Had Joanna’s father grappled with his natural adversary, the written word, in order to leave pieces of himself behind for those who followed? Had he wanted or expected whatever he had written there to survive him? Had he imagined that someday a grown-up Joanna might read his words and somehow come to understand her father’s hopes and dreams and aspirations? Had D. H. Lathrop ever, in his wildest dreams, thought that the son he and Eleanor had given up for adoption might someday come back into their lives and be able to study the diaries, thus learning about the biological father who would otherwise forever be a stranger? And what about Jenny and this as-yet-unborn grandchild? Could the diaries shed light on the existence of a man they had never met? Now, through George Winfield’s kindness, all those things were possible.
For a moment Joanna considered picking up her cell phone and sharing this amazing news with Bob Brundage, her long-lost brother whose out-of-wedlock birth had predated their parents subsequent marriage by a number of years. Given up for adoption as a newborn, he had come looking for his birth parents years later, and only after the deaths of both his biological father as well as his adoptive parents. Eleanor had welcomed him and his wife, Marcie, with open arms.
Joanna scrolled through the stored numbers in her cell phone until she located Bob Brundage’s name and number, but she paused before pressing the “talk” button. Joanna had told George Winfield that she wouldn’t betray his secret in preserving the diaries, but what about her brother? Bob hadn’t grown up at odds with Eleanor Lathrop. Joanna knew all about keeping things from her mother. For her it had been a matter of survival-as necessary as breathing. What if Joanna told Bob, and he somehow let slip to their mother what George had done?
No, Joanna told herself firmly, putting the phone back down. Let sleeping dogs lie.
She picked it back up a moment later, however, and called home. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very smart man?” she asked Butch when he answered.
“Not recently,” he said.
Hurriedly she explained what George had done. “So it’s a very good thing you didn’t let your mother get her hands on any of those boxes.”
“George was acting funny,” Butch said. “It made me think something was up. But I’m glad the boxes are safe and sound.”
“And how are things on the home front?” Joanna asked.
“Quiet. Mom and Dad unhitched their Tracker and went out sightseeing this morning. They told me not to plan on cooking dinner. They want to take us out.”
“Where to?”
“Someplace nice was what I was told, so I’ve made reservations at the restaurant at Rob Roy Links.”
“Sounds good,” Joanna said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
With that she went back to work. She stayed glued to her desk until almost two o’clock dealing with a slew of end-of-the-month reports.
Finally Kristin showed up in her doorway. “I thought you had a doctor’s appointment,” she said, pointing at her watch.
With a dismayed glance at the clock on her office wall, Joanna bounded out of her chair. “Thanks,” she said. “I was so engrossed that I would have missed it.”
While sitting in Dr. Tommy Lee’s waiting room, Joanna found her head lolling back. The next thing she knew, Sugie Richards, Dr. Lee’s receptionist, was shaking her awake.
“Sheriff Brady. Sheriff Brady. Are you all right?”
Embarrassed, Joanna looked around the room to see if anyone else had noticed. Obviously several people had.
“I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “It’s nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.”
“Well, it’s time for you to come in now,” Sugie said. “The doctor’s ready to see you. Come on in and put on a gown.”
With people still staring at her, Joanna got up and waddled into the examination room. “How are things?” Dr. Lee asked when he appeared in the doorway several minutes later.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m tired and cranky and ready to be done carrying this baby. Other than that, I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you are,” Dr. Lee agreed.
His examination was perfunctory. “A few more days,” Dr. Lee said at last. “It won’t be long now.”
That’s easy for you to say, Joanna thought. Your mother-in-law isn’t parked in your driveway waiting for this damned kid to put in an appearance.
“You can get dressed now,” the doctor added. “Then we’ll talk-Stuffed back inside the confines of her maternity uniform, Joanna went into Dr. Lee’s office and took a seat beside his desk.
“You seem a little stressed,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Butch’s parents are here,” she said.
Dr. Lee studied her face. “Is that all?”
She remembered her panicked call to Marianne. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” she asked.
“Tell you what?”
“If something was wrong with the baby,” Joanna said in a rush. “I mean, if there were pieces missing or if something wasn’t working right.”
“Of course I would,” he assured her with a smile. “I would have told you long before this. Whatever would have made you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t know,” Joanna answered wanly. “I guess I just needed something to worry about.”
“We doctors call it third-trimester paranoia,” he said with a smile. “Believe me. That kind of thinking is completely normal.”
Chapter 8
Joanna had barely returned to her office when an almost giddy Debbie Howell bounded into the room. “Look,” she said, waving a fistful of papers in the air. “The woman in Brad Evans’s pictures. I finally talked to a Fry’s checkout clerk who was able to look at the pictures and give me the woman’s name-Leslie Markham. I came back to the office, Googled the name, and found her! Here she is. She and her husband, Rory Markham, own a real estate company out in Sierra Vista. I downloaded this from their website.”
Joanna took the proffered pieces of paper. While she read through them, Debbie, too excited to sit, paced the floor. Rory Markham, Real Estate Group, LLC, was a brokerage specializing in “fine homes and ranches.” Rory, who was evidently both owner and broker of the firm, was a tanned, silver-haired gentleman who looked to be in his late fifties. Just under the company name was a color photo of Mr. Markham with a radiantly smiling Leslie standing at his side. Leslie’s photo turned up a second time among the head shots of salespeople working for the company. In the associates section her caption read: “Leslie Tazewell Markham.”
“Looks like she started out as an associate and ended up marrying the boss,” Joanna said.
Debbie nodded. “I believe it’s called marrying up.”
“In every sense of the word,” Joanna added. “She looks like she’s barely mid-twenties and he’s what, early fifties?”
“At least,” Debbie agreed. “He could be even older than that.” Joanna remembered what Ted Chapman had said- something to the effect that younger women only threw themselves at older men if money was involved. From the looks of the man in the picture it appeared that there couldn’t be more than a couple of years of difference in age between Rory Markham and Bradley Evans. So maybe Leslie Markham had a thing for older men.
“Do Jaime and Ernie know about this?” Joanna asked. “Not yet,” Debbie said. “I came straight here to tell you.”
“I’m glad to know about it, but they’re your partners on this,” Joanna reminded her. “Whatever you know, they need to know.”
“Right,” Debbie said. “I’ll see if I can locate them.” She left Joanna’s office, taking the website information on Rory Markham Real Estate with her when she went. Within minutes Debbie was back, bringing the Double Cs with her.