Judgment Call (42 page)

“Of course I knew,” Nelda said. “I'm not stupid, you know. They talked about Fred Holder's death and my husband's part in it.”

“As in the fact that he was responsible?”

“Yes, he was.” It was a definitive statement.

“I was under the impression that you were out of the room when my father talked to your husband.”

“Believe me, that wasn't the only time Edward talked about it,” Nelda said. “The new minister we had at the church back then convinced him that confession was good for the soul. He talked about things right and left, but only to me and to your father. He wanted to die with a clear conscience, you see. Clearing his conscience may have been good for Edward. It wasn't much of a favor to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Sheriff Brady. You know how this works. A husband goes out catting around, he dies, and his widow is left holding the bag with whatever emotional damage his clearing his conscience may have left behind in her life.”

“I thought we were talking about Fred Holder's death.”

“We are,” Nelda said. “Why do you think Edward did it? Oldest reason in the book. Because he was having an affair with Elizabeth Stevens, and whatever she wanted, she got.”

“Did Mr. Stevens know about it?”

“Maybe,” Nelda said. “Wayne Stevens had a serious problem—a wife who was several years younger than he was and a growing problem with not being able to get it up. At least that's what Elizabeth told Edward. Back then there was no such thing as Viagra. Wayne Stevens gave Elizabeth her head and let her do whatever she wanted because he didn't want to lose her and he didn't want word to get out that he wasn't man enough to keep his woman.”

“You're saying Elizabeth Stevens is the one who hired your husband to kill Fred Holder?”

“That's what he told me. That she paid him cash money for doing the job. He went right out and splurged—bought himself that Pontiac and never had a moment's peace with it, either. That thing was a lemon from day one. Served him right.”

“When my father died, only a few days later, why didn't you come forward?” Joanna asked.

“Why do you think?” Nelda asked in return. “He and Edward were both gone. It was over. I had no way of proving what Edward had told me. Besides, I had a lot of things on my plate at the time. If someone had come around asking me about it, I might have told them, but since no one ever did, I saw no reason for me to bring it up.”

“Because you didn't want to deal with the whole tawdry affair,” Joanna suggested.

Nelda nodded. “There was more to it than just that. When I realized Edward was dying, I knew money would be tight, so I went looking for a job. A few weeks earlier I had managed to land a job as a part-time checkout clerk at the company store. How long do you think that job would have lasted if I had blown the whistle on Edward and Elizabeth? Wayne Stevens would have had me fired in a heartbeat if I had gone to the new sheriff with that unsubstantiated story. Besides, what good would that have done? I didn't have any more proof than your father did about what had happened, and I had a whole lot less credibility. It would have been my word against Elizabeth Stevens's. You know how that would have gone over.”

In Bisbee, Arizona, back then, little guy versus company bigwig? Unfortunately, Joanna knew exactly how those things worked. So had her father.

“Besides,” Nelda added after a pause, “blowing the whistle would have meant letting our kids know about all of it, too. They were grown by then, but I didn't see any point in my telling them that their father was a two-timing jerk and a murderer besides.”

“Let me get this straight,” Joanna said. “As far as you know, Elizabeth Stevens was having an affair with your husband and she was the one behind all this rather than her husband?”

“Husbands or, in my case, wives are always the last to know,” Nelda observed, “but I doubt Wayne Stevens had any idea about what had gone on between Edward and Elizabeth. If he had, I never would have gotten that checkout job. What I don't understand is why you're here asking all these questions. It has to be at least twenty years ago. Why bring it up now?”

“Because there's no statute of limitations on homicide, or on conspiracy to commit homicide, either,” Joanna explained. “You and my father both believed Elizabeth was behind Fred Holder's death. I have reason to believe that she may have been responsible for my father's death as well.”

“Wait a minute,” Nelda said with a puzzled frown. “I thought D. H. Lathrop was killed by a drunk driver.”

“So did I,” Joanna said, “and so did everyone else, but it turns out that drunk driver may have been bought and paid for.”

For a time the room was silent while the impact of Joanna's words settled around them. Then a slow smile crossed the old woman's face.

“I know the pastor would say that I'm not a good person, but when I heard Wayne Stevens had up and died, leaving Elizabeth penniless, I thought she was finally getting what she deserved. That seemed like the best I could hope for, but are you saying that now she might even go to jail?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “She might. The problem is, you may have to be called on to corroborate what your husband told my father. You might have to testify.”

“With pleasure,” Nelda Muncey said. “Between then and now, my kids have learned that their father didn't exactly walk on water. It's not going to kill them to find out the rest of it. After all, it didn't kill you to find out about your father and Mona Tipton, did it?”

Nelda's question rocked Joanna, and she couldn't help but blush. It seemed that everyone in town, including her own mother, had known about what was going on between her father and Mona Tipton. Joanna felt as if she was the only person involved who had been left in the dark.

“No, it didn't,” Joanna agreed at last, “although I have to admit it was a real shock to the system.”

“I'm sure it was,” Nelda said kindly.

“You don't think this will be too hard on you—your possibly having to testify?”

“Oh, no,” Mad Dog Muncey's widow replied. “Not at all. Your mother weathered that whole ruckus with your father like a champ. I expect the same thing will be true for me. I'll be fine. I'm not so sure about Elizabeth Stevens,” she added with a broad smile. “We'll have to see about that, won't we.”

When Joanna went outside, she sat in the Yukon for several long minutes before turning the key in the ignition. She was still sitting there with the gearshift in park and thinking about her mother when her phone rang.

