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

by Lakota Grace

  The medical examiner had indicated one gunshot at close range. The forensics tech confirmed it was a forty-five.

  “As in an old-fashioned six-shooter?” Rory asked.

  “Yes, that would do it. Get the gun and we can examine the exact rifling. The slug was flattened though. The guy must have had a hard head.”

  “According to his wife,” Rory commented dryly.

  “Any other slugs?”

  “We haven't found any.”

  Beads of nervous sweat formed on Rory's forehead. Had he asked the investigating team to look for other bullets? Maybe he needed to recheck the room. No need to tell Chas about the slip-up. Rory would cover it before he returned. No problem.

  ***

  When he arrived at the Fisher residence later that afternoon, Robbyn’s eyes were still red, and her hand shook when she greeted him.

  “I'm s-s-sorry,” she said. “I’ve been sleeping badly I took one of Henry's sedatives, and I just woke up a few minutes ago.”

  She seemed smaller than when he had met her the night of the break-in. Rory shifted nervously from foot to foot. Better get on with it.

  “Might I re-examine your husband’s bedroom? Something else we want to check. Then we can talk.”

  She led him silently to the master bedroom and opened the door.

  “I haven't been able to go in here yet. I suppose I should have somebody clean it.” She clutched at his arm. “Nobody can get in the house, can they? The lock is secure?”

  “I'll look at it for you before I leave,” Rory assured her. Big man, little lady.

  She stood in the bedroom doorway, uncertain, and Rory waved her off.

  “Go have a cup of coffee or something. This won't take long.”

  When she left, Rory centered himself in the room. The forensic team had stripped the sheets, but the mattress still wore an ugly brownish stain. Flat surfaces of the furniture were smudged with dark fingerprint powder.

  Rory moved to the window, now closed, to view the murder scene from that angle. If there'd been a break-in and shots were fired, the shooter stood facing the bed. The shot to the head killed the old man. But if the shooter had a nervous hand, additional bullets could have landed anywhere.

  Rory rotated clockwise to each compass quadrant: north, east, south, west. Then he began the search, methodically examining each wall, starting behind the bedstead. He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and shone it parallel, looking for any reflection or indentations.

  The third wall yielded results. At the edge of an elaborate picture frame, a small dimple appeared in the plaster. If the shot had gone a fraction of an inch to the left, the glass in the frame would have shattered. Rory pulled out his penknife, dug out the slug, and dropped it into an evidence envelope. A further search of the rest of the walls found no additional slugs.

  Rory settled back on his heels, thinking. If the old man had been startled by a burglar, perhaps he fired wildly, in self-defense. The burglar may have wrestled the gun from his hand and made the fatal shot at close range. Which would mean a stranger, or an amateur, making too much noise.

  Or, the old man may have been killed while he slept by someone he knew, or by a professional hired to make a hit. The pro could have used the weapon of convenience, the old man’s gun, and then taken it with him as a guard against detection.

  All scenarios were possible. With the hired help gone and Robbyn out cold with a sleeping pill, there was no one to hear the noise.

  Rory sighed. All the police could do in a murder case was gather the evidence. If they were lucky, the blurred image would sharpen into an identifiable picture. If not, the case went into the cold case file, a mark against the investigating officer. That would be him.

  Rory was determined that wouldn’t happen. If it did, the murder of Henry Fisher became one of the cold cases that Shepherd Malone had always been so fond of digging into. Damn! He missed the old man who had been his mentor.

  Rory felt lost at times, wanting to impress Chas Doon on this first murder case and apprehensive that he'd miss something important. Maybe he'd pay a visit to Shepherd, see how he was doing. In a casual manner, he could ask his advice on this case.

  Robbyn was waiting for him when he came downstairs.

  “Henry always used to bring me my coffee in bed each morning. We were so happy, and now this.”

  She pulled an embroidered hanky out of her pocket and dabbed at the corner of her eye, careful of her makeup. “I could fix you some if you like.”

  “If it's not too much trouble.”

  Rory settled on the sofa. The floor-to-ceiling prow window framed the rock formations, their tops shadowed with early morning mist.

  “Love this view you have here,” Rory said.

  Did that sound too casual, given the circumstances? He opened his mouth to say something more profound, when Robbyn joined him.

  She handed him the steaming coffee and then sat on the sofa next to him, crossing delicate legs and leaning forward. She emanated a whiff of expensive perfume.

  Rory leaned forward as well and then drew back into an upright position when he realized what he'd been doing. Watch it, Stevens. Robbyn was a potential suspect as well as a beautiful, seductive woman. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

  “Did you find anything?” Robbyn asked.

  “Another bullet, lodged in the wall.”

  “I warned Henry not to keep that revolver in the nightstand. He was unsteady on his feet. I always thought he'd shoot himself someday.”

  “Did you know how to handle the gun?”

  She stiffened.

  “Why do you ask that? Of course not. I hate guns! Especially that one. He kept it loaded. With Henry, Jr., in the house.”

  Her protests about not knowing how to shoot rang false. Any firing ranges close where she could get experience with the old 45? He'd check.

