J. Jance - Partner In Crime

Stunned, Joanna stared after Bobo Jenkins’s retreating figure. She had known him for years, but she had never seen him angry before. Now that she had, she worried about the damage those powerfully muscled arms and fists might inflict once he caught up with Deidre Canfield.

Sheriff Joanna Brady had just brought Bobo Jenkins an entire lifetime’s worth of unwelcome news. As sheriff she was charged with protecting the citizens of Cochise County. Instead, by telling Bobo about Dee Canfield’s plans, Joanna had inadvertently incited him – possibly to the point of violence.

Not good , Joanna told herself grimly as she, too, started down the stairs. Not good at all !

Bobo Jenkins was completely out of sight by the time Joanna reached the arched gate at the bottom of the stairs. She jogged back uphill to her Crown Victoria, then threw herself inside. Panting with exertion, Joanna punched up her radio.

“Sheriff Brady here,” she gasped when she heard the voice of Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher. “I’m on my way to Castle Rock Gallery. Please advise Bisbee PD that I may need backup.”

“What’s the problem, Sheriff?” Larry asked. “You sound like you’ve been running for miles.”

“Not miles, just up and down Youngblood Hill,” she told him. “I just finished telling Bobo Jenkins that Rochelle Baxter is dead. He’s upset with a woman named Deidre Canfield and is on his way to her place of business, Castle Rock Gallery on Main Street in Old Bisbee. Bobo said he was going to talk to her, but he was really off the charts when he left here. I’d say he’s more likely to punch somebody’s lights out. I’m headed there, too.”

By then the Civvie was on the move. Joanna turned on her lights and siren as she careened down Youngblood Hill into the upper reaches of Brewery Gulch. Bobo Jenkins was moving fast. By racing down stairways and cutting through back alleys, it was likely he would reach the Castle Rock Gallery on foot well before Joanna could drive there.

Deidre Canfield’s place of business consisted of a series of small, formerly ramshackle buildings that looked invitingly renovated when Joanna drove up. As soon as she opened her car door, she heard a chorus of raised voices coming from inside.

As she pushed open the door to the gallery, a tiny bell tinkled overhead, but neither Dee Canfield nor Bobo Jenkins noticed. Across the room they stood locked in a fierce, nose-to-nose confrontation.

“You’ve got no right barging in here and telling me what I can and can’t do,” Dee shouted shrilly. “This is my gallery. The contract is between Rochelle Baxter and me. It has nothing to do with you, Bobo Jenkins. The terms of that contract allow me to set, raise, or lower prices as I see fit.”

Bobo’s powerful fists were clenched at his sides. Beads of sweat glistened on his face as he struggled to keep his anger under control. “That was before she died,” he said pointedly.

“Yes,” Dee returned. “And that’s why I’m raising the prices. In the world of art, those pieces are all more valuable.”

“Not more valuable,” Bobo countered softly. “They’re priceless. What about Shelley’s family?”

“Who else do you think I’m doing it for?” Dee demanded. “If the pieces sell for more money, the family receives more. It’s as simple as that.”

Bobo stepped closer to Dee. It was a threatening gesture. She blinked, but stood her ground.

“You think that’s what Shelley’s family is going to want – money?” he demanded, his face bare inches from hers. He waved an arm, motioning at the vividly colored paintings that lined the white-stuccoed walls. “Who the hell do you think those people are, Deidre Canfield? You know as well as I that they must be Shelley’s family. Having those pictures is going to be far more important to them than any amount of money. Cancel the show, Dee.”

“No. Absolutely not!”

“Then I’ll cancel it for you.”

A man Joanna hadn’t seen before emerged from a backroom, carrying a hammer. “You’d better leave now, Bobo,” the newcomer said, tapping the head of the hammer in the palm of his other hand.

“And you’d better stay out of this, Warren,” Jenkins growled, his eyes swiveling in Warren Gibson’s direction. “This is between Dee and me.”

“You’d all better cool it,” Joanna ordered, physically inserting herself between Dee Canfield and Bobo. “Now. Before things get out of hand.” She turned toward the man with the hammer. “As for you, put that thing down. On the desk. Now.”

After a momentary hesitation, Warren complied. Meanwhile, Bobo Jenkins ignored Joanna’s presence entirely. “Give me my picture, Dee,” he said, speaking over Joanna’s head. “You can go on with the damned show if you want, but it won’t be with my picture in it.”

“All right,” Dee said. “Go get it, Warren. Whatever it takes to get him out of here.”

Again, Gibson hesitated. “Go,” she urged again. Finally, shaking his head, Warren shambled out of the room.

“Look,” Joanna said reasonably. “You’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. No one here is thinking clearly.”

“Those pictures shouldn’t be sold,” Bobo Jenkins insisted. “Or, if they are, it should only be done once Shelley’s family members have given permission.”

For the first time Joanna took a moment to look around the room. Her eyes fell on a picture of a boy and a dog sitting on a front porch. The heat of a summer’s day shimmered around them, but the two figures in the foreground rested companionably in cool, deep shade. The boy and the dog had been lovingly rendered by someone who knew them well; by someone who cared about who they were. Even without looking at any of the other pictures, Joanna knew instinctively that Dee Canfield was right – that the portraits were those of Rochelle Baxter’s loved ones. She was equally sure that Bobo was correct as well. The people painted there would want the pictures to treasure far more than any amount of money.

“Shelley’s family!” Dee Canfield spat back at him. “What family? Did you ever meet any of them?”

Bobo shook his head.

“If Shelley’s work was so damned important to that so-called family of hers,” Dee continued, “don’t you suppose one or two of them would have been included in the invitations for tonight’s opening party? I asked Shelley specifically if there was anyone she wanted me to invite. She said there wasn’t anyone at all.”

“Now that Rochelle is dead, her family is bound to turn up,” Bobo said.

“Fair enough,” Dee replied. “When they do, I’ll have a nice fat check waiting for them, and they’ll be more than happy to take the money and run.”

Warren Gibson appeared in the doorway carrying an almost life-size portrait of Bobo Jenkins. Bobo swallowed hard when he saw it, then he stepped forward and snatched it out of Warren’s grasp. He walked back over to Dee and stood there, holding the painting with both hands.

“Do you know what you are?” he demanded. “You’re a money-grubbing bitch who doesn’t know a damned thing about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.

Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”

Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”