Butch put one arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him. "Guess," he said.
Hand in hand, they rose and, with no further discussion, made their way back into the bedroom. Afterward, with time growing short, Joanna disappeared into the bathroom while Butch went to start breakfast. By the time Joanna was dressed, the homey fragrance of frying bacon filled the house.
Out in the kitchen, Butch was standing watch over the stove as Joanna attempted to slip by him to collect another cup of coffee. He turned and touched her cheek with a glancing kiss as she went past. "Nice perfume," he said.
Joanna took her coffee and ducked into the breakfast nook. She had barely seated herself when Butch set a plate of food in front of her. "See there?" He beamed. "Admit it. There are some definite advantages to becoming involved with a man who's run a restaurant most of his adult life. I make a hell of a short-order cook."
"I notice you have one or two other talents," she said. "I can see why a girl might want to keep you around."
Joanna had managed barely two bites of French toast when the telephone rang. Realizing she'd left it on the counter in the bathroom, Joanna hurried to answer it.
"By the way," Butch called after her, "it drives me crazy when I cook food for people and they let it get cold. Did I ever tell you that?"
Coming back with the still ringing phone, Joanna held a finger to her lips to silence him before she answered. "Hello."
"Joanna?"
"Yes, Jeff, it's me. How are you? You sound awful."
"We've had a pretty rough night here," Jeff Daniels told her. "Esther's come down with pneumonia."
"Oh, no!" Joanna managed.
"The doctors don't know whether they'll be able to save her," Jeff continued. "Because of the transplant, they've pumped her full of immune suppressants. But now…" His voice trailed off.
Joanna took a deep breath. "How is Marianne doing in the face of all this?" she asked.
"Not that well. Right now she's down in the room with Esther. She didn't want me to call you, Joanna, but I thought I'd better. It's bad, real bad. I tried calling her folks. I talked to her dad on the phone, but not her mother. Even after all these years, Evangeline is still so pissed at Marianne that she wouldn't talk to me. I know she won't come, not even if Marianne needs her."
"Well, I will," Joanna said at once. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
She put down the phone and looked across the kitchen at Butch, who was still flipping French toast on the griddle.
"Esther has pneumonia," she heard herself say. "She might not make it. I've got to go to Tucson."
Butch took the last two pieces of French toast off the griddle and turned off the heat. "I'll go with you," he offered.
"No," Joanna said. "You don't have to do that."
"Yes, I do," he insisted. "I want to. Your car or mine, or do we have to take both?"
Joanna Brady knew she was tough, knew she was a survivor. But she also knew that this was one trip she shouldn't make alone.
"Let's go in mine," she decided. "That way, if I have to be in touch with the department, I can use either the radio or the phone. And the siren," she added. "If need be."
Butch's eyes met hers across the kitchen, then he nodded. "Right," he agreed. "The siren."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As they drove up through Bisbee and over the Divide, Butch sat quietly on the rider's side of the Blazer watching the desert speed by outside the window. "What are their families like?" he asked finally.
"Jeff's and Marianne's?"
Butch nodded and Joanna made a face. "I've never met Jeff's folks. They live back East somewhere-Maryland, 1 think. Marianne's parents, Evangeline and Tim Maculyea, came from Bisbee originally, but they moved to Safford after the mines shut down. They still live there."
"Safford," Butch mused. "That's not too far away, so they'll probably show up to help out, too."
Joanna shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "Safford may not be that far away in terms of mileage, but emotionally, it could just as well be another planet. That's what Jeff was telling me on the phone. He called the Maculyeas and told them what's happening with Esther. I guess Tim was okay on the phone, but Evangeline wouldn't talk to Jeff and she won't come see Marianne, either."
“Why not?” Butch asked.
"Because Marianne's the black sheep in the family," Joanna replied.
"Black sheep!" Butch echoed. "The woman's a saint. She doesn't smoke or drink or use bad words. Not to mention the fact that she's a minister. What makes her a black sheep?"
"She's a Methodist."
"So?"
"Evangeline is a devout Catholic. She's been bent out of shape ever since her daughter left the Church. She hasn't spoken to Marianne since. The same thing goes for Marianne's two younger brothers. They don't speak to Jeff and Marianne, either. I don't think Evangeline Maculyea has ever laid eyes on Jeff Daniels, even though he's been married to her only daughter for more than ten years."
"I suppose that means she hasn't laid eyes on her grand-children, either," Butch surmised.
"Right," Joanna said.
"That's a shame."
"No," Joanna disagreed. "That's a tragedy-all the way around."
As she drove, she kept one eye on the speedometer and the other on the clock. As soon as it was eight, she picked up the radio. "Put me through to Dick Voland," she told Dispatch. "He should be there by now."
It took a few minutes to track the chief deputy down. "Where are you, Joanna?" he asked.
"I'm in the car and on my way to Tucson," she said. "Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea's baby has taken a turn for the worse. I've got to go see them. I'll need you to handle the morning briefing."
"No problem. I can take care of that. Anything in particular you want me to cover?"
Joanna thought about mentioning her Eddy Sandoval idea, but then she reconsidered. That was something she'd need to handle herself. But she did have another suggestion.
"I want you to have someone pick up the last three or four years' worth of high school yearbooks from both Benson and St. David. Have someone show them to Clyde Philips' next-door neighbor, Sarah Holcomb. She should look through them and see if any of the pictures match up with any of the 'young 'uns,' as she calls them, who used to hang around Clyde Philips' house."
"Okay," Dick Voland said. "I'll have someone get right on it. Jaime or Ernie, most likely."
"Whoever you send, tell them that once Sarah finishes examining the pictures, I want her to go visit her daughter, who lives somewhere up in Tucson. I want her to stay there until we put this case to rest."
"You think she's in danger?" Dick asked.
"Absolutely. If there's even a remote chance that she can identify the killer, she's as much a threat to him as Frankie Ramos was."
"What if she refuses to leave?"
"Then put a guard on her house. Park a deputy on her front porch twenty-four hours a day if you have to. I don't want anything to happen to the woman."
"Mounting a twenty-four-hour guard is going to cost money. Frank Montoya'll shit a brick over that idea."
"Well, then," Joanna said, "send him to talk to her."
"Frank? But he's not even a detective."
"He's a trained police officer, Dick. I'm sure he's fully capable of showing her a montage of photos and getting her reaction. He can do that every bit as well as a detective can. Aren't Ernie and Jaime totally overloaded at the moment?"
"Well," Voland conceded, "I suppose they are."
"Besides," Joanna added, "we both know that when Frank's budget is on the line, he can he amazingly persuasive."
"I'd prefer to call it amazingly obnoxious," Voland re-turned, "but you're right. If anyone can charm the old lady into leaving town for the duration, Frank Montoya is it. Especially when there's overtime at stake. I'll have him go to work on it first thing this morning. As soon as the briefing is over. Anything else?" he asked.
"You tell me."