“No news there. Whoever said they were foreigners?”
“Not that kind of domestic, Ernie. As in hotly contested D-I-V-O-R-C-E I have it on good authority that the Oak Vista tree-huggers-for-hire were on Childers’ ex-wife’s payroll. Now that she’s running the company, she’s called off the dogs.” Joanna glanced at Monica Foster, who nodded.
“Nice lady,” Ernie observed. “That being the case, I suppose we can release the crime scene anytime. By the way, was Lewis Flores on her payroll, too?”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll talk more about that later,” Joanna said. “In fact, I’ll probably be out that way before long. Where will you be?”
“When I leave here, Jaime and I had planned to rendezvous at Clete Rogers’ place in Tombstone at noon to finish up our paperwork and figure out what the hell to do next.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Joanna said. “Maybe I’ll join you. Then we’ll all be able to get a handle on what’s going on.”
Joanna put down the phone and turned back to Monica Foster. “Your crew will be able to go back to work this afternoon-if you can find them, that is.”
“I can locate most of them,” Monica said, as she stood to leave. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Thank you, too,” Joanna returned. “You’ve been a big help. We’ll be in touch with your attorney and with Karen Brainard as well.”
At the mention of Karen Brainard’s name, Monica winced visibly. “Maybe I should send the bitch a sympathy card.”
There was a catch in the woman’s throat when she said the words. The sound of it was enough to make Joanna realize that underneath all of Monica Foster’s hard-nosed bravado was a soft center of residual hurt. Monica may have been divorcing Mark Childers, but she was a long way from being over him. And despite the fact that Joanna was still angry by the trouble caused by Monica Foster’s hired protesters, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Let it go,” Joanna advised. “Who’s doing the funeral arrangements?”
“Wetherby’s out in Sierra Vista,” Monica replied. “‘They handled both my folks’ funerals. I know they’ll do a good job.”
In other words, Monica still cared enough to send the very best-to want her philandering husband’s funeral arrangements to be dignified.
“I’m sorry,” Joanna said. “This must be terribly painful for you.”
For the first time, Monica Foster softened. Her eyes welled with tears. “It is,” she said. “It hurts like hell.” And then she was gone.
As soon as Joanna was left alone, she picked up the phone and dialed Dena Hogan’s number. A receptionist answered, “Dena Hogan, Attorney at Law.”
“This is Joanna Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna said. “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to see Ms. Hogan early this afternoon. Say between one-thirty and two?”
“Sure,” the receptionist said. “I can pencil you in, but I don’t have access to her official calendar. There could be a conflict that I don’t know about.”
“That’s all right,” Joanna said. “Since I’m coming out that direction anyway, I can afford to take my chances.”
Just then Joanna’s call waiting sounded, telling her there was another caller on the line. “Hello.”
“Joanna? Fran Daly here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No. What’s going on?”
“I just had a call back from Al Paxton, the computer nerd at Holloway/Rimblatt Pharmaceuticals.”
“And?”
“We are, if you’ll pardon the expression, a couple of smart cookies. That particular numbered batch of insulin went first to a distributor in L.A. who ships to drugstores all over the Southwest. From there it went to the O.K. Pharmacy in Tombstone, Arizona, where Cletus Rogers just happens to have his insulin prescription filled on a regular basis.”
“How very interesting,” Joanna said. “I’ll have one of my detectives go have a chat with Hizzoner the Mayor. Do you suppose Detective Lazier would be interested in being in on that interview?”
“Wait just a minute,” Fran Daly complained. “I no sooner finish telling you you’re smart when you start acting like a complete fool. You don’t mean that, do you?”
“No, I don’t mean it at all,” Joanna said with a laugh. “I was just checking to see if it would get a rise out of you. And it worked.”
“I’ll say,” Fran agreed. “That man bugs the daylights out of me. Don’t you dare invite him along.”
“Believe me,” Joanna said. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was high noon when Joanna stepped through the swinging doors into the dim and shabby interior of Clete Rogers’ Grubsteak. The bottle-blond hostess, looking nervous and out of sorts, led Joanna to a table for four, where Jaime Carbajal and Ernie Carpenter were already waiting. Considering the relative distances involved, Joanna should have beaten Ernie there by a good ten minutes. Around the department, the detective was sometimes called “Lead-foot Carpenter,” and for good reason.
“I can see Ernie didn’t let any grass grow under his steel-belted radials,” she said pointedly as she sat down.
“When the boss offers to meet for lunch, I figure it must be important,” Ernie countered.
“Important,” Joanna agreed, picking up her menu. “But not a matter of life-and-death.”
Nancy returned to the table and sloshed a brimming coffee mug onto the table in front of Joanna.
“Is the mayor around?” Joanna asked.
The hostess responded with a narrow-eyed glare. “Mr. Rogers wasn’t here five minutes ago, when he asked,” Nancy said, jerking her head in Jaime Carbajal’s direction. “And he still isn’t.”
With that the hostess turned and flounced away from the table.
“What’s the matter with her?” Joanna asked.
Jaime shrugged. “Who knows? I asked about Clete when I first showed up, and the woman nearly bit my head off.”
Whoever had designed the menu for the Grubsteak had been cute enough to create entree items with names that matched a selection of local mining claims. When the waitress came around with her pad, Joanna ordered a Lucky Cuss hamburger and coffee. Jaime settled for the Tough Nut steak sandwich, while Ernie decided on a bowl of Contention stew. When the food came, Joanna’s hamburger and Ernie’s stew were both fine, but from all the knife-sawing and necessary chewing, it was clear the steak in Jaime’s Tough Nut sandwich lived up to its name.
During the course of the meal, Joanna had to endure some good-natured ribbing about her “doorknob” diamond, followed by a discussion of Dick Voland’s abrupt departure. Later on, Joanna brought the two detectives up-to-date with everything she had learned that morning, and they did the same. Susan Jenkins had turned up for the inventory meeting at Alice Rogers’ house, but Clete hadn’t appeared. Susan had verified that Alice’s television set and a VCR were missing along with several pieces of antique jewelry. In view of Clete’s possible involvement in his mother’s death, his failure to show up for the inventory seemed far more ominous.
Ernie pushed back his chair. “I suppose we’d better get with it. Do one of you want to ask the lady where Clete Rogers is, or should I?”
“You go right ahead,” Jaime said with a smile. “I believe in taking turns. This Bud’s for you.”
The third time around, Nancy’s reaction was downright explosive. “What the hell’s the matter with you people? I’ve already told you, Clete isn’t here!”
“How about telling us where he is then?” Ernie prodded gently. “It’s about his mother, you see. That’s why we need to talk to him.”
To Joanna’s surprise, Nancy immediately collapsed onto the fourth chair at their table, buried her face in her hands, and then sobbed into them. “That’s just it,” she wailed. “I don’t know where he is! I haven’t seen him all morning. He’s usually here when we open for breakfast. I’ve called the house at least a dozen times now, but he doesn’t answer. I even went over there looking for him. His car’s there, but he isn’t. Or, if he is, he wouldn’t come to the door.