Fire and Ice (9 page)

“I thought you were leaving a lot earlier than this,” Joanna said.

Butch sighed. “So did I, but the appliance repairman who was supposed to be here bright and early this morning didn’t come until just a few minutes ago.”

Their relatively new front-loading, water-saving washer had come to grief a week earlier, and it had taken almost that long to get worked into the repair schedule. Joanna was worried the machine had died for good. She envisioned being told that the washer, now minutes beyond the expiration of its warranty, would have to be hauled off to the junkyard.

“What’s the bad news on that?”

“Socks,” Butch said.

For a second Joanna thought that her Bluetooth earpiece might have cut out on her. “What?”

“Socks,” Butch repeated. “Dennis’s socks—several of them—were stuck in the drain. He says we’re supposed to use a lingerie sack when we wash them. Do we even have a lingerie sack?”

“I used to have one, years ago,” Joanna said. “My mother thought I needed one. Jenny used it to carry some baby chicks around once. I don’t think it ever came back inside the house.”

“I’ll put that on my Tucson shopping list,” Butch said. “But now that I’m getting such a late start, I was wondering if you’d like to go along. Carol says it’s fine with her. If it looks like we’ll be getting home too late, she’ll just plan on having the kids stay over at her place until morning.”

Carol Sunderson was a widow whose disabled husband had died in an electrical fire that had destroyed their rented mobile home the previous November. Left homeless, she and her two grandsons and black-and-white Sheltie, Scamp, had taken up residence in Joanna’s old house on High Lonesome Ranch. Carol paid rent for the privilege of living there, but Joanna and Butch paid her a salary for her invaluable service as a live-out housekeeper and nanny.

It was Carol’s calming presence that kept Joanna’s and Butch’s busy lives organized. Her cooking and cleaning and child-caring made Butch’s at-home writing a whole lot easier. While their washing machine had been down for the count, Carol had taken their necessary laundry home and had done it there. And although at almost fifteen, Jenny could conceivably have stayed on her own, Joanna and Butch thought it was best not to leave her on her own with the baby. Jenny was a teenager, as Joanna’s mother Eleanor had pointed out on more than one occasion. Although Jenny doted on her baby brother, it wasn’t fair to give her too much responsibility for the little one.

Bless Carol, Joanna thought.

“Well,” Butch said. “Will you come with me or not?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. It was a little past three. Working as sheriff, she certainly wasn’t required to punch a time clock, and she put in lots of extra hours long after the regular workday ended and on weekends, just as her father had once done before her. But unlike her father, D. H. Lathrop, Joanna was consciously trying to create family time. These days she was home for dinner more often than she wasn’t. And the thought of having some alone time with Butch—just the two of them—sounded heavenly, even if pushing a cart around Costco or tracking down a lingerie bag at Alice-Rae’s Intimate Apparel wasn’t her idea of a great time.

“Why not?” Joanna said. “Sounds like fun. I’ll call into the office and make sure everything’s under control. If it is, you’ve got yourself a date.”

“Where are you now?” Butch asked.

“Just coming through Elfrida,” Joanna said. “I’ll stop by the house and change clothes—”

“No,” Butch said. “Don’t do that. I’ll pick you up at the Justice Center. We can leave from there.”

That seemed like an odd idea since Joanna would have to drive right by High Lonesome Road to get back to her office, but for a change she didn’t debate the issue.

“Sure thing,” she said. “See you there.”

Once Butch was off the line, Joanna dialed her direct number, counting on her secretary, Kristin Gregovich, to pick up the phone.

“How are things?” Joanna asked when Kristin answered.

“As far as I can tell, everything’s under control.”

“How about next month’s shift schedule?”

“I helped Chief Deputy Hadlock clean up a couple of items,” Kristin told her. “But it’s posted now. I think it’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Joanna said. Maybe Tom Hadlock was starting to get the hang of things after all. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Not that I can think of,” Kristin said.

“Good. I think I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off and go to Tucson with Butch.”

“I hope you have a great time,” Kristin said, which seemed like an odd response.

“I doubt it,” Joanna said. “Shopping has never been my long suit.”

