Random Acts Page 2

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I will be,” Joanna said, “but how did the authorities know to call us?”

  “One of the officers at the scene saw your name on your mother’s cell phone’s ICE file,” he said. “By then they already knew she was from Bisbee. Somebody saw the name Joanna Brady and must have made the connection to Sheriff Joanna Brady. They called the department, and Tica called me. Is there anyone else you want me to notify?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “If Butch drives, that’ll give me three and a half hours to make calls, starting with Chief Deputy Hadlock. I’ll need to contact my brother in Virginia. I’ll also need to figure out how to get hold of George’s relatives. I’m sure there are some, but I don’t know exactly who or where they are.”

  “It won’t take three and a half hours,” Jaime said. “I’ve already made some calls. Deputy Stock will meet us at the Traffic Circle. He and I will give you a police escort from here to the county line. From there, Pima County officers will escort you as far as the Pinal County line, and officers from Maricopa will deliver you to the hospital itself. By the way, I made the police escort arrangements over the phone. None of that should turn up on Marliss Shackleford’s police scanner or in her column, either.”

  “Thank you for that,” Joanna replied.

  Butch appeared in the kitchen doorway with two metal-­clad thermal coffee mugs in hand. Joanna knew that his would contain coffee. Hers would be ice water spiked with lemon wedges.

  “Ready?” he said.

  Joanna nodded.

  “Okay,” Jaime said. “Let’s be going. Your police escort is all lined up, Butch, so just fall in behind me.”

  He let himself out. Joanna closed and locked the front door behind him. When she turned to leave, Jenny was standing in the entrance to the hallway, obviously crying. Joanna went to her and reached up to hug a daughter who was now much taller than her mother.

  “I can’t believe Grandpa George is gone,” Jenny whispered into her mother’s hair.

  “I can’t believe it, either. Thank you for taking charge here, and call us immediately if you need anything.”

  Butch set the two mugs on the dining room table and came over to where Joanna and Jenny were standing, peeling some bills out of his wallet as he did so and adding an all-­encompassing bear hug into the mix.

  “I have no idea how long we’ll be gone,” he told Jenny. “Here’s some cash to tide you over in the meantime. Use this for groceries or whatever else comes up.”

  “We’ll be fine, Dad,” Jenny assured him, pulling away from his grasp. “Don’t worry.”

  Joanna waited until she was in the Enclave with her seat belt fastened and the door shut behind her before she gave way to the tears she’d been holding in check. Butch reached out as if to comfort her, but she pushed his arm away. “Just drive,” she said. “Please.”

  Butch obliged by backing out of the garage and pulling in behind Jaime, who had already activated the red and blue emergency lights inside the grille on his Tahoe. By the time the two vehicles reached the Traffic Circle in Bisbee and Deputy Jeremy Stock pulled in behind them with his light bar also ablaze, Joanna had reached the end of her tears, at least for now. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and took several deep breaths.

  “I know this is a terrible thing to say, but I’m thankful George was the one who died,” she said as they sped past Lavender Pit and on toward the Divide.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Years ago he lost both his first wife and his only child, his daughter, to breast cancer. He was devastated. Losing my mom, too, would have been too much for him. As for Mom?”

  Butch glanced in her direction. “We both know she’s tough as nails.”

  Joanna nodded. “Right,” she said. “She’s a survivor.”

  “But what on earth were George and Eleanor doing on I–17?” Butch asked. “They were coming from Minnesota. It seems to me they would have come straight down through New Mexico and then crossed over toward Bisbee from Lordsburg.”

  “I have no idea,” Joanna replied.

  “And why the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, that. Mom told me once that George preferred driving at night. He said it was safer because usually there was so much less traffic.”

  “Not this time,” Butch said quietly.

  Nodding, Joanna glanced at the clock on the dash and pulled out her phone. As she’d told Jaime, her first call was to her chief deputy, but Tom Hadlock was already on the case. “Tica gave me a call,” he said. “I’ll be at the office first thing in the morning, minding the store. You do what you need to do, Sheriff Brady, and don’t worry about the department. We’ll keep the wheels on the bus in the meantime.”

  “Thanks, Tom,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Next up are Bob and Marcie,” Joanna said to Butch as the first call ended. “It’s almost seven o’clock on the East Coast. They’re probably up by now. If not, it isn’t too early to wake them.”

  “Shouldn’t we check with the hospital first and find out what’s going on with your mother before you call your brother?”

  “The hospital isn’t going to give out any information over the phone, and if I know Bob Brundage, he’ll fly out regardless. The thing is, it may be a challenge for him to find flights out of DC that will get him to Phoenix at a decent hour this evening.”

