Joanna could barely believe her ears. “I don’t get it. Clayton Rhodes left his place to me?” she stammered. “That’s impossible! A ridiculous joke! You mean to say he left Reba out of his will entirely, that he disowned his own daughter in favor of me?”
“Not entirely. He and Molly had tons of savings bonds, as well as a whole bunch of certificates of deposit. There will be plenty of cash to pay final expenses, including all applicable income and estate taxes. Whatever money is left after taxes goes to Reba, but you’re to have the property and whatever personal effects Reba doesn’t want. You’re to deal with those as you see fit. No strings attached.”
Stunned, Joanna felt the blood drain from her face, causing both Butch and Jenny to cast worried looks in her direction. “What is it, Mom?” Jenny asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Clayton left two letters—one for you and one for Reba,” Burton Kimball continued. “I gave Reba hers last night. I was wondering if I shouldn’t bring yours out to you this morning. I want you to be aware of everything that’s going on because of Reba, you see. I’m concerned about her reaction. She and her father had been estranged for years—ever since her mother’s death—but I’m afraid this still hit her pretty hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t try to make trouble, if she hasn’t already, that is.”
“When did you read the will?” Joanna asked.
“Yesterday evening. She came to see me around noon, about as soon as she got to town, I guess. I don’t think she even bothered to go to the funeral home before she showed up at my house—in a limo, no less—demanding to see the will right then. In all my years in practice, I’ve never seen anything like it. I tried to stall; told her there were other people involved who should be present as well, but when I couldn’t reach you, I finally went ahead without you. She insisted. Have you seen her yet?”
“Briefly,” Joanna said. “She was out here at the ranch yesterday afternoon. When we came home from Tucson. Her limo was stuck in my wash. The driver had to call Triple A to come pull it out.”
“Did she say anything to you?” Burton Kimball asked.
“She seemed upset. She said something to the effect that I had killed her father by working him into the grave. She asked me about the status of the investigation. I told her that since Dr. Winfield had ruled Clayton dead of natural causes, there wasn’t going to be any investigation. As soon as she heard that, she went off on a wild tirade about George Winfield having a conflict of interest in the case, but I didn’t think anything of it. I chalked it up to her being overwrought. In situations like that, people end up saying all kinds of things they don’t really mean.”
“I believe she meant it, all right,” Burton Kimball said softly. “She meant every word. After the will was read, she threw a fit. She ranted and raged and said that she’d had her suspicions, but now she was sure you had murdered her father and that George Winfield was helping you by covering it up.”
“Mom,” Jenny insisted. “What’s going on?”
Joanna waved her to silence. “You don’t think she’s serious, do you?”
“Unfortunately, I do,” Burton replied. “Now how can I get you that letter? You need to know what’s in it. Should I bring it out to the house?”
“No,” Joanna said quickly. “We’ll be coming to town in a little while. We can stop by and pick it up on our way to church. Where will you be?”
“Linda and the kids are going off to church themselves,” Burton said. “How about if I meet you uptown at my office. Say, forty-five minutes?”
Joanna looked down at her untouched bowlful of Malt-o-Meal that, without the benefit of milk and brown sugar, had now cooled and congealed into a hard gray lump. “Give us an hour,” she said. “That’s the soonest we can be there.”
Two hours later, Joanna was sitting in a pew in Canyon United Methodist Church, while her pastor and best friend, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea, read the morning’s scripture. Pregnant women are supposed to glow. That was especially true for Marianne, who was in the last stages of a long-sought but unexpected pregnancy. Her face was alight as she read the passage from Deuteronomy 30:19. “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse; therefore choose life, that you and your descendants may live.”
For years Joanna had sung in the church choir, but the countervailing pressures of work and single-motherhood had eventually made regular attendance at weekly practice sessions an impossibility. Sitting in the choir loft behind the minister, it had been necessary to remain both awake and properly attentive.
Now, though, seated discreetly in the fifth pew back, Joanna paid scant attention to Marianne’s sermon for the day, “Choose Life!” Instead, she was preoccupied with her own set of issues. Most of Joanna’s wool-gathering focused on the letter in her purse, one Clayton Rhodes had laboriously written in ink in a spidery, old-fashioned scrawl. The letter had been dated barely two months earlier.
Dear Joanna,