not exactly,” Helen said. “Whatever it is, it isn’t here in town. I believe it’s up in Phoenix. Or maybe Tucson. I forget which.’’
“A meeting, or a date?” Joanna asked, thinking once in of Terry Buckwalter’s missing wedding ring.
“Oh, I’m certain it wasn’t a date,” Helen said quickly. “I believe it had something to do with golf. Something with a whole bunch of letters. L-something and some kind of school-a V-school or a T-school, I forget.”
Over the years, Joanna had picked up a little golfing lingo just from having Jim Bob and Andy Brady watch weekend if tournaments. “Q-school?” she asked. “Is Terry trying to t into a qualifying school?”
“That’s it,” Helen said. “Those are the exact words she used. Qualifying school. And she wants to go on a tour of some kind.”
“The L.P.G.A.?” Joanna asked incredulously. “Terry Buckwalter thinks she’s going to go off on the Ladies Professional Golf Association tour?”
“How did you put that together?” Helen said. “You really a detective, aren’t you. Your mother is always telling me how smart you are. This is amazing.”
Joanna thought about Terry Buckwalter. She didn’t know exactly how old Terry was, although she had to be somewhere in her mid- to late thirties. For years, Terry had served an unpaid assistant tennis coach at the high school, but as far as Joanna could remember, that had come to an end several years earlier. It was a hell of a long way from playing all-town tennis to hopping on the L.P.G.A. circuit as a professional golfer.
“She’s that good?” Joanna asked.
“Evidently,” Helen Barco said. “She seems to think so, 1 so does that guy out at the Rob Roy.”
“Terry spoke Io you about Peter Wilkes?” Joanna asked.
“You bet she did. To hear her talk, you’d think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
That stumped Joanna. If Terry Buckwalter and Peter Wilkes had something going, wouldn’t they be a little more discreet about it than that?
“It sounds expensive as all heck,” Helen continued. “She did say that with the insurance and all that she’d come out all right, although she is selling, you know.”
“Selling what?”
“The practice,” Helen answered. “Since she isn’t a veterinarian, she can’t operate it herself. The same thing would happen to Slim if he was left holding this shop. He wouldn’t be able to do a thing.”