Dead Wrong (7 page)

“I’m ready to go home,” Jenny
announced.

“How was it?”

“Great,” Jenny said. “We made
almost two hundred dollars, over twice as much as we made last
year.”

It was nearing four when they turned off High
Lonesome Road and onto the rough dirt track that led to the house.
As usual, the three dogs came out to the road to greet them and
race them into the yard. The only problem was, when Joanna arrived
at the house, someone else was already there. A huge Itasca
motor home towing a Geo Tracker with Illinois plates
was parked in the driveway, blocking access to Joanna’s
garage.

The door opened and Joanna’s mother-in-law,
Margaret Dixon, bounded down the steps, waving
enthusiastically.

“Oh, no!” Jenny managed.

Joanna rolled down her window. “Those
god-awful dogs of yours wouldn’t let us out, but now that
you’re here, I’m sure it’s all right. They
won’t bite, will they?”

“No,” Joanna said. “They
won’t. What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Margaret returned.
“You don’t think Donald and I would miss the arrival of
our very first grandchild, do you? I mean, better late than
never.”

“Did Butch know you were coming?”
Joanna asked.

“Of course not. It’s a
surprise.”

It’s a surprise, all
right,
Joanna thought.

“Where is he, by the way?” Margaret
Dixon continued. “Him being a house husband and all, I
thought for sure he’d be here.”

“He’s in El Paso at a
conference,” Joanna said stiffly.

And I’ll be damned if
I’ll call him and ask him to come home early!

D
ealing with Margaret and Donald Dixon made
for a very long evening. Don Dixon wasn’t all that bad.
Margaret, though, was something else.

Prior to meeting Butch’s mother, Joanna had
often wondered why Butch found her own pill of a mother, Eleanor,
so easy to tolerate. Unlike Joanna, Butch was always able to shrug
off Eleanor’s sometimes mean-spirited comments and biting
criticism with an air of bemused indifference. It turned out he had
been inoculated by a lifetime’s worth of dealing with his own
mother, who made Eleanor’s pointed comments seem like nuanced
suggestions made by a career diplomat.

In other words, Margaret Leona Dixon was a
ring-tailed bitch. Her sole purpose in life seemed to be cutting
everyone else down to size, starting with but not limited to the
shortcomings of her own son. Butch’s geographical cure to his
mother’s perpetually negative attitude had been to migrate
from Chicago to Arizona, and he had done so without looking back.
He hadn’t
seen his parents in years when
they had unexpectedly shown up in the days prior to Joanna and
Butch’s wedding.

Now they were back. Without Butch there to run
interference, they were back in spades. The RV park down by the
country club was already filled to the brim with migrating
snowbirds, so the Dixons’ immense motor home was now parked
next to Butch’s garage, with a long orange extension cord
providing power. Joanna’s heart sank at the possibility that
they were settling in for the duration.

For that Saturday evening, the Dixons’ sole
saving grace was that they both liked Mexican food. Chico’s
Taco Stand, south of Bisbee’s Don Luis neighborhood,
wasn’t long on atmosphere. Its recycled fifties vintage red
vinyl booths and serve-yourself counter-based food service
didn’t measure up to Margaret’s high-end expectations,
but the food was unarguably good. Even good food, however,
wasn’t enough to lessen the venom in Margaret’s running
commentary.

“With the baby due in the next few
days,” she said, toying with her paper plate loaded with
peppery carne asada, “I simply can’t imagine why Butch
would run off to El Paso like this. It makes no sense. It’s
inexcusable.”

“His publisher wanted him to go,”
Joanna said patiently. “And so did I. It’s an honor to
be invited to appear on a conference panel before your book is even
released.”

“Honor or not, it’s irresponsible for
him to leave you alone like this, especially in your condition.
Besides, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal,”
Margaret replied. “His book is only a mystery, isn’t
it? After all, it’s not as though it’s a real
book.”

“It is too a real book,” Jenny
objected. “I’ve seen the cover and
everything.”

“Well, of course it would have a
cover,” Margaret conceded.
“All
books have covers. But I belong to two book clubs—one in
Chicago in the summer and one in Hot Springs, Arkansas, in the
winter, and we don’t read mysteries. Ever. They’re just
too…too…”

Fun?
Joanna
thought.

“Too light,” Margaret finished at last.
“Not enough literary merit. I’m sure you know what I
mean.”

“Yes,” Joanna agreed with a pained
smile on her face. “I know just what you mean.”

“But of course,” Margaret added,
“if you’re going to make money, I suppose you have to
write the kind of thing that appeals to the unwashed masses.”
Then, without the slightest pause, she turned her full attention on
Jenny. “So you’re in what now, sixth grade?”

“Eighth,” Jenny answered.

