Marliss had already been introduced to Butch Dixon once-on the occasion of Joanna's mother's wedding reception after her marriage to Dr. George Winfield. If Marliss saw Joanna and Butch having breakfast together in Bisbee, no telling what conclusions she would jump to or how those would play out in her next column.
For two cents Joanna would have climbed back into the Blazer and driven away. But she couldn't do that. It wouldn't have been fair to Butch or to Daisy, either one. Squaring her shoulders, Joanna marched into the restaurant. Walking inside, she clung to the faint hope that she and Butch would be seated close enough to the door so she could slip in and out without being noticed. Unfortunately, Butch waved to her from the far corner booth, two tables beyond where Marliss sat chatting with her boss, Ken Dawson, the publisher and editor in chief of the Bisbee Bee.
Because Daisy was already carrying a pair of loaded plates toward the booth where Butch was sitting, Joanna gave Marliss a wave and hurried past almost before the woman saw her and without pausing long enough to ex-change any pleasantries.
"Good morning, sunshine," Butch said with a grin, toasting her with his newly filled coffee cup. "I understand this is going to be wham, bam, thank you ma'am. I'm glad you could squeeze me in, although you're probably here more for the chorizo and eggs than you are for me."
"I'm sorry to do this to you twice in a row," Joanna said, "but Search and Rescue just now found another body up by Pomerene."
The grin disappeared from Butch's face. "The woman who was missing?"
"You know about that?" Joanna asked.
Butch held up a copy of that morning's Bee. "I'd say the coverage was pretty thorough. I always wondered what happened to the guy."
"What happened to what guy?"
"To Danny Berridge."
"You mean you know him?"
"I don't know him per se, but I know of him. He’s a former Indy driver. He won several races. Placed second or maybe third at Indy one year. Was named Rookie of the Year. The next year during the Indy 500, he wiped out one of the rack people-one of the safety workers. He walked away from the wreck and the track. That was the last I ever heard of him until I read about him in this morning's paper. At least I'm assuming it's the same guy. How many Daniel Berridges could there be?"
“The article didn't actually identify him as the same guy?”
"No, but 1 just assumed. He's evidently had a hell of a life, and now with his wife turning up dead…"
Joanna covered her lips with a finger. "We probably shouldn't talk about this right now. We don't have a positive ID and nobody's notified the next of kin. That's where I'm going right now-to meet up with the detectives and then go talk to the husband."
"I can see why you're in a hurry," Butch said, picking up his fork. "You'd better go ahead and eat before it gets cold. You need to keep up your strength."
Joanna's heaping platter of scrambled eggs mixed with hot, spicy chorizo came with a helping of cheese-smothered refried beans, a dish of Daisy's eye-watering salsa, and a tortilla warmer stacked full of tiny, homemade flour tortillas fresh from the grill in the kitchen. Butch helped himself to one, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. As soon as he did, a beatific smile spread across his features.
"I didn't know it was possible to find a place that still served homemade tortillas."
Joanna took one herself. "You have to go pretty far out into the boondocks before that happens," she said. For several moments they ate in silence. "If it wasn't in the paper, how did you know all this about Daniel Berridge?" she asked.
"Didn't I tell you?" Butch returned. "I'm a big race-car fan.”
No, Joanna thought, you didn't tell me. There were obviously any number of things she didn't know about Frederick "Butch" Dixon. Even so, she knew that she still owed him an apology.
"Look," she said, "I really am sorry about standing you up last night. As soon as the call came in and I knew it was going to be a problem, I tried calling, but your phone-"
"Good morning, Joanna," Marliss Shackleford said, sauntering up to the table, coffee cup in hand. "I hope you'll excuse the interruption, but I had to know if you've heard anything about Esther's surgery."
Joanna had no intention of pardoning the interruption, but there was no way of ignoring it, either. Butch Dixon looked up quickly and caught her eye. "Jeff and Marianne's little girl?" he asked.
Joanna nodded. "Esther's been on a transplant waiting list almost as long as she's been here. Because of her ethnic background, the doctors hadn't held out much hope of finding a tissue match, but now they have one. The hospital called last night and told them a heart just became available. The surgeons are expecting to do the transplant sometime today. This morning, most likely."
"So who's taking care of poor little Ruth?" Marliss asked.
"Angie Kellogg," Joanna said.
Marliss Shackleford's face twisted into a disapproving frown. "Not that girl who-"
Joanna cut Marliss off in mid-sentence. "Angie is a friend of Marianne's, and she's also a friend of mine. She also happens to be a very capable baby-sitter. Ruth adores her."
Marliss wasn't easily dissuaded. "You'd think that, as a minister and in a situation like this, Marianne would call on someone…" The steely-eyed look Joanna leveled in her direction caused Marliss to pause and rethink what she was about to soy. "Well, on someone from church, for example. I’m sure any number of the ladies from the church would have been willing"
"The call come through in the middle of the night," Joanna told her. "I'm sure most of the ladies from church-you included -were all sound asleep in your neat little beds. Angie, on the other hand, was still at work and wide awake."
Dismissing Marliss, Joanna turned her attention to her plate, stabbing her fork deep into the steaming mound of scrambled eggs and sausage. Rather than taking the hint and leaving, Marliss stood her ground and cast around for a more rewarding topic of discussion. In the process, her eyes settled greedily on Butch Dixon's smoothly clean-shaven head. "You're not someone from around town, are you?" she said to him. "But I seem to remember that we've met before."
"That's right," Butch agreed mildly, putting down his fork and holding out his hand. "You're a newspaper reporter, I believe. Frederick Dixon's the name, and yes, we did meet before. At Joanna's mother's wedding reception."
"Of course." Marliss summoned her sweetest smile. "That's right. You're Joanna's friend. Down from Phoenix, are you?"
"Peoria, actually. But Phoenix is close enough. All those towns seem to run together."
"What brings you down our way?"
Over another forkful of egg, Joanna sought Butch's eyes. 'There was no way to say aloud what was going through her mind. This woman is a malevolent witch. Anything you say to her is going to wind up in print.
Unspoken or not, Butch must somehow have gotten the message. He gave Marliss an engaging grin. "Just passing through," he said. "My business is up in the Valley of the Sun, and we have a little too much of that this time of year-sun, not business. So it's a good time for me to get out of town for some well deserved R and R."
"I see," Marliss said. "What kind of business are you in?"
Joanna groaned inwardly. Oh, great, she thought. Next he's going to tell her he owns a bar up there. Just wait until the ladies from church get wind of all the latest. An ex-prostitute is baby-sitting Ruth Maculyea-Daniels and Sheriff Joanna Brady is hanging out with a guy who rides a motorcycle and owns a bar!
"Hospitality," Butch replied blandly.
Joanna almost choked with relief. Meanwhile, Marliss sidled closer to Butch's side of the table. "Really. So are you down here checking out how Bisbee does in that department?" The question was asked with one eyebrow arched meaningfully in Joanna's direction. "Hospitality, I mean."