Random Acts (3 page)

“Will you want us to pick you up?”

“No,” Bob said. “Don't bother. Whether Marcie's with me or not, I'll rent a car. Are you driving or is Butch?”

“Butch is.”

“Tell him to take care.”

“Don't worry,” Joanna said. “He is.”

She hung up then. “According to Bob, Mom told him weeks ago that they'd be coming home by way of Zion and the Grand Canyon. How come nobody said a word about that to me?”

Butch reached over and patted the back of Joanna's hand. “Good question,” he said, before adding, “Sorry.”

Joanna knew he was—­sorry, that is. Taking Butch's relationship with his own extremely challenging mother into consideration, there could be no question that he understood Joanna's situation all too well.

“I should probably call Marianne next,” Joanna said. The words were barely out of her mouth, and she was in the process of scrolling through her recent calls, when the phone rang. Marianne Maculyea's name and number magically appeared in the caller ID screen.

The Reverend Marianne Maculyea and Sheriff Joanna Brady had been best of friends from junior high on. As pastor of Bisbee's Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church, Marianne had seen Joanna through some difficult times, and Joanna had done the same for Marianne. It wasn't at all surprising that she would be one of the first to call, especially in view of the fact that Marianne functioned as the local police and fire chaplain.

“Great minds,” Joanna said into the phone, smiling in spite of the bleakness of the situation.

“Tica Romero just let me know what's happened,” Marianne said. “I'm so sorry. What can I do to help?”

“There's not much to be done at the moment,” Joanna said. “Butch and I are driving to Phoenix right now to check on Mom. As far as we know, she's still in surgery. Jenny's looking after Dennis, and I'm sure Carol Sanderson will be glad to help out as needed.”

“What about final arrangements for George?” Marianne asked. “I know a thing or two about those. Maybe I can help on that score.”

“Before anything can be done about final arrangements, the body will need to be released from the morgue, most likely the one in Prescott, and transported to a local funeral home. No telling how long that will take. The real problem is, I don't have any idea which of George's friends and family will need to be notified. I'm sure my mother had all those details at her disposal, but I'm completely in the dark.”

“All right,” Marianne said. “But remember, once you need me to work on this, I'm ready, willing, and able.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said.

There was very little traffic on the road. With their police escort, they sailed through Tombstone, St. David, and Benson, barely slowing down from highway speeds. On the far side of Benson and on I–10 westbound, flashing lights on the shoulder of the road let them know the next tag team of police vehicles was ready to take over.

“Let them know we'll have to stop off at the Triple T for a minute or two,” Joanna told Jaime before the Pima County officers took their respective positions. “The baby is crowding my bladder, and I can only go so far before I have to stop.”

As they sped on through the night, Joanna slipped her phone back into her bra. “I don't know who else to call,” she said.

“Don't call anyone else until we know more,” Butch advised. “In the meantime, why don't you recline your seat and close your eyes for a few minutes? This is going to be a tough day. You're going to need as much rest as possible.”

He didn't have to tell her twice. Joanna was sound asleep when they pulled into the truck stop parking lot fifteen minutes later. While she went into the restroom, Butch refilled their traveling mugs. They were in and out of the place in less than five minutes.

“What if she doesn't make it?” Joanna asked quietly, when they were once again under way.

“We'll have to hope she does, but in the meantime, we'll need to call off the party. Those are the next ­people you should call,” Butch added. “Jim Bob and Eva Lou.”

Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady were the parents of Joanna's first husband, but when Butch had turned up in Joanna's life, they had welcomed him with open arms and treated him as a spare son-­in-­law. As for Dennis? Denny Dixon may not have been a blood relative of theirs, but as far as Jim Bob and Eva Lou were concerned, Denny was as much their grandchild as Jenny was. And Joanna never doubted for a second that this new baby would be treated the same way.

“It's still early,” Joanna said, trying to put it off.

