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

by Lakota Grace

  When I mentioned it to Grady, she shook her head.

  “Helen Frye flew over Oak Creek with her husband and fell in love with the land. She helped design and build this house, just the way she wanted it. But then the marriage fell apart. After the divorce, Helen bought a house across the creek.”

  How tragic, I thought. To gaze on a dream house she’d created every day, but never lived in. Life wasn’t fair sometimes. It hadn’t been fair for Andy Fisher, either, nor for Beatrix his widow, I reminded myself.

  “Grady, where are you?” The walkie-talkie on her belt exploded into staticky communication. It was the ranger at the main headquarters.

  “Up at HAP. What you need?”

  “We got a buncha kids swimming in the creek where they don’t belong. The volunteer said he told them to leave. They started giving him lip, and he backed off.”

  “I better go check on it.” Grady turned to me. “You done here?”

  “Uh, no, not really. I want to look around a little more.”

  Grady couldn’t be two places at once, here and there. I planted my feet firmly, hoping just this once she’d yield.

  “Guess I can trust you,” she said. “Not much to steal here anyway. Lock up when you leave.”

  She handed me the keys. Her footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floors and the heavy front door closed behind her.

  Dim sunlight streamed through the windows, but from the outside, their tinting acted as blinding mirrors. It was as though the house was declaring: keep away, nothing here for you. I wondered if that same message was directed toward me.

  But there’d been another visitor here according to Henry Fisher. Time to explore this House of Apache Fires and see for myself. The kitchen counters were covered with 1950s Formica, the floors distressed by water damage from the collapsed roof above. The ceiling held ugly moisture stains, but the room was immense, with a huge pantry just beyond, doors hanging open from empty cabinets. I felt saddened at so much beauty abandoned and in distress.

  I returned to the living room, my footsteps echoing on hollows beneath the warped parquet floor. The room had no furniture but was dominated by a massive fireplace. Helen Frye had designed a multi-purpose unit, with the wood-heating opening in the winter transforming into a water-fountain in the summer. The rockwork on the front of the fireplace picked out an elaborate design.

  The fashionable heiress who had once been married to a Vanderbilt was an artist. What a waste that in her era, women were only accessories to their successful husbands' careers.

  From the living room, I passed into what had been a den, with an alcove for a wet bar. It, too, had wooden floors marred with dirt and scatterings of rat droppings, the only tenants for sixty years. The room walls held a mildewy smell from snowmelt that had sifted through the ceiling during the winter months.

  Somewhere within the walls a rodent scrabbled and squeaked. I’m not one of those people afraid of mice, but some carried the deadly Hantavirus here in the southwest, not to be messed with.

  Beyond the den, a stairway led upwards. Would the deteriorating steps hold my weight? I didn't want to break a leg trying. On the other hand, I'd discovered nothing yet, and I needed something to report back to Beatrix Fisher to make this whole trip worthwhile.

  The old wood flexed under my steps, and I cautiously tested each stair. The stairway ended on a sunlit landing, with the master bedroom beyond.

  For years, Helen fell asleep to the gentle rocking of airplane engines as she accompanied her husband in slow-moving DC3s crisscrossing the country. So here at the House of Apache Fires, she designed a bed that hung from the ceiling on chains, swaying gently in the cross breezes from opened windows.

  I touched the rusting chains and then crossed the room and went through a side door. It led to an outside deck above the creek. The sunlight blinded me after the dim interior and my eyes took a moment to adjust.

  Then I saw it. Someone had been here! An old wicker chair sat against the barrier wall, with a makeshift ashtray next to it. No butts. I picked the dish up and smelled. Marijuana. Legal for medicinal purposes, now, in Arizona, but illegal still for recreation. Vets used it, claimed it helped with PTSD. Had Andy been up here, too?

  I looked over the low pony wall toward the park. The meadow where Andy and his father argued was clearly visible. So perhaps Henry Fisher had been telling the truth.

