“Have you collected water samples?” Joanna asked.
“Dave did that first thing.”
Just then Joanna heard the sound of a woman’s voice, raised in anger, coming from the other side of the screen. “What do you mean, I can’t come in? What’s going on here? What’s happened?”
Back in the studio, Joanna found Detective Carbajal standing in the doorway and barring the entry of a solidly built woman who kept trying to dodge past him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jaime was saying. “This is a crime scene. No one is allowed inside.”
“Crime scene!” the woman repeated. “Crime scene? What kind of crime? What’s happened? Where’s Rochelle?”
Removing her mask, Joanna walked up behind her detective, close enough to glimpse a heavyset woman whose long gray hair was caught in a single braid that fell over one shoulder and dangled as far as her waist. She was swathed from head to toe in a loose-flowing, tie-dyed smock.
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” Joanna explained, stepping into view. “We’re investigating a suspicious death here. Who are you?”
“Death?” the woman repeated, wide-eyed. “Somebody died here? But what about Rochelle? Where’s she? Certainly Shelley isn’t-”
Suddenly the woman broke off. She blanched. One hand went to her mouth, and she wavered unsteadily on her feet. Up to then, Jaime Carbajal had been steadfastly trying to keep her outside. Now, as she swayed in front of him, he stepped forward and grasped her by one elbow. Then he led her into the great room and eased her onto a nearby stool. For a moment, no one spoke.
“I take it Rochelle Baxter is a friend of yours?” Joanna asked softly.
The woman glanced wordlessly from Joanna’s face to Jaime’s. Finally she nodded.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, then,” Joanna continued. “Rochelle Baxter fell gravely ill last night. She called 911, but by the time emergency personnel reached her, she was unresponsive. She was declared dead on arrival at the hospital.”
The woman began to shake her head, wagging it desperately back and forth, as though by simply denying what she’d been told she could keep it from being true. “That can’t be,” she moaned. “It’s not possible.”
By now Jaime had his spiral notebook out of his pocket. “Your name, please, ma’am?”
“Canfield,” the woman answered in a cracked whisper. “Deidre Canfield. Most people call me Dee.”
“And your relationship to Miss Baxter?”
“We were friends. I own an art gallery up in Old Bisbee – the Castle Rock Gallery. It’s where Shelley was going to have her first-ever show tonight…” Dee Canfield’s voice faltered, and she burst into tears. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “This can’t be. It’s so awful, so… unfair. It isn’t happening.”
For several long moments, Joanna and Jaime Carbajal simply looked on, waiting for Dee Canfield to master her emotions. Finally, pulling a man’s hanky out from under a bra strap, she blew her nose. “Has anyone told Bobo yet?”
Joanna knew of only one person in the Bisbee area with that distinctive name. “You mean Bobo Jenkins?” Joanna asked quickly. “The former owner of the Blue Moon Saloon and Lounge?”
Dee nodded. “That’s the one.”
“What’s his relationship to Miss Baxter?” Jaime asked.
Dee shrugged in a manner that suggested she thought Bobo Jenkins’s relationship with Rochelle Baxter was nobody else’s business. Jaime, however, insisted. “Would you say they were friends?” he asked.
Dee paused for several moments before answering. “More than friends, I suppose,” she conceded.
“They were going together?” Joanna suggested.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know exactly. Several months now. Bobo is the one who introduced Shelley to me.”
“Had there been any trouble between them?” Jaime asked. “Any disagreements?”
“No!” Dee Canfield declared staunchly. “Not at all. Nothing like that.”
“You mentioned Rochelle’s show is scheduled to open at your gallery tonight,” Joanna said quietly. “Is that why you stopped by this morning?”
“No,” Dee replied. “Thursday mornings are when I come down to get gas. I have a Pinto, you see,” she explained. “It still uses leaded. Once a week I come down here, go across the line to Old Mexico, and fill up in Naco, Sonora. I usually stop by to see Shelley, coming or going. We have a cup of coffee and indulge in girl talk. When Shelley worked, she’d isolate herself completely. A little chitchat is what I used to drag her back into the real world.”
“If Rochelle Baxter is an artist, why don’t we see any paintings here?” Jaime Carbajal asked.
“Because everything’s up at the show. Oh my God!” Deidre Canfield wailed. “What am I going to do about that? Should I cancel it? Have the opening anyway? And who’s going to tell Bobo?”
“My department will notify Mr. Jenkins,” Joanna reassured her. “We’ll need to talk to him anyway. But when it comes to deciding whether or not to cancel the show, you’re on your own.”
Dee nodded and swallowed hard. “Rochelle was such a talented young woman,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “This was her very first show, you see, and she was so excited about it – excited and nervous, too.”
“Did she complain to you about feeling ill?”
“ Ill? You mean was she sick? Absolutely not. We worked together all day long yesterday – Shelley, Warren, and I. She certainly would have told me if she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Who’s Warren?” Jaime asked.
“Warren Gibson. My boyfriend. He helps out around the gallery. I’m the brains of the outfit. He’s the brawn.”
Just outside Dee Canfield’s line of vision, Jaime caught Joanna’s eye and motioned toward his watch, indicating he needed to head for his autopsy appointment at Doc Winfield’s office.
“Detective Carbajal has to leave now,” Joanna explained. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Okay,” Dee said. “I’m happy to tell you whatever you need to know. I want to help, but I’ll have to leave soon, too, so I can make arrangements about the show.”
As Jaime hurried out the front door, Dave Hollicker appeared from behind one of the screens lugging two heavy bags. Joanna took Dee ’s elbow, helped her off the stool, and escorted her outside.
“It might be better if we talk out here,” Joanna said, taking her own notebook out of her purse. “Now tell me, Ms. Canfield, how long have you known Rochelle Baxter?”
“Five months or so,” Dee answered. “As I said, Bobo Jenkins met her first – I’m not sure how – and he introduced us. He knew I was getting ready to open the gallery. He thought Shelley and I would hit it off. Which we did, of course. She was such a nice person, for an ex-Marine, that is. I’m more into peace and love,” Dee added with a self-deprecating smile. “But then, by the time Shelley made it to Bisbee, so was she – into peace and love, I mean.”
“Where did she come from?”
Dee Canfield frowned. “This may sound strange, but I’m not sure. The way she talked about being glad to be out of the rain, it could have been somewhere in the Northwest, but she never did say for certain. I asked her once or twice, but she didn’t like to talk about it, so I just let it be. I had the feeling that she had walked away from some kind of bad news – probably a creep of an ex-husband – but I didn’t press her. I figured she’d get around to telling me one of these days, if she wanted to, that is.” Dee frowned. “Now that I think about it, maybe she has,” she added thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
Dee countered with a question of her own. “What do you know about art?”
“Not much,” Joanna admitted. “I had to take the humanities course at the university, but that’s about all.”
“Remember that old saw about writers writing about what they know?”
Joanna nodded.
“The same thing goes for artists,” Dee continued. “They paint what they know. Shelley painted portraits. Her subjects glow with the kind of intensity that only comes from the inside out – from the inside of the subject and of the painter as well. The titles are all perfectly innocuous – The Carver, The Pastor and the Lamb, Homecoming – and yet they’re all painted with the kind of longing that puts a lump in your throat. Shelley was painting far more than what she saw. She was also painting what she wanted – a time and place and people she wanted to go back to, but couldn’t. Does that make any sense?”