“And are you still as horse-crazy as you used
to be, or have you outgrown that nonsense? Being a tomboy is
usually just a stage, you know. Most girls, unless they’re
odd or lesbians or something, do outgrow it sooner or
later.”

Not waiting for Jenny to reply, Joanna charged to
her daughter’s defense. “Jenny’s a fine young
horsewoman, an exceptional horsewoman! She’s already
participated in several rodeos. As a matter of fact, we’re
already looking into the possibility of her applying for a rodeo
scholarship. Several universities offer them.”

It was Margaret’s turn to look pained.
“A rodeo scholarship for girls?” she asked.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Only schools out
here in the Wild West would do that. None of the schools in Chicago
gives out rodeo scholarships.”

At that juncture, Joanna’s cell phone rang
and the caller ID told her Jaime Carbajal was on the phone.
Reluctant as she was
to leave Jenny to face down
Margaret Dixon on her own, Joanna excused herself and went outside
to take the call.

“What have you got?” she asked.

“A big fat nothing,” Jaime returned.
“You’re probably right about her, Sheriff Brady. Anna
Marie doesn’t look like our doer. We did some checking with
her neighbors. None of them has a bad word to say about her. She
doesn’t get out much—still has her own car but needs
someone to drive it for her. No one matching Bradley Evans’s
description has been seen on or even near Short Street. We know now
that our victim drove a red Ford F-100 pickup truck, an old beater
with a camper shell on it that he bought from Junque for Jesus. No
one admitted to seeing a vehicle like that anywhere near Short
Street, either. And, like Ted Chapman told us, it wasn’t left
at Evans’s apartment in Douglas, either.”

It was gratifying for Joanna to hear that her
initial impression of Anna Marie Crystal seemed to have been
validated by her investigators. Learning to trust that kind of gut
instinct was an integral part of being a good detective. And in
tight situations, well-honed gut instinct was sometimes the only
thing that made the difference between life and death.

“You’ve issued an APB on the
vehicle?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’ve been through Evans’s
place?”

“Yes,” Jaime replied.
“That’s where we spent most of the day. Evans’s
landlady was real coy about not letting anyone into his place
without our having a valid search warrant in hand.”

“And?”

“Believe me,” Jaime returned,
“it’s not a crime scene. Nothing out of place. No sign
of a struggle. The place was locked when we arrived and it was
clean as a whistle. Dishes were all
washed and
put away. Dirty clothes were in a hamper. Everything else was
either hung up or folded. A well-thumbed Bible was in the middle of
the kitchen table. It reminded me of a room in a
monastery.”

“Did he have a computer?” Joanna
asked.

“Nope. Evans was evidently a low-tech kind of
guy. Just to cover the bases, I’ve made arrangements for
Casey Ledford to come down here tomorrow and dust for prints, but
I’m guessing the only prints we’re going to find will
belong to Bradley Evans himself.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?” Joanna
asked.

“We checked with the neighbors and the
landlady on that. If he did have a girl pal, he was mighty cagey
about it because nobody mentioned seeing a woman coming or going.
And there’s nothing in the apartment that indicates that a
woman has ever even visited the place—the bed in the bedroom
is definitely a single.”

“Anything else?” Joanna asked when
Jaime’s voice trailed away.

“That’s about it.”

“It sounds like both you and Ernie have put
in a long day,” Joanna said. “Go home. We’ll take
another look at things in the morning.”

“Okay,” Jaime said.

Joanna ended the call and was putting her phone
away when it rang again. “Joey?” Butch asked. His voice
was alive with excitement. “I’m so glad I caught you.
You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“What?”

“Carole Ann entered the manuscript for
Serve and Protect
into a contest for
new writers, and I won. It’s called a New Voice
Award and it comes with a check for ten thousand
dollars. Can you believe it? Some well-heeled charitable foundation
from back east hands out five of them a year, and they’re
planning on giving me mine tonight at the banquet. Carole Ann knew
about it in advance, but it was supposed to be a surprise. A few
minutes ago, at the cocktail party, I told her I had decided to
skip the banquet and come home. That’s when she told me. Is
this exciting or what?”

“It is exciting, all right,” Joanna
agreed, trying unsuccessfully to match her enthusiasm with his.
“Amazing and wonderful!”

Through the long, sometimes stormy months of
Joanna’s pregnancy, Butch Dixon had become extremely adept at
deciphering his wife’s hormone-driven mood swings.

“What’s wrong?” he asked now.
“You sound funny. Are you all right? Is the baby
coming?”

“The baby is not coming,” Joanna said.
“It’s still too soon. It’s just
that…”

“It’s just that what?”

“Your parents came instead.”

