She stepped outside and closed the door. For several moments I could hear them speaking urgently back and forth. When she came back into the room, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales was frowning.
"I'm afraid something's come up, Detective Beaumont," she said. "We're going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?"
It was my turn to smile. "I'm not going anywhere," I answered. "What about fingerprints? The deputy said you'd want a set of mine for comparison."
Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn't really listening. "That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It's almost lunchtime. I'll get back to you later this afternoon." She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.
"And if you don't mind, Detective Beaumont," she added, "stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?"
"Of course."
She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw's office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own. 38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she'd come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she'd have to.
An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn't help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman's death. Homicide detectives don't break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there's some overwhelmingly compelling reason.
I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn't going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn't a detective at all. He was an outsider-a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.
More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…
The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too filled with a sense of foreboding to want to sit alone any longer in the depressing oak-lined cell that was Louise Crenshaw's office.
As people filed into the dining room, they were strangely silent, as though somehow word had spread through the general Ironwood Ranch population that something was dreadfully wrong. As yet, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was, but all were equally affected by it. There was no playful banter in the serving line, no joking or calling back and forth as people headed for tables. At the far end of the room, Calvin Crenshaw paced nervously back and forth in front of the huge fireplace. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he stared fixedly at the floor as he walked.
Ed Sample sidled up to me in line. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "Everybody's acting as though their best friend died or something."
I glanced at him quickly, trying to assess if his comment was merely an innocent coincidence or if he had some inside knowledge of what had happened. Despite my questioning look, Sample steadfastly met my gaze, his countenance blandly open and indifferent, his smooth features the picture of a man with nothing to hide. Had I been the detective on the case, I would have paid attention to his comment and done some discreet digging into Ed Sample's personal life to see if there was a connection between him and that miserable dead excuse for a human being, Joey Rothman.
You're not the detective, I reminded myself silently. Go have some lunch and stay out of it.
"Beats me," I said aloud, and hurried over to Dolores Rojas' serving window. I collected a plate filled with her version of corned-beef hash along with a generous portion of steamed fresh vegetables. I glanced around the room and found that Karen and the kids were already settled at a table. Scott had saved a chair for me. I hurried over to it, wanting to be there as a buffer when Calvin Crenshaw made his inevitable announcement.
As I walked across the dining room carrying my plate, that's when the inconsistency struck me full force. Why was Calvin Crenshaw making the announcement? Why not Louise? For someone who was always front and center, for someone who had insisted that she be the one to notify the authorities of any irregularities, this sudden reticence seemed totally out of character. Understated elegance wasn't Louise Crenshaw's style.
Karen looked at me questioningly as I walked up. Kelly feigned an engrossing conversation with the person next to her so she wouldn't have to see me. I took the chair Scott offered, sat down, and glanced around the room, making a quick mental roll call.
Cal was still pacing in front of the fireplace. Louise was nowhere to be seen. Michelle and Guy Owens weren't seated at any of the tables, nor were they standing in line waiting to be served. That was just as well. Their absence confirmed my suspicion that they must have been the first to be notified of Joey Rothman's death when Nina Davis had pulled them out of the room before the beginning of our early morning session.
When the last straggler left the serving window, Cal cleared his throat with a tentative cough that carried throughout the room. The already subdued crowd hushed expectantly.
"I regret to inform you," Cal began slowly and deliberately. "I regret to inform you that something tragic has happened here today. Joey Rothman was found in the river early this morning."
Calvin stopped speaking. There people in the room looked uncertainly at one another. "What I'm trying to tell you," Calvin Crenshaw continued, "is that Joey Rothman is dead."
There was a moment of stark silence followed by a shocked, betrayed shriek. Sobbing, Kelly leaped from her chair and stumbled blindly from the room.
It was going to be one of those days. All day long.
CHAPTER 6
Karen shoved back her chair and went after Kelly while Scott caught my eye. "Geez, Dad," he said. "What's going on here?"
I didn't have much of an answer.
Once lunch was over, the dining room cleared out as though someone had pulled a plug. People wanted to talk about Joey Rothman's sudden death, and they wanted to do it in relative privacy. Ignoring the rain and taking their family members with them, they quickly dispersed to individual cabins rather than hanging around the main dining room as they usually did to linger over cigarettes and coffee.
Because of the murder investigation, I was forbidden to return to my own cabin. Adding insult to injury, Burton Joe corralled Karen and the kids and vanished with them into his private office for some kind of confidential powwow. Within minutes I found myself alone in the dining room, stewing in my own juices. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to do it with. Willing to settle for a much-needed nap as a dubious consolation prize, I settled down by the fireplace to wait out the remainder of the lunch break.
I had barely closed my eyes when the front door banged open. James Rothman, Joey's father, strode into the room with Jennifer, his seven-year-old, blonde-haired daughter, trailing forlornly along in his wake. He paused briefly at the entrance to the hallway leading to the administrative wing of the building and looked down at his daughter. Stopping and kneeling beside her, he spoke briefly, motioning for her to return to the dining room and wait for him there, then he hurried on down the hallway.