J. Jance: Partner In Crime

“Who was it?”

“I can’t remember his name now. Ron something. He said to tell you that you were right and there was something – I don’t remember that word, either – in the sugar.”

“Ron Workman,” Joanna said. “And sodium azide.”

“Right,” Jenny said. “It seemed like a funny kind of message. What does it mean?”

“That we got lucky,” her mother replied. “Very, very lucky.”

LATE THAT NIGHT – LONG AFTER DINNER was over and the dishes had been washed and put away – Joanna lay in bed. She had felt a sudden magnetic attraction to J.P. Beaumont. But lying next to the soothing warmth of Butch Dixon’s sleeping body, Joanna finally began to see that instant of connection for what it was and what it was not.

Butch’s presence in her life had blessed Joanna with a kind of calm stability she had never known before, not even with Andy. He offered her the loving creature comforts of warm meals and clean and folded laundry. He listened to her troubles and talked her through moments of self-doubt. He loved Jenny. He loved High Lonesome Ranch. And he loved Joanna.

With a cringe that made her blush in the dark, Joanna thought about that time, a few months earlier, when she had suspected Butch of having renewed an affair with an old flame. Joanna had been quick to jump in with all kinds of wild accusations. Now she herself had come close to starting something with someone who, just a few days earlier, had been a complete stranger. In both instances, nothing untoward had happened, but in Joanna’s case, it had been close – far too close. If J.P. Beaumont had been any less of a man than what he was…

It was time, Joanna decided, to pay attention to the essentials in life – to the things that were worth keeping; worth treasuring. Things people like Bobo Jenkins and Latisha Wall would never have a chance to share.

In the dark, she snuggled closer to Butch. “You awake?” she asked.

“I am now,” he grumbled sleepily. He reached over and pulled her close. “I don’t understand it. How can you get by on so little sleep?”

“I’ve always been that way,” she said. “It drove my mother crazy.”

“I can see why,” he said. “Now what’s happening?”

“Remember what you wanted to do in the family room?”

“I wanted to do it in the family room?” he asked, rolling over onto his back. “When?”

“Not that.” Joanna giggled. “I’m talking about the train track.”

“Oh, right, the train track. You said you didn’t want it.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” she said, “and I’ve changed my mind. If it’s not too late, we should put the track in after all.”

“I thought you said it was weird and you wanted normal.”

Joanna sighed. “We’re not normal. Why should our family room be any different?”

“Well, then. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I told you. It’s fine.”

“Great, then, we’ll have trains. Oh, by the way. I forgot to tell you. We agreed on Gayle.”

“Gayle what?”

“Gayle Dixon. My pen name. Drew and I finally worked it out today. She’s sending me an agency contract for me to sign and rewrite suggestions. When those are done she wants me to send the manuscript back under the nom de plume of Gayle Dixon.”

“I still think it’s strange that you have to change your name.”

“So do I,” Butch agreed. “But you’ll still love me, won’t you? Even if I turn into someone named Gayle?”

“As long as Gayle keeps the same meat-loaf recipe.”

“The name may change,” Butch said, chuckling. “but the food is bound to remain the same. Now, is that the only reason you woke me up – to talk about model trains?”

“Maybe not the only one,” she told him.

“Show me,” he said.

THE TOW-TRUCK DRIVER was kind enough to drop me off at some anonymously forgettable, cheapo motel close to the airport. The next morning I took the motel shuttle to catch my plane. Surprisingly enough, the early-morning flight to Seattle was almost deserted. The Husky fans had evidently all gone home to Seattle, and I had no idea who had won or lost the game.

I had a whole row of three seats to myself. With no one crowding me and no one to talk to, I had plenty of time to think. With some effort, I managed to keep my mind off both Anne Corley and Joanna Brady.

I had yet to speak to Ross Alan Connors, but that was my first priority. As soon as I landed at Sea-Tac, I rented a car and drove straight down to Olympia. On the way, I called the office and spoke to Barbara Galvin, Unit B’s office manager.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Still in Arizona?”

“I’m on my way home,” I told her.

“Did you hear about what happened to Ross Connors’s wife?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, I did. In fact, that’s why I’m calling,” I told her. “I need his address. I want to send flowers.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “The whole squad is chipping in and sending a single arrangement.”

“I want to do my own,” I said.

“Well, okay, then,” she agreed. “Suit yourself.”

She gave me an address on Water Street. Once I arrived in Olympia, I wasn’t surprised to find the attorney general’s home was within easy walking distance of the capitol complex. The house wasn’t quite as imposing as the one Anne Corley had been raised in, but it came close. Built of red brick and boasting a genuine slate roof, it was a showy kind of place, with a three-story round turret on one side. The expansive yard was surrounded by an ornamental iron fence with a bronze fleur-de-lis topping every post.

Up and down the narrow street, late-model upscale cars – Mercedeses, Jaguars, and an understated Lexus or two – were parked on either side. When I rang the bell, a uniformed maid answered the door. I gave her my card. Minutes later, I was led inside. Hearing voices in the living room, I was a bit miffed at being directed away from the piss-elegant crowd that had come to mingle and comfort Ross Connors in his hour of need. Underlings like J.P. Beaumont, however, were shunted away from other, more important, guests. As I allowed myself to be unceremoniously herded up the staircase that wound through the turret, it irked me that Ross was keeping me out of sight and out of mind.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I reached the small single room at the top of the stairs and discovered that Ross Alan Connors was already there before me, all alone and seated at a battered, old-fashioned teacher’s desk. Windows in the room offered a panoramic view of the water hinted at in the street name. But if you’re used to looking out the window at the majesty of Elliott Bay, the puddle that is Capitol Lake doesn’t count for much.

But just then Ross Connors wasn’t enjoying the view such as it was. In fact, I doubt he even saw it. When he rose to meet me, I was shocked by the haggard look on his face and the dark hollows under his eyes. His normally florid complexion was sallow and gray. There was no trace of the man I knew as a high-flying lawyer and glad-handing politician. Ross Connors was a doubly defeated man, bereft and betrayed. Unfortunately, I knew exactly how he felt because I had been there, too. My heart ached with sympathy.

“Hello, J.P.,” he said somberly. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“I came straight here. I’m so sorry about Francine…”

“I know, I know,” he said impatiently, brushing aside my condolences. “Sit down.” He motioned me toward a sagging, butt-sprung leather recliner that could have been a brother to the re-covered wreck in my own living room. “Who told you about it?”

“Your mother. I talked to her yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh,” he said.

Not knowing what to say next, I waited for him to continue.