“They can do that?” Terry asked.

“They do do that,^” Joanna told her.

“But I don’t want to wait,” Terry said. “The next qualifying school starts in a matter of weeks. If they let me in, I don’t want to miss the opportunity. Peter’s worked so hard on getting me this chance to prove myself. I can’t blow it now.”

“What chance are you talking about?” Joanna asked.

“Remember Peter Wilkes, my golf pro? You met him the other day. He has an old friend, a grade school buddy, who owns golf courses and golf equipment stores all over the country. According to Peter, he also has enough pull so that, if I’m good enough, he can maybe get me a spot in the next Q-school strictly on his say-so. If I do well there, I’ll be able to get a provisional card. It’s the chance of a lifetime, Joanna. A chance to finally get to do something.”

“What would have happened if Bucky hadn’t died?” Joanna asked.

“I would have gone anyway,” Terry said determinedly.

“Did Bucky have any idea all this was going on? That you were making these kinds of arrangements?”

Terry looked at Joanna and shook her head. “You really don’t understand. Bucky had his life and I had mine. We lived in the same house, but that was more a matter of convenience than anything else. It beat paying two sets of house payments.”

Terry Buckwalter was describing a kind of empty marriage that was totally outside the realm of Joanna Brady’s experience. She glanced first at her own wedding ring and then at the pale white imprint left behind where Terry had removed hers.

“Would you have divorced him?” Joanna asked.

“I don’t know,” Terry said. “I was building up to it. Thanks to Peter, I was finally coning to a point where I had enough confidence to think I could make it on my own.”

“Without having to kill him?”

Terry looked sharply at Joanna. “Yes,” she said. “Without having to do a thing. I may be relieved he’s gone-glad that I don’t have to do anything or jump through any legal hoops to resolve the situation. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

Joanna nodded. “No,” she said, “I don’t suppose it does.”

For the better part of half an hour, the two women had been speaking together in a totally candid fashion. Terry’s answer was delivered with such blunt, unblinking openness, that Joanna didn’t doubt it. The problem was, if Hal Morgan wasn’t responsible for Bucky’s murder and if Terry wasn’t either, then who was?

“You didn’t mention any of this the other afternoon when Detective Carpenter and I were here.”

“Believe it or not,” Terry said, “I have some pride. With Bucky gone, I didn’t see any reason to dig up all this crap. That was before I knew about Bebe’s being pregnant. That’s going to be tough to keep under the rug.”

“I remember your telling us that Bucky was home the whole evening the night before he died. Is that true?”

“No.”

“Where was he?”

“You guess,” Terry said.

“With Bebe?”

“Probably,” Terry replied. “Obviously I don’t know for sure. It isn’t the kind of thing someone would tell his wife, not even a worm like Bucky. ‘Hey, I think I’ll dash out to Double Adobe and knock off a piece of tail.’“

Joanna heard once again the hard edge of anger in Terry’s biting words. This time she recognized them for what they were. A different form of grief perhaps than dissolving into tears, but grief nonetheless. In Terry Buckwalter’s case, it wasn’t a matter of mourning something that had ended so much as something that had never been.

“That’s where Bebe Noonan lives?” Joanna asked gently.

Terry nodded. “On her folks’ place. It’s three or four miles east of Double Adobe.”

“Someone will have to talk to her.”

“I know. Do you think-?” Terry stopped abruptly.

“Do I think what?”

“No,” Terry said, shaking her head. “Never mind. She wouldn’t have.”

“Wouldn’t have what?”

“Bebe was there at the time Bucky died, wasn’t she?” Terry asked. “Maybe he told her the same thing he told me-the same thing I told Bebe just a little while ago. To get rid of it. Maybe he gave her a choice of the baby or him and she was smart enough to choose the baby.”

“Was she here the day before, when Hal Morgan first showed up?” Joanna asked.

“Yes.”

“So she would have known about the whole thing-would have known that Hal Morgan had plenty of reason to see Bucky dead?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anyone else?” Joanna asked. “Anyone besides you and Hal Morgan and Bebe who might have wanted to see your husband dead?”

“I can’t think of anybody,” Terry said with a rueful smile. “But isn’t that enough? They say three’s a charm.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. Checking the time, Joanna started for the door. “They do.”

Terry followed her. “I’m still under suspicion, awn’ she asked.

Joanna nodded. “For the time being, everybody’s still under suspicion. It’s probably better if you don’t leave toun.”

“But what about the golf game with Peter’s friend?”

“When and where is that scheduled?”

“Sunday,” Terry answered. “In Tucson. He wanted to it tomorrow, but I told him I couldn’t on account of the funeral. That would look bad even for me.”

“Where in Tucson?”

“Peter and I are supposed to meet him out at the Westin La Paloma at noon. You’re not planning on having someone follow me up there, are you? It might screw up my game.”

“I don’t know,” Joanna said. “We’ll have to see. Once I give Ernie Carpenter this information, I’m sure he’ll want talk to you again.”

“I won’t be hard to find,” Terry said resignedly. “I’ll be around.”

Joanna got as far as the front door of the clinic before she remembered to ask one last set of questions. “On the morning Bucky died, what time did you leave the clinic?”

“Eleven thirty. Peter and I had a twelve-seven tee-time was almost late.”

“I talked to Hal Morgan yesterday,” Joanna said. “He claims that there was someone else in the barn with Bucky before he died. Some man. Did Bucky have any appointments scheduled for that time?”

Without a word, Terry slipped into Bucky Buckwalter’s private office. Joanna followed behind. It was a plain, minimally adorned place with an oak-laminate desk and a set of metal file cases. One wall held a series of diplomas. The most expensive item in the room was a two-by-three-foot oil painting of Kiddo, Bucky Buckwalter’s quarter horse gelding.

Terry picked up a desktop calendar, opened it, and handed it over to Joanna. A metal clip held the calendar open to the current week. “That’s Bucky’s personal calendar,” Terry explained. “Take a look. The clinic appointment book is out at the reception desk. I can get that one for you as well.”

While Joanna examined the first calendar, Terry returned with the other one. From eleven o’clock through two o’clock on the day in question, nothing at all had been scheduled. Without comment, Joanna handed both books back to Terry. “I guess I’d better be going,” she said.

Still holding the calendars, Terry Buckwalter followed Joanna to the clinic door. “I don’t know if you want my opinion or not,” she said, “but I still think Hal Morgan did it. What’s more, I hope he gets away with it.”

Joanna’s jaw dropped. “You do?”

“Think about it,” Terry said. “It’s almost like one of those old romantic stories of the knights of the Round Table. Hal Morgan really loved his wife. He loved her enough that he was prepared to kill for her. Bucky never felt that way about anybody, except maybe for that damned horse of his. Which reminds me. You don’t happen to know of anyone who’d be interested in buying Kiddo, do you?”

Joanna thought of Jenny and her approaching birthday. “How much?” she asked.

“Two hundred bucks,” Terry replied. “He’s worth more than that, but he was Bucky’s horse, not mine. I don’t even like him much, and I’ve got no way to ride him. All the saddles and bridles and currying equipment got burned up in the barn. The feed, too. The sooner I unload him, the better.”