“No,” Butch said kindly. “They'll want to know sooner than later. My guess is Eva Lou will be at the house to cook breakfast before Jenny and Denny have a chance to crawl out of bed.”

When the phone rang and Jim Bob answered, Joanna was relieved to spill out the story to him rather than to his wife. Eva Lou knew too much about the complex relationship that existed between Joanna and her mother. It was easier for her to hear reassuring words coming from Jim Bob.

“Don't worry,” he said. “We'll go about canceling the party. I believe Eva Lou and your mom have been e-­mailing back and forth on the guest list, so getting in touch with all those ­people won't be a problem. If you want us to stay here and look out for the kids we will, but if you need us to come to Phoenix to backstop you, just say the word.”

“Thank you,” Joanna murmured.

For a long time after that last call Joanna stayed quiet, looking out through the passenger window as the moonlit desert flowed by outside their speeding vehicle. She and her mother had been at war for as long as Joanna could remember. In the last few years, Joanna had come to understand that much of their conflict had been due to the fact that, once Joanna's father died when she was fifteen, Eleanor was the last parent standing in their family.

D. H. Lathrop had been mostly exempt from doing the hard work of childrearing. While he was alive, he'd worked far too many hours, and once he was dead, her father was completely off the hook. In Joanna's eyes, he had grown to be someone of mythic proportions—­perfect in every way—­while Eleanor, the one left running the show, had somehow morphed into her daughter's version of evil personified.

In the last few years, helped by Butch's insightful observations on the topic, Joanna had come to recognize that D. H. Lathrop had been anything but perfect and Eleanor wasn't pure evil, either. But there were still substantial obstacles that prevented Joanna from accepting Eleanor as she was, warts and all. These days it was easier for Joanna to see how difficult it must have been for her hidebound mother to deal with raising a headstrong daughter. More than once their screaming arguments had ended with Eleanor saying, “I hope you have a daughter just like you someday.”

Which hadn't happened. Through the luck of the parenting draw, Joanna had ended up with Jenny, a smart, kind, helpful kid—­an honor roll student with a devotion to horses rather than boys—­something for which Joanna was profoundly grateful. Right now, about to head off for college, Jenny was older than Joanna had been when she'd had her daughter.

Riding along in silence, Joanna began formulating what she would say to her mother. First, of course, she'd need to tell her that George was gone. And then she realized it was time for her to apologize—­for a lifetime's worth of bickering, misunderstandings, and wrangling.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Butch said.

Joanna answered with a little white lie. “I'm thinking about how to break the news about George to Mom.”

“Tough duty,” Butch said.

“And I'm thinking about how I've always been too hard on her,” Joanna added. “Maybe it's time I tried to dial some of that back.”

“Good idea,” Butch agreed. “No time like the present.”

They were a ways north of the Gila River before Joanna's phone began ringing off the hook as ­people from inside the department learned what had happened. After having to tell the story over and over again and hearing countless “so sorries,” Joanna ended a call from Homicide Detective Ernie Carpenter and then switched off her phone.

“I can't do this anymore,” she said to Butch. “Besides, once I know what's going on, I'm going to need to call all these ­people again anyway to update them on Mom's condition.”

“You can call them back, or I will,” Butch said. “You're not in this mess alone, babe, and don't you forget it.”

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as they approached Phoenix, having driven there in a little under three hours flat. It was time for the cop part of Joanna Brady's heart to take over for the daughter part. Turning on her phone, she dialed Tica's number.

“Who investigated the accident?” she asked.

“I thought you'd want to know that. Highway Patrol—­a guy by the name of Arturo Davis. He was the initial officer on the scene, and a Yavapai County deputy named Blake Yarnell was the second to arrive. George's remains have been transported to the Yavapai County Morgue in Prescott. Would you like me to text you all those numbers?”

“Please,” Joanna said. “That would be a big help.”

“I'll get right on it.”