When she pulled up into her reserved parking place behind the building, she was surprised to see Butch already waiting there. As she stopped her Crown Victoria, she caught him glancing at his watch. Rather than going into the building, she simply transferred her briefcase and purse into the backseat of his Subaru. Then she let herself into the passenger seat and buckled up.

“What time does Costco close?” she asked.

“Around six,” he said.

“Good, then,” Joanna replied. “We have plenty of time.”

She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes, relishing the idea that Butch would be doing the driving.

“So what have you really been up to all day?” he asked.

Which meant that the understated “Fine” she had given him earlier hadn’t done the trick. “I’ve been at a crime scene,” she told him.

He knew without asking that this meant a homicide crime scene. In the course of the next two hours, as they drove the hundred miles between Bisbee and Tucson, she told him about it. At least she told him what she could. He was interested as her husband, but Butch was also interested in what she had to say because he was a mystery writer. Occasionally what she told him about real cases got run through his mental blender and emerged through his fingers transformed into fiction.

After that, they talked about plans for Frank Montoya’s bachelor party. Since the bride was an ER physician and since most of the attendees would be police officers, the party would be tame by bachelor-party standards—no stripper and no booze—with the Texas Hold’Em proceeds and winnings going to the local Jail Ministry.

“We have enough tables and chairs now?” Joanna asked.

“Plenty,” Butch told her.

“What’s on the menu other than steak?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” Butch said with a grin. “Carol and I have that covered.”

Lost in talking, Joanna didn’t pay attention to the exit signs and was surprised when they turned off on Kino. “Isn’t this the long way around to get to Costco?” she asked. By then, if six o’clock really was the deadline, they were coming right up on the witching hour. Butch seemed unperturbed.

“No problem,” he said. “We’re fine.”

When he turned off on Elm rather than Grant, Joanna was re
ally surprised. “If we’re going to go down side streets, we’re never going to make it on time.”

“Yes, we will,” he said, pulling to a stop outside the valet stand at the Arizona Inn. “Our dinner reservation isn’t until seven.”

“Dinner here?” Joanna asked. “In this?” She looked down at a her uniform, which, after spending most of the day at a dusty desert crime scene, was much the worse for wear.

A bellman, pushing a luggage cart, came over to Butch’s side of the car. “Checking in, sir?” he asked through the window.

Butch nodded and punched the button to open the gate to the Subaru’s luggage compartment, then he turned to Joanna and grinned. “Happy anniversary,” he said.

“But wait,” Joanna objected. “Our anniversary is over a week away.”

“I know,” Butch said. “You’re a very tough woman to surprise. I figured jumping the gun was the only way to make it work. If I had told you in advance, you’d have ended up finding a dozen reasons why we couldn’t or shouldn’t do it.”

Right then, Joanna was a whole lot more than merely surprised. She was astonished, and not in the least because she herself had completely forgotten about their upcoming anniversary.

“But I don’t even have a card for you,” she objected. “And what about going to Costco?”

“Shopping is scheduled for tomorrow,” Butch declared firmly.

“But by the time they open, I should be back at work.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Tomorrow you’re taking a vacation day. With all the excitement of Frank’s wedding festivities, I figured our own anniversary would get lost in the shuffle. So tonight it’s just the two of us. We have the whole evening to ourselves—dinner with no kids, no dogs, no chores, and no telephones, either,” he added. “Our cell phones are switched off for the duration as of
now. If there’s some problem at home or at the department overnight, they’re going to have to figure it out without us.”

By then the bellman had emptied the back compartment and closed the door. Joanna was relieved to see that there were two suitcases on the cart—one for Butch and one for her. “Just leave the keys,” the bellman said. “I’ll park it over there.” He pointed to a graveled parking lot across the street.

Years earlier, the first time Joanna had stumbled across the Arizona Inn, it hadn’t been as a paying guest. She had fled University Hospital, trying to escape the appalling news from the doctor that Andy was unlikely to survive, that his bullet wounds would most likely prove fatal. She had ended up at the grand old hotel tucked into a seemingly residential neighborhood entirely by accident. She had been surprised by its improbably pink walls and lush, lovingly manicured grounds. She had hidden out there, weeping in one of those Alice-in-Wonderland-looking blue-and-white-striped chairs and trying to grapple with the fact that she was about to become a widow. Now, though, walking into the shadowy lobby of the old hotel and up to the desk with Butch beside her, she felt entirely different. That had been one life; this was another.

