Damage Control (15 page)

THE STARTLING REVELATIONS ABOUT JOANNA’S FATHER AND THE
clear threat Eleanor had directed at Madge Livingston left Joanna staring at her mother in slack-jawed amazement.

“Surely you don’t mean any of that!” Joanna exclaimed.

“Don’t I?” Eleanor returned. “Try me. You should know by now that I never say things I don’t mean. Come to think about it, what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

Joanna wasn’t about to blow Frank’s cover by giving away his part in her Find Eleanor operation, so she ignored her mother’s questions. “You need to talk to George about all this,” she said doggedly. “You seem to have a serious communication problem at the moment. You two should probably talk to someone—to a counselor, maybe—and get things sorted out.”

“Talking to counselors is a waste of money,” Eleanor said.

“Compared to going to prison on a homicide charge, counselors are dirt-cheap,” Joanna returned.

Eleanor looked at her daughter and actually smiled. “I suppose if I did that, it would put you and George in a real bind.”

“Mother!”

“And now that I have his attention,” Eleanor added, “I suppose I should give the old coot a call. It’s nice to know he’s been worried about me for a change.” With that, Eleanor abandoned the window. She returned to the couch, picked up her purse, and rummaged through it until she found her cell phone, turned it on, and dialed. “Good morning, George,” she said a moment later. “How are you?”

Having been astonished by her mother’s behavior twice in as many minutes, Joanna did the only reasonable thing she could do—she left. Out in the car, she turned on the ignition and the air-conditioning but sat in the parking lot for several long moments before ever putting the vehicle in gear.

She had been fifteen when her father was struck and killed by a drunk driver while changing a tire for a stranded motorist. Joanna and her mother had never been on the best of terms. Joanna had been a daddy’s girl. When Hank Lathrop died, it seemed to her that Eleanor had simply closed the book on him and on everything that had gone before. Joanna had been wild with grief. Her mother, on the other hand, had been dry-eyed and distant.

In the months that followed, Eleanor certainly hadn’t tarnished her husband’s memory. She hadn’t spoken ill of him to Joanna. In fact, she hadn’t spoken of him at all. Joanna had taken that to mean that her mother had cared for her husband too little or not at all, and it had resulted in ever-worsening relations be
tween mother and daughter. In Joanna’s mind, Eleanor turned into public enemy number one while her dead father morphed into something close to perfection itself.

In all the intervening years, Eleanor had never once hinted that her husband might have strayed from his wedding vows. Not until now.

Is any of this true?
Joanna wondered. If her father had indeed been carrying on a passionate affair with his secretary at the time of his death, would he have been so naive as to write about it in his diary? Eleanor had certainly implied as much. And if all that was true, wasn’t it possible that the uncaring mask Eleanor had shown to the world on the occasion of Hank’s death might well have been calculated to conceal how much she had cared for him rather than how little?

Joanna’s ringing cell phone jarred her out of her reverie. “You’ll never believe it,” Dave Hollicker announced. “I found the owner of that locket.”

“Good work, Dave,” Joanna said, switching gears. “How’d you manage that? Police stolen property reports?”

Dave laughed. “Nothing that organized. Since Wanda Mappin was living in Tucson at the time she disappeared, I logged on to the Internet. I went to the Tucson section for Craig’s List and checked out the Lost and Found page. And there it was, right there, complete with a picture. It’s the same one, all right, only in the photo none of the diamonds is missing. There’s even a five-hundred-dollar reward.”

“Police officers aren’t allowed to receive rewards,” Joanna told him. “Now whose is it? And where do they live?”

“The guy’s name is Logan,” Dave replied. “Richard Logan. I already tried calling, but there was no answer. I left word on the
machine as to who I was, what I wanted, and why. I asked him to call me back ASAP. It’s midmorning, so he’s probably at work right now, but since he’s offering a reward, I’m guessing he’ll be in touch as soon as he gets the message.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“I looked him up, using his licensing info,” Dave said. “He lives on Second Street, just east of Campbell. Once I had a name and address, I contacted Tucson PD to see if they had a stolen property report that matched. Came up empty there, so until Mr. Logan calls us back, we’re pretty much stuck in neutral.”

So am I,
Joanna thought guiltily, putting her own vehicle in gear. She eased into traffic on Highway 92 and headed back toward Bisbee.

