Peril in Silver Nightshade: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 4)

by Lakota Grace

  His obnoxious duck-walk—heels in, toes out—brought him within earshot.

  “Well Peg Quincy, as I live and breathe. I wondered what happened to you when the Mingus Station closed, and here you are.”

  I ignored his condescending tone. “The deceased is Andy Fisher, a volunteer here at the park.”

  “And you know this how? You didn't move the body to check ID, did you? And where's the barrier tape?”

  Grady mutely handed me the big yellow roll along with my car keys.

  “Never mind,” Chas said. “The professionals will handle this now. Those the witnesses? You took any statements yet?”

  I was ready to slug him.

  “Let Chas do his work here.” Rory grabbed my arm. “You and I, let's go talk to some of these nice people.”

  My cheeks blushed in rage, a casualty of my red-haired ancestry. I shook off Rory's cautioning hand. Then I breathed out. Chas was right. I didn't belong here. I wasn't a cop anymore, at least not in the regular sense of the word. I whirled and followed Rory.

  He helped me wind the barrier tape around the chaparral. Then we spent the next half hour interviewing people in the glare of the Arizona sunshine. The witness statements were inconclusive. Nobody had seen anything or anyone unusual here in the meadow, other than the dead man's body.

  When the cop with the crime scene book arrived, Rory and I signed out and walked up to the Red Rock State Park headquarters office. The circular red brick building held a small gift shop, and behind a half-door, the general communications room. Grady was on lunch break and she pushed a bag of lime potato chips my direction. I grabbed a couple.

  “Anybody see what happened?” she asked.

  “Nada,” I said.

  “Not surprised. Andy sometimes rides—rode—his bike in before the park opened to get an early start. A thankless task. Those weeds grow back faster than we can pull them. But it suited Andy fine. He was meticulous and patient—most of the time.”

  I wondered about her statement, thinking of the syringe I’d found.

  “He show any signs of ill health?”

  “Andy seemed physically okay,” Grady said, “but he did suffer from depression sometimes. His wife told me that at the recognition picnic we held for the volunteers. Oh! That reminds me. Here's her phone number and address.”

  The death notification to the widow was next. I snagged the paper and turned to Rory.

  “Time to head out?”

  I kept my tone light, but inside, I dreaded the task facing us. Once more, I would watch grief and anguish crush a family member receiving unwanted news. My job as a FLO was to help, but I ended up helpless instead, unable to ease the pain I caused.

  And we needed to reach the widow before others did. Already, the chop-chop of a TV helicopter reverberated in the distance.

  A Free Breakfast

  ~ 3 ~

  Silver

  A half-block from the railway station, Silver ducked into an alley and dumped most the clothes from the suitcase she had stolen to make room for her daypack and the brown wig she’d been wearing. She tucked the white hair she’d been born with into a watch cap. Sometimes she dyed it raspberry or neon green, but not when she was on a mission, like now.

  Then she walked out on the street once more and turned the corner, lugging the heavy case. Silver had focused on the expensive brand, not the fact that it was old when she marked it for theft. The case had no luggage wheels, which slowed her down. She’d not make that mistake again.

  At the end of the block, a neon sign blinked tiredly, advertising an all-night restaurant. Silver entered and ordered a cup of coffee, black. What little money she had left she intended to save for the private investigator. And that meant she needed a free ride to the Verde Valley.

  She sipped her coffee, evaluating potential marks. A pudgy gray-haired woman nibbled on a hefty stack of pancakes while reading the entertainment section of the Arizona Republic. She’d do.

  “May I join you?”

  The woman looked up and her gaze softened. “You look lost.”

  Silver gave her a practiced lonely-waif-alone-in-the-world expression as she scooted into the seat and plunked the heavy case next to her. Then she switched to her Brave-Orphan-Annie expression, one of her best.

  “My purse got swiped as I left the train minutes ago.”

  “Oh, no! Did you call the cops?”

