Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [103]
Joanna glanced at Edith Mossman, who hadn’t stirred. “Any other news?”
“Yes. Ernie’s been in touch with Fandango Productions. They’re checking with their attorney to see whether or not they can give us access to the two victims’ company e-mail files. Otherwise, we’ll have to go through the pain of sending someone over there and serving them with a warrant.”
“Let me know what happens on that score.”
Joanna’s phone buzzed in her ear. “I’ve got another call, Frank. I have to go.”
“Joey?” Butch Dixon asked. “Where are you?”
“On my way to Sierra Vista. I’m just crossing the San Pedro. What’s up?”
“You’ll never guess who just called.”
Joanna was too tired to want to play games. “Who?” she asked.
“Drew,” Butch replied excitedly.
Drew Mabrey was the literary agent who, for the last year, had been trying to sell Butch’s first manuscript, Serve and Protect. In the intervening months, Butch had worked on the second book in the series, and he had also done a good deal of physical labor on their new house. But as time had passed with no word of acceptance on the manuscript, Butch had become more and more discouraged.
“And?”
“Remember that editor, the one who had expressed interest in the book and then ended up turning it down? Something to do with Marketing not liking it?”
“Yes. Didn’t she move to another publishing house or something?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right,” Butch said. “And this morning she called Drew to see if Serve and Protect is still available. Drew is pretty sure she’s going to make an offer after all.”
“Butch, that’s wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed. “When will you know?”
“Probably sometime later this week.”
Edith stirred. “What’s wonderful?” she asked.
“I have to go, Butch,” Joanna said. “Congratulations. We’ll talk more later. That was my husband calling,” Joanna explained to Edith, once she was off the phone “He just had some very good news. He’s written a book, and someone may be interested in buying it.”
“I’m glad,” Edith said. “It’s nice to hear that someone has good news.”
Looking at Edith Mossman’s weary, grief-ravaged face, Joanna was immediately awash in guilt and resolve as well. Carol Mossman had been murdered, taking with her huge chunks of her grandmother’s heart.
We’ll find out who did it, Joanna vowed silently. I promise you that.
Fifteen
Twenty minutes later, having escorted Edith Mossman to her Ferndale Retirement Center apartment, Joanna presented herself at the reception desk in the lobby. “Can you tell me the room number for Irma Mahilich?” she asked.
“One forty-one,” the receptionist answered without looking up. “But Irma’s not in her room. She’s over there, working a jigsaw puzzle.”
Joanna glanced around the lobby. The attractively furnished and brightly carpeted room resembled an upscale hotel lobby rather than what Joanna would have expected in an assisted-living facility. Several seating areas were ranged around the reception desk. A large-screen television blared unwatched in one of them. Two women, both in wheelchairs, sat reading newspapers in another. In a third—one lined with book-laden shelves—a solitary woman sat hunched over the bare outline of a round jigsaw puzzle so large that, once completed, it would cover much of the massive table. It wasn’t until Joanna approached the table that she realized the woman was studying the pieces with absolute intensity and with the aid of a handheld magnifying glass.
“Mrs. Mahilich?” Joanna asked.
Irma Mahilich’s shoulders were stooped. Thinning white hair stood on end in a flyaway drift. She wore dentures, but the lower plate was missing. The bottom left-hand portion of her mouth turned down, betraying the lingering effects of a stroke.
“Yes,” Irma said, lowering the magnifying glass. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sheriff Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady.”
“That’s right. I remember now. Aren’t you D. H. Lathrop’s little girl?” Irma asked, peering up at her visitor.
Surprised, Joanna answered, “Yes. He was my father.”
“I’m the one who hired him to work for the company, you know, back when I was