The caption under Joanna’s picture said, “Sheriff Joan, Brady returns to her office by a back entrance following the suicide of a Cochise County Jail inmate.^”

“That wormy little son of a bitch!” Joanna said.

‘Fussing the paper aside, Joanna dialed Helen’s numb once again. This time it rang. Helen Barco herself answered the phone.

“Joanna Brady here,” Joanna said. “‘There isn’t a chance you could work me in for a haircut sometime today, is there?”

“How soon can you be here?” Helen returned. “Lonnie Taylor canceled just a few minutes ago because she has to take her mother out to Sierra Vista to see the doctor. If you can be here in the next twenty minutes or so, I can work you in with no problem. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”

“I’m on my way,” Joanna said. “Hold the chair for me.”

She drove into town feeling as though she were privy to something she didn’t want to know-to a part of Ernie’s history as well as of Helen Barco’s that shouldn’t have been any of Joanna Brady’s business. But it was. She felt as though, with her newfound knowledge, she owed Helen Barco the courtesy of a condolence. And yet, since Helen herself hadn’t mentioned her daughter, Joanna realized that her saying anything at all about Molly Barco would be a rude intrusion.

When Joanna walked into the beauty shop that day, she felt weighted down by all that secret knowledge. The eye-watering smells of permanent-wave solution and chemicals made her want to run for cover. A woman Joanna didn’t recognize sat enthroned under a beehive-shaped dryer with a dog-eared People magazine thrust in front of her face. She looked up and nodded in greeting when Joanna opened the door.

“How’s Jenny’s hair doing these days?” Helen asked as she flipped a plastic cape over Joanna’s shoulders.

Two months after Jenny’s ill-fated permanent, the solution-damaged hair was finally beginning to grow out. “It’s much better,” Joanna said. It was easy for her to be gracious at that point. Alter all, she had a good deal to be thankful for. Jenny was alive and well. Her hair would eventually outgrow the effects of that bad permanent. Helen Barco’s daughter was dead.

Helen shook her head sadly. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I haven’t had a disaster like that since bill when I was first going to beauty school. Your mother and I just got carried away talking and I plumb forgot to set the timer.”

“We all make mistakes,” Joanna said.

It wasn’t until after her hair was shampooed and Helen Barco was snipping away that Joanna finally got down business. “I saw Terry Buckwalter yesterday,” she said. “She looked great.”

“Doesn’t she though!” Helen Barco agreed with a smile. “She was my first appointment yesterday morning. She had a complete makeover, including letting me do her colors. I fixed her up with new lipstick and nail enamel as well. Those new spring lines do a lot for her. They’d be fine for you, too, Joanna. You should try them.”

“I’ll think about it,” Joanna said. “But I’m still not ready. Getting back to Terry, though, I barely recognized her. People will be surprised when they see her at the funeral tomorrow.”

“That’s what she said, too,” Helen said. “That people will be surprised. They’ll have plenty to talk about when Little Miss Mousie shows up at the funeral looking like a fashion plate.” Helen clicked her tongue. “It does make such a difference. It’s a crying shame she didn’t have it done years ago. But I don’t think that’s why she did it now-the funeral mean. It sounded to me like she had some kind of important appointment coming up this weekend. She wanted to look her best for that.”

“Did she say what kind of appointment?^” Joanna asked.

“Not exactly,” Helen said. “Whatever it is, it isn’t here in town. I believe it’s up in Phoenix. Or maybe Tucson. I forget which.^’’

“A meeting, or a date?^” Joanna asked, thinking once in of Terry Buckwalter’s missing wedding ring.

“Oh, I’m certain it wasn’t a date,” Helen said quickly. “I believe it had something to do with golf. Something with a whole bunch of letters. L-something and some kind of school-a V-school or a T-school, I forget.”

Over the years, Joanna had picked up a little golfing lingo just from having Jim Bob and Andy Brady watch weekend if tournaments. “Q-school?” she asked. “Is Terry trying to t into a qualifying school?”

“That’s it,” Helen said. “Those are the exact words she used. Qualifying school. And she wants to go on a tour of some kind.”

“The L.P.G.A.?” Joanna asked incredulously. “Terry Buckwalter thinks she’s going to go off on the Ladies Professional Golf Association tour?”

“How did you put that together?” Helen said. “You really a detective, aren’t you. Your mother is always telling me how smart you are. This is amazing.”

Joanna thought about Terry Buckwalter. She didn’t know exactly how old Terry was, although she had to be somewhere in her mid- to late thirties. For years, Terry had served an unpaid assistant tennis coach at the high school, but as far as Joanna could remember, that had come to an end several years earlier. It was a hell of a long way from playing all-town tennis to hopping on the L.P.G.A. circuit as a professional golfer.

“She’s that good?” Joanna asked.

“Evidently,” Helen Barco said. “She seems to think so, 1 so does that guy out at the Rob Roy.”

“Terry spoke Io you about Peter Wilkes?” Joanna asked.

“You bet she did. To hear her talk, you’d think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

That stumped Joanna. If Terry Buckwalter and Peter Wilkes had something going, wouldn’t they be a little more discreet about it than that?

“It sounds expensive as all heck,” Helen continued. “She did say that with the insurance and all that she’d come out all right, although she is selling, you know.”

“Selling what?”

“The practice,” Helen answered. “Since she isn’t a veterinarian, she can’t operate it herself. The same thing would happen to Slim if he was left holding this shop. He wouldn’t be able to do a thing.”

“Bucky’s been dead for two days and she’s already sold the practice? How can that be?”

“She said it was something Doc Buckwalter set up himself a long time ago. It’s not final yet, by any means, but it sounded like it was pretty much a done deal. According to her, that nice Dr. Wade from down in Douglas is the one who’ll be buying it. The practice and the house both. Once she has the money, she’ll be free to do whatever she wants.”

Joanna couldn’t help wondering exactly what kind of “deal” Terry Buckwalter was getting. Dr. Wade might be just as kind as could be when it came to pulling out porcupine needles, but how nice would he be when it came to taking advantage of a widow?

“If he’s moving in this fast,” Joanna said, “he’s probably buying the place at fire sale prices.”

“Could be,” Helen Barco said, “but Terry seemed happy enough about it. Like she was getting just what she wanted. According to her, Dr. Wade is planning on bringing in some young vet fresh out of school to help him run both places. Terry says Dr. Wade was such a help to her last year when Bucky was out of town that she knows people can trust him to do a good job.”

That was all that was said. Helen’s next client showed up right then. Still, Joanna was filled with misgivings. Outside in the Blazer, she sat for some time with the engine running but without putting the truck in gear, puzzling about this latest batch of information.

By Bisbee standards, Terry Buckwalter’s behavior was nothing short of outrageous. And suspicious as well. With Bucky not yet in his grave, Terry was cashing in all the jointly held marital assets to go on the pro-golf circuit? What kind of a harebrained scheme was that?

Joanna wasn’t a golfer, but she knew enough about how sports tournaments in general worked to understand that only the very few top players actually made a living at it. The people farther down the line followed the play from one course to the next, but they did so on their own, sometimes barely covering expenses, to say nothing of eking out a living.