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Je
“What do you mean?” Joa
“Grandpa George is nice and all that, but he’s still a doctor,” Je
Joa
“Clayton Rhodes was a nice man,” Joa
Je
Joa
Je
“Molly and Clayton had a son?” Joa
“Oh, a long time ago,” Je
Joa
“When is the funeral?” Je
“I don’t know when it’ll be,” Joa
Je
Joa
Just then Butch emerged from the bathroom. “It’s all yours,” he said to Joa
“No, it’s fine. Je
Butch nodded. Then he added, “Speaking of Clayton, I’ll head outside and get started feeding the animals.”
“Don’t bother,” Joa
Butch looked at Je
Joa
“Who is it?” Joa
Je
“Hello,” Joa
“Hi, Sheriff. It’s Lisa.”
Lisa Howard was the weekend desk clerk at the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Joa
“What’s the matter?” Joa
“Nothing. We’ve got a reported runaway out in the valley, but that’s about it. There was a message that came in for you overnight. Since it didn’t seem especially urgent, the night shift decided to let me pass it along to you when I came on duty this morning.”
“What is it?” Joa
“Sergeant Carlin.”
“In Los Gatos,” Joa
“Right. He wanted you to know that Mrs. Singleton has been notified.”
“Good,” Joa
“He did say one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He said, ”Good luck.“ ”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joa
“I don’t know,” Lisa returned. “I thought maybe you’d understand what he meant.”
“Well, I don’t. But that’s all right. The point is, Clayton Rhodes’ family members have now been officially notified; you can release the news of his death to the press. And you should probably pass that word along to the medical examiner’s office as well in case anyone comes asking Doc Winfield for information.”
“Will do,” Lisa said. “Anything else?”
“Not right now. Je
Hanging up the phone, Joa
“French toast,” Je
“Whose idea was that?” Joa
“Mine,” Je
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Joa
“I know,” he said. “But it’s her birthday celebration, too. And I figure this way will be faster-if we leave right now, that is.”
They took Butch’s Outback-the newest vehicle in their stable of rolling stock-and headed for town. Daisy’s Café was already crowded with the Saturday-morning breakfast crowd. Standing just inside the door, they waited for a clean table.
“Hey, Junior,” Je
Junior Dowdle was a fifty-six-year-old developmentally disabled man who had been abandoned by his court-appointed guardians and left on his own at a local arts-and-crafts fair the previous fall. The priest who had found him had turned Junior over to the care and keeping of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Through Joa
With infinite patience, Daisy and Moe had taught Junior how to bus tables. Now he spent several hours each day helping out at the restaurant. And, for the first time in his life, Junior Dowdle was earning his own spending money. One look at Junior’s beaming countenance offered mute testimony as to how well that arrangement was working.
Gri
“You come,” he said, motioning for them to follow him toward a booth he had just finished clearing. “You come and eat.”
From behind the counter, Daisy Maxwell watched, nodded, and smiled her approval. She waited until the party was seated before she followed with coffee and menus. “Most of the time Junior remembers menus,” she said. “But not when he sees someone he knows. Then he gets too excited. Come to think of it, though, you guys probably don’t need menus. What’ll you have?”
Removing the stub of a pencil from her beehive hairdo, Daisy took two orders for choriso and eggs and one for French toast along with two coffees, one milk, and orange juice all around.
“I just heard about poor Mr. Rhodes,” Daisy said, once she returned her order pad to its customary place in her apron pocket. “It’s too bad. He was the one who usually did your chores for you, wasn’t he?”