Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [17]
“Butch, I did call Karen Oldsby,” Joanna interjected. “I called even before I left the office to come here. I said in the message that I’d been called to investigate a possible homicide and that she’d need to call tomorrow to set up another appointment.”
“The mood she’s in right now, I suspect that wouldn’t be such a good idea. If Karen Oldsby does the interview at all, she’s likely to tear you to pieces.”
“Give me her number again,” Joanna said. “I’ll call and explain.”
Karen Oldsby answered after only one ring. “Oldsby here.”
“Karen, this is Joanna Brady. I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding—”
“There wasn’t any misunderstanding. The appointment was for seven o’clock, right here in my office. I couldn’t have been more specific about that.”
Joanna could tell from the reporter’s tone of voice that Butch was right. Karen Oldsby was pissed.
“As I told you in my message,” Joanna said, “something came up. There’s been another homicide and—”
“I didn’t get any message,” Karen interrupted.
“But I called and left one,” Joanna said. “I left it on voice mail.”
“Not here, you didn’t,” the reporter replied, sounding less than mollified. “Or if you did, it isn’t here now. Where did you leave it? Was it on this number or the one at home?”
Joanna had been carrying her purse with her the whole time she’d been at the scene. Now, holding the tiny phone against her left shoulder, she struggled to reclaim her calendar from the depths of the bag. Once she’d dug it out, she had to walk all the way back to the Blazer and turn on the reading light before she could make out the numbers she had scribbled down next to Karen Oldsby’s name. She read them into the phone.
“That’s not my number,” Karen announced brusquely when she heard it. “You reversed two of the numbers.”
“I’m so sorry about this,” Joanna said. “Things have been really hectic. I must have been suffering from momentary dyslexia and written them down wrong, but I have my calendar right here with me. If we could go ahead and reset—”
“I’ll let you know,” Karen Oldsby interrupted. “My week is pretty hectic, too. If it looks like I’ll have time to schedule another interview, Sheriff Brady, I’ll be in touch. But since we’ve already missed this week’s deadline, I don’t know when we’ll be able to squeeze you in.”
With that, Karen Oldsby hung up. Brimming with indignation, Joanna stuffed her calendar back into her purse. Then she walked far enough away to be out of Edith Mossman’s earshot before she redialed her home number.
“Oldsby just hung up on me,” Joanna told Butch when he answered. “I evidently wrote her number down wrong, so when I called and left my message, she didn’t get it. I tried to apologize, but the woman acted like I committed a federal offense.”
“Don’t worry about it, Joey,” he said. “She’ll get over it eventually, but tell me. Who’s dead?”
“A woman named Carol Mossman. Her place is out here by the river, just off the Charleston Road. George is inside. The victim’s grandmother and I are waiting for him to bring the body out so she can make the formal ID. After that, I’ll need to drop her off at her assisted-living facility in Sierra Vista on my way home.”
“Can’t someone else to drop her off?” Butch asked. “Think about it, Joey. It’s late. You’ve already put in a full day at the office. When are you going to give yourself a break?”
“When Edith let her cab go, I told her I’d see to it that she got home,” Joanna told him. “And I will. It won’t take that long.”
“Suit yourself,” Butch said. “I’ll see you when you get here.” Then he, too, hung up.
Exasperated by what felt distinctly like two separate dressing-downs, Joanna turned her phone’s ringer on “silent” and stuck it in her pocket. If anyone else called, she didn’t want to talk to them. They could damn well talk to her machine.
After all, Carol Mossman had been murdered. Finding her killer was far more important than chatting on a cell phone.
Three