They were crossing the dining room and heading back toward the shattered kitchen when something bright and sparkly reflected back the light from the broken chandelier and caught Joanna’s eyes. Up against the mopboard and almost out of sight behind the swinging door was a tiny piece of glassware—Joanna’s maternal grandmother’s cut-glass toothpick holder. Seeing it, Joanna realized that the light pink Depression-era piece had been knocked out of the buffet along with everything else. Something must have cushioned its fall because it had landed without breaking. Spilling a thin trail of toothpicks, it had rolled across the floor and come to rest in a place where it was almost out of sight and hidden away from the frenzy of ongoing devastation.
Escaping from Butch’s grasp momentarily, Joanna bent over and scooped up the fragile piece. Holding it up to the light, Joanna examined it for cracks and chips, but it was perfect. All this while she had managed to hold her tears in check. Now they burst through and threatened to overwhelm her. Seeing the glowing toothpick holder was like catching sight of the first rainbow after a terrible thunderstorm. And, like a rainbow, the delicately colored glass held a promise that perhaps the worst was over and that somehow, someday, the sun would shine again.
With a sigh, Joanna plunged the piece deep in her pocket.
“Wait a minute,” Butch objected. “I told you I promised Frank that we wouldn’t touch anything as long as we were in here.”
“Too bad,” Joanna said. “This toothpick holder belongs to me, and I’m keeping it. If it turns out this is the only thing in the whole house with usable fingerprints on it, that’s too bad as well. In that case, we’re going to have a hard time catching the perp who did this.”
Butch looked at her. “It sounds like Sheriff Brady is back,” he said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”
She nodded. “I will be okay,” she agreed. “Seeing all this was a shock to the system, but this is all stuff—inanimate objects. I’m far more upset about what happened to the dogs. What about Kiddo and the cattle?”
“They seem to be fine.”
“Good.”
“There is one thing that really pisses me off,” Butch added.
“What’s that?”
The shadow of a grin played around the corners of his mouth. “Here we spent all that time and effort on Sunday cleaning your damned oven,” Butch told her. “In all this mess, nobody’s ever going to notice—not your mother, and not mine, either.”
Hearing his good-natured grousing, Joanna felt some of the strain drain out of her own body. After all, this was Butch Dixon’s way of dealing with a crisis—to make light of it if at all possible. Under most circumstances, it would have been Joanna’s preferred way of coping as well, but she allowed herself only the smallest of giggles. She didn’t dare laugh out loud. It would be only the merest of baby steps to go from dissolving into real laughter and then tumbling downward into a fit of hysterics and unstoppable tears. Right that minute, none of those were acceptable options.
As Joanna and Butch emerged from the house, Frank Montoya and Ernie Carpenter met them on the back porch. Concern was written large on both men’s anxious faces. “Are you all right?” Frank asked.
“I’m okay,” Joanna assured him with far more certainty than she felt. “Where’s Dick?”
“Dick Voland?” Frank returned. “He left a few minutes ago. He said he was going to track Reba Singleton down and try to talk to her.”
“You let him walk away just like that?” Joanna demanded. “Did anyone happen to tell him that my Colt Two Thousand is missing from the locked desk in my bedroom? What if an unsuspecting Dick Voland walks right up to Reba Singleton and she blows him to kingdom come?”
“We tried to stop him,” Frank said. “But he wouldn’t listen.”
“Was he wearing a vest?”
Ernie Carpenter shook his head. “I don’t think so. If I remember right, he never much approved of wearing the damned things.”
Joanna glared at the detective. “Sounds like somebody else I know,” she said. “But let’s all remember, Dick Voland is a civilian now. If he’s injured or killed as a result of his involvement in what ought to be a police action, you can bet there’s going to be hell to pay. Our department will be caught in a hail of lawsuits that will take the wind out of our budget for years to come. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Ernie asked.
“To where this all started,” Joanna replied in exasperation. “And where I’m guessing Reba Singleton means for it to end—to Rhodes Ranch.”
Ernie and Frank immediately turned on their heels and headed for their respective vehicles. “Hey, you two. Don’t leave without me,” Joanna yelled after them. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“So will I,” Butch added at once. “I’m coming, too.”
“No, you’re not,” Joanna returned. “You don’t have a weapon, you don’t have a vest, and you don’t have a badge. That means you’re staying here.”
“Like hell—!”
Just then a pair of headlights came careening into the yard. Dodging around the clutch of parked vehicles, it skidded to a stop next to the gate and scattered a team of crime-scene techs who were gathered there assembling their materials.