than she had been writing “Bisbee Buzzings.” Naturally Marliss was far too important to do anything as courteous or convenient as leaving her telephone number on the message.
“I guess I’m supposed to know it by heart,” Joanna muttered to herself, as she made a note on the pad.
The third call was from Joanna’s most unlikely friend—Angie Kellogg, a former L.A. hooker who, with Joanna’s and Marianne Maculyea’s help, had managed to escape “the life.” Angie now lived in her own little two-bedroom house and worked as a bartender up in Brewery Gulch. The Blue Moot Saloon and Lounge was right next door to the empty lot that had once held the Plugged Nickel. Because Angie was still relatively new to town and reveling in what she saw as the “Wild West” atmosphere, Joanna made a note to remind herself to tell Angie the story about Bucky Buckwalter and the second-story horse.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Angie’s message said breathlessly. “They’ve called me for jury duty. That’s never happened to me before. It says I have to go to the courthouse three weeks from now. Is this for real? Do I have to do it? Call me.”
Joanna laughed as she made another note and erased that one. Angie had only recently succeeded in passing her driver’s-license exam for the very first time. No doubt, that had landed her in the motor-voter rolls, and on the jury-selection list as well. Given the context of Angie’s previous life, her consternation was easy to understand. And if this was a first for Angie, Joanna thought, there was a good possibility that the reverse was also true. It was distinctly possible that having an ex-hooker on a jury would be breaking new legal ground in Cochise County.
The next two calls were both hang-ups with no message. “If you don’t leave a message, I can’t call you back,” Joanna informed her anonymous callers.
The last message was from Bebe Noonan. “Mrs. Brady, I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted you to know that Dr. Wade just finished treating Tigger. He’ll be ready to come home tomorrow. Dr. Wade will be at the clinic early tomorrow morning to make arrangements either to send all remaining animals home or to transfer them to his facility down in Douglas. If you could come pick Tigger up sometime between seven and nine in the morning, we’d really appreciate it.
“Mom,” Jenny called from the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
“Taking messages and returning telephone calls,” Joanna said, pressing the erase button. “What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
Shaking her head, Joanna dialed her mother. “Hi, Mom How are you?”
“Bushed,” Eleanor said. “If you hadn’t called me back within the next ten minutes, I was going to take the phone off the hook and go to bed. They don’t call it jet lag for nothing. My body is still on East Coast time. I feel like it’s the middle of the night instead of just a little past nine.”
“Go to bed then,” Joanna said. “What’s stopping you?”
But Eleanor was already off on her own tangent. “It’s such shame they’ve had to close the hotel kitchen for the time being. It’s makes it terribly inconvenient that they’ve moved the luncheon so far out of town.”
A grease fire the week before had put the Copper Queer Hotel’s kitchen facility out of commission. The establishment was now on a month-long enforced sabbatical while work-men cleaned up the mess and spruced the place back up. One of the previously scheduled functions that had been forced to move to an alternate facility was the Cochise County Women’s Club midwinter luncheon.
“Palominas isn’t that far,” Joanna said. “And I’m sure the dining room at the Rob Roy will be more than adequate. People claim the food there is great.”
“Be that as it may,” Eleanor returned severely. “It’s still a real hardship for some people. Take Eva Lou, for example The Bradys have only the one car. Since it’s a ‘ladies only’
“I guess I’m supposed to know it by heart,” Joanna muttered to herself, as she made a note on the pad.
The third call was from Joanna’s most unlikely friend—Angie Kellogg, a former L.A. hooker who, with Joanna’s and Marianne Maculyea’s help, had managed to escape “the life.” Angie now lived in her own little two-bedroom house and worked as a bartender up in Brewery Gulch. The Blue Moot Saloon and Lounge was right next door to the empty lot that had once held the Plugged Nickel. Because Angie was still relatively new to town and reveling in what she saw as the “Wild West” atmosphere, Joanna made a note to remind herself to tell Angie the story about Bucky Buckwalter and the second-story horse.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Angie’s message said breathlessly. “They’ve called me for jury duty. That’s never happened to me before. It says I have to go to the courthouse three weeks from now. Is this for real? Do I have to do it? Call me.”
Joanna laughed as she made another note and erased that one. Angie had only recently succeeded in passing her driver’s-license exam for the very first time. No doubt, that had landed her in the motor-voter rolls, and on the jury-selection list as well. Given the context of Angie’s previous life, her consternation was easy to understand. And if this was a first for Angie, Joanna thought, there was a good possibility that the reverse was also true. It was distinctly possible that having an ex-hooker on a jury would be breaking new legal ground in Cochise County.
The next two calls were both hang-ups with no message. “If you don’t leave a message, I can’t call you back,” Joanna informed her anonymous callers.
The last message was from Bebe Noonan. “Mrs. Brady, I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted you to know that Dr. Wade just finished treating Tigger. He’ll be ready to come home tomorrow. Dr. Wade will be at the clinic early tomorrow morning to make arrangements either to send all remaining animals home or to transfer them to his facility down in Douglas. If you could come pick Tigger up sometime between seven and nine in the morning, we’d really appreciate it.
“Mom,” Jenny called from the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
“Taking messages and returning telephone calls,” Joanna said, pressing the erase button. “What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
Shaking her head, Joanna dialed her mother. “Hi, Mom How are you?”
“Bushed,” Eleanor said. “If you hadn’t called me back within the next ten minutes, I was going to take the phone off the hook and go to bed. They don’t call it jet lag for nothing. My body is still on East Coast time. I feel like it’s the middle of the night instead of just a little past nine.”
“Go to bed then,” Joanna said. “What’s stopping you?”
But Eleanor was already off on her own tangent. “It’s such shame they’ve had to close the hotel kitchen for the time being. It’s makes it terribly inconvenient that they’ve moved the luncheon so far out of town.”
A grease fire the week before had put the Copper Queer Hotel’s kitchen facility out of commission. The establishment was now on a month-long enforced sabbatical while work-men cleaned up the mess and spruced the place back up. One of the previously scheduled functions that had been forced to move to an alternate facility was the Cochise County Women’s Club midwinter luncheon.
“Palominas isn’t that far,” Joanna said. “And I’m sure the dining room at the Rob Roy will be more than adequate. People claim the food there is great.”
“Be that as it may,” Eleanor returned severely. “It’s still a real hardship for some people. Take Eva Lou, for example The Bradys have only the one car. Since it’s a ‘ladies only’
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