  “Who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

  Robbyn sighed. “You may have heard that Henry could be—” she searched for the word, “—difficult. He and his stepson had words. Something about patent rights. But Henry told me not to worry, that he'd handle it.”

  And the son, Andy Fisher, was dead, officially ruled a suicide by Chas Doon. Before the old man was killed. Which means the son wasn't a suspect. But Andy's wife?

  “Any dealings with Beatrix Fisher?” he asked.

  Robbyn sniffed. “That bitch.” Then she gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry. That wasn't a very ladylike thing to say. But she wrote this nasty note and put it under my windshield wiper one day when I was at the grocery store. And then waited for me to find it. I was putting poor little Henry in his car seat when she accosted me. Yelling! Right in my face! I left in a hurry, I can tell you.”

  Interesting.

  “You still have the note?”

  “No, I shredded it into a million pieces and threw it away. It claimed that Henry was being horrible to Andy. She lied. My husband was a perfect gentleman. So why would she say something like that?

  So add Beatrix Fisher to the suspect list.

  “Did Henry have any money problems?”

  Robbyn shifted nervously, and her little-girl demeanor disappeared.

  “I have no idea what Henry's investments were,” she said coldly. “You'd have to ask our accountant.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “I suppose. Henry always said little Henry, Jr., and I would be well taken care of.”

  Her voice turned frosty at the mention of money, and Rory made a mental note. Did the old man hold out on her? Financial problems sometimes led to drastic solutions.

  “I’ll need the number of the accountant,” Rory said.

  Robbyn walked over to a pink Gucci purse resting on a side table and withdrew a leather booklet, also pink. She donned a pair of reading glasses and squinted at the book. Then she ran one well-manicured fingernail down the page and read the information to Rory.

  She dropped the booklet in her purse and snapped it closed. “It
’s been nice talking to you, but I'm due for my appointment with my masseuse.”

  “But stay close. We may have other questions.”

  “As if I’d go anywhere. This is my home.”

  She gave a flamboyant gesture as if inviting him to appreciate the surrounding riches that he, on a cop's salary, could never afford to buy.

  Rory shrugged his shoulders as he left the house. The widow was holding something back. He’d have to sound it out with Peg, next time they got together.

  Wigs and Sequins

  ~ 20 ~

  Silver

  Once inside the big box store, Silver used a familiar strategy to gain materials she needed for the quick disguise. First, she created a disturbance in the women’s accessory section by knocking over an end cap of hair accessories. She waited until a clerk arrived.

  “People can be so inconsiderate,” she said, pointing to a departing woman who had an infant carrier balanced in the shopping cart and a toddler lagging behind her.

  The clerk gave the young mother a dirty look.

  “It took me hours to arrange that display,” she grumbled.

  “Here, let me help you,” Silver said.

  With her back to the clerk, she slipped a long blond wig into her daypack with a smooth motion, then picked up two more and replaced them on the end cap.

  “I’ve worked retail before. It can be so frustrating.”

  Silver carefully re-stacked one last hairpiece and gave the clerk her just-between-us-hard-working-girls look.

  “Don’t you know it,” the clerk agreed. “Thanks!”

  “No problem,” Silver said cheerfully. “Can you tell me where the restroom is?”

  In the restroom, Silver checked where the surveillance cameras were— the same spot as always—and moved to a location just out of their reach.

  First, she wrapped her white hair close to her head and then, after a visual inspection for cooties—no telling how many people had tried it on—pinned the blond wig on her head.

  She dug into her daypack for a brilliant pink sequined jacket (thrift store, $2 on the 50% off day), and placed outsized Kate Perry shades on her nose. Then like a good citizen, she dialed the posted number for maintenance and let them know the handicapped stall needed cleaning. She would be gone before they arrived.

  The ball-cap guy was doing a brisk business near an old beat up truck. Silver stopped to tie her shoe, three cars over, impatient for the current customers to leave. When the man was alone, she walked over.

  “Buy you a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  He gave her a direct stare. “You a cop?”

  “I look like the law?”

  “Nah, any self-respecting cop wouldn’t be caught dead in that fake wig.”

  “Well, then...” She paused a beat. “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

  Without waiting for a response, she strolled toward a nearby fast-food restaurant. Ignoring the waitress who suggested a two-up, Silver picked a large circular booth in a back corner.

  “Others in my party will be arriving soon,” she said breezily. “And they tip well.”

  Five minutes later the guy ambled over, slid in beside her.

  “You pay,” he announced.

  The waitress made goo-goo eyes at him, especially when he ordered a clubhouse steak, baked potato—hold the sour cream—and a full dinner salad.

  “Don’t forget dessert,” he said giving her the menu. “And add a lager.”

  “Hey!” Silver protested as the waitress departed.

  “You’re cutting into my business time. That costs.”

  They sat in silence until the waitress arrived, carrying a prodigious stack of plates for the guy and a Diet Coke for Silver. Maple-Hat waved Silver’s direction.

  “Give her the bill.”

  The waitress raised her eyebrows and then smiled at him.

  “Sure thing, darling. You let me know when you’re ready for pie, hear?”

