J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

“Are you a bigot, Mr. O’Brien?” Joanna asked.

The room grew still. Raising his bushy eyebrows, Ernie Carpenter shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The silence lasted so long that Joanna wondered if perhaps she had gone too far, but David O’Brien didn’t appear to be especially of-fended by the question. In fact, he seemed to like the idea that Joanna was standing up to him and pushing back.

“Are you aware that I’m from here originally?” he asked at last, favoring Joanna with an unexpected but grim smile. She nodded.

“Not just from Bisbee,” he continued. “But from right here on the outskirts of Naco. My father, Tom O’Brien, died of a ruptured appendix when I was two. Growing up in a border town makes it tough for kids. On both sides. I didn’t transfer to St. Dominick’s in Old Bisbee until I was in the third grade. Before that I was one of the only Anglo kids in Naco Elementary. The Mexican kids down here used to beat me up every day, Sheriff Brady. Not only that, it was a Mexican driving the truck that killed my first family, smashed my legs to smithereens, and sentenced me to a wheelchair for the rest of my natural life. So believe me, if I’ve got my prejudices, maybe I’m entitled. That’s what I told Brianna, and that’s what I’m telling you.”

Not knowing what to say in response, Joanna headed for the door. As she did so, Katherine reached forward and plucked a small silver bell off the coffee table. Moments after she rang it, Mrs. Vorevkin appeared in the room. “Olga,” Katherine said, “please show Sheriff Brady and Detective Carpenter out.”

The housekeeper nodded in her stolid, impassive way and started down the hallway. She was standing in front of the open door waiting for them to step outside when Joanna stopped beside her. “Can you tell us anything about all this, Mrs. Vorevkin?” Joanna asked.

The woman’s faded blue eyes welled with tears. “I packed the food,” she said brokenly. “Just like before. I did not mean to cause trouble.”

“What trouble?” Joanna demanded. “And what food?”

“A bag of sandwiches, chips, some fresh fruit, and sodas,” Olga answered. “She always wanted plenty of sodas, root beer and Cokes, both.”

Joanna frowned. “Two kinds?”

Olga nodded. “Several of each.”

“And what kinds of sandwiches?”

“Peanut butter and bologna.”

“How many?”

“Five of each.”

Joanna turned to Ernie. “What do you think?” she asked. “Either Brianna O’Brien was one heavy eater or the picnic lunch was being made for more than one person.”

“That’s what I think,” Joanna said, returning her gaze to Olga’s placid face. “You were the last person here to see her?” Joanna asked.

Olga nodded.

“What was she wearing?”

Olga glanced toward Ernie. “He ask me already, but I don’t remember. Too upset. She’s a good girl, Brianna,” the woman added after a moment. “A nice girl. A very nice girl. You find her and bring her home.”

Sheriff Brady saw no point in attempting to explain the twenty-four-hour missing persons rule to Olga Vorevkin. “We will,” she promised instead. “We’ll do our very best.”

Outside in the driveway, the only official vehicles left were Ernie’s white van and Joanna’s Crown Victoria, Alf Hastings, David O’Brien’s chief of operations, sat on a folding camp stool next to Joanna’s sedan. He was smoking the stub of a powerful cigar.

‘‘Where’d everybody go?” Joanna asked.

Hastings shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Call came in over the radio, and they all took off like they’d been shot out of a cannon.”

Opening the car door, Joanna reached for her radio. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Larry Kendrick, the Cochise County Sheriff Department’s lead dispatcher, took the call. “We had what at first sounded like a serious explosion over in St. David. Everything’s pretty much under control now, but Chief Deputy Voland didn’t want to disturb either you or Detective Carpenter while you were talking to the O’Briens. Voland headed over to St. David right away, along with two other cars.”

Joanna’s heart constricted to hear the words explosion and St. David mentioned in the same sentence. St. David was the site of a nitrate-manufacturing plant that specialized in both fertilizers and explosives. “Not the Apache Powder Plant,” she breathed.

“No,” Kendrick reassured her. “It wasn’t nearly that serious. It was at a farm near the river on the other side of town, off to the south rather than to the northwest.”

“Any injuries?”

“None reported so far. There was a small fire. Outbuildings only. As I understand it, that’s out now.”

“Keep me posted anyway,” Joanna said. Sliding her thumb away from the push-to-talk switch, she turned to Hastings. The man stood up, making a production of grinding out what was left of his cigar. “If you’re ready to go, I’ll get my ATV and lead you as far as the gate.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Joanna objected. “I’m sure we can find our way out.”

“I’m sure you can, ma’am,” Hastings said, doffing his hat. “But orders are orders, and since the guy giving the orders also writes my checks, I’ve got no choice but to follow ‘em.”

Hastings ambled away, leaving Joanna and Ernie alone in the deepening twilight. “What do we do now, Coach?” the detective asked.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Joanna told him. “We go home. You take off your tie, I take off my high heels, and we both put our feet up.”

“You really don’t want me to do anything more tonight?” Ernie asked.

Joanna shook her head. “No,” she replied. “We’re not going to move on this case unless and until Brianna O’Brien doesn’t show up tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Ernie asked. “It looks to me as though David O’Brien has more money than God. And clout to match. What if he decides to put you out of office?”

Joanna shrugged. “This is a free country and that’s his God-given right. In the meantime, you and I are charged with providing equality under the law. That means for everybody, David O’Brien included. If we have a twenty-four-hour waiting period for every other missing person in Cochise County, then we have a twenty-four-hour waiting period for him as well.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ernie said, loosening his tie and setting off for his van.

Hastings rumbled up just then on his ATV. First Ernie and then Joanna fell into line behind him. At the far gate, there was a turnout along a side road that provided a stopping place just inside the fence. Hastings swerved off the roadway onto the parking strip, leaving enough room for Joanna and Ernie to drive past as the gate swung open. Checking in her mirror Joanna saw him wait until both vehicles had cleared the gate before he let it swing shut and drove away.

Fort O’Brien, Joanna thought. That would have been a much better name for the place. Taking all the security into consideration Green Brush Ranch just doesn’t do it.

Joanna had traveled only a mile or two back toward town when hunger suddenly asserted itself. It had been almost eight hours since her lunchtime Whopper in Benson. At that hour, the idea of going home to cook was out of the question. Instead of driving directly to High Lonesome Ranch, she headed for Bisbee’s Bakerville neighborhood and Daisy’s Cafe.

On that still-steamy June Saturday night, other Bisbeeites must have had much the same idea. The draw might have been the almost chilly air-conditioning in the restaurant as much as it was the food. Whatever the reason, Daisy’s was jammed. People stood in clutches of two and three in the cashier’s lobby area, waiting for one of the booths or tables to clear. When Daisy Maxwell, the owner, came to collect the next pair of customers, she spied Joanna standing alone.