  “Of course! But they just took my statement and left. I don't even have my cell phone to let my uncle and aunt know I've arrived. I was going to take the shuttle to their home near Sedona. Can I borrow your phone? I'll repay you whatever the long distance charges are, as soon as I can.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment and then handed it over.

  Silver listened to the ringing at her crash pad in West Covina, LA’s finest suburb. The guy she had ditched there wouldn't answer this time of morning—he never budged until noon.

  She looked at the phone with disappointment, holding it out so the tone was audible to the woman sitting across from her.

  “No, no answer. Maybe they are sleeping in. It's their 50th wedding anniversary today. There's going to be a huge celebration, and now I'll miss it.”

  Silver squeezed out a small tear and brushed it away gently.

  “There, there, don't cry.” The woman patted Silver's arm with one plump bejeweled hand. “You've got to be the age of my granddaughter.” She peered at Silver through her bifocals. “About 16, am I right?”

  “I’m 18, actually, but I look younger.” She lowered her head, her lashes modest and downturned.

  The woman glanced again at the expensive, purloined suitcase.

  Silver held her body still, waiting. Would the fish bite?

  The woman leaned forward, her mouth pursed in concern.

  “And I bet you haven't had any breakfast yet, either, have you, dear? Here.” She pushed a menu Silver’s direction. “My treat.”

  Silver’s stomach growled at the pictures of food marching across the slick plastic page. Ah, food at last! She ordered the house special: three eggs, bacon, and sausage. She glanced at her companion’s meal and matching it, added a stack of pancakes and an orange juice, too.

  “That’s right, eat up,” the lady said, approvingly, peering at Silver as if she were a starving kitten.

  In between bites, she parried the woman’s questions, giving a complete her life history as payment for the large meal. How her mother lived in Los Angeles (she didn't), how Silver was on spring break from Pomona College (she wasn't), where she majored in—she looked at the woman appraisingly—Home Ec (most definitely not.)

  After the breakfast buy-in, Silver cajoled her into a ride through Oak Creek Canyon to Sedona and from there to the Village of Oak Creek, VOC, the woman called it, ten miles beyond.

  She kept up a small line of patter during the drive, exclaiming over the red rocks, and the swiftly flowing water in the creek beside the twisting mountain road.

  When they reached VOC, Silver hefted the heavy suitcase from the car trunk. The woman held out her hand for a leave-taking shake, but on instinct, Silver leaned in and gave her an enthusiastic hug instead. Always go for max physical contact at leave-taking.

  “I can't thank you enough,” she gushed. “Please, let me have your address and I'll send you gas money for my ride as soon as my purse is recovered.”

  Always offer to pay.

  “Nonsense, Dear. Have a good time at the celebration.”

  The woman pushed a twenty into Silver's hand.

  One Jackson bill toward her goal, many more to go. Silver disappeared into Wendy's, ostensibly to call her aunt and uncle and wait for them to pick her up.

  Once the lady had driven off, Silver hauled the suitcase into the restroom. After using the facilities, she retrieved her daypack from the case, then closed the case and wedged it by the commode.

  When she exited the restroom, she flicked the thumb-lock. She tried the restroom door handle once to be sure that no one could ente
r. An attendant would have to unlock the door, not a casual thief. The case would eventually make its way back to the original owner. Or not. Silver had done her part.

  Ahead of schedule—the appointment with the private investigator wasn't until later—she had plenty of time to scrounge more cash for his fee. Silver lifted her head, breathing in the high desert air.

  Death Notification

  ~ 4 ~

  Pegasus

  Rory and I took two cars to make the death notification to Andy Fisher’s widow. From the park entrance, we turned onto Lower Loop Road and followed it to Elmerville, the small settlement founded by James Elmer and his wife Jesse in the 1920s.

  The Fisher home was a modest brick house surrounded by a rusty chain-link fence. An intermittent flash of creek water defined the back edge of the yard. When we parked the cars and walked up, a Border collie whipped circles around us, tail waving.

  “Hey now! We got guests,” said a young woman hanging sheets on a clothesline.