“Okay, boss,” Deb said. “I've got the pictures you wanted. They're not very good. Newspaper photos have changed a lot since the old days. What do you want me to do now?”

“Drive over to Sahuarita,” Joanna said. “You're going to go see a guy named David Fredericks. Get Records to give you his name and address. I want you to show him the photos, and then call me with the results.”

“Who is he?” Deb asked.

“He's the man who killed my father.”

“That was years ago,” Deb objected. “I thought it was an accident.”

“So did I,” Joanna said, “but it turns out the guy driving the car was a hired hand.”

“Are you saying you think Elizabeth Stevens was behind your father's death? Is that even possible?”

“We'll know once Mr. Fredericks sees the photo. He's already spent years in prison for the crime, while the person who started this whole thing has been in the clear and free as a bird.”

“It's a long way back and forth to Sahuarita. What are you going to be doing in the meantime?” Deb asked. “You're not going to go see her on your own, are you?”

“No,” Joanna said. “I'm not going anywhere near Elizabeth Stevens without having backup in place. What I'm going to do instead will be a lot tougher than talking to her.”

“What would be tougher than that?” Deb asked.

“I have to go talk to my mother,” Joanna said. “She needs to know that what we both always thought was an accident was really cold-blooded murder.”

JOANNA WAS TEMPTED TO CALL FOR BACKUP TO GO SEE HER
mother, too. Butch would have been her first choice for that, but she didn't want to have to face up to his inarguable I-told-you-so. After all, this was exactly what Butch had suggested might happen—that in pursuing the possibility that D. H. Lathrop had been murdered, Joanna would bring all that painful history back into focus and reopen all the old wounds. Mad Dog's affair with Elizabeth Stevens would be out in the open, but from what Nelda had just said, so would D. H. Lathrop's relationship with Mona Tipton. Bisbee's gossipmongers would have a field day. With gossip, as with homicide, there is no statute of limitations.

It had now been several years since Joanna had first learned about her father's infidelity. Up to that point, whenever she had thought about her parents' relationship, she had always assumed that her father had been the wronged party. After finally realizing that her father, too, had feet of clay, she had come to appreciate how the two women involved—her mother and Mona—had survived the aftermath of the death of the man they had both loved.

As the widow of a slain police officer, Eleanor had maintained the field advantage of being able to put on a public show of bearing her grief bravely, while leaving her daughter puzzling over why she never saw her mother shed so much as a single tear over her husband's death. Now Joanna understood that her mother's behavior had been as much about fury and betrayal as it had been about grief, but public sympathy had always been on Eleanor's side.

If Nelda Muncey had known about D. H. Lathrop's affair, other people in town must have known, too, but when he died, there had been no public groundswell of sympathy for Mona Tipton. She had done her grieving in private. Some women would have left town. Mona didn't. She had continued to live in her house on Quality Hill, dealing with her grief in almost reclusive solitude. If the two women had run into each other at some time in the intervening years—in the bank or the post office or at a restaurant in town—there had been no words between them, no impropriety that would have brought anyone's attention to the situation. To the best of their ability, both of the women in D. H. Lathrop's life had tried to put him and his tragic death behind them.

Now they would both have to learn that his death hadn't been accidental at all. Joanna knew enough about human emotions to understand that the kind of closure people talk about in the aftermath of a sudden death is a figment of the public's imagination. Wounded souls scab over eventually. Broken hearts mend after a fashion, but there are always scars left behind. Joanna knew that when cold cases were suddenly solved—when, after years of nothing, a long-sought killer finally faced justice—“closure” was the word that was always on everyone's lips. Finding out at this late date that D. H. Lathrop had been murdered would bring two women the exact opposite of closure.

It would all be Joanna's doing.

She called her mother from the Traffic Circle. “Hey, Mom,” she said, as cheerily as she could manage. “I was wondering if I could stop by for a cup of coffee?”

Eleanor wasn't exactly overjoyed to hear from her. “You'd think after the kind of difficult weekend we've had around here that a person could rest on her laurels for a single day at least, but that's not happening. Some of the women from the art league think we should donate the leftover refreshments from yesterday's tea to the funeral reception for Maggie. You don't know anything about what arrangements are being made, do you?”

“I'll see what I can find out on that,” Joanna said, although she already knew no arrangements for Maggie's funeral had as yet been set. “Still, is it okay if I drop by for coffee?”

“Is something wrong?” Eleanor asked. “This is twice now in the last couple of days when you've stopped by for no apparent reason. I'm worried something's amiss.”

“We'll talk about it when I get there,” Joanna insisted.

“Oh, no,” Eleanor said, automatically drawing a worst-case-scenario conclusion. “Don't tell me. Butch is leaving you!”

“Mother,” Joanna insisted, “it's nothing like that. Things are fine with Butch and me.”

“All right, then,” Eleanor said, “but it sounds serious. Should George be here?”

Joanna thought about that. “It might be better if he wasn't.”

It was only a few minutes later when she stopped outside her mother's place on Campbell. George was outside finishing painting the fence. He waved as Joanna went past, but she was relieved that he made no effort to join them.

Eleanor met Joanna at the front door. “What on earth is going on, Joanna Lee Brady?” she demanded frantically. “I've been dying a thousand deaths since you called. Is there something wrong with Jennifer? Is Dennis sick?”

“It's about my father,” Joanna said quietly. “There's something you need to know.”

“Your father!” Eleanor replied, lurching slightly and sitting down heavily on the arm of the sofa. “What about your father?”