J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

Expecting to find one or the other of them inside, Joanna stepped off the elevator and pushed open one of the swinging doors that led into the waiting room. To her surprise, the first person she encountered was Butch Dixon. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

He had been working on a small laptop computer. As soon as he saw Joanna, he closed the lid. "I've been waiting for you," he said.

"What's going on? Are you on your way back to Peoria?"

"Not exactly," he replied. "When Kristin called and said you were coming here to visit Jeff and Marianne, I decided I would, too. That may be the only way I'll have a chance to see you-to turn up wherever you are-sort of like a bad penny. You're not avoiding me, are you?"

"No. Of course not." Joanna was flustered by finding him there. To her consternation, she could feel a hot-faced blush blooming at the base of her neck. "And we did have lunch today," she reminded him.

"That wasn't what I call having lunch," Butch objected. "You breezed in and sat down, but before we had a chance to exchange two words, that woman…"

"Marliss," Joanna supplied. "Marliss Shackleford."

"Whatever-her-name-is showed up and monopolized the conversation for as long as you were there."

"I'm sorry," Joanna said. "That's what she's like. Pushy."

"And you're skittish," Butch said.

She nodded. "Well, I suppose I am. I'm afraid people will talk, I guess. Afraid of what they'll think."

"What will they think?"

"That you and I are involved. Seriously involved."

"Are we?"

Butch was making it tough for her. Standing there with the little vase of daisies in her hand, while she fielded his questions like a complete ninny. "Yes, we're involved," she said. "But I'm just not ready to be serious. You understand what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm trying," he said. "So far, the signals are a little mixed. Look, Joanna, I want to have a chance to talk." He glanced around the waiting room. "As far as I'm concerned, this isn't the place to do it. How about dinner? Eight o'clock. I'll pick you up here, and we can go someplace nice. The Arizona Inn is just a few blocks away…"

Along with the hospital itself, the Arizona Inn was an-other place that held painful memories for Joanna Brady. She'd been there, in the dining room talking to Adam York of the DEA when Tony Vargas had walked into Andy's hospital room to finish the job he had started a day earlier in a wash off High Lonesome Road.

"No," Joanna said quickly. "Not there."

"I'll figure it out, then." Butch stood up and headed for the door. "See you here at eight. No excuses."

Joanna nodded. "But where are Jeff and Marianne?"

"Jeff's in Esther's room for this hour's ten minutes' worth of visiting. He should be out any time. Marianne's at their hotel taking a nap. See you."

Butch turned and walked out, leaving Joanna still standing and holding the flowers. She wasn't exactly alone. There were at least two other clumps of people, family members commiserating in low, solemn voices. A chill ran down Joanna's spine; she knew the kinds of crises they must be enduring where the only thing they could do was to keep their long, helpless vigils-waiting, hoping, and worrying.

Jeff Daniels burst into the waiting room. "Joanna," he said. "You're here."

"How's Esther?"

"All right so far," he replied. "They're keeping her pretty well sedated."

"And Marianne? How's she?"

"She's hardly slept for days," Jeff said. "I finally convinced her to go back to the room to nap. I called and found out she'd left a wake-up call for five. I canceled it. I want her to sleep until she actually wakes up. She's been running on adrenaline for months now, ever since the girls got here. She's tough, but the strain is starting to show."

"In other words, she's a wreck," Joanna concluded.

Jeff managed a rueful grin. "We both are," he agreed.

Looking down, Joanna remembered the flowers. "These are for you," she said, handing them over. "They're for all of you. I brought them, but they were Jenny's idea."

"Thanks." Jeff put the vase down in the middle of a small conference table that sat next to the vending machines. "We're not allowed to take flowers into the ICU itself," he explained. "But if we leave them here, everyone can enjoy them. Besides, for the next day or two, we'll probably be spending more time here than anywhere else."

Stuffing his hands in his pocket, Jeff sighed. "It was nice of Butch to stop by. He and I had a good visit. Just guy stuff-cars and baseball, mostly. But I was glad to have a chance to think and talk about something else. I can only deal with this for so long before I start to lose it." He broke off and shrugged. His eyes welled with tears. "Butch is a nice guy, Joanna. A real nice guy. You're lucky he's around."

"I know," she said. That was part of the problem. Butch Dixon was a very nice guy.

The door to the ICU waiting room swung open and several people came in at once. Joanna recognized them all-people from Bisbee's Canyon United Methodist Church come to offer prayers and moral support.

"It looks like you have another whole batch of company," she told Jeff. "I'll leave you to visit with them."

"You don't have to go."

"No," she said. "There's someone else in the hospital I'm supposed to see. I'll come back a little later when I finish up with her."

After pausing long enough to say hello to the newcomers, Joanna hurried back down to the lobby and was given directions to Belle Philips' room. Since Belle was a possible homicide suspect, Joanna had briefly considered posting a guard outside her hospital room, but then, with all the confusion of dealing with multiple cases, she had forgotten about it. Seeing Belle swathed in bandages and with casts on both an arm and a leg, Joanna realized that a guard wouldn't be necessary. Belle lay like an immense beached whale on her hospital bed, gazing up at a wall-mounted television set.

She flicked her eyes away from the set as Joanna entered the room. "I can't never answer any of these questions, can you?" she asked.

Jeopardy! was playing on the screen. "I can some of the time," Joanna replied, "but I don't watch it very often."

"I suppose not," Belle said. "You're a busy lady."

They were quiet, letting the television fill the room with low-level noise while Joanna searched for some way to start. "I'm sure this will be painful for you, Ms. Philips, but I need to talk to you about Clyde."

Belle bit her lip and nodded. "It's all right," she said. "I don't mind. What do you want to know?"

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Saturday," she said. "He came by the restaurant and I cooked him breakfast."

"What about Sunday?" Joanna asked.

"I never saw him on Sunday," Belle said.

"But you did go by the house," Joanna pressed.

For a long time Belle Philips didn't answer. "Yes," she said finally. "I did go by, but I didn't see him."

"Did you go into the house?"

"Yes, but he must have been asleep," Belle said. "I didn't wake him up and I didn't see him, neither. I went in and came straight back out."

"If you didn't go to see him, why were you there?" Joanna asked.

Belle sighed. "I needed money," she said. "To pay my utilities. So I did that sometimes, when I was short. Went by aid helped myself to a dollar or two. He always had money in his wallet. And he never seemed to miss it. Least-wise, he never complained about it. But I never killed him, Sheriff Brady. I never did nothin' to hurt the man. You're not sayin' I did, are you?"

"No," Joanna responded, "I didn't say you did. I'm just trying to understand what all was going on in Clyde's life the last few days before he died. We don't have autopsy results yet, but Dr. Daly-the investigator for the medical examiner's office-thinks Clyde may have committed suicide. What do you think?"