Burton Kimball sighed and nodded. “Let me remind you that I’m also a damned fine defense attorney, but that is what I meant when I warned you that she might make trouble.”
And now, as Joanna sat in church not listening to the sermon, that was what she was worried about, too. Clayton Rhodes had probably been dead for several hours when she had found him in his exhaust-filled garage, but she had had no way of knowing that at the time. She hadn’t been worried about preserving evidence when she smashed a hole in the door to get inside. She hadn’t been wearing gloves or worrying about leaving a trail of fingerprints when she reached in through the driver’s window to turn off the ignition key. She had been intent on saving the man’s life.
Unfortunately, her fingerprints would be found there, and they wouldn’t be wear-dated. If Reba set out to do so, she might be able to make the case that the prints had been placed on Clayton Rhodes’ ignition key long before he died rather than after. The idea that Sheriff Joanna Brady herself could turn into a homicide suspect should have been laughable. It might have been, if it hadn’t been so scary.
“Therefore choose life,” Marianne was saying from the pulpit. “Choose it for yourself and for your children. Choose it with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul. Because it’s how you choose life now that determines both the now and the hereafter. If you can’t choose this simple living and breathing life, how will you choose eternal life? Because they go hand in hand, you see. It’s like what that old fifties song says about love and marriage,” she added, aiming a beaming smile in Joanna and Butch’s direction. “You can’t have one without the other. Therefore choose life. Let us bow our heads in prayer.”
With his shaven head glowing deep-red, Butch reached over and folded Joanna’s hand in his. “I told you we should have sat in the back row,” he muttered under his breath.
After the closing hymn, Butch and Joanna went hand in hand as they worked their way down the center aisle to where the Reverend Marianne Maculyea and her husband, Jeff Daniels, stood greeting attendees. Wanting to have a private word with her best friend, Joanna stalled long enough to be last in line.
Once Marianne’s early bouts of pregnancy-related nausea had finally subsided, she had gone on to have an uneventful and so-far uncomplicated pregnancy. Because Marianne would be officiating at the wedding, Butch and Joanna had set the ceremony for early April so as not to conflict with the baby’s due date. The wedding was now less than a week away. According to Dr. Thomas Lee, Marianne’s attending physician, the baby was expected in three.
Finished with shaking hands at the door, Marianne stood with one hand massaging her sore back and with the other resting on a belly so swollen that it left a telltale shelf protruding beneath her clerical vestments. With a squeal of joy, Jeff and Marianne’s adopted three-year-old daughter, Ruth, escaped the nursery attendant and slipped under her mother’s robe for a game of peekaboo with whoever happened to be nearby. As the last of the congregation headed for the fellowship hall and coffee hour, Jeff captured Ruth, scooped the squirming child into his arms, and carried her downstairs. Butch and Jenny followed, leaving Joanna and Marianne with a rare moment of relative peace and privacy.
Always attuned to what was going on with other people, Marianne gave Joanna a searching look. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You seemed pretty distracted during the service.”
“What makes you say that?” Joanna countered.
Marianne smiled. “Because you missed not one but two of the in-crowd jokes I put in the sermon especially for you. What’s going on?”
“Clayton Rhodes died and left me his place in his will,” Joanna blurted.
Surprise washed over Marianne’s face. “The whole thing?”
Joanna nodded.
“What about his daughter?” Marianne asked.
“I talked to Burton Kimball on the way to church this morning. According to him, she’s not a happy camper. She may go so far as to try to accuse me of murdering her father.”
Marianne’s gray eyes turned dark and stormy. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Dead serious.”
Marianne took a deep breath. “We need to get together and talk about this. We should also discuss any last-minute hitches or glitches in wedding plans. What are you and Butch and Jenny doing this afternoon?”
“Cleaning house,” Joanna replied. “My new motherin-law shows up tomorrow, remember? We’re doing the oven, cabinets, closets—the whole bit.”
“I have an idea,” Marianne suggested. “I was supposed to have a steering-committee meeting this afternoon, but it’s been canceled. Before you and Butch go tear into your house, how about if we all meet at Daisy’s for lunch as soon as coffee hour is over? I’ll con Jenny into looking after Ruth, and that way maybe the four of us will have a moment or two to think straight.”