There was a long pause before Butch exclaimed,
“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not. They were waiting at the
house when Jenny and I came home from the car wash this afternoon.
We’re having dinner at Chico’s. Your parents are inside
with Jenny. I’m out here in the parking lot. The RV park down
in Naco is full, so they’ve parked their motor home at our
place.” She paused before adding, “Did you know they
were coming?”

“I had no idea whatsoever!” Butch
sounded genuinely exasperated. “I mean, I told them when we
thought the baby was due, but I never expected they’d show up
like this. If you want me to, I’ll come straight home and
send them packing.”

“No. That’s not necessary. We’ll
get through it somehow.”

“But, Joanna…”

“As your mother said, it’s her first
grandchild.” Joanna was careful not to add the “better
late than never part,” to say nothing about Margaret’s
snide “real book” comment. “And they must be
terribly proud for them to have driven all this way,” she
added.

“With them under hand and foot, we’ll
go nuts,” Butch said bleakly.

“No, we won’t,” Joanna returned
determinedly. “We’ll be fine.”

“But I should come home tonight,” Butch
said. “As soon as they give me the award—”

“No, you stay right where you are and enjoy
it,” Joanna told him. “I’m sorry I won’t be
there to see it. Be sure to have Carole Ann take lots of
pictures.”

“Are you positive?”

“Like I told you earlier, I’m a big
girl, and I’m the sheriff, too. If I can handle crooks or a
live-ammo shoot-out, I should be able to handle your
mother.”

“A shoot-out might be less dangerous,”
Butch said.

Joanna laughed. “I’d better go back
inside and rescue Jenny. I’ve been gone a long time, and she
probably needs it. But have fun, Butch. You’ve earned
it.”

Returning to their booth, Joanna discovered that
Jenny was gamely carrying on, regaling the Dixons with stories
about Lucky and the trials and tribulations of training a deaf
dog.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want
to keep a dog like that,” Margaret said. “If it were up
to me, I’d have put the poor thing down. When animals are
damaged like that, it’s not fair to keep them
alive.”

Jenny may not have inherited her mother’s red
hair, but
Joanna’s hot temper was very
much in evidence in the scathing look Jenny leveled at her newest
grandmother.

“He’s not damaged, and he’s not a
poor thing, either,” Jenny objected hotly.
“Lucky’s a happy dog, and he’s also very smart.
He can do all the things the other dogs do, but we use hand signals
with him instead of words.”

Don, realizing that his wife had spoken out of
turn, tried to smooth things over. “Are there trainers who
specialize in working with deaf dogs?” he asked. “Did
you have to send Lucky someplace special?”

“I’m training him at home,” Jenny
declared. Sitting with her arms crossed, it was clear she
wasn’t at all pacified. “Butch and I found a whole lot
of information on the Internet and in some books, too. It just
takes patience.”

And a little common
sense,
Joanna thought.

“Butch just called,” she said. On her
way into the restaurant she had decided to let Butch give his
parents the news about his unexpected award. Now, though, needing
an icebreaker, she changed her mind and told them herself.
“He’s receiving a new writer’s prize tonight,
based on the quality of his manuscript for
Serve and Protect.
A prize and a check for ten
thousand dollars. That’s why his editor was so adamant about
him going to El Paso. She knew the award would be announced at the
banquet tonight, and she wanted him there to receive it.”

“Great!” Don Dixon boomed.
“That’s terrific news. Butch must be
ecstatic.”

Margaret’s enthusiasm was notable for its
absence. “Ten thousand dollars for a murder mystery?”
she asked. “Imagine that!”

Her comment left Joanna grateful that Butch
hadn’t been the one broaching the subject after all. Jenny,
on the other hand, bounded out of the booth and began clearing the
table.

“She’s a great little helper,
isn’t she,” Margaret said. Fortunately, she
didn’t see the silent roll of the eyes Jenny gave her mother
on her way to the trash containers by the door.

“Yes,” Joanna agreed. “She
certainly is.”

Back at High Lonesome Ranch, Jenny was quick to
take Tigger and Lucky and retreat to her own bedroom, leaving
Joanna to deal with the unexpected company as best she could.
Margaret was full of unsolicited advice. On childbirth? Natural
with no unnecessary anesthetics. Child rearing? Definitely in the
corner of “Spare the rod; spoil the child.” Working
mothers? A bad idea. Where did Joanna think this whole new
generation of juvenile delinquents came from? Or ill-behaved
household pets? Letting them have the run of the whole house was
another bad idea—downright unsanitary and dangerous. How
about all the children who ended up being mauled by family pets?
Everything in Margaret’s litany of modern evils was laid at
the door of working mothers. For Joanna it was all amazingly
familiar. At times she wondered if Eleanor Lathrop Winfield and
Margaret Dixon hadn’t been created with the DNA equivalent of
a rubber stamp.