The use of the word “girl” was standard fare in Butch’s unending lexicon of teasing. Most of the time Joanna ignored it, but for some reason on this occasion it hit her wrong and put her on the defensive.
“Wait a minute, pal. We’re not even married yet and already you’re complaining about my job?”
“Don’t get your nose out of joint,” Butch assured her. “All I’m saying is don’t expect me to wait up for you every night. Obviously I need more beauty sleep than you do.”
“Oh,” Joanna said, but she was still a little grumpy about it.
There was a knock on the bedroom door. “More coffee?” Jenny asked, pushing it open a crack.
“Hadn’t we better get up and take care of the animals?” Butch asked.
That’s when Joanna remembered that Jenny didn’t yet know about Clayton Rhodes. No one had told her.
“No, thanks,” Joanna told Jenny. “We’ll be out in a minute. We’ll have more in a little while.”
When Jenny retreated from the door, Butch pulled on his shirt and pants and then hotfooted it into the bathroom. Joanna retrieved both her nightgown and bathrobe from the closet and then went in search of Jenny. She found her daughter curled up on the couch in the living room reading a book. Tigger, snoring like a locomotive, lay with his head in Jenny’s lap, while Sadie sprawled on the floor at Jenny’s feet.
Joanna could tell from the faded blue cover that the book was one of her old Nancy Drew mysteries. “What are you reading?” she asked, easing herself down on the couch in a way that didn’t disturb either one of the sleeping dogs.
“The Secret of the Old Clock,” Jenny said. “When I get my driver’s license, can I have a roadster? Nancy’s sounds neat.”
Joanna shook her head. “You were born sixty or seventy years too late for a roadster,” she said. “You’ll probably have to make do with my old Eagle—if it’s still running.”
“But that’s a station wagon,” Jenny protested. “I want a convertible—a red convertible.”
Joanna sighed. “Don’t we all. Seriously, though, Jenny, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Mr. Rhodes is dead, isn’t he?” Jenny said at once.
Joanna simply nodded. “How did you know?” she asked.
Jenny shrugged. “I sort of figured it out. I mean, I followed the clues, just like Nancy Drew.”
“What clues are those?”
“Well, you went over to see him and didn’t come back for a long time. And then this morning. When I get up to watch Saturday-morning cartoons, Mr. Rhodes is usually already here, but today he wasn’t. I went outside and looked for his tire tracks, but there weren’t any. So I went ahead and fed the animals myself.”
“All of them?” Joanna asked.
“You didn’t think I’d let them go hungry, do you?” Jenny asked indignantly.
Joanna laughed. “No,” she agreed. “Of course not.”
“And after I fed them I made coffee for you.”
Joanna was stunned. It wasn’t that Jenny didn’t know how to feed the animals or how much to give them. On Clayton Rhodes’ days off, Joanna and Jenny usually did the chores together. Still, she was struck by the fact that Jenny had done the chores all by herself and also on her own initiative. Butch was right, Joanna realized then. Jenny was growing up—in more ways than one.
“So what happened to him?” Jenny asked. “To Mr. Rhodes.”
“He probably had a heart attack or else maybe a stroke,” Joanna replied. “At least that’s what Grandpa George thinks.”
“Grandpa George will have to do an autopsy, won’t he—to find out for sure?”
Jenny had lived all her life in a law enforcement household where the pieces of homicide investigations were regular components in ordinary, everyday conversations. “Yes, he will,” Joanna replied.
Jenny rolled her enormous blue eyes. “Well,” she observed, “Mr. Rhodes wouldn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?” Joanna asked.
“Grandpa George is nice and all that, but he’s still a doctor,” Jenny said. “Mr. Rhodes told me once, after he hurt his leg last year, that he never wanted to go see a doctor again. But I guess if he’s already dead, it won’t matter.”
Joanna was a little taken aback by Jenny’s unemotional, almost clinical response to news of Clayton Rhodes’ death. After all, the man had been an important part of their daily lives. As Jenny’s mother, Joanna would have preferred some show of sadness and even a few tears.
“Clayton Rhodes was a nice man,” Joanna said. “I’m sorry he’s dead. Aren’t you?”
Jenny shook her head. “I’m not,” she declared. “Mr. Rhodes told me once that he was old and ready to go anytime the good Lord was ready to take him. He said he missed his wife and could hardly wait to see her again.”