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She did go inside the unlocked house as far as the little telephone table. There she came face-to-face with a much younger image of Clayton Rhodes in a framed, formally posed wedding picture taken of him and his late wife, Molly. Bony and bow-legged even then, Clayton looked grimly uncomfortable and out of character in a dark, double-breasted suit. The youthful, sweet-faced Molly, slender in her bridal finery, bore little resemblance to the broad-hipped, heavyset woman Joanna remembered meeting years earlier, when she had first come to High Lonesome Ranch.
    Turning from the picture, Joanna donned a pair of latex gloves and rummaged through the drawer in the table until she located a small, leather-bound address book. She remembered Clayton’s daughter’s first name—Reba—but she had no idea what her married name might be. Consequently, Joanna had to page through almost the whole notebook until she finally located the name under the letter S for Singleton—Reba Singleton. The address listed was in Los Gatos, California. Jotting the address and 415 phone number down on a scrap of paper, Joanna returned the address book to the table drawer and punched up her cell phone.
    “I’d like the number for the Los Gatos, California, Police Department,” she told the operator.
    “The emergency number?” the operator asked.
    With Clayton dead, the emergency was long over. “No,” Joanna said. “The non-emergency number will be fine.”
    She spent what seemed like several long minutes waiting on hold before a desk sergeant finally took her call. “My name is Joanna Brady,” she told him. “Sheriff Joanna Brady of Cochise County in southeastern Arizona. We’ve had a death here—a man named Clayton Rhodes. I understand his daughter lives there where you are—in Los Gatos. I need someone to do a next-of-kin notification.”
    The desk sergeant sounded terminally bored. “Name?” he said.
    “Clayton Rhodes.”
    “No. The daughter’s name.”
    “Reba Singleton.”
    “Address.”
    “943 Valencia,” Joanna returned, followed by the 415 area code telephone number.
    “You say this Singleton woman is the stiff’s daughter?”
    “The deceased’s name is Clayton Rhodes,” Joanna returned sharply. “The man happened to be a friend of mine—a good friend.”
    “And this is the most recent address information you have for his daughter?”
    Joanna was losing patience. “It’s the one that was in Mr. Rhodes’ address book,” she answered somewhat testily.
    “That may be true, but it could be out of date. The phone number is.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Our area code’s been 650 for years now. If the dead guy didn’t bother to fix that in his book, the address listed may be out of date as well. What did he die of, by the way—murder, natural causes, old age?”
    The word “suicide” stuck in Joanna’s throat. She wanted to find a way to cushion the blow for Reba Singleton. Learning a loved one has died is hard enough. Being told that person has taken his or her own life is infinitely harder on the people left behind. Joanna had never met Reba Singleton, but already her heart ached for her. By not saying too much right now, perhaps Joanna could give Clayton’s daughter a chance to prepare herself.
    “Tell Ms. Singleton that the cause of her father’s death has yet to be determined,” Joanna said. “I’ll give you several numbers where I can be reached. Or else, if she’d rather, Ms. Singleton can speak directly to George Winfield, our medical examiner. I’ll give you his office and home numbers as well. That way, once your officers have notified her, she can call one of us for more details.”
    “I’m sure that’ll suit our officers just fine.”
    “Will you notify me once they’ve talked to her?” Joanna asked.
    “That’s not how we usually do it,” he said.
    “I’d appreciate it if you’d do it that way this time,” Joanna said firmly. “Let me know one way or the other, whether your