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“I wanted her to be alive when I got there,” Joanna said, choking back a sob. “I wanted to tell her I was sorry for being such a problem child when I was growing up. I don’t know what I was hoping for—­most likely not a Hallmark moment. Maybe I wanted her to tell me I was forgiven and that maybe, just maybe, she was proud of me and of what I’ve done with my life.”
    â€œShe was and she did,” Butch said quietly.
    â€œDid what?”
    â€œTold you that she was proud of what you’ve done with your life. When the chips were down, she entrusted you with a precious gift—­that red dot. She must have known you were smart enough to find out what really happened last night. Sometimes, Joey,” he added, “actions speak louder than words.”
    For the first time since she had tumbled out of bed hours earlier, Joanna smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very smart man?”
    â€œNot recently,” Butch said as the waitress brought their food. “And not nearly often enough.”
    By 11:00 A.M. they were in the lobby of the Yavapai County Medical Examiner’s office in Prescott. The equipment in the morgue may have been up to the minute, but the hard-­backed wooden chairs in the lobby came from a much earlier era. Told by a receptionist that Dr. Turner was currently unavailable, they had been seated for the better part of ten minutes when a lanky man in a sports jacket hurried into the room, glancing at his watch as he came.
    The new arrival was obviously a known entity. “Hey, Dave,” the receptionist said. “How’s it going?”
    â€œI’m running late. Doc will have my ears.”
    Dave had to be Dave Holman, Joanna realized. As he moved toward an interior door, she was hot on his heels. “Detective Holman?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œSheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County,” she said. “George Winfield was my stepfather. Eleanor was my mother.”
    â€œEleanor of the red dot?”
    â€œThat would be the one.”
    â€œI won’t have any information until after the first of the autopsies is completed. In addition to which, since this is part of an ongoing investigation . . .”
    â€œSave your breath, Detective Holman. I know the drill, but I also know a little about extending professional courtesy to fellow officers. And since I voluntarily came forward with important information in this matter . . .”
    â€œPossibly important information,” he responded.
    Joanna drew herself up to her full five-­foot-­four, which was a good nine to ten inches shorter than the detective. “Are you a gambling man, Detective Holman?”
    â€œI suppose. Why do you ask?”
    â€œYou go right on in there and observe Dr. Turner’s autopsy, but if it turns out I’m right and my stepfather was shot to death, then I expect some respect from you and some consideration as well.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Detective Holman said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
    He disappeared through the door.
    When Joanna looked back at her husband, Butch was grinning. “Obviously not a poker player,” he commented.
    â€œAt least he hasn’t played poker with me,” Joanna replied, smiling in spite of herself.
    Knowing they were stuck in the waiting room for an hour at least, Joanna picked up her phone and began returning calls. By now Marliss Shackleford had left three separate messages, so Joanna started there, wanting to start by getting the worst of the bunch out of the way.
    â€œI’m so glad you finally got back to me.”
    The word “finally” grated. “As you can well imagine, Marliss,” Joanna said carefully, “this has not been my best day for returning phone calls.”
    â€œIs it true both George and Eleanor are gone?”
    â€œYes,” Joanna answered, “both of