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on leaving home early in the afternoon because she had some errands to run in Sierra Vista before she was due at the Jenkins’ place for dinner. Adams claims he hasn’t seen or heard from her since. He says that he wasn’t particularly concerned about that—about not seeing her earlier this morning—because he expected to see her later. They were supposed to have dinner together tonight.”
    “What time did you say Alice left her daughter’s house last night?”
    “About eight-thirty. Susan says she usually takes the Charleston Road back and forth to Tombstone.”
    Charleston Road, named after a long-gone mining town near the San Pedro River, was a short cut from Sierra Vista to Tombstone. It was a ribbon of cracked, curvy, up-and-down pavement. Because it crossed the San Pedro River, Charleston Road had its own share of meandering animals that sometimes came to grief with speeding vehicles.
    “Had Alice Rogers been drinking?” Joanna asked.
    “Some. According to the daughter, they had drinks before dinner and wine with the meal.”
    “There’s not much nighttime traffic on Charleston Road,” Joanna said. “Is it possible she hit a cow or a deer? Maybe she ran off the road somewhere between Sierra Vista and Tombstone. Her car may be out of sight in a ditch or a wash. Maybe that’s why no one has spotted her.”
    “I already thought of that,” Frank said. “I contacted Patrol and told them to have a deputy take a run out that way to see if he can find her. Just to be on the safe side, I also plan on filing a missing persons report. I don’t want to give His Honor the Mayor anything else to complain about.”
    “Good thinking, Frank,” Joanna said. “And good job, too, although I’m not sure it’s going to help much. Clete Rogers is the kind of man who would complain if he was hanged with a new rope.”
    “‘Thanks, Chief. Always glad to be of service.”
    She put down the phone just as a pajama-clad Jenny emerged from the bathroom. “Was that Butch?” she asked.
    “No. It was Frank Montoya calling about work. Did you want it to be Butch?”
    For months now, Joanna Brady had watched from the sidelines, observing her daughter’s reaction to Butch Dixon’s increasing presence in their lives. It was a concern for Joanna, one she approached with more than a little misapprehension. She was glad Jenny seemed to like the man, but she was worried that if Butch walked away from a long-term relationship with Joanna, Jenny would end up suffering yet another devastating loss.
    So far, though, things seemed to be all right. Butch Dixon was the kind of man who had been born to be a father. Since he had no children of his own, he had thrown himself into an affectionate, easy kind of relationship with Jenny. Seemingly effortlessly, he had assumed the role of a beloved uncle.
    And why shouldn’t Jenny adore him? Joanna wondered. Butch was fun. He took every opportunity to spoil the child. Still, Joanna niggled away at the idea that under the placid surface of their friendship something else was at work. Jenny’s adoration went only so far. Much as she seemed to like the man, she maintained a certain distance as well. Maybe Jenny, like her mother, couldn’t bear the risk of having her heart broken once again.
    Jenny shrugged and studied her toes. “I guess I wanted it to be him,” she admitted.
    “Well, Butch is on his way, but he probably won’t be here until after you go to bed.”
    “Oh,” Jenny said.
    Joanna waited to see if Jenny would say anything more.
    When she didn’t, Joanna chose the easy way out. If Jenny wasn’t ready to talk about Butch Dixon, neither was Joanna.
    “Your homework’s all done?” The motherly question was a cowardly attempt at sidestepping the issue.
    Jenny sighed, flopped down on the couch beside Joanna, and snuggled in under her arm. “Of course,” she said. “You know I always do my weekend homework on Friday afternoon right after school.”
    Joanna knew something