“Let me know if you hear anything,” Joanna said. When that call ended, she phoned Kristin to let her secretary know she was on her way. “What’s happening? Is the briefing over?”

“As far as I know it hasn’t started,” Kristin told her. “Frank postponed it until after the preliminary hearing on those two sisters, which only started a couple of minutes ago. He thought someone representing the department ought to be in the courtroom—just in case.”

“I agree completely,” Joanna said. She was about to hang up when she thought of something else. “Do you have a phone book handy?”

“Sure,” Kristin said. “What do you need?”

“Look up Tipton for me, if you don’t mind. Mona Tipton.”

“No Mona per se,” Kristin said. “There is an M. Tipton, on Quality Hill, up in Old Bisbee. Do you want the number?”

“Not right now,” Joanna said. “I’m driving. I don’t have any way of writing it down.”

“I’ll leave it on your desk,” Kristin said.

“Thanks,” Joanna told her.
I think.

But what would she do with Mona Tipton’s phone number once she had it? Call her? What business was it of hers? Joanna had grown to adulthood thinking that her father could do no wrong, but that was before she knew of her parents’ out-of-wedlock teenaged pregnancy. Now, if Eleanor’s accusations of her husband’s infidelity proved to be true, then D. H. Lathrop’s otherwise supposedly spotless reputation for perfection pretty well evaporated.

Part of Joanna’s difficulty with her mother had always been based on her belief that her mother hadn’t really loved Hank all that much. Now it seemed likely that Eleanor had been so crushed by her first husband’s betrayal that it was still affecting her relationship with George Winfield.

Once again Joanna’s ringing cell phone summoned her from her thoughts.

“Did you find her?” Frank Montoya asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She’s all right. She was talking to George when I left, so maybe things are better. What’s up?”

“The preliminary hearing just ended.”

“And?”

“They both pled not guilty. No surprise there. Judge Cameron set bail at a hundred thou each. Larry Wolfe posted same for his wife, so she’s out. At the moment Samantha Edwards is still in our lockup. She was represented by a public defender, so maybe she’s having a problem finding someone to post her bond.”

“At least we’re rid of one of them,” Joanna said.

“Don’t count on it,” Frank returned. “I overheard Larry Wolfe, Sandra’s husband, and her attorney out in the hallway. They’re hoping to file a suit charging police brutality.”

“But we’ve got dozens of witnesses who saw the two women attack Deputies Brophy and Butler.”

“You’re right. We have plenty of witnesses for that,” Frank agreed. “But the Wolfes are alleging that you personally engaged in brutality when you locked Sandra up with her assailant.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Joanna declared. “I locked Sandra up with her sister. And we have the jail tapes that prove nothing went on between them while they were in our custody.”

“It may seem ridiculous to you and me,” Frank agreed, “but then you and I aren’t personal injury lawyers. Where are you right now?”

“Crossing the San Pedro on my way back to the office.”

“In that case, I’ll ask everyone to hang around for a while. We’ll do the briefing once you’re here.”

Twenty minutes later Joanna and Frank gathered in the conference room with all the members of her investigative team. It took only a matter of minutes to deal with the weekend’s other routine patrol matters. The four fatalities were something else entirely. At Frank’s suggestion they discussed them in chronological order.

“Doc Winfield has Martha Beasley’s autopsy scheduled for one this afternoon,” Detective Howell told the group. “Depending on what he finds, he’s hoping to release the bodies to one of the daughters later on this afternoon or else tomorrow morning.”

“Which one?” Joanna asked.

Deb shrugged. “For now I suppose it’ll have to be the one who’s out of jail.”

“You’ve warned Dr. Winfield that there’s a problem between the Beasleys’ two daughters?”

Debra Howell gave her boss a rueful smile. “Yes,” she said. “He knows there are two of them. He also knows they’re at war. Final results from the toxicology screenings won’t be back for weeks, and for right now he’s found nothing. I’ve spoken to the Beasleys’ neighbors and to as many of their friends as I could find. One of them, Maggie Morris, mentioned that Alfred didn’t seem to be quite his old self in the last few weeks. Both he and his wife seemed to be slipping a little mentally, and recently there had been mention of their looking into a residential assisted living arrangement of some kind. As far as Ms. Morris knew, though, nothing definite had been decided. She said Alfred was shocked by how expensive that kind of care would be.”

