Susan grimaced and nodded ruefully. “What about identifying Mother’s body?” she asked. “Should I drive on up to Tucson and do that today?”

“Why not talk it over with your brother first,” Joanna advised. “Either he should do it, or you should. Or even, possibly, the two of you could do it together. After all, with your mother gone, isn’t it about time the two of you buried the hatchet? Maybe that’s something you could both do in her honor.”

For a moment, Susan Jenkins’ face almost dissolved in tears, but then she got a grip on herself. “You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “With Mother dead, it’s about time Clete and I grew up.”

“Try to keep a handle on your temper,” Joanna advised. “You’ve been lucky so far, but one of these days, it’s going to land you in jail.”

“I’ll do my best,” Susan said.

She went back to the Sebring, climbed in, and started the engine. She was about to drive away when Joanna thought of another question.

“What about your brother?” Joanna asked. “How badly does he need money?”

“Clete always needs money,” Susan replied. “There’s never been a time in his life when he didn’t. When we were kids, he used to come to me, begging to borrow some of my allowance. Now that he’s been elected mayor, he can act like he’s a big deal and throw his weight around all he wants, but he wouldn’t be where he is today if Mother hadn’t bailed him out of trouble time and time again.”

Susan Jenkins paused and frowned. “Wait a minute, you’re not suggesting Clete might be responsible for this, are you? Surely not. He’s an A-number-one jerk at times, but he loved Mother to pieces. He’d never do anything to hurt her.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Joanna agreed soothingly, but in the back of her mind she knew it was still far too soon to rule anyone out. The Pima County detectives might well be placing their bets on four young joyriding punks, but in the course of one afternoon, Joanna had found several other people all of whom stood to benefit substantially from Alice Rogers’ death. As far as Joanna was concerned, it was far too early in the investigation for her to rule anyone out.

If nothing else, Alice Rogers deserved that much consideration.

While Joanna waited for Alice Rogers’ body to be hauled out from among the cacti, a maroon Chrysler Concorde with dealer plates pulled up beside her and stopped. When the driver rolled down the window, Joanna peered inside. The man behind the wheel was wearing a buckskin jacket complete with six-inch-long fringe. His hair fell in shoulder-length golden locks.

“I’m looking for my wife,” he said, “Susan Jenkins. I heard there’d been some trouble out this way. I thought I’d better come check.”

Now that he had identified himself, Joanna recognized him. Ills picture often showed up in local newspaper ads along with his signature “Li’l Doggie” bargain vehicle of the week. “You must be Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said.

He clambered out of the car. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a deep tan and movie-star-quality good looks. Peeling off his Stetson, he walked toward Joanna, holding one hand extended. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That’s correct. Ross Jenkins is the name. Who might you be?”

“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she told him. “And your wife’s already on her way back home. I’m surprised you didn’t meet up with her along the way.”

He shook his head and peered back up the road the way he had come. “That woman drives like a bat out of hell,” he said. “She always has. The insurance premiums on that little red jitney of hers run me a fortune. So she’s gone then?”

Joanna nodded.

“What about that?” Jenkins jerked his head in the direction of Fran Daly’s van, the one bearing the logo of the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. “What’s going on?”

“We’re waiting for them to bring out the body,” Joanna explained.

“It is Alice then?” he asked.

“We don’t have a positive ID yet,” Joanna told him, “but that’s how it looks.”

“In that case I’d best be heading on home,” Jenkins said, turning back toward his car. “I don’t want Susie Q. to have to deal with this all on her own.”

After Ross Jenkins drove away, Joanna berated herself for not asking him at least one or two questions before he left. About that time, Fran Daly emerged from the cactus grove leading what looked like an impromptu funeral procession. Only when the body-laden stretcher was loaded into a van and hauled away and when the other vehicles had left the scene did Joanna settle into her Crown Victoria and switch on the ignition. Before putting the car in gear, she stopped long enough to consult her notes and find Father Thomas Mulligan’s phone number. She hadn’t yet punched it into the key-pad when the cell phone chirped its distinctive ring, one that mimicked a crowing rooster.

“Joanna,” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield announced brusquely, “Where in the world are you?”

Sighing, Joanna held the phone with one hand and eased the Civvy onto the roadway with the other. “Hello, Mother. I’m at a crime scene up near Tucson. Just leaving there, actually. I’m out on Houghton Road.”

“Houghton. That’s in Pima County, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a relief anyway,” Eleanor said. “This should be one case George won’t be called out on. We’rehaving company for dinner. I don’t want him coming home late.”

Dr. George Winfield, Eleanor’s new husband, was also Cochise County ’s recently appointed medical examiner. At first Joanna had been concerned that her position as sheriff would create impossible complications with a medical examiner who also happened to be her stepfather. So far those worries had proved unfounded. If anything, her working relationship with George Winfield had become better since the wedding. On the other hand, relations with her mother continued to be thorny.

“And that’s what I’m calling about,” Eleanor added accusingly. “Dinner. I’ve been trying to reach you all day long-since early this morning-but you’ve been out. In fact, I called yourhouse right around eight. Butch Dixon answered.”

Eleanor stopped cold. Joanna waited for her to continue, knowing the last sentence was more accusation than comment. “And…?” she said finally.

“I said, he answered the phone!”

“Of course Butch answered the phone,” Joanna replied. “I had to leave for work and, as usual, Jenny was running late. He offered to take her to school.”

“I spoke to Jenny,” Eleanor said stiffly. “She told me that Butch spent the night.”

There it was, out in the open-the source of Eleanor Winfield’s outrage. Butch Dixon had spent the night at Joanna’s house without Eleanor’s having approved the sleep-over in advance. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Joanna. She still remembered her own dismay the first time she had dialed through to George Winfield’s number and her mother-Eleanor Lathrop herself-had answered his phone bright and early in the morning. In that instance, it turned out that an unannounced but properly conducted wedding had already taken place.

At the time, however, Joanna had been bowled over by the thought of her mother fooling around. Living in sin, as it were. Since that stunning revelation, Joanna had been struggling to come to grips with the idea of her mother as a sexual being. Joanna had also been forced to accept the idea that Eleanor had a right to live her own life however she chose.

From Joanna’s perspective, it seemed clear enough that those kinds of rights ought to be reciprocal. Sauce for the goose and sauce for the goose’s daughter.

“Yes, Butch spent the night,” Joanna said. “Things were happening at the office, and I was afraid I was going to be called out overnight. I couldn’t have gone off and left Jenny there on the ranch all alone. Besides, on school nights it’s too hard on her when I have to drag her out of bed and drop her off at Eva Lou and Jim Bob’s place or at yours.”