  When she had left, the guy attacked the food in front of him. He slathered butter on a buttermilk biscuit and shoved a chunk into his mouth. He drizzled salad dressing on the greens, and steak sauce on the T-Bone. Then he cut the steak into bite-sized pieces.

  Silver’s mouth watered as she watched him eat.

  Finally, in between bites, he nodded at her.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I…” she hesitated, unsure which of her routines to use.

  “First of all, drop the bullshit,” he said impatiently. “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Jane.”

  “Well, Jane, you can call me Wilfred.”

  Right. What sort of a name was Wilfred? Silver didn’t care, though, as long as he had cash.

  The man put one last chunk of steak in his mouth and shoved the plate to one side.

  “What you got?”

  Silver pulled her daypack onto the seat between them and zipped open the center compartment to show him the 45 revolver.

  “It hot?”

  “Of course not! It was my father’s, the only keepsake I have of his. I wouldn’t be selling it, except I have to get to my cousin Ray’s. He’s promised me a job in his farm supply store in—” Here Silver made a quick calculation. Slight accent in his voice, sounded Southern. “—Baton Rouge.”

  “Looosiana!” He finished her phrase, pronouncing the state as a native would.

  “Good try. But I’m from East Texas. Never been to that other place.”

  Checking that the waitress was back at her station, he reached out a big hand and cautiously pulled out the revolver out of Silver’s backpack. Under the cover of the Formica tabletop, he turned it one way and then the other.

  “I’ll give you $50 for the piece.”

  “Fifty dollars!”

  Silver was outraged, and it wasn’t just bargaining theatrics. The gun was worth four times that according to her research at the library. She swallowed back what she wanted to say and assumed her wounded-puppy expression.

  “Would you go sixty-five?” Her voice broke purposefully.

  “I don’t bargain.” He gave her a level stare. “Fifty. My final offer.”

  Silver did some calculations. If the fingerprint-wiped-clean gun ended up in his possession, they could link the bullet pattern by its spiral lands and grooves back to the murder slug. Then this guy would be on the hook, and he could only describe a blonde in a pink jacket and dark glasses.

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  He stood and dropped five tens on the table. Then he reached over and placed the dinner check on top of the stack of bills.

  “Pay this on your way out,” he ordered.

  As she stood, Silver brushed against him. In an instant, she lifted a K-Bar knife from his belt holster. One that she’d been eyeing during the whole transaction. She pushed it deep into her pack. The knife ought to be worth something although she’d find a different place to fence it. This guy was a crook!

  Silver made sure to include a good tip for the waitress at the front counter. Those servers worked hard to make a living, just like she did.

  With the pittance the guy had given her for the gun and what she’d made in other ventures during the last several days, she had almost enough for another payment for that PI.

  She strolled through the parking lot, back to the bus stop. Her future life and a glamorous career awaited, just as soon as she talked to her birth mother and found out who her father was, too. Maybe she’d go to Paris, France, for her training. They had that famous cooking school, didn’t they? They might have a lawyer college there, too. Or even a doctor’s college.

  What was that organization with the French name: Medicin sans borders. Silver heard the sound of helicopters in her future, and not just the cop kind. Smiling faces of urchins in some third-world country beamed gratefully as she cured their ailments and received the priceless emeralds that their mothers pressed into her hands as payment.

  “Spare change, lady?”

 
; Silver jerked to the present. Even if the homeless guy was a fake, no sense in letting his dog go hungry. Silver knew how that felt. She put a fiver into the con’s hand, patted the dog on the head, and stepped onto the bus for the trip back to the Village of Oak Creek. Mission accomplished.

  That brought up her next challenge. It was time to find a new place to sleep. That last garage didn’t have a decent mattress, even.

  The Bookkeeper Talks

  ~ 21 ~

  Rory

  After leaving the interview with Robbyn Fisher, Rory’s next stop was the accountant. He found her in a modest office in West Sedona.

  The financial advisor was attractive in an over-blown sort of way. Did she have something that might appeal to an older man, beyond her skill with numbers? It could explain the coldness Rory sensed in his meeting with the widow. In that case, perhaps Robbyn Fisher was not guilty of murder, merely jealousy.

  The adviser was candid concerning Henry's money woes. She coughed with the raspy voice of a heavy smoker and then blasted forward with her assessment.

  “The guy was two weeks away from bankruptcy. Have you been up to that house on the hill? A folly! I told him not to build it, but that wife was insistent.”

  “Problems in the marriage?” Rory asked. No love lost, then, in this tangled connection between wife and lady advisor.

  “You bet! He was going to dump her, and then she got pregnant with the kid.”

  “Yeah,” Rory agreed, “kids have a way of changing a relationship. Mrs. Fisher said something regarding insurance?”

  “Good luck! Henry had a big policy, but he let the coverage lapse six months ago. I warned him it was overdue, but he said it was Robbyn's problem, not his.”

  So the widow was out the insurance proceeds. Did she know the policy was no longer active? If she thought there was one, a live husband was a roadblock to big money. On the other hand, if she knew the insurance was non-existent, she’d be furious enough to eliminate him on general principles.

  “What can you tell me concerning Henry’s other investments?” Rory asked.