Devil's Claw (37 page)

“Did you mention the possibility of Sandra Ridder’s own violent tendencies to any of the detectives investigating Tom Ridder’s death?”

Sister Celeste shook her head. “I kept waiting for someone to ask me about it, but no one ever did. I suppose I would have come forward eventually, but then, when Sandra Ridder pleaded guilty, it didn’t seem as though what I had to say would make any difference one way or the other. After all, Lucy wasn’t being left in the care of an abusive parent. Child Protective Services had shipped her off to live with her grandparents—a grandmother, I believe. The family situation was already in enough of a crisis. I didn’t see any reason to heap fuel on the flames.”

“Sheriff Brady?” The voice of Tica Romero came wafting into the car through the speaker in Joanna’s police radio.

“I’m here, Tica. What is it?”

“We just had a call from Los Gatos PD out in California.”

“Los Gatos,” Joanna repeated. “What did they want?”

“They’re looking for Reba Singleton. Her husband, Dennis, just finished filing a missing-persons report. The detective working the case wanted to know if anyone here had seen her.”

“Of course, I saw her,” Joanna replied. “It was during the reception at the YWCA after her father’s funeral yesterday afternoon. She bitched me out in public and then left in a huff.”

“No one’s seen her since then?” Tica asked.

“Not that I know of. The last person I saw her with was Marliss Shackleford,” Joanna said. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Mr. Singleton said he sent his corporate jet to Tucson International to pick her up, but she wasn’t there to meet the plane when it arrived. He contacted the limo company, but they said her driver dropped her off at the airport late last night. He claims he knew nothing about a private jet being sent to get her. He says she asked to be dropped off at the ticketing level. He assumed that meant she was catching a plane. According to Mr. Singleton, she never showed up at home. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since. He seems concerned that she may have been kidnapped and is being held for ransom.”

Joanna sighed. “Tell the detective we’ll be happy to offer whatever assistance he needs. Put him in touch with Frank Montoya. He may be working with Detective Carpenter on something else just now, but he needs to be aware of this. And you might give Dick Voland a courtesy call as well. He was doing some work for Reba Singleton. He may know where she’s gone off to. In any event, he should be notified about what’s going on.”

“Will do.”

“Also,” Tica continued. “Kristin wanted me to let you know that you’re to contact Sheriff Forsythe up in Pima County. He left a number. Do you want me to give it to you?”

“Please.”

While Joanna groped unsuccessfully for a pen or pencil, Sister Celeste found one. “I can take the number for you if you like.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. Once Joanna signed off with Tica, Sister Celeste handed Joanna a scrap of paper with the phone number jotted on it. Rather than dial the number right then, Joanna stuffed the piece of paper into her pocket. Whatever it was Sheriff Bill Forsythe wanted, it would have to wait until after Joanna no longer had a listening and more than moderately interested passenger riding in her vehicle.

That year, neither winter nor spring rains had materialized in southern Arizona. According to local meteorologists, the previous six months had been the driest on record. As a result, not even the usually hearty mesquite and paloverde had yet leafed out. Coming through the barren, badly eroded gullies south of town, Saint David, with its patchwork of artesian-well-irrigated fields, seemed even more of a desert oasis than usual. Beyond the fields stood a line of ancient and majestic cottonwoods whose sturdy presence marked the path of the now dry San Pedro River bed as it wound through the valley that bore its name.

Holy Trinity Monastery was set in among a grove of those old-growth cottonwoods just south of town and not far from the river itself. The monastery consisted of a tiny church, a ragtag collection of haphazardly parked mobile homes, as well as a library and a few other permanent buildings. It functioned throughout the year as a retreat center for Catholic clergy from the Tucson Diocese.

As soon as Joanna turned off Highway 80 into the parking lot, Father Thomas Mulligan emerged from his tiny adobe church and came striding across the gravel parking lot to meet the car. His white hair stood upright in the cool, blustery wind that caused his equally white robes to flap loosely around his long legs.

“Why, Sheriff Brady,” he said, hand extended. “How good to see you again, although I wish it were under somewhat less stressful circumstances. We really must stop meeting this way. But that reminds me: How’s my friend Junior doing these days?”

“As far as I can tell, he really seems to like living with his new guardians, Moe and Daisy Maxwell,” Joanna told the priest. “He works at Daisy’s restaurant most days—busing tables and washing dishes. He seems to like that, too. Every time I see him, it looks as though he’s having the time of his life.”

“I’ll have to stop by and check on him one of these days,” Father Mulligan said with a smile. “Now, I trust Sister Celeste has brought you up to speed with our latest little crisis? We do tend to gather unconventional strays around here.”

Joanna looked around. “Where are they?” she asked.

“Big Red and Lucy? I’m afraid the hawk was keeping far too close an eye on the fish in our reflecting pond,” Father Mulligan responded. “I suggested Lucy take him down by the riverbed in hopes he can rustle up something for dinner that isn’t one of my prize-winning koi.”

“Which way did they go?” Joanna asked.

Father Mulligan pointed. “Do you see that path between the church and the cemetery?” Joanna nodded. “Follow that,” he said. “It’ll take you right down to the river, but be careful. It’s been so dry lately that the bank is crumbling in spots.”

As Joanna set off in that direction, Sister Celeste made as if to follow. “I’ll come, too,” she said.

“No, Sister Celeste,” Father Mulligan said firmly. “That’s not necessary. Sheriff Brady will manage just fine on her own. I’ve seen this woman in action.”

Sister Celeste made as if to protest, but Father Mulligan shook his head and took her by the arm. “Come on,” he added. “Let’s you and me go into the rectory and wait there. I’m sure Brother Gregory will be happy to pour us a nice cup of his special herbal tea.”

