J. Jance - Dead to Rights

“I’m sure I will, Mother,” Joanna said, feeling virtuous for not pointing out that neither she nor Jenny was particularly fond of soft-boiled eggs. “And I’ll remind you to give them to me. In the meantime, I’m going to have to go. I have several other calls to return.”

“Isn’t it after nine?” Eleanor asked. “Are you sure it’s all right to call people back this late?”

“I’m sure it’s all right, but the longer we talk, the later it gets,” Joanna returned. “Welcome back and good night, Mother. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Joanna,” Eleanor said. “See you at eleven-thirty sharp, but make it earlier if you possibly can.”

“Right,” Joanna said, returning the handset to its cradle. “Will do.”

She reached into the top drawer and pulled out the phone book. Marliss Shackleford’s number was listed under the initial M. Marliss herself answered after only one ring.

“Sheriff Brady here,” Joanna said. “Returning your call.”

One of the things Joanna disliked about Marliss was the way the woman purred into the phone. “Oh, Joanna,” she breathed. “I’m so glad you were able to get back to me to-night. With all those goings-on about Dr. Buckwalter, I wasn’t sure you’d manage it.”

Wanting to keep the call on a strictly businesslike basis, Joanna tried to pass the buck. “If you’re calling about that, Marliss, you’ll have to go through Chief Deputy Montoya. He’s the department’s official public information officer. It’s best if all media inquiries are channeled through him. He’ll be back in the office at eight o’clock in the morning…”

“Don’t worry,” Marliss said. “This has nothing whatever to do with the Buckwalter case. I was calling you about some-thing else entirely.”

“What?” Joanna’s question sounded blunt, but she let it stand. She was too tired to do anything else.

“I was calling about Marianne Maculyea,” Marliss said.

“Marianne,” Joanna echoed. “What about her?”

“I’m worried about her, is all,” Marliss said. “Several other people are as well. Is everything all right between her and Jeff?”

“Is everything all right? What kind of a question is that?’

“Well.” Marliss hesitated. “Jeff Daniels has been gone for almost a month now. I heard late this afternoon that the Canyon Methodist Board of Directors met earlier today. They had to advance Marianne quite a big chunk of money. You don’t suppose Jeff has gotten himself in some kind of trouble, do you?”

Joanna bristled. “Marliss, I’m sure whatever action the board took was supposed to be confidential.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Are you on the board of directors?” Joanna demanded.

“No,” Marliss countered, “but one of my friends is. She said-”

“If it’s supposed to be confidential, then I don’t want to know what anyone said,” Joanna interrupted. “It’s none of my business, and it’s none of yours either, Marliss. Good night.”

“But wait,” the other woman said hurriedly. “Don’t hang up. What I’m afraid is that Jeff Daniels has gotten himself it some kind of trouble with the Chinese authorities and that Marianne needs the extra money to bail him out. He’s always struck me as sort of a hippie type. And I just saw a National Geographic program on TV, on public television, of course, that talked about all the drugs and hippies in Goa, India, which happens to be right next to China, you know. I thought that it anyone would be aware of what was really going on, it would be you.”

The word “hippie” might have gone out of favor in the rest of the world, but among old-time Bisbeeites it still accounted for anyone who veered ever so slightly out of the norm. With a mighty effort, a seething Joanna Brady attempted to keep from saying everything that was on her mind. The end result left her voice quivering like a serving of underdone church potluck Jell-O.

“Jeff Daniels went to China to bring home a baby,” Joanna said. “He’s in a place called Chengdu, which, as I understand it, is far better known for its coal dust than it is for drug trafficking. If there has been any delay in Jeff’s return, I’m sure it has absolutely nothing to do with what you regard as Jeff Daniels’ hippie tendencies.”

“Joanna, I’m only doing my job,” Marliss objected. “If there’s something going on, the public has a right-”

“No, you’re wrong, Marliss,” Joanna shot back. “This has nothing to do with your job. It has nothing to do with being a reporter and everything to do with being a gossip. Let me give you a word of advice, Marliss Shackleford. If one word of this shows up in that column of yours-one single word-I’ll come up to your office and make you eat the damn thing.”

“Joanna…”

“Marianne Maculyea may be a good enough Christian that she can turn the other cheek to people like you. But I’m not. I’m nothing but a poor, miserable sinner. My cheeks don’t turn.”

“That sounded like a threat.”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” Joanna growled into the phone. “You can count on it.”

She flung down the receiver and stood there glaring at it with as much loathing as if it were a coiled snake, one that might strike at any moment. Seconds later she was stabbed by an attack of remorse. How much of that blast of steam had Marliss actually deserved and how much should have gone to Eleanor Lathrop? One thing was sure, however. Joanna wasn’t about to call Marliss back and apologize.

“Mom?” Jenny emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a sodden bath towel wrapped around her still-wet body. Her blond hair dripped water onto the carpet. “What’s the matter?” she asked, looking up at Joanna in big-eyed concern. “I heard you yelling. I was afraid something was wrong.”

Ignoring the wet towel, Joanna pulled Jenny to her, holding the child close. “I’m fine now,” Joanna said.

“But who was that on the phone?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Joanna said. “It wasn’t important.” “It wasn’t Grandma Lathrop, was it?”

“No, it was somebody else-someone who made me mad. You don’t need to worry. It has nothing to do with you.”

“But you hardly ever yell,” Jenny said, her eyes misting over with a veil of tears. “Usually, when you get mad at me, you get quiet, not loud.”

Moving Jenny to arm’s length, Joanna smiled down at her. “You know me pretty well, don’t you.”

Biting her lip, Jenny nodded.

“Well,” Joanna continued. “The person on the phone wasn’t very nice. Sometimes that’s contagious. I ended up yelling, and that makes me almost as bad as she is.”

Jenny considered that for a moment. “Back before Daddy died, I used to think that everyone was nice.”

Joanna shook her head, then gathered her daughter into her arms once more. “So did I,” she said. “But, Jenny, we have to remember that most people still are. There are just a few bad apples. And you know what they do, don’t you?”

Jenny nodded gravely. “Grandpa Brady says they spoil the whole barrel.”

“Right,” Joanna said. “Now off you go to bed. It’s getting late. We have to get up early in the morning to go pick up Tigger. Bebe Noonan left a message that we can come get him anytime after seven.”

“You mean I can go, too?”

“If you’re ready.”

Motivated, Jenny started for her bedroom. “Good night,” she said from the doorway.

“Good night, Jenny.”

She went into her bedroom and closed the door. A moment later it opened again. “Mom?”

“What now?” Joanna asked.

“How many apples are in a barrel?”

Joanna couldn’t help laughing. “I have no idea,” she said. “That’s a question only Grandpa Jim Bob can answer. You’ll have to ask him. Good night now. Go.”