J. Jance - Minor in possession

"A mini-condo cemetery," I said.

Ames nodded. "A high-priced mini-cemetery," he agreed, "and no about very lucrative to the ongoing building fund."

We were the first guests to arrive, turning up in the midst of a flurry of delivery vehicles. Van after van pulled up and dropped off flower arrangements. Near the fellowship hall, a caterer's crew was busily unloading tables, chairs, and massive amounts of food.

JoJo and Marsha Rothman maintained a certain position in the community, and that position was not to be taken lightly. Honor was to be paid, proper decorum observed, even over the death of an admittedly ne're-do-well son. Joey Rothman's funeral was going to be done right whatever the cost.

An anxious white-haired and white-collared minister arrived about one-fifteen. He gazed at the massed flower delivery vans with a frown of disapproval. I caught up with him as he turned back toward the church preparing to go inside.

"Excuse me," I said. "You wouldn't happen to be officiating at the Rothman funeral this afternoon, would you?"

He rounded on me. "What do you want?"

I backed away, put off by his surly attitude. "My name is Beaumont, J.P. Beaumont. I'm a friend of Rhonda Attwood's. You haven't happened to hear from her, have you?"

"The last I heard, Mrs. Attwood was staying at La Posada, but all the arrangements have been made through Mr. and Mrs. Rothman. The present Mrs. Rothman," he added meaningfully.

He turned and started away from me before I quite realized what had been said. "You said Mrs. Attwood was staying at La Posada? How did you know that?"

His voice hardened. So did his eyes. "My good man, the Rothmans are good parishioners of mine. If you have any questions, I suggest you address those questions to them."

With that he turned on his heel and stalked away. The message was clear. JoJo and Marsha Rothman's churchly contributions were paying his wages and keeping the building fund afloat. Rhonda Attwood's weren't. So much for Christian charity. And beyond that, if the minister had known where Rhonda Attwood was staying, any number of other people could have found out that information as well.

It was another bit of the puzzle to chew on.

By two o'clock the vans were gone. The altar area inside the dimly lit church was banked with flowers. Only in the kitchen and adjoining fellowship hall did the feverish activity of preparation still continue. A party, I thought, a party after the funeral. I've never understood those, and probably never will.

I was looking at my watch and still worrying over Rhonda's whereabouts when Delcia Reyes-Gonzales came striding across the gravel parking lot. I hadn't seen her pull in and park. She waved at the occupants of Buick Regal that was just parking in a handicapped area near the main door of the church.

Delcia hurried over to the driver's side, opened the back door, and brought out a pair of crutches, which she handed to the driver as he opened his own door.

Puzzled, I watched, wondering who it could be. Delcia was talking animatedly, so it was obviously someone she knew. Then she went around to the rider's side of the car and opened the rider's door to help someone out. I could see it was a female, but that was about all. Meanwhile, the driver got out of the car, head bent as he slowly maneuvered on the crutches.

Only when the three of them started moving toward the church did I finally realize who the new arrivals were-Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens and his daughter Michelle.

"I'll be damned," I said aloud to Ralph Ames. "I will be damned!"

The three of them moved toward the church slowly, keeping pace with Guy's still-awkward use of the crutches. The cast on his leg went from his hip to his toe.

Suddenly, Michelle, walking with her head ducked, looked up and saw me. There was a momentary hesitation, then her face came alive with recognition and something else, a kind of light I had never seen in Michelle Owens before. She abandoned Delcia and her father and came rushing toward me, throwing herself at me from three feet away, locking her arms around my neck.

"Thank you," she said over and over, her lips muffled against my chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I've saved people's lives before, on occasion, but I don't quite know how to handle that kind of effusive gratitude.

"You're welcome," I said, prying her arms away and holding her at arm's length so I could look at her. When I did, I was shocked. Michelle had come to Joey Rothman's funeral, her lover's funeral. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Her skin was still pale from her ordeal, yet there was a glow of happiness in her eyes that was unmistakable. I saw more joy in her face, more animation, than I had seen during the entire month we had spent together at Ironwood Ranch. What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, her face darkened as though a shadow had fallen across it. "I'm sorry about Ringo," she said.

"Ringo?"

"I was keeping him in my room until Friday. That's when Joey was supposed to leave, and I didn't have a roommate right then. I fed Ringo that morning. I mean, I gave him the mouse. I didn't like it, but Joey asked me to.

"But then later, when I found out what had happened to Joey and my dad told me we were leaving, I didn't know what to do. I knew Dad would never let me take him home, and I couldn't just turn him loose, so before we left, I took him to your room and left him along with the extra mice. I didn't know what else to do. If Ringo got out, I must not have tied the knot in the pillowcase tightly enough."

Michelle stopped talking abruptly while the brimming tears in her eyes threatened to become a full-fledged deluge.

"It's all right," I said easily. "It wasn't a problem. He didn't hurt me."

Much, I thought to myself, but I felt a sudden rush of relief as part of the burden I had been carrying around was lifted from my shoulders. Ringo's presence in my darkened cabin had been an accident, not some kind of deliberate plot. Joey Rothman hadn't tried to kill me after all.

Delcia Reyes-Gonzales and Guy Owens stopped behind Michelle.

"Is she here?" Delcia asked.

I shook my head. "No."

Owens let go of the crossbar of one crutch and held out his hand. "Good to see you," he said gruffly.

"Yes," I said awkwardly, "same here."

"Where's Rhonda?" he asked, looking around.

So Delcia hadn't told them that Rhonda Attwood was among the missing. She was leaving me to do the dirty work.

"She's not here yet, but we're expecting her any minute."

Owens glanced down at Michelle and the absolute tenderness of it, the stupid hang-dog devotion in his gaze, put a huge lump in my throat.

"Do you have any idea where she's going to sit inside?" Guy Owens asked. "Misha thought we ought to sit with her. Under the circumstances, that's probably the right thing to do. With these damn crutches, though, I'd like to go on in and get settled."

I'm a slow learner, but I do catch on-eventually. Guy Owens had changed his mind. Michelle was there glowing with happiness because she hadn't had a D amp; C. She was going to have Joey Rothman's baby after all, and she was going to keep it.

From the sound of things, she wouldn't be doing it alone, either. Michelle would have not one but two doting grandparents to help her.

For a moment I was almost overwhelmed by the immensity of the job my own mother had done, raising me alone. When I was born, my mother had been only a few months older than Michelle Owens was now. No one had lifted a finger to help her.

I found my voice eventually and gave Michelle a gentle shove on the shoulder and pushed her toward her father.

"You two go on inside. Sit somewhere close to the front. I'll wait out here for Rhonda and tell her to look for you when she gets here."