  Even though Joanna knew it was urgent to make the call, she sat looking at Bob’s name and number in her contacts list for a very long time before actually pressing the call button. Bob was her brother—­her full brother with the same two parents—­but he was also more or less a stranger. He and Joanna had never met until seven years earlier during Joanna’s first year in office. Bob, the result of an unwed teenaged pregnancy, had been born long before their parents married. Given up for adoption and raised in a loving home, Bob hadn’t come looking for his birth family until after the deaths of both his adoptive parents.

  Joanna had caught sight of him for the first time in the lobby of the Hohokam Hotel in Peoria, Arizona. A good twenty years older than Joanna, Bob had looked so much like their mutual father, D. H. Lathrop, that Joanna had thought at first that she was seeing a ghost. At the time of that first meeting, he had still been active duty military. Since then he had retired from the army as a full-­bird colonel, but he and his wife, Marcie, had remained in Virginia, where he had found work with a defense contractor.

  Learning that she had a brother had come as a huge shock to Joanna. It had also been a bitter pill to swallow. Eleanor Lathrop had spent years complaining about the fact that Andrew Roy Brady and Joanna had “gotten knocked up,” as Eleanor liked to call it, during Joanna’s senior year in high school. For years Joanna had endured Eleanor’s criticism for that error in judgment. Since Eleanor knew all too well the cost of giving up a child, her hypocrisy on that score was something Joanna had never been able to forgive.

  After Bob and Marcie had surfaced in all their lives, Joanna had maintained a cordial but not particularly close relationship with them. Eleanor, however, thrilled to have her long-­lost son back in her life, had been much closer. On a trip back East in their RV, Eleanor and George had spent the better part of two weeks touring DC with Bob and Marcie in tow, or maybe it had been the other way around. Eleanor had come home with albums full of photos from that trip. Joanna had been polite enough to scan through them, but the truth was, every one of the photos featuring the smiling foursome in front of some landmark or other had been a blow to her heart.

  “She never looks that happy around me,” Joanna had complained to Butch.

  “The reverse is also true,” her husband had noted. “You don’t look that happy around her, either. Give her a break, Joey. Bob was lost to your mom for decades. He lives on the other side of the country, and Eleanor hardly ever gets to see him. Isn’t it about time to put this
late-­breaking case of sibling rivalry to rest?”

  With those words of remembered loving advice still ringing in her head, Joanna pressed call for the number to Bob’s cell phone.

  “Hello, sis,” Bob answered, sounding slightly groggy. “What’s up?”

  Joanna was taken aback. Even in those few words, his voice sounded so much like their father’s that it took her breath away.

  “It’s Mom,” she said without further preamble. “She and George were in a terrible car wreck between Flagstaff and Phoenix late last night. George died at the scene. Mom has been airlifted to St. Gregory’s Hospital in Phoenix in guarded condition where she’s currently undergoing surgery—­for what, I have no idea. Butch and I are on our way there now, driving. I’ve yet to speak to anyone at the hospital, so I can’t give you any more details.”

  The words had rushed out in a torrent. Now Joanna paused for breath.

  “Hang on for a minute,” Bob said. “We’re still in bed.” In the background Joanna heard the sound of several drawers being opened and then slammed shut in rapid succession.

  “How come there’s never a paper and pencil anywhere within reach when you need it?” Bob muttered. Then after another pause, he came back on line “Okay. What hospital did you say?”

  “St. Gregory’s in Phoenix. As I said, Butch and I are on our way there, but we’re only just now on the far side of the Divide. We won’t be at the hospital for a ­couple more hours at least. As soon as I have a chance to talk to Mom’s doctors, I’ll get back to you. But I thought you’d want to know about the situation right away.”

  “I do,” Bob answered. “Definitely. We’re not that far from Reagan International. I may be able to get a direct flight out of there sometime later today, but I’m not sure. What happened again?”

  “According to what I was told, George was at the wheel when he ran full-­speed into one of the bridge piers on a freeway overpass on I–17 just south of Camp Verde. The RV was smashed to pieces and then rolled down an embankment. What I don’t understand is why they were on I–17 in the first place. It’s the long way around if you’re coming from Minnesota.”

  “Eleanor said something about that when I talked to her a ­couple of weeks ago,” Bob answered. “She said they were going to visit some friends in Salt Lake and then drive back by way of Zion National Park and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.”

  Funny, Joanna thought, stifling a sudden burst of anger. She never mentioned that plan to me, and neither did George.

  “Okay,” Bob was saying. “Let me get on the horn and see what I can do about plane tickets. At this point, I don’t know if I’ll be coming solo or if Marcie will be along. That depends on whether or not she can get off work. I’ll call you as soon as I know my ETA.”

  “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 c
anceling 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.