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Yes.
Is there anyone else? Joanna asked. Anyone besides you and Hal Morgan and
Bebe who might have wanted to see your husband dead?
I can t think of anybody, Terry said with a rueful smile. But isn t that
enough? They say three s a charm.
Yes, Joanna said. Checking the time, Joanna started for the door. They
do.
Terry followed her. I m still under suspicion, awn she asked.
Joanna nodded. For the time being, everybody s still under suspicion. It s
probably better if you don t leave toun.
But what about the golf game with Peter s friend?
When and where is that scheduled?
Sunday, Terry answered. In Tucson. He wanted to it tomorrow, but I told
him I couldn t on account of the funeral. That would look bad even for me.
Where in Tucson?
Peter and I are supposed to meet him out at the Westin La Paloma at noon.
You re not planning on having someone follow me up there, are you? It might
screw up my game.
I don t know, Joanna said. We ll have to see. Once I give Ernie Carpenter
this information, I m sure he ll want talk to you again.
I won t be hard to find, Terry said resignedly. I ll be around.
Joanna got as far as the front door of the clinic before she remembered to
ask one last set of questions. On the morning Bucky died, what time did you
leave the clinic?
Eleven thirty. Peter and I had a twelve-seven tee-time was almost late.
I talked to Hal Morgan yesterday, Joanna said. He claims that there was
someone else in the barn with Bucky before he died. Some man. Did Bucky have
any appointments scheduled for that time?
Without a word, Terry slipped into Bucky Buckwalter s private office. Joanna
followed behind. It was a plain, minimally adorned place with an oak-laminate
desk and a set of metal file cases. One wall held a series of diplomas. The
most expensive item in the room was a two-by-three-foot oil painting of Kiddo,
Bucky Buckwalter s quarter horse gelding.
Terry picked up a desktop calendar, opened it, and handed it over to Joanna.
A metal clip held the calendar open to the current week. That s Bucky s
personal calendar, Terry explained. Take a look. The clinic appointment book
is out at the reception desk. I can get that one for you as well.
While Joanna examined the first calendar, Terry returned with the other one.
From eleven o clock through two o clock on the day in question, nothing at all
had been scheduled. Without comment, Joanna handed both books back to Terry.
I guess I d better be going, she said.
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Still holding the calendars, Terry Buckwalter followed Joanna to the clinic
door. I don t know if you want my opin-ion or not, she said, but I still
think Hal Morgan did it. What s more, I hope he gets away with it.
Joanna s jaw dropped. You do?
Think about it, Terry said. It s almost like one of those old romantic
stories of the knights of the Round Table. Hal Morgan really loved his wife.
He loved her enough that he was prepared to kill for her. Bucky never felt
that way about anybody, except maybe for that damned horse of his. Which
reminds me. You don t happen to know of anyone who d be interested in buying
Kiddo, do you?
Joanna thought of Jenny and her approaching birthday. How much? she asked.
Two hundred bucks, Terry replied. He s worth more than that, but he was
Bucky s horse, not mine. I don t even like him much, and I ve got no way to
ride him. All the saddles and bridles and currying equipment got burned up in
the barn. The feed, too. The sooner I unload him, the better.
Kiddo was no longer young enough for the racing circuit, but he was a good,
line-looking horse. Joanna knew nigh about horses to realize Terry s selling
price was far lower than it should have been. Fire-sale prices. One step above
dog-food prices. If Joanna offered to buy Kiddo for that, she d be doing
exactly what she d worried about others doing to Terry taking advantage of her
misfortune.
Jenny s interested in having a horse, Joanna said.
I thought she might be, Terry said. Whenever she came here, she always
seemed to have either a carrot or an apple in her pocket. That s why I
mentioned it.
Thanks, Joanna said. I ll think about it and let you know.
Out in the Blazer, Joanna was eager to tell someone what she had learned, but
the long night had evidently taken its toll. No one she asked for was in or
available not Ernie Car-penter, not Jaime Carbajal, not even Dick Voland. Her
origi-nal plan had been to drop by the department and pass along her latest
tips. Now, though, she changed her mind.
Joanna s interview with Terry Buckwalter had worked far better than she would
have expected. The dynamics of two women talking had made it possible for her
to emerge with more information than Ernie had been able to elicit in a
full-court press of an interview. It was possible that the same thing would
happen with Bianca Bebe Noonan.
Half an hour later, three and a half miles east of Double Adobe, Joanna
turned right just beyond a battered, bullet-sprayed mailbox marked R.
Noonan. The moment she drove in through the gate, she felt as though she had
landed in a slum. The hundred yards or so of dirt road between the fence line
and the collection of buildings were strewn with trash. Shards of broken beer
bottles glittered, marking the edge of the road. Windblown papers clung to the
bottom strand of barbed wire. Hulks of several wrecked vehicles in various
stages of deterioration dotted the desert on either side of the road. When she
reached the buildings, the cars she found parked there weren t in much better
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