sheriff she was charged with protecting the citizens of Cochise County. Instead, by telling Bobo about Dee Canfield’s plans, Joanna had inadvertently incited him—possibly to the point of violence.
Not good , Joanna told herself grimly as she, too, started down the stairs. Not good at all!
Bobo Jenkins was completely out of sight by the time Joanna reached the arched gate at the bottom of the stairs. She jogged back uphill to her Crown Victoria, then threw herself inside. Panting with exertion, Joanna punched up her radio.
“Sheriff Brady here,” she gasped when she heard the voice of Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher. “I’m on my way to Castle Rock Gallery. Please advise Bisbee PD that I may need backup.”
“What’s the problem, Sheriff?” Larry asked. “You sound like you’ve been running for miles.”
“Not miles, just up and down Youngblood Hill,” she told him. “I just finished telling Bobo Jenkins that Rochelle Baxter is dead. He’s upset with a woman named Deidre Canfield and is on his way to her place of business, Castle Rock Gallery on Main Street in Old Bisbee. Bobo said he was going to talk to her, but he was really off the charts when he left here. I’d say he’s more likely to punch somebody’s lights out. I’m headed there, too.”
By then the Civvie was on the move. Joanna turned on her lights and siren as she careened down Youngblood Hill into the upper reaches of Brewery Gulch. Bobo Jenkins was moving fast. By racing down stairways and cutting through back alleys, it was likely he would reach the Castle Rock Gallery on foot well before Joanna could drive there.
Deidre Canfield’s place of business consisted of a series of small, formerly ramshackle buildings that looked invitingly renovated when Joanna drove up. As soon as she opened her car door, she heard a chorus of raised voices coming from inside.
As she pushed open the door to the gallery, a tiny bell tinkled overhead, but neither Dee Canfield nor Bobo Jenkins noticed. Across the room they stood locked in a fierce, nose-to-nose confrontation.
“You’ve got no right barging in here and telling me what I can and can’t do,” Dee shouted shrilly. “This is my gallery. The contract is between Rochelle Baxter and me. It has nothing to do with you, Bobo Jenkins. The terms of that contract allow me to set, raise, or lower prices as I see fit.”
Bobo’s powerful fists were clenched at his sides. Beads of sweat glistened on his face as he struggled to keep his anger under control. “That was before she died,” he said pointedly.
“Yes,” Dee returned. “And that’s why I’m raising the prices. In the world of art, those pieces are all more valuable.”
“Not more valuable,” Bobo countered softly. “They’re priceless. What about Shelley’s family?”
“Who else do you think I’m doing it for?” Dee demanded. “If the pieces sell for more money, the family receives more. It’s as simple as that.”
Bobo stepped closer to Dee. It was a threatening gesture. She blinked, but stood her ground.
“You think that’s what Shelley’s family is going to want—money?” he demanded, his face bare inches from hers. He waved an arm, motioning at the vividly colored paintings that lined the white-stuccoed walls. “Who the hell do you think those people are, Deidre Canfield? You know as well as I that they must be Shelley’s family. Having those pictures is going to be far more important to them than any amount of money. Cancel the show, Dee.”
“No. Absolutely not!”
“Then I’ll cancel it for you.”
A man Joanna hadn’t seen before emerged from a backroom, carrying a hammer. “You’d better leave now, Bobo,” the newcomer said, tapping the head of the hammer in the palm of his other hand.
“And you’d better stay out of this, Warren,” Jenkins growled, his eyes swiveling in Warren Gibson’s direction. “This is between Dee and me.”
“You’d all better cool it,” Joanna ordered,
Not good , Joanna told herself grimly as she, too, started down the stairs. Not good at all!
Bobo Jenkins was completely out of sight by the time Joanna reached the arched gate at the bottom of the stairs. She jogged back uphill to her Crown Victoria, then threw herself inside. Panting with exertion, Joanna punched up her radio.
“Sheriff Brady here,” she gasped when she heard the voice of Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher. “I’m on my way to Castle Rock Gallery. Please advise Bisbee PD that I may need backup.”
“What’s the problem, Sheriff?” Larry asked. “You sound like you’ve been running for miles.”
“Not miles, just up and down Youngblood Hill,” she told him. “I just finished telling Bobo Jenkins that Rochelle Baxter is dead. He’s upset with a woman named Deidre Canfield and is on his way to her place of business, Castle Rock Gallery on Main Street in Old Bisbee. Bobo said he was going to talk to her, but he was really off the charts when he left here. I’d say he’s more likely to punch somebody’s lights out. I’m headed there, too.”
By then the Civvie was on the move. Joanna turned on her lights and siren as she careened down Youngblood Hill into the upper reaches of Brewery Gulch. Bobo Jenkins was moving fast. By racing down stairways and cutting through back alleys, it was likely he would reach the Castle Rock Gallery on foot well before Joanna could drive there.
Deidre Canfield’s place of business consisted of a series of small, formerly ramshackle buildings that looked invitingly renovated when Joanna drove up. As soon as she opened her car door, she heard a chorus of raised voices coming from inside.
As she pushed open the door to the gallery, a tiny bell tinkled overhead, but neither Dee Canfield nor Bobo Jenkins noticed. Across the room they stood locked in a fierce, nose-to-nose confrontation.
“You’ve got no right barging in here and telling me what I can and can’t do,” Dee shouted shrilly. “This is my gallery. The contract is between Rochelle Baxter and me. It has nothing to do with you, Bobo Jenkins. The terms of that contract allow me to set, raise, or lower prices as I see fit.”
Bobo’s powerful fists were clenched at his sides. Beads of sweat glistened on his face as he struggled to keep his anger under control. “That was before she died,” he said pointedly.
“Yes,” Dee returned. “And that’s why I’m raising the prices. In the world of art, those pieces are all more valuable.”
“Not more valuable,” Bobo countered softly. “They’re priceless. What about Shelley’s family?”
“Who else do you think I’m doing it for?” Dee demanded. “If the pieces sell for more money, the family receives more. It’s as simple as that.”
Bobo stepped closer to Dee. It was a threatening gesture. She blinked, but stood her ground.
“You think that’s what Shelley’s family is going to want—money?” he demanded, his face bare inches from hers. He waved an arm, motioning at the vividly colored paintings that lined the white-stuccoed walls. “Who the hell do you think those people are, Deidre Canfield? You know as well as I that they must be Shelley’s family. Having those pictures is going to be far more important to them than any amount of money. Cancel the show, Dee.”
“No. Absolutely not!”
“Then I’ll cancel it for you.”
A man Joanna hadn’t seen before emerged from a backroom, carrying a hammer. “You’d better leave now, Bobo,” the newcomer said, tapping the head of the hammer in the palm of his other hand.
“And you’d better stay out of this, Warren,” Jenkins growled, his eyes swiveling in Warren Gibson’s direction. “This is between Dee and me.”
“You’d all better cool it,” Joanna ordered,
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