“Hispanic boys,” Joanna corrected. “They’re from Tucson, not Mexico. And yes, that is the theory the Pima County investigators are working on at the moment-that they’re the ones responsible for your sister’s death.”

Jessie blew her nose. “Well,” she announced, “Susan doesn’t believe that, and I don’t either. Not for a minute. If Alice has been murdered-and that’s the word Susan used, she said murdered-then that’s where I’d start looking for her killer, if I were you. Right there in Alice’s own backyard, as it were. You know what they say. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ and all that? Well, it’s true. Clete and Susan are two of a kind that way. I wouldn’t trust either one of them any further than I can throw them.”

“When did you last see your sister, Mrs. Monroe?”

“Miss,” Jessie corrected. “I’m the old maid of the family. And the last time I saw Alice was about three months ago, when she came down to Douglas to show off that new beaus of hers. Seemed like a nice enough chap to me. And I could see he thought the world of her, too, opening and closing doors for her, helping her in and out of chairs. A regular gentleman. You don’t see too many of those around anymore. Nope, they’re scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Farley Adams?” Joanna asked.

“Alice’s beau? That’s right. Farley Adams was his name. Is his name. I should imagine he’ll be devastated, losing her so soon after like this. It’s a tragedy-a terrible tragedy, and, as I said before, I’m sure those selfish kids of hers are behind it one way or the other.”

“You said, ‘losing her so soon after,’ Miss Monroe,” Joanna put in. “So soon after what? What exactly did you mean by that?”

Jessie Monroe heaved a sigh and then fumbled a black satchel-sized purse out of the basket on her walker. Once she snapped it open, she spent several long minutes sorting through the contents. At last she withdrew a stiff piece of paper-a postcard-which she handed over to Joanna. It was addressed to Jessie Monroe c/o Golden Agers Home and Convalescent Center, 816 G Avenue, Douglas, Arizona. To the left of the address was a neatly written note: “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Love, Ali.”

The picture side of the card showed a smiling couple posing inside an enormous heart-shaped wreath of flowers. The woman was holding a small bouquet. The man wore a suit complete with a boutonniere. The caption at the bottom of the picture said: “Greetings from Mr. and Mrs. Farley Adams. Laughlin Chapel of Love. Specializing in Weddings to Go. All-inclusive.”

“Didn’t they make a handsome couple, though?” Jessie Monroe was saying. “Alice was always the prettiest little thing. And she managed to keep her looks, even if she didn’t keep her own teeth.”

Holding the picture, Joanna was painfully aware that Jessie’s “handsome” wedding portrait was actually a study in motive. If Farley Adams and Alice Rogers were already married at the time of her death, Farley would have a good deal to gain from his wife’s death. Even without a rewritten will, he would have been able to go against an existing one, demanding his spousal share of Alice’s estate. The fact that Farley was Alice’s husband bumped Susan Jenkins and Clete Rogers down a notch on the list of suspects. Had they been able to prevent the marriage, the children could have split the take two ways. Afterward, it would most likely have to be divided differently, with half going to the husband and a quarter to each of the children.

Studying the picture closely, Joanna noted that Farley was probably twenty years younger than his bride. She remembered hearing something about his being stone-cold broke when he had arrived in Tombstone a year ago. For someone coming from that kind of straitened circumstances, an estate of any size would come as a bonanza. And even if he had to split the take with Alice’s children, Farley Adams would still be walking away with far more than he’d had when he started.

Joanna turned the postcard over and studied the canceled stamp. The year was illegible, but the date wasn’t. October 18. Susan Jenkins’ worst nightmare had been realized. Clearly, the road trip to Laughlin, Nevada, had been for purposes other than throwing money away on one-armed bandits.

“May I make a copy of this, Miss Monroe?”

“Of their wedding picture? I suppose so. I don’t see what it could hurt. But I want it back. As a remembrance, you see.”

“It’ll only take a minute or so. Let me call my secretary.”

Kristin was summoned once more. She took the picture down the hall and returned a few minutes later with the original and with color copies of both sides of the postcard. Joanna placed the two copies face-up on her desk and returned the original to Jessie. The old woman leaned forward and peered across the desk.

“Remarkable,” she said. “I remember all those years with Ditto machines. Do you remember those? The purple ink?”

Joanna looked at her blankly.

“Oh, well, I suppose not. There were probably mimeograph machines by the time you came along, or maybe even Xerox. But I used Dittos for years when I was teaching school. The idea that you cart just make a copy of something like this is astonishing. Why, you almost can’t tell the difference between the original and the copy! I guess that’s progress for you. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see it.”

As she spoke, Jessie carefully filed the postcard back away in her purse. “Have you spoken to Farley?” she asked. “I’ve tried calling his number out at the mobile, but there wasn’t any answer, and he doesn’t seem to have a machine. Alice did, but not Farley. I wanted to give him my condolences and find out about arrangements and all. I do hope he’ll have something to say about than-about the funeral, I mean. By rights, he should, since he’s her husband and all. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Susan and Clete didn’t cut him out of it. That’s the way they are, you see. Both of them selfish as the day is long. Both of them wanting to run the whole show. You have no idea how their constant bickering bothered Alice. There were times when she considered disowning them both.”

Cramming her purse back into the basket on the walker, Jessie Monroe struggled to her feet. “I’d best be going,” she said.

“Will you be needing a ride back to Douglas?” Joanna asked. “If you do, I can get one of my deputies…”

Jessie waved the offer aside. “Oh, no,” she said. “I have my own wheels. Not really mine, of course. I turned in my license when I hit eighty-five. Seemed like the responsible thing to do because my reflexes were getting so bad. But Helen Dominguez, one of the attendants from the home, drove me here. I’m paying her, of course. That’s only fair. But she can’t get home too late. She’s a young person, you see, and still has children that will be coming home from school soon. I’ve always felt that mothers should be at home when their children get out of school, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Joanna agreed. “I certainly do.”

By force of will she managed to keep herself from casting a guilt-ridden glance at her own watch. Jenny would be out of school by now and on her way to Butch’s house where there would be no at-home mother in attendance.

Jessie started toward the door. “By the way,” she added, “when you read Ali’s book-Alice’s book-don’t expect it to be great literature. It was done by one of those self-publishing outfits. Vanity presses, I think they call them. I don’t know how much she paid for it-probably way too much-but the company who did it certainly didn’t squander any of what she paid on editing. My sister was a great gal, but she never was much of a writer, so the book’s a bit rough in spots. You’ll get the picture, though. Or your detectives will.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said, following her guest to the door. “By the way, is your address in the book, so I’ll be able to return it to you when I finish reading it?”