mother.”
“Yes, I do,” Joanna insisted. “And tomorrow’s the only day I have to do it.”
“So you’re saying tomorrow’s out as far as fun is concerned?”
“Cleaning can be fun,” Joanna told him. “Bring rubber gloves. You can do the oven.”
Butch shook his head. “I’m serious, Joanna. My mother isn’t going to look in your oven, and she isn’t going to white-glove your cabinets or closets, either. Now, as far as my cabinets and my closets are concerned, that’s another story entirely. But don’t worry, please. Your house is fine.”
Sighing, Joanna returned to staring out the window and saying nothing. Right around Tucson, the paloverde and mesquite had begun leafing out. As they climbed up out of the valley, though, the blackened mesquite trees looked as though they were dead for all time.
“In other words, you don’t believe me,” Butch said at last, reaching out and taking Joanna’s hand.
“You’re right,” Joanna said. “I don’t. You’re just saying that because you want to make me feel better.”
“No,” Butch returned with a wry grin. “It’s because I don’t like cleaning ovens.”
It was almost four in the afternoon as they turned off High Lonesome Road onto the rutted track that led to Joanna’s house. Two hundred yards up the dirt road, they rounded a bend and found their way blocked by a white stretch limo, a Lincoln, that was high-centered on rocks in the middle of the steep wash. A man in a dark blue suit knelt on his hands and knees beside the vehicle and peered underneath it while behind him a woman in a pair of dangerously-high high heels tottered back and forth, pacing and gesticulating wildly.
“What the hell!” Butch muttered, stopping just short of the wash.
Joanna leaped out of the Subaru before it came to a full stop. “Who are you?” she asked. “What seems to be the problem?”
The woman stopped pacing long enough to reply. “We’re stuck, that’s what the problem is. Seems to me that even an idiot could see that much. Who the hell are you?”
The woman’s slender figure was clad in a black wool two-piece suit that screamed of haute couture. The thin-skinned, carefully made-up face looked as though it had been artificially augmented more than once, and her mane of hair had been highlighted within an inch of its life. She might have been quite attractive had it not been for the aura of prickly hostility that surrounded her like a dark thundercloud.
“My name’s Joanna Brady. It so happens that this road leads to my house. What are you doing here?”
The woman’s face hardened into a demeaning sneer. “So this is the incomparable Joanna Brady! Sad to say, you’re the very reason I’m here. I had to come get a look at you for myself. I wanted to see the woman who killed my father.”
“Killed your father?” Joanna echoed. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, yes, by all means. Let’s play innocent, why don’t we. Clayton Rhodes was my father, and you had no business working him into his grave.”
Behind Joanna one of the doors on the Subaru quietly opened and closed. Butch got out. With a curt nod in the direction of the two women, he walked past them and then dropped down to his knees, where he joined the limo driver in studying the situation under the Lincoln.
“Mom,” Jenny called from the car. “What is it?”
“It’s all right, Jenny,” Joanna called back. “Just wait in the car.” She turned back to the angry woman standing in front of her.
Joanna Brady had been connected to law enforcement most of her life, first as the daughter of a sheriff and then as wife of a deputy long before she herself had been elected sheriff. She had been around grieving survivors often enough to know that they might well turn their anger on whoever was handy, including any unfortunate police officers who might be close at hand.
Joanna took a calming, steadying breath. “You must be Reba Singleton,” she said soothingly.
“Yes, I do,” Joanna insisted. “And tomorrow’s the only day I have to do it.”
“So you’re saying tomorrow’s out as far as fun is concerned?”
“Cleaning can be fun,” Joanna told him. “Bring rubber gloves. You can do the oven.”
Butch shook his head. “I’m serious, Joanna. My mother isn’t going to look in your oven, and she isn’t going to white-glove your cabinets or closets, either. Now, as far as my cabinets and my closets are concerned, that’s another story entirely. But don’t worry, please. Your house is fine.”
Sighing, Joanna returned to staring out the window and saying nothing. Right around Tucson, the paloverde and mesquite had begun leafing out. As they climbed up out of the valley, though, the blackened mesquite trees looked as though they were dead for all time.
“In other words, you don’t believe me,” Butch said at last, reaching out and taking Joanna’s hand.
“You’re right,” Joanna said. “I don’t. You’re just saying that because you want to make me feel better.”
“No,” Butch returned with a wry grin. “It’s because I don’t like cleaning ovens.”
It was almost four in the afternoon as they turned off High Lonesome Road onto the rutted track that led to Joanna’s house. Two hundred yards up the dirt road, they rounded a bend and found their way blocked by a white stretch limo, a Lincoln, that was high-centered on rocks in the middle of the steep wash. A man in a dark blue suit knelt on his hands and knees beside the vehicle and peered underneath it while behind him a woman in a pair of dangerously-high high heels tottered back and forth, pacing and gesticulating wildly.
“What the hell!” Butch muttered, stopping just short of the wash.
Joanna leaped out of the Subaru before it came to a full stop. “Who are you?” she asked. “What seems to be the problem?”
The woman stopped pacing long enough to reply. “We’re stuck, that’s what the problem is. Seems to me that even an idiot could see that much. Who the hell are you?”
The woman’s slender figure was clad in a black wool two-piece suit that screamed of haute couture. The thin-skinned, carefully made-up face looked as though it had been artificially augmented more than once, and her mane of hair had been highlighted within an inch of its life. She might have been quite attractive had it not been for the aura of prickly hostility that surrounded her like a dark thundercloud.
“My name’s Joanna Brady. It so happens that this road leads to my house. What are you doing here?”
The woman’s face hardened into a demeaning sneer. “So this is the incomparable Joanna Brady! Sad to say, you’re the very reason I’m here. I had to come get a look at you for myself. I wanted to see the woman who killed my father.”
“Killed your father?” Joanna echoed. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, yes, by all means. Let’s play innocent, why don’t we. Clayton Rhodes was my father, and you had no business working him into his grave.”
Behind Joanna one of the doors on the Subaru quietly opened and closed. Butch got out. With a curt nod in the direction of the two women, he walked past them and then dropped down to his knees, where he joined the limo driver in studying the situation under the Lincoln.
“Mom,” Jenny called from the car. “What is it?”
“It’s all right, Jenny,” Joanna called back. “Just wait in the car.” She turned back to the angry woman standing in front of her.
Joanna Brady had been connected to law enforcement most of her life, first as the daughter of a sheriff and then as wife of a deputy long before she herself had been elected sheriff. She had been around grieving survivors often enough to know that they might well turn their anger on whoever was handy, including any unfortunate police officers who might be close at hand.
Joanna took a calming, steadying breath. “You must be Reba Singleton,” she said soothingly.
Similar Books