  The dog gave one last exploratory woof and dropped in the shade of a big cottonwood tree. With its heavy coat, the animal was taking no chances with the warm day. Though it was early spring, our desert temperatures could swing forty degrees in a day.

  Beatrix Fisher was in her early thirties, thin, with unruly brown hair that she had corralled into a rough ponytail. She drew big sunglasses from the neck of her T-shirt and settled them on her nose as we approached.

  “What brings you out our way, officers?”

  “I’m Rory Stevens and this is my partner, Peg Quincy. Are you Beatrix Fisher?”

  Standing behind Rory, I watched my partner’s neck stiffen. Rory hated emotion, and death notifications were all about feelings.

  When I’d asked him before, he’d mumbled, “panic attacks,” but never followed up on my suggestion to get counseling. I guess former SEALs were above an admission of weakness. Good thing I was here to make the announcement ritual easier.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said. “My husband Andy's not here right now. I expect him any minute for lunch.”

  Her voice held a question. I knew what was coming and my own stomach clenched.

  “That's why we're here,” I said, taking the lead. “Mrs. Fisher, might we come into the house for a moment?” I wanted her inside to give the death notice in a controlled environment.

  The young woman placed an unused wooden clothespin on the line and turned toward us. Her movements were stiff and deliberate as though she had a sense of what was coming.

  She removed her sunglasses in a hasty manner, revealing an ugly purple-and-yellow bruising below her eye. If we asked her, she'd probably say she'd run into a door. I'd seen that defense before in my role as Family Liaison Officer when I investigated domestic abuse calls.

  “Follow me, then,” she said, opening the front screen door.

  The living room was thrift-store modest, with a worn leather couch covered with a faded afghan. A breakfast bar separated it from a small galley kitchen.

  “You'll have to excuse the mess,” Beatrix said, re-stacking magazines on a side table. “Andy always wants things neat, but I've been sick. Hot weather we've been having. The fruit trees are blooming too early. They'll freeze sure when the cold returns. Too soon for winter to be over. Can I bring you some coffee?”

  Her speech was rapid-fire, high-pitched with stress.

  “Mrs. Fisher,” Rory blurted out, “your husband was found dead at the scene in Red Rock State Park. I'm very sorry for your loss.” He jammed the words together, perhaps hoping to get the death notice finished in a hurry.

  No, Rory! Consider who you’re talking to . This woman’s husband had died, and Rory was treating the notice as if it were a public service announcement.

  Beatrix Fisher braced like a tree caught in a wind gust and started to topple. I grabbed her arm and guided her to a nearby chair.

  “Take it easy, now,” I said. “Let me get you some water.”

  I went into the small kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it. Then I snatched a box of tissues and headed back into the living room. I set the water on a side table, pulled a few tissues and put them in her lap.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. She ducked her head and started to cry. Part of me joined with her sorrow as her grief filled the room. That’s what made me a good FLO, I suppose.

  But another part watched her reaction: was she surprised? Acting? Resilient? The ability to stand back and observe also made me a good cop.

  Sometimes this observer-side bothered me, but not now. Another person was in the room, and there, no distancing was possible for me. Rory was having problems.

  Flop sweat stood out on my friend’s forehead and he cracked his knuckles. Rory must hate this. I didn’t like it, either. And practice didn’t make it easier.

  Finally, Beatrix Fisher regained control of her crying with a small shake of her head.

  Her chin firmed. “Tell me what happened.”

  Resilient, then. That bode well for her recovery. Unless she was the one who had killed him. And then, perhaps, no recovery was possible.

  “We're not sure, ma'am,” Rory began. “We were hoping you could help us out here. Where were you between midnight and four last night?”

  Rory was just guessing. We didn’t have a clue when the man died, but it was a start.

  “Call me Beatrix. Andy and I had an awful argument. The neighbors called the cops. When they came, I assured them nothing was wrong, and they believed me. Afterward, my husband took the truck out for a drive, said he needed to think. When I got up this morning, he wasn’t here. I thought he’d left for work early.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  “What we always do.” She laughed bitterly. “His father, of course. That mean skinflint.”

