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especially in view of the difference in population. So far this morning I ve
had several calls from Tucson and Phoenix stations, radio and television both,
asking what s going on down here. Everybody seems to think we re wallowing
around in a pool of murder and mayhem.
Whatever you do, Joanna cautioned, don t let them talk to my mother.
Eleanor Lathrop shares that opinion.
Are you going to the Buckwalter funeral? Frank Mon-toya asked, abruptly
switching gears.
Ernie will be there working, of course, Joanna said. But I think I d
better put in an appearance as well.
Frank nodded. By all means, he said.
Just then there was a knock on Joanna s door. Ernie Car-penter opened it a
crack and stuck his head inside. Did you know about this? he asked, waving a
piece of paper in the air.
What is it?
A court order. Bebe Noonan has gotten herself a lawyer and has formally
requested a DNA sample from Bucky Buckwalter s body as part of a paternity
suit.
I did know about it, Joanna said. So did Dick Voland.
She s pregnant with Bucky s baby?
That s right.
If you knew about it and Dick knew about it, why the hell didn t I?
I found out yesterday afternoon. I told Dick on the way over to Tombstone
last night, but with all the mess over there, I guess we both forgot about
it.
Thanks a lot, Carpenter muttered. Thanks a whole hell of a lot. With that
he, too, stalked out of the office.
Joanna looked at Frank and grinned. Well, she said. I m two for two.
Aren t you going to stomp out and slam the door shut as well?
I don t think so, he said. Whatever the provocation, I think it s bad form
to slam doors until after everyone in the office has had a chance to finish at
least one cup of coffee.
Frank did leave Joanna s office fairly soon after that. Be-tween then and
nine-fifteen, when it was time for her to leave for Bucky Buckwalter s
funeral, Joanna at last had some time to make a little progress on the paper
debris that covered her desk. As she shuttled through the messages once again,
she threw away the ones from her mother and Marianne Macu-lyea. When she
rediscovered the one from Larry Matkin, the mining engineer, she tried to
return the call. He had left only one number, however, and there was no
answer.
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At thirty-five years of age and a height of six feet six, Little Norm Higgins
was both the youngest and the largest of Norm Higgins three sons. He
collected Joanna Brady at the door of Higgins Funeral Chapel and Mortuary.
Taking her arm and speaking in low, respectful tones, he led her to the third
row of seats, a place evidently reserved for dignitaries unrelated to the
deceased. She was seated between Agnes Pratt and Alvin Bernard, Bisbee s mayor
and chief of police, respectively.
Agnes had a tendency to develop skin cancer. On doctor s orders, she always
wore hats, although the wide-brimmed, flowered and/or feathered affairs she
favored might not have been exactly what her dermatologist had in mind. The
one she preferred to wear to funerals was an enormous black straw contrivance
with a velvet ribbon and single peacock leather. Over time the feather had
become quite bedraggled. Her Honor inclined her head as Joanna slipped past
her into an empty seat. So sad, Agnes murmured. So very sad.
Seated as close as she was to the front of the chapel, it was impossible for
Joanna to see who all was present. From the noise level it was clear that the
place was jammed to the gills. Joanna wondered if the attendance was due to
Bucky s prominent position in the community or if, somehow, word had already
leaked out that the murdered vet was about to become a posthumous papa.
Shortly before the Reverend Billy Matthews from the First HU~Ie Baptist
Church took to the podium, Little Norm was forced to go to the front of the
chapel. There, in his whispery, bowling announcers voice, he urged people to
move closer together in order to allow a few more attendees to squeeze in at
the end of each cushioned pew.
As the organist droned on and on, playing something mournful but totally
unrecognizable, Joanna wondered how Billy, pinch-hitting for Marianne
Maculyea, would be able to pull together a meaningful service. If Terry
Buckwalter wasn t particularly grief-stricken over her husband s death, would
anyone else be?
It turned out that the answer was yes. Any number of people had been touched
and saddened by Bucky s passing, and a few of them were willing to come
forward and say so. The selection of speakers wasn t exactly standard funeral
fare, but they all did well.
First to step forward was an adorable little girl named Winnette Jeffries who
also happened to be Agnes Pratt s great-granddaughter. Barely able to see over
the podium, a breathless Winnette told how Dr. Buckwalter had saved her puppy
after someone had fed the animal poison.
Maggie Dodd, one of Bisbee s most outspoken animal-rights activists, told
about how the Buckwalters had saved numerous strays from the fate of lethal
injection by offering an adoption service alternative to the local animal
shelter.
Last of all was Irene Collins. She tottered up the steps to the podium to
give a tearful account of how, on the last day of his life, Bucky Buckwalter
had removed a stuck chicken bone from the throat of Irene s poor little kitty,
Murphy Brown.
Knowing some of the background, Joanna wasn t sur-prised that the speakers
stressed Bucky s skill as a vet rather than mentioning his interpersonal
relationships with human beings. Terry Buckwalter, dressed in a properly
conservative navy-blue suit, sat in the first row almost directly in front of
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