“And, Tica?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for sending Jaime Carbajal to give me the news. That was incredibly thoughtful.”

“It's what the department does for complete strangers, Sheriff Brady,” Tica reminded her. “Why wouldn't we do it for you?”

When they arrived at the entrance to the hospital, the escorting cop cars turned off their lights, blinked their headlights, and melted into the early morning traffic. Butch pulled up into the porte cochere and stopped in front of the sliding glass doors.

“You go on in,” he said. “I'll find a parking place and join you in a minute.”

Joanna entered the marbled lobby and walked over to the reception desk. “I'm here to see Eleanor Lathrop Winfield,” Joanna said. “My name's Joanna Brady; Eleanor is my mother.”

The woman behind the counter typed some letters into her keyboard and then frowned at the information that appeared on her screen. “If you wouldn't mind taking a seat here in the lobby, the doctor will be right down.”

Suspecting bad news, Joanna nodded and retreated to a small seating area near the front entrance. When Butch showed up a minute or so later, she waved for him to join her.

“What's up?” he asked.

“The doctor's on his way down.”

“That's not good,” Butch observed.

Just then an elevator door slid open and a tall, rangy man in scrubs entered the lobby, swiveling his head as if searching for someone. When the clerk behind the counter gestured in Joanna's direction, he came straight over as Joanna stood up to greet him.

“My mother?” she asked.

He shook his head. “She didn't make it,” he answered quietly. “We lost her in the OR. Her injuries were too extensive. Since we knew you were already on the way, we decided to wait until you arrived to give you the news.”

“No,” Joanna said. “This can't be true.”

She stumbled blindly backward toward her chair and might have fallen had Butch not been there to guide her.

“Because of the circumstances, Ms. Brady, there will have to be an autopsy. The accident occurred in Yavapai County, so we've notified the ME there to have someone come and collect the remains.”

“Can I see her?” Joanna asked.

The doctor glanced questioningly in Butch's direction before he replied. “It would be good to have a positive identification,” he said, “but I'm not sure that's wise. Your mother was in a high-­speed roll-­over accident. She has multiple cuts, contusions, and abrasions. The visible damage is quite extensive and shocking.”

“I'm a police officer,” Joanna said quietly. “I want to see her.”

Shrugging, the doctor pulled out his pager. “This is Dr. Collins. Please move the deceased patient, Mrs. Winfield, into a room on the seventh floor,” he said. “Her daughter is coming up, and she'll need some privacy.”

“Do you want me to come, too?” Butch asked.

“No,” Joanna said, passing him her phone. “I'll do this alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, but while I'm gone, try calling Bob. If we can catch him before he gets on a plane, we should. With autopsies and MEs involved, it may be several days before we can make any plans for funeral ser­vices. He may want to hold off on his departure for a day or two.”

“Okay,” Butch said. “I'll call Bob first; then I'll call the kids.”

“Thank you,” Joanna whispered, not trusting her voice.

As Dr. Collins headed back for the elevator, Joanna hurried to keep pace. “Your mother had no idea that her husband was gone,” he said. “We were afraid the shock would be too much for her, so we didn't give her that information. Turns out that telling her would have made no difference. Her internal injuries were simply too extensive.”

Joanna should have been full of questions, but she was numbed to silence.

“There is one thing, though,” Collins added. “She was unconscious when they brought her into the ER. Once we were up in the OR and the anesthesiologist was about to put your mother under, she came to for a moment. It was difficult to understand her, and it's possible she wasn't entirely lucid, but she was fussing about a red dot. She wanted to be sure we told you about it.”

“What red dot?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps we're wrong about what we thought she said, but since she was so focused on it—­almost frantic about it—­I wanted to be sure to give you the information.”

The elevator opened on the seventh floor, and Dr. Collins ushered Joanna into a long tiled corridor. The walls were done in a pastel shade of peach. Framed pieces of original artwork hung on the walls between doorways. The place looked more like an art gallery than a hospital.