  My toe stubbed against something. A blue stone chip. I picked it up and examined it more closely. Where had I seen this color blue before? Andy's knife! And also the one that Wolf Brandeis had showed me, I remembered uncomfortably.

  Had either been missing a chip? I couldn't remember. I'd been distracted in both situations, both Andy’s death investigation and the meeting with Wolf, but that was no excuse. I needed to be more aware.

  If it was from Andy's knife, that meant he'd been here. And if it were from Wolf's, he might have witnessed the argument. If so, why hadn't he mentioned it to me? I shoved the chip in my pocket and then sat in the old wicker chair. It creaked under my weight but held.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on my face, thinking about the troubling nature of relationships—both Helen Frye’s and mine. If I was honest, I liked the promise of Wolf Brandeis in my life. He could be both gentle and kind.

  In my daydreams, he'd hang around after his crew left in the evening and do small things for me, things that I could do myself and was glad I didn't have to. We’d go for long walks and sit reading together. Did Wolf read? Hmm, I canceled that part of my fantasy. Not everyone liked to read as I did. But he might be skillful in other areas.

  And yet, there was a dark side to Wolf Brandeis as well. He’d go quiet for no apparent reason, staring off into space. And if this wild creature who had entered my life without warning and decided to stay for a spell, what if he was mixed up in the death of Andy Fisher? I refused to consider that.

  The sunlight began to thin on the hills that surrounded the mansion, a prelude to the sunset that soon would be arriving. For now, I needed to return to my own home, leaving Helen Frye and the other ghosts to watch over this house. Reckless waited for me. I was loved, at least, by my dog.

  I descended the rickety stairs, closed and locked the oaken front door of the Frye mansion and did the same for the big padlock on the gate outside. I stuck the keys in my pocket, feeling the rough blue chip still resting there.

  I’d turn the chip over to Rory Stevens for his investigation, but not before I quizzed Wolf Brandeis regarding how it got in the House of Apache Fires. And I’d return the keys to Grady, soon. But not before I untangled what the house was whispering to me.

  As I hiked back to my car, my cell phone coverage beeped into service. I had two texts waiting for me. The first was from Silver Delaney demanding an accounting of progress.

  “I'm paying you good money and I want to meet my mother,” her message said.

  Although pushy, it was fair. Unfortunately, she wasn't going to buy that “test-tube baby” answer that Manresa had given me. Silver would demand her money back and my rent payment would vanish. Maybe I could put her off. Like forever.

  The second text was from Beatrix Fisher. She wanted to know what was happening in my investigation of Andy's death.

  “I know it's not a suicide!” her text read.

  I wasn't so sure. I disliked Henry Fisher, but his explanation seemed reasonable. And there had been evidence of a witness at the House of Apache Fires. I just didn't know who had been up there.

  That Wolf was involved meant I might be playing patty-cake with the enemy. I didn't want to put him in that category, not yet. But I wasn't ready to let the investigation drop. Andy's childhood reminded me too much of my own. I needed to discover what made this guy take the final step if it were suicide and not murder.

  I dialed the number for Beatrix, but there was no answer. I left a brief message, saying I’d meet her whenever she liked.

  My heart lifted as I drove back to my cabin below the mining tow
n of Mingus; a backhoe operator might be there to cheer up my evening. But my driveway was empty.

  After a quick supper, I went to bed alone. I tossed and turned for a while in the moonlight until Reckless’s indignant tail-whump at my feet quieted me. Then I drifted into a deep slumber, broken at two a.m. by a phone call from Rory Stevens.

  “Burglary at the Henry Fisher place,” he said. “Shots fired. Meet you there.”

  Burglary Gone Bad

  ~ 17 ~

  Rory

  Rory had been at the coffee shop when the dispatch call came in. He surveyed the room one last time, slurping the dregs of his espresso. Still no sign of Silver Delaney. It was crazy to sit here, waiting for a chimera to appear. But he’d let her out of his Hummer here, right here in front of the coffee shop, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  He’d tossed money on the table for a tip and exited, his fingers dialing Peg Quincy’s number as he ran to his car. A burglary call wasn’t exactly a FLO assignment, but Peg sounded desperate when they'd last talked. Some extra work wouldn’t hurt; he’d make sure Chas didn’t know about it.