Grateful to the priest for running interference, Joanna set off. Once she was out of sight behind the church and in the privacy of the well-kept cemetery, she stopped walking long enough to remove her cell phone from her purse. Fumbling Sister Celeste’s slip of paper out of her pocket, she dialed Bill Forsythe’s number.

“Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said to the woman who answered. “I’m returning Sheriff Forsythe’s call.”

The man who came on the line seconds later sounded far different from the person Joanna had spoken to earlier in the day. “Thanks for calling me back, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I just finished spending a good deal of time on the phone with Fran Daly. She’s our assistant medical examiner.”

“I know Dr. Daly,” Joanna said coolly.

“Yes, I understand you do,” Sheriff Forsythe said quickly. “She mentioned something to that effect. Anyway, she’s completed the Melanie Goodson autopsy. She tells me the victim died of homicidal violence—smothered, to be exact. Whether it was done with or without the benefit of drugs remains to be seen. The toxicology report will take something over a week. At any rate, Dr. Daly suggested that we work in conjunction with your detectives on this one.”

Thank you, Fran Daly,
Joanna thought as she bit back the temptation to make some snide comment in return. “As you may have gathered,” she said aloud, “I’m out of the office right now. So are my detectives. If you would call back down to my department and speak to my chief deputy, Frank Montoya, I’ll direct him to give you whatever assistance you need.

“So,” she added, testing the water, “do your detectives have any theories so far?”

Bill Forsythe paused momentarily. “Melanie Goodson has a real estate investment partner by the name of Edward Masters. My detectives have been trying to locate him for the better part of two days. No success so far, I’m afraid.”

At that juncture, Joanna Brady might have volunteered the fact that she was about to interview Lucy Ridder, but she didn’t. Sheriff Bill Forsythe had left her hanging earlier.
What goes around comes around,
she thought as she ended the call. Immediately afterward she dialed Frank’s number. He didn’t answer, but she left word on his voice mail about Sheriff Forsythe’s sudden change of heart. Then, putting the phone away, Joanna started toward the river.

The groomed path that led from the church to the riverbank was an immaculately maintained mini nature trail complete with homemade hand-etched signs and arrows identifying the various plants along the way. Halfway to the river, Joanna caught sight of a huge shadow sweeping across the sky overhead. It was only after spotting the shadow that she caught sight of Big Red himself. Watching the magnificent hawk glide gracefully through the air, Joanna was stunned by the bird’s tawny beauty and grace. She was still watching in transfixed wonder when the bird launched himself into a steep dive.

After plummeting for several seconds he disappeared from view, flying beak-down into a stand of tall, winter-dried grass. Joanna waited for the sound of a crash and the accompanying explosion of feathers. Neither came. Moments after disappearing, the hawk reappeared, holding in his powerful talons the squirming, writhing figure of some living creature—a field mouse, perhaps, or maybe a baby rabbit. Whatever prize Big Red had bagged, it was heavy enough to interfere with the big bird’s complex aerodynamics. Coming up out of the tall grass, he had to struggle to become airborne once more. Flapping awkwardly, he disappeared into the lower branches of one of those age-old cottonwoods.

From his hidden perch he let out a blood-curdling screech—a cry of triumph, most likely—one that pronounced to all concerned a successful end to his hunt. That sound alone was enough to raise the hackles on the back of Joanna’s neck, but then his cry was followed almost immediately by an answering screech that sounded so much like the first as to be almost indistinguishable. This one came from far closer to Joanna, and from the ground rather than from the sky or a sheltering tree branch. Searching for the source, Joanna spotted a young woman sitting on a tumbled boulder in the middle of the sandy, bone-dry riverbed.

In the spot where Joanna stood, the bank was some eight feet high. Climbing gingerly, Joanna scrambled down, cringing as the powder-dry dirt gave way beneath her every step. Once on flat ground, Joanna trudged over to where the girl was sitting and sank down nearby on a neighboring boulder. Lucy Ridder, sitting cross-legged with her chin raised, didn’t even glance in Joanna’s direction. Instead, she continued to stare through her thick glasses up into the tree branches where Big Red had disappeared.

“How’d you learn to do that?” Joanna asked.

“Do what?” Lucy asked.

“The bird call,” Joanna answered. “You and he sounded just alike.”

“Big Red taught me,” Lucy said. She grimaced and then turned her face toward Joanna. “I guess you’re the sheriff.”

Joanna nodded. “Sheriff Brady,” she said. “Joanna Brady.”

Lucy sighed. “Father Mulligan told me about you. He likes you and says I should talk to you, tell you what happened.”

“It would be nice if you did,” Joanna agreed.

Two enormous tears leaked out from under the thick lenses of Lucy Ridder’s glasses. They slipped down her cheeks and then dripped, unchecked, onto a worn blue flannel shirt that was several sizes too large for her.

“My mother’s dead,” Lucy said. “For years I hoped she would die in prison so I’d never have to see her again. But now that she really is dead, I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her, to ask her the reason. Why did she have to do it?”

“Why did she do what?” Joanna asked.

“Why did she have to kill my father?”

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Joanna said. “But it’s why I’m here. To find out.”

Lucy blinked. “About my father?”

“About both of them,” Joanna said. “During the last few days, I’ve become convinced that what happened to your father years ago is related to what happened to your mother last week. And I think you know that as well.”

Lucy Ridder nodded once. “Yes,” she said with a ragged sigh, and then she began to cry.

CHAPTER 23

“That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing,” Joanna said. “What is it?”

Unconsciously, one of Lucy’s hands strayed gracefully to her throat and clasped shut around the necklace. “Grandma Bagwell, my grandmother’s mother, gave it to me before she died,” Lucy said. “It’s a devil’s claw.”