“Aren’t we all,” Ernie Carpenter muttered.

“But Alfred didn’t talk to anyone about a possible Alzheimer’s diagnosis?”

“Not that I’ve been able to find so far,” Deb said.

“If it was something that worried him, Alfred probably wouldn’t have talked about it,” Ernie said. “Maybe not even with his wife. And with a pair of genuine fruitcakes for daughters, I can’t imagine that he’d talk to either one of them about it, either.”

Ernie was Joanna’s elder-statesman detective who was still dealing with the aftermath of his own bout with prostate cancer. When it came to knowing what a man would or wouldn’t do in that situation, Joanna was glad to defer to him.

“Was money a problem for the Beasleys?” Joanna asked.

Deb shook her head. “They never earned a lot of money,” she said, “but from what I can tell, they managed what they had very
well. Their house was paid for. They had no debts of any kind and lots of money in the bank.”

“How much money?”

“Over half a million,” Deb said. “Enough that they shouldn’t have had to worry about how much assisted living cost.”

“There’s money cost and then there’s the cost of losing your independence,” Ernie said. “If I was in Alfred Beasley’s shoes, I’d have been a hell of a lot more worried about the second one than I was about the first.”

“So everything we see so far still points to suicide?”

Deb nodded.

“With both of them gone, who gets the money?” Joanna asked. “Split fifty-fifty between the two daughters?”

“That’s what everyone’s expecting, although no one has as yet laid hands on the will itself. It’s supposed to be at their attorney’s office, but Burton Kimball is on vacation this week and his office is closed.”

Burton Kimball was Bisbee’s premier criminal defense attorney, but he also did a fair amount of estate planning work.

“You can’t reach him by cell phone?”

“He’s doing one of those river raft trips down the Colorado,” Deb replied. “That means he’s not reachable by cell phone. Alfred was so careful about planning everything else, you’d think he wouldn’t have done this when his lawyer would be unavailable, but Burton Kimball’s paralegal, Monica Jones, is due back from a weekend trip to California later today. She should be able to help out.”

“What do you mean about Alfred Beasley’s careful planning?” Joanna asked. “What’s that all about?”

“Their funeral service—a joint service, by the way—is all pre
paid and all prearranged, down to the music, Scripture reading, and program, cremation arrangements and where to scatter the ashes,” Deb said. “The only thing missing was the actual date.”

“That’s careful planning, all right,” Joanna agreed. “Keep after it, Deb. If and when there are copies of the will available, bring me one if you can.” Joanna turned to Ernie Carpenter. “You’re up next, Ernie,” she said. “You were the last one at the fire scene. What’s up with the Lenny Sunderson case?”

Ernie slid a set of papers across the table. “That’s Ted Carrell’s preliminary report,” he said. “Ted’s the Department of Public Safety arson investigator,” he explained for everyone else’s benefit. “What he found is consistent with an electrical fire. There was a room air conditioner running, assorted medical equipment, and probably a few other devices as well. The load was too much for the aluminum wiring and it started to smolder. Flames finally broke through the wall, causing the oxygen tank to explode. But Sunderson didn’t burn to death. According to Doc Winfield, he succumbed to smoke inhalation long before the tank blew.”

“Aluminum wiring?” Dave asked. “Not copper?”

“That’s right,” Ernie said. “That particular model of mobile home was built back in the sixties, when they still used that junk because it was cheaper than copper. It’s also not nearly as safe.”

“Does Mrs. Sunderson know about this?” Joanna asked.

Ernie nodded. “I talked to her about it at length yesterday afternoon. She said she had noticed that the light switches in that room were warm to the touch, and she had sent a note to her landlord about it with her last rent check, asking if it was something she should be worried about.”

“It turns out it was,” Joanna said.

“Looks like.”

“And this is most likely going to be ruled accidental.”

“Yes.”

“How was she when you saw her?” Joanna asked.

“Mrs. Sunderson? Broken up but coping. The kids were fine. They were actually outside playing in the motel pool and having a blast. She was inside trying to figure out where they’re all going to live once they have to leave the motel. I’ve heard that some of the local churches are banding together to help them, but when you’re having to start over from scratch like that—when you’re left with nothing but the clothes on your back, it’s not going to be easy.”