  Too bad Chas was away at a conference. He said he’d return next week. That gave Rory a free rein which was fine with him. Maybe this call would turn into something real, unlike the Andy Fisher suicide.

  Rory buzzed down the window, relishing the bite of the cold spring air. He felt revved, ready for action. He’d realized that, up on Bell Rock the other day. Rescue work and danger shot the adrenaline through his veins, unlike the office paperwork which was never Rory's strong suit. Let somebody like Chas Doon handle that stuff.

  A police car with blue-red flashers illuminated the outside pinons and mesquite trees, still ghostly without their late spring growth. Rory pulled into the Fisher residence and signed the check-in book.

  At the entrance, he paused, grabbed his phone and texted an abrupt message to Peg. She better get here soon, or he'd call another liaison officer.

  At that moment Peg's Jetta pulled up behind his Hummer. Peg appeared disheveled and sleepy. Did he interrupt her beauty sleep? Too bad. Work came first. Work always came first.

  “About time,” he hissed as she hurried up the steps.

  He rushed her into the house where they were motioned into the living room by the attending officer. The wife. What was her name? Robbyn, that was it—shrunk into the leather sofa, a huge box of Kleenex beside her. As they entered the room, she pulled a stack out and piled them on her lap.

  Rory stiffened at the sight of her distress.

  “It's Henry. Henry, my husband. He's d-d-d-dead.”

  Robbyn’s hair was in disarray, but her powder-blue negligee was carefully arrayed to show off a generous cleavage and those tanned legs. Easier to focus on that than the crying. Always the crying. Rory brought his mind back to the business at hand.

  “Mrs. Fisher, why don't you tell us what happened.”

  She blew her nose one last time.

  “I had a late date; I mean an appointment with my trainer at the gym. I was so stressed, but he was able to fit me in. Little Henry, Jr., is staying with my mother this weekend.”

  Convenient. From the hesitation in her voice, Rory wondered if there was something going on with the trainer. Older husband, bored young trophy wife. Could be.

  “Go on,” he said. “Peg? You taking notes?”

  He was gratified to see her notebook jerk out.

  “Well I came home and the front door wasn't locked. I always lock it. And then I called for Henry. He didn’t answer, so I went up to bed.”

  “You always do that?”

  “Henry and I sleep in separate bedrooms. He snores—snored.” The past tense brought on the tears again.

  Rory shot a glance at Peg, sitting there watching the conversation. Help me out here, Peg.

  But Peg remained silent, her attention focused on the crying woman.

  Mrs. Fisher composed herself and started again.

  “It had to be after one o'clock when I woke. The heater kept clicking off and on, and I thought there might be an open window in Henry's room. He likes fresh air, and it totally ruins the heating system. I went in to check on him, and found him, like that, in his bed. That's when I called 911.”

  “Dead, how?”

  Rory was blunt. Sometimes you could shock a witness into revealing more than they wanted, taking that route. At least Chas said so.

  “Well, there was a big hole in his forehead and blood everywhere. I didn't—I couldn't—touch him, so I backed out of the room.”

  She hid her face in her hands, shoulders quaking.

  “You think it was burglary—anything missing?” he asked, interrupting her tears.

  She looked up and wiped at her eyes. Watch it, Rory cautioned himself. Don't lead the witness.

  “Henry had this old silver money clip. He always kept it on the bed stand next to him. And his 45 revolver was gone from the drawer where he stores it.”

  “Anything out of place in the house?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not my jewelry. I checked that first thing.”

  Rory waited to see if she’d add more. After the initial flood of tears, she seemed to be taking it well. Too well, in fact. Convenient that she was absent while the burglary happened. He'd check her alibi with the trainer after the coroner fixed the time of death.

