Exit Wounds by J. A. Jance

Carol Mossman’s dogs were running loose. Believe me, there’s no love lost there.”
    “Is Wellington a possible suspect?” Joanna queried.
    “I doubt it,” Jaime answered. “She says she was scared to death of Carol Mossman’s dogs and wouldn’t go anywhere near them. She said she reported them when they showed up loose on her property and chased her horses. She claims that a couple of times she had to run into her house to get away from the dogs. I doubt she would have gone over there on her own.”
    “Maybe she would have if she’d been armed,” Joanna suggested.
    Jaime shook his head. “I’m telling you, she was scared of the dogs, and with that many of them, one gun wouldn’t have done much good. Rhonda did claim to have heard what sounded like shots. She said she was outside hanging laundry on her clothesline when she heard a whole series of pops. With the Fourth of July coming up, she decided it was kids setting off firecrackers and didn’t give it another thought. It corroborates the time, though.”
    “In other words,” Joanna said, “Rhonda Wellington is a busy-body who made a police report about loose dogs and ignored a flurry of gunshots.”
    “Exactly,” Jaime agreed. “I checked with the other neighbors. So far, no one else saw or heard anything. When I finished that, I went out to Sierra Vista and talked to Alberto Sotomeyer, who owns the Shell station where Carol Mossman worked. He says she worked a double shift two days ago—her regular shift, which was four to midnight, and then she worked graveyard as well, from midnight to eight. Sotomeyer said she had some kind of important appointment yesterday and needed to have the whole day off.”
    “Yesterday was the deadline for having her dogs vaccinated and licensed,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe she took off work so she could have that done.”
    Jaime jotted himself a note. “I’ll check around with the local vets and see if she had an appointment,” he said.
    “Has either one of you talked to Edith Mossman yet?” Joanna asked.
    Both detectives shook their heads. “Not enough time,” Ernie said. “We’ll try to get to her first thing in the morning. How come?”
    “I was just thinking about something she told me last night,” Joanna said. “She claims to have no idea where her son is.”
    “Carol’s father?” Ernie asked.
    “Right. I believe his name is Edward.”
    “That’s what you put on the information you gave us earlier. You also mentioned that Edith and the son are estranged.”
    Joanna nodded. “Her words, which she didn’t bother to mince, were something to the effect that if he were to turn up dead, she’d be ready and willing to take a leak on his grave. What I find interesting, however, is that it doesn’t sound as though she’s estranged from any of her granddaughters—from her son’s children. Maybe we should find out what that’s all about.”
    The phone rang. Frank Montoya reached around to answer it. “Conference room,” he said. A moment later he passed it over to Joanna. “It’s Tom Hadlock,” he said. “Needs to speak to you right away.”
    “What’s up?” Joanna asked.
    “The air-conditioning guys expect to have us up and running in another hour, but once they turn the switch back on, it’s going to take time to cool the place off again—a couple of hours at least. Ruby’s wondering if she should make sandwiches so the inmates can eat out in the yard.”
    Ruby Starr, a former restaurateur and chef, had been in the Cochise County Jail on a domestic-disturbance charge some three years earlier when the jail’s previous cook had absconded with that year’s supply of holiday turkeys. Ruby had been drafted directly out of her jail cell and into the kitchen. While still officially listed as one of the jail’s inmates, she had set about whipping the nearly derelict kitchen into shape. Under her supervision, sanitation had improved immeasurably, as had the quality of the food. Upon her