When they reached their spacious room—a casita, really—there were two chilled glasses of champagne waiting. Joanna’s suitcase, sitting on the luggage holder in the walk-in closet, was loaded with one dinner-suitable little black dress and with suitable underwear as well. There were panty hose and—even without the lingerie laundry bag—a black bra and matching panties that dated from their honeymoon. Packed in with the clothing was a pair of black sling-back heels and enough toiletries and makeup to make showering a welcome possibility.

“How did you pull this all together?” she asked.

“I had some help,” Butch told her. “Jenny packed your bag,
Kristin cleared your calendar, and Tom Hadlock said he’ll hold down the fort.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re really thoughtful.”

He grinned. “And you’re lovely,” he returned. “I’m really lucky.”

“We both are.”

“Would you care to go to dinner?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

By the time I made it back to North Bend, it was late afternoon, and the snow had turned to rain—not the usual steady drizzle we’re accustomed to in Seattle but a kind of torrential downpour that can melt snow too fast and send rivers pouring up and over their banks. I went to the address I had jotted down for Ken Leggett, the guy who had found the body.

North Bend has a bucolic sound to it, but it’s a burg that seems more than a little schizophrenic. There’s the “new” North Bend, which is essentially a cluster of outlet stores and fast-food joints, and the “old” North Bend, which is…well…old. Ken Leggett lived on a potholed excuse for a street in a neighborhood of mostly down-at-the-heels bungalows that had probably been built in the twenties or thirties—back in the old days when logging was king. Between then and now, no one had done much about routine maintenance.

Leggett’s place was far and away the worst of the lot. It looked as though someone had painted it white with a cheery kind of red trim once, but most of the paint had either peeled or faded away, take your pick. The roof had far more moss showing than shingles. A tiny covered front porch sagged to one side, suggesting that it wouldn’t take much to knock it down. At the end of a rutted drive, an older-model Toyota Tundra sat huddled under the roof of
a carport, which, like the porch, didn’t look like it was long for this world.

There were no lights or signs of movement showing from inside the place, but I parked out front and started up the short walkway, getting drenched in the process. As I stepped onto the crumbling front porch, the planking groaned beneath my feet, but it didn’t give way.

As I raised my hand to knock, someone spoke to me. “He’s not home.”

The male voice came from the house next door, one on the far side of Leggett’s driveway. There, under a similarly decrepit carport, stood another equally dilapidated pickup truck—an old Dodge Ram. The hood was open and a guy with a single Trouble Light dangling over his shoulder was actually working on it. Shade-tree mechanics may be a thing of the past in downtown Seattle, but not at the low-priced end of North Bend. Just looking at the scene I understood that the man wasn’t working on his aging truck because he was spiffing it up for some antique car show. The vehicle was what he counted on for wheels, and he was keeping it running with do-it-yourself know-how and probably, given the truck’s age, mostly junkyard parts.

“Any idea where I could find Mr. Leggett?” I asked.

The man straightened up, pushed a pair of reading glasses up onto the top of his head, and stared at me. “It’s early,” the man advised, wiping his hands on a pair of grimy coveralls. “If I was you, I’d try his home away from home.”

“Where would that be?” I asked.

The man jerked his head, gesturing back the way I had come. “Back thataway,” he said. “Two blocks over and two blocks up. The Beaver Bar. You can walk it, but I’d advise driving. These here are what we call ‘long blocks.’”

I took his advice. I went back to the Mercedes and drove. The
Beaver Bar didn’t look promising. The neon sign over the door had evidently burned out. In the window was another neon sign that said
OPEN
, along with a single blue neon cocktail glass complete with a green neon olive.

I had never set foot in the Beaver Bar. Even so, it was entirely familiar. I spent far too much of my life with my butt planted on bar stools in similarly seedy places. The place smelled of too much beer and not enough cleaning. Washington’s bars have been “smoke-free” for years now, but not long enough for the smoke to have leached out of the wallboard and the torn and worn red-and-black faux-leather banquettes that lined the walls.