Minor in Possession by J. A. Jance Page A

Mr. Beaumont,” Calvin said, turning back to me, relaxing a little now that he felt he was once more in control. “If you go back to the ranch tonight, you’re welcome to stay. If you leave Ironwood Ranch without permission, however, you won’t be coming back.”
    Aggravation and mystification turned to rage. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Crenshaw,” I replied, barely holding my temper in check. “I willbe back, in the morning, along with someone from the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. If anybody goes near my cabin between now and then, you can tell them for me that they’re running the risk of becoming prime suspects in a felony investigation.”
    â€œGood night, Mr. Beaumont,” said an unperturbed Calvin Crenshaw, closing the door in my face as deliberately as if I’d been a pushy door-to-door salesman.
    I turned to Shorty. “What the hell got into him?”
    But Shorty Rojas didn’t answer. He pulled his cowboy hat down low on his forehead and turned away from me, walking quickly back toward his pickup.
    â€œSorry about that, Mr. Beaumont,” he said. “Come on. I’ll drops you in town, then I’d better get home and see what the river’s doing. It’ll be cresting pretty soon now.”
    I stopped long enough to look back at the house just in time to see the living room and kitchen lights go out. The message was clear. Calvin Crenshaw was shutting the place down and going to bed. J. P. Beaumont and his problems weren’t important enough for the Crenshaws to lose any part of their good night’s sleep.
    Deep in the interior of the house another light went off, a hall light this time, while behind me the engine of Shorty’s pickup roared to life.
    I stood there for a moment longer, angry and puzzled both. Before my very eyes, Calvin Crenshaw, the lamb, had turned into a lion. A tough-minded lion at that. I had been there, seen it happen, and yet I had no idea what had caused it. What the hell had I missed?
    It had something to do with Louise Crenshaw, Joey Rothman, and me. Of that much I was certain, but I’d be damned if I had the foggiest idea what the connection was.
    Joey Rothman wasn’t talking, so Louise Crenshaw would have to. Whether she wanted to or not.

CHAPTER
8
    W ickenburg, Arizona, a one-horse town with a non-snowbird stable population of about 4,500, is divided more or less in half by the usually dry bed of the Hassayampa River. On this dark October night, with the river half a mile wide and flowing bank to bank, the division was much more serious than usual.
    As Shorty drove us down toward the town’s single stoplight where two secondary highways intersect, it was clear there was some kind of major problem on the roadway. It looked for all the world like a big-city traffic jam, on a somewhat smaller scale than the ones we have in Seattle.
    â€œBridge must be closed,” Shorty muttered, stopping the truck and getting out.
    â€œSounds like home,” I said.
    â€œI’ll go check it out. Wanna come?”
    â€œNo thanks. I’ve had more than enough of the Hassayampa River for one day,” I told him.
    The trip downtown from Crenshaw’s house had been a conversational wasteland. Shorty Rojas hadn’t wanted to talk, and neither had I. As wedrove, however, I made up my mind that I’d get to Phoenix that night, one way or the other, and enlist the help of my attorney, Ralph Ames, in doing whatever needed doing. After all, he was the one who was ultimately responsible for my being at Ironwood Ranch in the first place. It was only fair that he help me fix the problem.
    Shorty came back to the pickup and wheeled it around in a sharp U-turn. “Water’s scouring out the bridge supports,” he said. “Probably be closed most of the night. The deputy says they’ve still got one or two rooms up at the Joshua Tree Motel over on Tegner. It’s nothing fancy,