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Authors: J. A. Jance
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something any day of the week. Glad to be of service.”
With that he left. As the doorbell chimed again, Joanna turned back to Dee Canfield, who looked pale and drawn. There was little resemblance between the woman seated at the desk and the angry hoyden who had raised such hell down in Naco a scant hour earlier.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“I’m fine,” Dee returned, though she didn’t sound it. “I’ve sunk everything I have into getting this gallery up and running. It’s fine for Bobo Jenkins to be all sentimental and altruistic with my money. It’s no concern of his. He’s got his military retirement and now he’s sold his business and has payments coming from that on a regular basis as well. But what the hell does he think I’m going to use to pay my bills? My good looks? This show is important to me, Sheriff Brady, damned important! It’s a chance to make some real money for a change. I’m not going to hand over the paintings for free just because he said so!”
“What about the prices?” Warren said, reappearing behind her. “I started changing them. Want me to keep on?”
“Absolutely.”
Joanna sighed. Obviously Bobo Jenkins’s visit hadn’t altered Dee Canfield’s intentions, but at least Joanna had been there to prevent any physical violence.
“All right, then,” she said. “Mind if I take a look around before I go?”
“Go ahead,” Dee said. “Help yourself.”
Joanna spent the next few minutes wandering through the gallery. The lovingly rendered subjects—a young girl shooting baskets, an old man sharpening his knife, a minister leaning down to speak to a young parishioner—were most likely the same living and breathing people who, by now, would be reeling from the terrible news that Rochelle Baxter was dead. Joanna noticed that the paintings in the first two rooms were priced from $850 to $1,000. In the room where Warren was hard at work, they were triple that. Bobo’s accusation of her being “money-grubbing” wasn’t wrong.
Shaking her head, Joanna returned to the front desk, where Dee Canfield was on the phone. Without saying a word, Joanna let herself out the door. She and her Civvie caught up with Bobo Jenkins halfway through town.
“Hey, Bobo,” she called. “That looks heavy. Care for a lift?”
He glared at her briefly, then shrugged his broad shoulders and headed for the car. Between them, they carefully loaded the painting into the Civvie’s backseat, then he climbed in the front next to her.
“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly. “Appreciate it.”
He sat in brooding silence until they started up O.K. Street. “Dee’s still going through with it, isn’t she—the opening and raising the prices?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied.
Bobo slumped deeper into the seat. “Damn!” he said. “What about Shelley’s family? Have you found them yet?”
“Not so far. We’re working on it.”
“Once Dee sells the paintings, Shelley’s family will never be able to afford to buy them back.”
“Probably not,” Joanna agreed. “But you tried, Bobo. You did your best.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Joanna stopped the car halfway down Youngblood Hill, right in front of the gate and the steep stairway that led to Bobo’s house. For the better part of a minute he made no move to exit the car. The depth of his misery was palpable, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.
“I’m sorry about all this, Bobo,” she said at last. “I can see Shelley meant a lot to you.”
He chewed his lip, nodding but saying nothing.
“And I’m sorry to burden you further,” she added. “But we’re going to need your cooperation.”
“What kind?”
“We’ll want you to stop by the department and give us a set of prints. Detective Carbajal is tied up right now. As soon as he’s free, he’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“You need my fingerprints? Why? I thought you said Shelley was sick.”
“She was sick,” Joanna agreed. “But
With that he left. As the doorbell chimed again, Joanna turned back to Dee Canfield, who looked pale and drawn. There was little resemblance between the woman seated at the desk and the angry hoyden who had raised such hell down in Naco a scant hour earlier.
“Are you all right?” Joanna asked.
“I’m fine,” Dee returned, though she didn’t sound it. “I’ve sunk everything I have into getting this gallery up and running. It’s fine for Bobo Jenkins to be all sentimental and altruistic with my money. It’s no concern of his. He’s got his military retirement and now he’s sold his business and has payments coming from that on a regular basis as well. But what the hell does he think I’m going to use to pay my bills? My good looks? This show is important to me, Sheriff Brady, damned important! It’s a chance to make some real money for a change. I’m not going to hand over the paintings for free just because he said so!”
“What about the prices?” Warren said, reappearing behind her. “I started changing them. Want me to keep on?”
“Absolutely.”
Joanna sighed. Obviously Bobo Jenkins’s visit hadn’t altered Dee Canfield’s intentions, but at least Joanna had been there to prevent any physical violence.
“All right, then,” she said. “Mind if I take a look around before I go?”
“Go ahead,” Dee said. “Help yourself.”
Joanna spent the next few minutes wandering through the gallery. The lovingly rendered subjects—a young girl shooting baskets, an old man sharpening his knife, a minister leaning down to speak to a young parishioner—were most likely the same living and breathing people who, by now, would be reeling from the terrible news that Rochelle Baxter was dead. Joanna noticed that the paintings in the first two rooms were priced from $850 to $1,000. In the room where Warren was hard at work, they were triple that. Bobo’s accusation of her being “money-grubbing” wasn’t wrong.
Shaking her head, Joanna returned to the front desk, where Dee Canfield was on the phone. Without saying a word, Joanna let herself out the door. She and her Civvie caught up with Bobo Jenkins halfway through town.
“Hey, Bobo,” she called. “That looks heavy. Care for a lift?”
He glared at her briefly, then shrugged his broad shoulders and headed for the car. Between them, they carefully loaded the painting into the Civvie’s backseat, then he climbed in the front next to her.
“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly. “Appreciate it.”
He sat in brooding silence until they started up O.K. Street. “Dee’s still going through with it, isn’t she—the opening and raising the prices?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied.
Bobo slumped deeper into the seat. “Damn!” he said. “What about Shelley’s family? Have you found them yet?”
“Not so far. We’re working on it.”
“Once Dee sells the paintings, Shelley’s family will never be able to afford to buy them back.”
“Probably not,” Joanna agreed. “But you tried, Bobo. You did your best.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
Joanna stopped the car halfway down Youngblood Hill, right in front of the gate and the steep stairway that led to Bobo’s house. For the better part of a minute he made no move to exit the car. The depth of his misery was palpable, and Joanna’s heart ached for him.
“I’m sorry about all this, Bobo,” she said at last. “I can see Shelley meant a lot to you.”
He chewed his lip, nodding but saying nothing.
“And I’m sorry to burden you further,” she added. “But we’re going to need your cooperation.”
“What kind?”
“We’ll want you to stop by the department and give us a set of prints. Detective Carbajal is tied up right now. As soon as he’s free, he’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“You need my fingerprints? Why? I thought you said Shelley was sick.”
“She was sick,” Joanna agreed. “But
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