Kelly swung her head around and stared at me in disbelief. "Why don't you tell them the truth, Daddy?" she blurted passionately. "Why don't you tell them that you were mad at Joey because he's a really awesome guy? You caught us kissing and jumped to all kinds of terrible conclusions. You acted like I was a stupid two-year-old or something. I've never been so embarrassed in my whole life." With that, she burst into tears.
Her frontal attack left me with no line of retreat. Everyone looked at me. Glared is more like it. I felt like I was totally alone, standing naked at center stage under the glare of an immense spotlight with every flaw and defect fully exposed. I waited, hoping a hole would open in the floor and swallow me, but just when I was at my lowest ebb, help came from a totally unexpected quarter.
Scott, sitting on the other side of Kelly, leaned back in his chair far enough to catch my eye behind the back of his sister's head. He winked at me as if to say "It's okay, Pop. I've seen these kinds of fireworks before. Hang on; it'll pass."
For the first time in years, I could feel that ineffable bond of kinship flowing back and forth between my son and me. It lanced across the room like a ray of brilliant sunshine, giving me something to cling to, putting a lump in my throat.
"Is that true, Beau?" Burton Joe asked.
That blinding sense of renewed connection with Scott left me too choked up to answer. I nodded helplessly. Misreading the cause of my emotional turmoil, Burton Joe nodded too, an understanding, encouraging nod. As far as he was concerned, my uncontrolled show of emotion demonstrated a sudden breakthrough in treatment.
"Just go with it," Burton Joe said solicitously. "Let it flow."
Other words of reassurance and support came from around the circle. Ed Sample, sitting next to me, gave the top of my thigh a comforting, open-handed whack. I couldn't explain to any of them what had really happened. Talking about it would have trivialized it somehow, when all I really wanted to do was grab Scott in my arms and crush him against my chest. But that didn't happen, either.
The outside door opened. Everyone shifted slightly in their seats, disturbed by the sudden intrusion into the privacy of the session. This time, instead of Nina or Louise Crenshaw, Calvin Crenshaw himself stood in the doorway.
"Sorry to disturb you, Burton," he said slowly, "but I need to speak to Mr. Beaumont."
Burton Joe nodded. "All right," he said. "You can go, Beau."
We were all used to Louise popping in and out, but for Calvin Crenshaw to interrupt a group was unusual to begin with. Beyond that, and despite an apparent effort to maintain control, it was clear to me that something was dreadfully wrong. Calvin Crenshaw's complexion was generally on the florid side. Now his skin was livid-his cheeks a pasty shade of gray and his full lips white instead of pink.
I got up quickly and followed him from the room. I waited until he had closed the door to the portable before I spoke.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Before the session started, I had been ready to tear into the deputy for putting me off, for not calling me in to talk to him as soon as he arrived at Ironwood Ranch, but the emotional roller-coaster of the past few minutes had left me hollow and drained. I didn't want to fight anymore, but I did want to know what was going on. Calvin didn't answer right away. He seemed to be having some difficulty in making his lips work.
"Where's the deputy?" I asked. "I know he showed up, but I still haven't seen him."
"Up there," Calvin croaked, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the path that detoured around the ranch house and led up to the parking lot. He swallowed then, as if recovering control of his voice. "Where are your car keys, Mr. Beaumont?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Your car keys. Where are they?"
Something about the way he spoke, the timbre of his voice as he asked the question, put my interior warning system on yellow alert. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just tell me."
"They're not in my desk," I said, stalling for time, hoping for a hint of what was really behind the question.
Through the four weeks Calvin Crenshaw had come across as a fairly easygoing guy. He seemed content to linger in the background while Louise hogged center stage. Not everybody would have caught the slight grimace of impatience that flashed across his face in reaction to my answer. I could see in his face that Calvin Crenshaw already knew that the keys to the rented Grand AM weren't in my desk. Someone had already looked.
"What were you doing in my room?" I demanded.
Calvin turned to walk away, but not before I caught the giveaway blink of his eye that told me I was right. There was something else there as well, a hardened line of resistance that I had never seen before. He started up the path, but I strode after him and caught him by the arm.
"Look, Calvin, I asked you a question."
"Go talk to the deputy," he replied. "He's waiting for you in the parking lot. I hope you have the keys with you."
Saying that, he shook off my restraining hand and hurried away. For a moment I stood there watching him go, then I did as I was told, heading up to the parking lot with the car keys in my pocket. Unwilling to give Joey Rothman another chance at making a damn fool out of me, I had carried them with me when I left the cabin.
Once I reached the parking lot I saw a lanky man wearing a khaki uniform and a wide-brimmed hat standing next to my rental.
"You Detective Beaumont?" he asked as I approached.
I nodded. No one at Ironwood Ranch had called me Detective since my arrival four weeks before. For reasons of personal privacy, I had played down the police officer part of my life as much as possible. As I came closer I noticed that the leather snap on his holster had been loosened. He held one arm away from his body in a stance that would allow immediate access to the handle of his weapon. His bronze-plated name tag said Deputy M. Hanson. He studied me appraisingly for a moment or two and then relaxed a little.
"What seems to be the problem?" I asked.
"Is this your vehicle?"
"Not mine. Rented, yes."
"Mind opening it up?"
"Not at all, but what seems to be the problem?"
"Let me ask the questions, please, Detective Beaumont. Unlock the door and then step away from the vehicle."
I did as I was told. As soon as I turned the key in the lock, Hanson pulled a penknife from his pocket and gingerly lifted the latch. When the door swung open, he leaned inside, carefully examining the floor mats of both the front and back seats. When he was finished, Hanson straightened up and stepped away from the car, studying me carefully.
"Did you disturb the vehicle in any way when you found it here in the lot this morning?" he asked.
"I got in it," I said. "On the driver's side. The keys had been left in the ignition. I took them out and put them in my pocket."
"Did you touch anything else?"
"I unlocked the glove box to check the rental agreement. I wanted to see how far the car had been driven. What exactly is going on here?" I asked, exasperated. "I call to report a car prowl. You turn up three hours later and act as though the case has suddenly turned into a major crime and I'm somehow at fault for stealing my own car."
"It has turned into a major crime, as you call it," Deputy Hanson said seriously. "It's my understanding that you believe your roommate, Joseph Rothman, took your vehicle, drove it?"
"Joey. That's correct. I left the keys in my desk drawer. He must have lifted them from there."
Hanson nodded. "That could be," he said "We'll have to check all that out later. In the meantime, I'll have to impound this vehicle. I'll need you to ride along up to Prescott with me after a bit. We'll need your fingerprints."