“How did you learn she was pregnant?” I asked.

“Oh, I nearly beat that information out of a cousin of hers. The weekend before she left, Jennifer had gone up to Phoenix to see her cousin Elaine. Elaine Owens-she’s the daughter of my husband’s brother. My husband was never more than a cattleman, and God rest his soul, not a very good one at that. But his brother did real good for himself. Made some money up in Jerome on copper, and sold out long before the bottom dropped out of the market. Went on to invest in God knows what all, but he certainly had the Midas touch.

“Elaine and Jennifer were about the same age, and even though they never paid much attention to us, the family was fond of Jennifer, and she got invited up to Phoenix pretty regular. I don’t know. Looking back on it, it seems that was the cause of a lot of trouble.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Jennifer was always so unhappy when she came back. Who could blame her? She lived high on the hog the whole time she was there. Elaine would loan her clothes and they would go to parties with rich kids and so on. Then she’d come back here to little old Gila Bend and the feed store and this tiny little trailer.

“Anyway, this last time she went up to see Elaine, she came back in a real state. She would cry for no reason. Next thing I know, she’s taken a bus to San Diego.”

“Did you know anyone there?” Pete asked.

“Not a soul. So I drove up to Phoenix and just about skinned Elaine alive. She finally told me that Jennifer was pregnant and had gone off to California to find the father. I always figured that little snot knew who the father was, but she swore up and down that Jennifer didn’t tell her his name and I couldn’t get it out of her. Needless to say, we never had much to do with that side of the family after that.”

“Do you still have their address?” Pete asked.

“Well, I’ve got one from back then. They might still be there, but I don’t know. It’s been a long time. Let me see.” She got up and pulled open a kitchen drawer full of papers, and picked out a little address book. She put on a pair of reading glasses and read off a Phoenix address as Pete wrote it down.

She looked up over the rim of the glasses. “Did you find a little gold ring? Her daddy’s mother gave her a gold ring with a little ruby in it. Was she wearing it?”

Pete and I looked at one another.

“No, ma’am,” he said quietly, “we didn’t find a ring.”

NOBODY SAID A WORD on the ride back to Gila Bend. When we reached the station, Pete looked up at Ramos. “You gonna tell her?” he asked.

“About the body? Yeah, I’ll tell her. But not right away. Let this sink in first. Hell, she’s over seventy years old. But she’s made of strong stuff, you know?”

We nodded. Pete asked if he could make some calls. I told him I was going to walk around a little, but would meet him back at the station for lunch in about twenty minutes. Ramos accepted our invitation to join us.

They went into the station and I walked across the street to one of the motels. This one was done up in a flying-saucer and rocket ship motif. Outdoors, it was like walking around inside a clothes dryer. But once I was back indoors, I got gooseflesh from the chill. I kept thinking that the local people must adapt to rapid temperature changes like nobody else on earth. I looked around and found a pay phone. I called the paper and asked for Lydia.

“City Desk,” came the response.

“Lydia? It’s Irene. I’m calling from Gila Bend.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Listen, are you near an open terminal? Or can you connect me to someone who is? I’m out here without a laptop or modem but I think I’ve got something that shouldn’t wait until I get back tonight. Can I give it to you over the phone?”

“Sure,” she said, “hang on.” She covered the receiver and I could hear her shooing people away from her desk. “Okay,” she said at last, “I’m all set.”

I gave her the story the best I could. I figured Wrigley would love touting the fact that largely through the efforts of O’Connor, a thirty-five-year-old mystery had been solved. We had found Hannah’s hometown just three days before the anniversary of her death. I briefly went over the work done by O’Connor, Hernandez, MacPherson, and law-enforcement officials in both cities that had led to the tentative identification.

More gingerly than I should have, I told as much as I could bear to tell about Mrs. Owens, trying to avoid feeling that I had taken advantage of being there at a time when she was vulnerable.

I also recapped the local angle: O’Connor’s death, his son’s beating, the deadly car chase and the sidewalk hit-and-run killing, all possibly linked to the old case. I wound up with the standard “investigations are proceeding” lines.

“That’s it, Lydia,” I said when I finished.

“Whew!” she said, “you’ve had a busy morning.”

“Yeah, I’ve got pretty mixed feelings about it, too.”

“You liked her mother, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. I guess I went too soft there. Hell’s bells, Lydia, you should have been there. I feel lousy about it. I haven’t gotten my hide thickened up enough yet. Give me another two or three interviews with parents of dead children and I’ll be able to do this kind of story without batting an eye.” I took a deep breath. I realized I was getting defensive. “I guess I can’t trade on anybody else’s misery right now. I’m too rocky myself.”

“Believe me, Irene, I understand. You know how I hate that ‘invasive-but-it-sells-papers’ stuff that Wrigley’s so in love with. Besides, Phoenix is less than an hour’s flight away, so if Big Bad John doesn’t like the way you wrote it, I’m sure he’ll send somebody out there tonight to steal a photo of Jennifer off that shelf and take a few pictures of Mrs. Owens crying. By the way-he put your piece from yesterday on A-one.”

“Slow news day, huh?”

“Where is this modesty coming from?”

“Must be the heat out here. Anyway, got a couple of other loose ends to take care of before I head back. Everything going okay with you?”

“Nervous about my hot date tonight, but okay otherwise.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. I hope so. Well, I better flag John Walters down. I think he’ll be pleased, kiddo.”

“Hope you’re right.”

We hung up and I fished the number of the downtown branch of the Bank of Las Piernas out of my purse. I dialed and got through to the switchboard. “Ann Marchenko, please,” I said.

There was a pause. “May I ask who is calling?”

“Irene Kelly,” I said.

There was another pause and then a couple of rings. I was surprised when a man’s voice answered. “Irene?”

“Guy?”

“Yes, hello! Why didn’t you tell me you were a famous newspaper reporter? I saw your byline on the front page today. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. And I’m not at all famous, but thanks for noticing the byline. I was trying to reach Ann Marchenko.”

“Yes, I thought you might call today, so I asked the switchboard to give your call to me. Irene, I’m sorry, Ann Marchenko phoned in this morning and quit her job.”

“Quit? Without notice? Why?”

“She wouldn’t say why, she just told us she wouldn’t be in again. It leaves us in quite a fix, I’m afraid. But as for you-perhaps someone else can help? Really, if there is anything I can do, please allow me to help. The bank isn’t about to receive some bad publicity, is it?”

“No, no, I doubt that’s the case. It was something else. Really, Guy, I can’t think of anything you can help me with right now. I really didn’t have anything specific to ask her. I’ll let you know, though.” I thought of Ramona Ralston. “Guy, I’m very sorry about-yesterday.”

“That was not your fault, Irene. It was terrible, I agree. A horrible, horrible thing that happened. But it was not your fault.”