  I leaned closer. “Tell me more.”

  “The all-important Mr. Henry Fisher.” Her voice tightened in scorn. “Now that he has that precious new baby, he says Andy wasn't his real son, ever. So Andy pulls weeds at that god-forsaken park instead of finding a real job. I've got fibro, can't work.”

  Fibromyalgia. Only now receiving the recognition it deserved. Too often it had been relegated to the “women’s hysteria” category, ignoring its real symptoms of depression and fatigue.

  “Here we sit with mortgage payments.” Beatrix hiccupped. “And that old man squats in his McMansion on the hill with his girl-wife. Do you know she's younger than Andy?” Her face contorted in an ugly grimace.

  “I told Andy I'd had it. He either confronted his father and got what was owed him, or I was leaving. But now Andy’s left me.” Big tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  As she cried, Rory’s fingers on the couch arm clenched and the cords in his neck stood out.

  I gave him a cautionary glance. Rory might want to bolt, to flee from the strong emotion, but we needed more information. Information that Beatrix might let slip while she was so upset.

  Hang on, friend.

  “I know this is hard, Beatrix.” I waited a beat and then continued. “Due him? What do you mean?”

  “Andy was a researcher before his troubles. He invented a formula for a chemical fertilizer six times more effective than those on the market did. The corporation made millions off the patent, but Fisher never gave Andy a cent. All those millions,” she wailed.

  Beatrix stood abruptly.

  “I don't want to talk anymore. Please leave.”

  “Can I call anyone?” I asked.

  “Just go away.”

  I looked at Rory and nodded my head. We'd be back if need be. I dropped my card on the table and grabbed one of Rory’s to put next to it. Right now, I wanted to talk to the new player in this drama, the deceased man’s father. And that meant yet another death notification.

  A headache throbbed behind my left ear. It was difficult to deal with one person in distress, without having to consider my partner as well.

  We paused in the yard to reconnoiter.

  “If it would be easier,” I said,
“you don’t have to come. I'll be happy to make the formal death notice to the father.”

  There. Rory had the out if he wanted to take it.

  “If you wouldn't mind,” Rory said. Then he shook his head and stood taller.

  “No, Chas expects me to follow up, and I will. But you can tag along if you want.”

  Rats. Now I'd have to manage his emotions in addition to those of the grieving parent. If the father was grieving. Had Beatrix told the truth about the family, or was that her interpretation? Blood sometimes ran strong between fathers and sons, no matter what the cause for estrangement.

  “And another thing,” Rory said. “Chas wouldn't approve if you showed up looking like that. This Fisher guy's got money—you might want to change into better clothes.” Rory brushed red dust off my shoulder.

  I winced at his judgmental tone, so unlike him. I knew where it was coming from. Chas this, Chas that. The man was a prick, no matter that he was Rory's new partner.

  On the other hand, it would behoove me to be nice to the guy, even if it turned my stomach. I belonged back with the sheriff's department full-time so I could give up the temporary job at Red Rock State Park. It was up to me to create a need so that I could return as soon as possible. Like yesterday.

  “No problem.” I swallowed hard. “If you’ll authorize the overtime Family Liaison Officer pay, I’ll change and meet you there.”

  I felt awkward making the request for payment from a friend, but Beatrix wasn't the only person with money worries.

  We parted, agreeing to reconvene at the elder Fisher residence in about an hour. When I drove home to switch my park uniform for more formal wear, I rehearsed how I'd approach a man who had just lost his son. It wouldn't be easy for any of us: Fisher, Rory, or me.

  ***

  As I turned onto the dirt track leading to the cabin sunshine broke out from behind a cloud and my spirits lifted. I welcomed the respite from what had already been a tough day.

  When I pulled into my yard, a backhoe huffed away, digging a deep trench on the side of the cabin. Finally, the new indoor plumbing had arrived. My landlady had agreed to an inside bathroom at the cabin I rented, but the process of obtaining the necessary permits had been agonizingly slow: water rights, utility staking, building authorizations, even before we even got to the septic system permit.