The door opened and Joanna’s mother-in-law, Margaret Dixon, bounded down the steps, waving enthusiastically.
“Oh, no!” Jenny managed.
Joanna rolled down her window. “Those god-awful dogs of yours wouldn’t let us out, but now that you’re here, I’m sure it’s all right. They won’t bite, will they?”
“No,” Joanna said. “They won’t. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Margaret returned. “You don’t think Donald and I would miss the arrival of our very first grandchild, do you? I mean, better late than never.”
“Did Butch know you were coming?” Joanna asked.
“Of course not. It’s a surprise.”
It’s a surprise, all right, Joanna thought.
“Where is he, by the way?” Margaret Dixon continued. “Him being a house husband and all, I thought for sure he’d be here.”
“He’s in El Paso at a conference,” Joanna said stiffly.
And I’ll be damned if I’ll call him and ask him to come home early!
Chapter 5
Dealing with Margaret and Donald Dixon made for a very long evening. Don Dixon wasn’t all that bad. Margaret, though, was something else. Prior to meeting Butch’s mother, Joanna had often wondered why Butch found her own pill of a mother, Eleanor, so easy to tolerate. Unlike Joanna, Butch was always able to shrug off Eleanor’s sometimes mean-spirited comments and biting criticism with an air of bemused indifference. It turned out he had been inoculated by a lifetime’s worth of dealing with his own mother, who made Eleanor’s pointed comments seem like nuanced suggestions made by a career diplomat.
In other words, Margaret Leona Dixon was a ring-tailed bitch. Her sole purpose in life seemed to be cutting everyone else down to size, starting with but not limited to the shortcomings of her own son. Butch’s geographical cure to his mother’s perpetually negative attitude had been to migrate from Chicago to Arizona, and he had done so without looking back. He hadn’t seen his parents in years when they had unexpectedly shown up in the days prior to Joanna and Butch’s wedding.
Now they were back. Without Butch there to run interference, they were back in spades. The RV park down by the country club was already filled to the brim with migrating snowbirds, so the Dixons’ immense motor home was now parked next to Butch’s garage, with a long orange extension cord providing power. Joanna’s heart sank at the possibility that they were settling in for the duration.
For that Saturday evening, the Dixons’ sole saving grace was that they both liked Mexican food. Chico‘s Taco Stand, south of Bisbee’s Don Luis neighborhood, wasn’t long on atmosphere. Its recycled fifties vintage red vinyl booths and serve-yourself counter-based food service didn’t measure up to Margaret’s high-end expectations, but the food was unarguably good. Even good food, however, wasn’t enough to lessen the venom in Margaret’s running commentary.
“With the baby due in the next few days,” she said, toying with her paper plate loaded with peppery carne asada, “I simply can’t imagine why Butch would run off to El Paso like this. It makes no sense. It’s inexcusable.”
“His publisher wanted him to go,” Joanna said patiently. “And so did I. It’s an honor to be invited to appear on a conference panel before your book is even released.”
“Honor or not, it’s irresponsible for him to leave you alone like this, especially in your condition. Besides, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” Margaret replied. “His book is only a mystery, isn’t it? After all, it’s not as though it’s a real book.”
“It is too a real book,” Jenny objected. “I’ve seen the cover and everything.”
“Well, of course it would have a cover,” Margaret conceded.
“All books have covers. But I belong to two book clubs-one in Chicago in the summer and one in Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the winter, and we don’t read mysteries. Ever. They’re just too…too…
Fun? Joanna thought.
“Too light,” Margaret finished at last. “Not enough literary merit. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Joanna agreed with a pained smile on her face. “I know just what you mean.”
“But of course,” Margaret added, “if you’re going to make money, I suppose you have to write the kind of thing that appeals to the unwashed masses.” Then, without the slightest pause, she turned her full attention on Jenny. “So you’re in what now, sixth grade?”
“Eighth,” Jenny answered.
“And are you still as horse-crazy as you used to be, or have you outgrown that nonsense? Being a tomboy is usually just a stage, you know. Most girls, unless they’re odd or lesbians or something, do outgrow it sooner or later.”
Not waiting for Jenny to reply, Joanna charged to her daughter’s defense. “Jenny’s a fine young horsewoman, an exceptional horsewoman! She’s already participated in several rodeos. As a matter of fact, we’re already looking into the possibility of her applying for a rodeo scholarship. Several universities offer them.”
It was Margaret’s turn to look pained. “A rodeo scholarship for girls?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Only schools out here in the Wild West would do that. None of the schools in Chicago gives out rodeo scholarships.”
At that juncture, Joanna’s cell phone rang and the caller ID told her Jaime Carbajal was on the phone. Reluctant as she was to leave Jenny to face down Margaret Dixon on her own, Joanna excused herself and went outside to take the call.
“What have you got?” she asked.
“A big fat nothing,” Jaime returned. “You’re probably right about her, Sheriff Brady. Anna Marie doesn’t look like our doer. We did some checking with her neighbors. None of them has a bad word to say about her. She doesn’t get out much-still has her own car but needs someone to drive it for her. No one matching Bradley Evans’s description has been seen on or even near Short Street. We know now that our victim drove a red Ford F-100 pickup truck, an old beater with a camper shell on it that he bought from Junque for Jesus. No one admitted to seeing a vehicle like that anywhere near Short Street, either. And, like Ted Chapman told us, it wasn’t left at Evans’s apartment in Douglas, either.”
It was gratifying for Joanna to hear that her initial impression of Anna Marie Crystal seemed to have been validated by her investigators. Learning to trust that kind of gut instinct was an integral part of being a good detective. And in tight situations, well-honed gut instinct was sometimes the only thing that made the difference between life and death.
“You’ve issued an APB on the vehicle?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’ve been through Evans’s place?”
“Yes,” Jaime replied. “That’s where we spent most of the day. Evans’s landlady was real coy about not letting anyone into his place without our having a valid search warrant in hand.”
“And?”
“Believe me,” Jaime returned, “it’s not a crime scene. Nothing out of place. No sign of a struggle. The place was locked when we arrived and it was clean as a whistle. Dishes were all washed and put away. Dirty clothes were in a hamper. Everything else was either hung up or folded. A well-thumbed Bible was in the middle of the kitchen table. It reminded me of a room in a monastery.”
“Did he have a computer?” Joanna asked.
“Nope. Evans was evidently a low-tech kind of guy. Just to cover the bases, I’ve made arrangements for Casey Ledford to come down here tomorrow and dust for prints, but I’m guessing the only prints we’re going to find will belong to Bradley Evans himself.”