  “Mrs. Fisher, you stay with Peg here. I want to examine the bedroom.”

  He squelched a feeling of relief as he left the room. Let Peg take care of the weeping widow—that was her job. He'd move on to more important things.

  In the upstairs bedroom, the forensic crew was completing its work. The body lay on the bed, an ugly red stain spreading across the pillows. Rory had seen death before, but when he did underwater recovery the dead bodies were bloated corpses, drowned in sudden desert cloudbursts or floating in marshes. This was his first dry-land victim.

  In death, the man lost his humanity, transformed into an odd heap of bones in dark silk pajamas, the life energy in those fierce blue eyes stilled forever. Rory slipped on a pair of latex gloves and touched the man's neck.

  The head moved easily from side to side. Rigor mortis had not set in yet, which meant a period of two to six hours since death. The medical examiner could fix it more exactly.

  It looked as though the man had been caught unawares. Which could indicate premeditation rather than a burglary gone bad. At the same time, the window was open. An overturned chair lay next to it.

  Rory's attention turned to the nightstand. No money clip. The wife was right about that. He opened the drawer. No pistol either. What was the world coming to, when a man could get shot in his own bedroom, perhaps even with his own gun?

  Better check the wife's hands for gunshot residue, GSR. If she'd washed them or changed her clothes before they arrived that would be inconclusive. Still, it was important to be thorough.

  Rory stood in the center of the room, stilling his mind to sense what happened. Shepherd Malone had taught him to do that. Funny. He'd learned more following that old dinosaur around than he ever had listening to by-the-rule-book Chas Doon. Maybe he'd have to look up Shepherd, find out how that detective business was going.

  Rory took one last look around the room. Nothing obvious leaped out at him. Let the forensic experts do their thing. It still didn't seem like burglary. It had the wrong feel.

  He'd start doing the background investigation: check the guy’s financial records, interview anyone else that had been in the house earlier in the day.

  Motive, means, opportunity: the murder formula.

  The method for this murder was clear. One dead guy with a bullet hole in his forehead. And opportunity? The house was in a quiet neighborhood where many of the surrounding houses were second vacation homes. No one to hear a commotion.

  In fact, the glamorous Ms. Robbyn could have done it herself. Their kid was away. No evidence of staff, which was unusual in a house this big. Rory pulled out his notebook and made a note
.

  What about the guy himself? Was it a suicide? If so, where was the weapon? He ticked off the details. The scene almost looked staged. Better do a GSR on the old guy, too, and check for outstanding insurance policies and their suicide clauses.

  Peg waited for him in the living room.

  “Robbyn was getting hysterical. I sent her to her bedroom with the instructions to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Her mother is driving up from Scottsdale; she should be here soon.”

  She held up a finger. “And, I tested Robbyn for GSR. The bagged cotton swabs are on their way to the forensics’ lab.”

  Peg, as usual, had taken things into her own hands, without waiting for his direction. This was his case, dammit.

  “Want to gather in breakfast after the coroner declares the death? I can fill you in on what I learned.” She smiled at him.

  Rory felt his irritation melt away. Whatever helped break this case helped him. He needed what Peg had discovered to impress Chas.

  ***

  In the pre-dawn hour, the parking lot was deserted as Rory pulled into the E.T. Encounter Diner in West Sedona.

  It used to be called the Red Planet Diner and had Sedona's most impressive rose garden. The interior decoration was fifties retro: Lots of chrome and red vinyl booths. An immense spacecraft hung from a metallic ceiling.

  The waiter, a young man with more tattoos than muscles, was dressed in baggy pants and a T-shirt featuring an alien landing. He held up his hand as they entered.

  “Sorry, we're not open yet.”

  Then he looked past Rory to his companion and enveloped her in a big hug.

  “Peg! What are you doing here this time of night?”

  “Jimmie, this is my partner in crime, Rory Stevens. How you doing, now that you're out? Paying attention to that parole officer?”

  “Always. I appreciate your help landing this job. What can I get you? On the house,” the waiter said expansively.