“I talked to Melanie Goodson myself yesterday afternoon,” Joanna said. “And I had the distinct impression that she wasn’t being forthright with me. She claims she was at home asleep when Sandra took off in her Lexus, but-despite having a telephone in her bedroom-she still claims she didn’t hear Lucy’s phone call when it came in around three a.m. She let the call be picked up by her machine.”
“What do you want Ernie and Jaime to do about it?”
“I want them to bear that in mind when they talk to her. And when they finish up with everything else, I want them to go out to Melanie’s neighborhood on Old Spanish Trail and check it out. There’s always a chance that one of her neighbors saw or heard something unusual.”
“There’s a chance,” Frank Montoya agreed. “But not a very big one. If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
The moment Frank left Joanna’s office, a much-relieved Kristin Marsten appeared with that day’s worth of correspondence. For Joanna, dealing with the daily deluge of mail was an unending source of frustration. She worked for two golden and almost totally uninterrupted hours before her private-line phone rang.
“I hope you’re happy,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I don’t see how the Dixons could have felt very welcome when you and George and Frederick locked yourselves up in the kitchen that way. I suppose it could have been worse, though. If you had come outside and started discussing all those gruesome things…”
“Mother, look,” Joanna said. “This is a complicated week for all concerned. It was wonderful of you and George to host last night’s dinner, and I’m sure everyone enjoyed it. Those tamales were incredible.”
“I’m glad you liked them,” Eleanor sniffed. “The food was all right, but the atmosphere was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Why, even Eva Lou was snappish with Maggie when she and Jim Bob were getting ready to leave.”
She was snappish a lot earlier than that, Joanna thought. I wonder what Maggie Dixon said that finally pushed even sweet-tempered Eva Lou over the edge?
Joanna’s unspoken question was never uttered aloud, but Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, chattering on, answered it anyway.
“All Maggie did was ask a few questions about Andy-nothing out of line as far as I could see, but all of a sudden Eva Lou stands up and says, ”I can’t imagine why you’d be asking such a personal question.“ It was an answer straight out of ”Dear Abby,“ and I was absolutely floored. Can you imagine Eva Lou being so… well…” Eleanor Winfield paused as she groped for the proper word. “So outspoken,” she finished at last.
When it comes to Maggie Dixon, Joanna told herself, anything is possible.
CHAPTER 18
The service for Clayton Rhodes was a simple affair held at Higgins Funeral Home and Mortuary up in Old Bisbee and conducted by Clayton’s longtime pastor, the Reverend Lonnie Dodds of the Double Adobe Baptist Church. Reba Singleton sat stiffly in the front row and spoke to no one. Joanna and Jenny sat near the back. When the minister announced that Clayton had been preceded in death by his beloved wife, Molly Louise, and his infant son, Cyrus Andrew, Joanna reached over and squeezed Jenny’s hand. Had it not been for Jenny, Joanna wouldn’t have had any previous knowledge about the existence of Clayton’s second child.
Because Molly Rhodes had been a behind-the-scenes linchpin in Bisbee’s YWCA, the post-service social hour was held there. Always with a keen eye for spotting readily available refreshments, Jenny chose seats at a table within easy striking distance of silver trays laden with artfully arranged decorated cookies. A few minutes after Joanna and Jenny sat down, they were joined at the table by a tiny, bird-boned woman Joanna had never seen before.
“I’m Carol,” she said, smiling cordially at Jenny. “Carol Hubbard from Tucson. Who are you?”
“I’m Jennifer Brady, and this is my mom, Joanna,” Jenny answered brightly. “Mr. Rhodes was our neighbor. He used to feed our animals and stuff.”
Carol looked at Joanna. “Oh, I know about you. You’re the woman whose husband was killed, and now you’ve been elected sheriff. Isn’t that right?”
Joanna nodded. “Yes. The name’s Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Clayton spoke very highly of you-and of you, too, Jenny,” Carol Hubbard continued. “And don’t you have some kind of funny-looking dog? I seem to remember Clayton saying his name is Tiger.”
“Tigger,” Jenny corrected. “Not like the golfer. Like the character from Winnie the Pooh. And Tigger’s really funny. He’s half golden retriever and half pit bull, and he loves to jump.”
“How did you know Clayton?” Joanna asked. “Are you a relative?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Just friends. He and my first husband, Hank, met during the war,” Carol Hubbard replied. “World War Two, that is. They were in the U.S. Air Force- the Air Corps back then. Hank was stationed in India with the Four Hundred Ninety-first Bomber Squadron and worked intelligence for them. According to him, his major task assignment was sobering up pilots so they were straight enough to fly the Hump. He was a voice major in college, though-a talented soloist-and later on in the war he was pulled into entertaining the troops. He and a group of other performers went to bases all over India and Burma putting on variety shows. That’s where he met Clayton.”
“Mr. Rhodes could sing?” Jenny asked.
Carol Hubbard laughed. “Actually, he couldn’t sing a note, and he couldn’t dance, either, but they had him in every show-moving his lips and acting like he was singing his heart out. You know how these days they have those traveling Broadway productions that go all over the country? I believe they call them bus-and-truck shows. Well, this was the same thing, only it was a plane-and-truck show. According to Hank, Clayton Rhodes was the best mechanic in India. They flew from show to show in planes that were so old and rickety that they were in danger of falling out of the sky every time they took off, but by hook or crook Clayton somehow managed to keep them running and in the air. Hank and some of the others had wonderful voices. Hank was the soloist for Saint Philips in the Hills up in Tucson for many years after the war. But he always said that if it hadn’t been for Clayton, those shows in India never would have gotten off the ground.”
“So Clayton and your husband stayed in touch after the war?”
Carol nodded. “You may remember seeing my husband. He was a news anchor in Tucson for many years.”
Suddenly the name finally clicked in Joanna’s head, and she remembered a handsome, smooth-voiced, silver-haired man sitting at a television news desk. That Hank Hubbard.
“He was a big deal up in Tucson, but even so, there was nothing Hank liked better than coming down here to Bisbee for a few days and staying with Clayton and Molly. The two of them-Clayton and Hank, that is-would go out hunting in Clayton’s old beat-up Ford. During the gas shortage back in the mid-seventies he added an extra gas tank so they could go as far as they wanted without having to worry about having to stop for gas.
“The two of them would come dragging home with whatever they’d caught-venison and javelina and dove, and Molly-bless her heart-and I would figure out a way to cook whatever it was on Molly’s old woodstove.” Carol Hubbard paused. “Have you ever cooked javelina?” she asked Joanna.
“Venison and dove, yes,” Joanna said. “But I have to admit, no javelina.”
Carol grinned. “The best thing to do with that is cook it the way the Indians do-in a pot of Anaheim chili paste and let it simmer for hours. Otherwise, it’s tough as it can be. Still, the four of us had great times together. I know Rhodes Ranch was real life for Clayton and Molly, but for Hank and me, the time we spent there was like time apart-like camping out.