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

by Lakota Grace

  ***

  I had almost reached the sheriff's office when I saw a young woman with her thumb out, trying to hitchhike. My mother's voice echoed in my mind—never hitch a ride. You never can tell who might pick you up. And never, ever pick up a hitchhiker. They might be a serial murderer.

  Then I did a double take as I watched the figure disappearing in my rear-view mirror. It was Silver Delaney, my client.

  I jammed on the brakes and did a U-turn at the next corner, to the serenade of horns behind me. What was she doing here on the highway? She was supposed to be waiting for me in the sheriff's office. I did another U-turn completing the circle. The car slid up behind her.

  She walked back, eager for a ride and then seeing me inside the car, hesitated.

  “Silver? Get in.” Cars started to beep. “Now.”

  With a sulky expression, she scooted in the front passenger side.

  “And fasten your seat belt.” Now I was channeling my mother.

  She clicked it with a rebellious snap and slouched in the seat.

  “I was just going for my daypack. I thought I'd be back before you got here.”

  “And your pack is where?”

  “Over at this condo—I'm house-sitting while the couple is away shooting baboons in Africa.”

  “What?”

  “Turn right at that big pine tree. It's the condo on the end.”

  I pulled into the drive and got out of the car.

  “I’m coming with you to get your stuff. And you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you. Sheriff's orders.”

  “I can't do that,” she protested. “I'm signed up here for a month. Or more. My employers may extend their trip.”

  Silver checked the mailbox on her way in, sorted the first class envelopes and put those on top of the junk mail. Then she stooped to pick up a newspaper on the porch and added it to the bottom of the stack. She balanced it all in one hand and unlocked the front door with the other.

  “Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll be a moment.”

  “You’ve got sixty seconds.”

  “No problem.”

  Forty-five seconds later, she reappeared somewhat out of breath. In that time she’d put the mail wherever and had her daypack slung over her shoulder. She closed the door carefully behind her, making sure it was securely locked, like a good house sitter. Maybe I should hire her.

  She slid into the passenger side of the Jetta.

  “I'm earning big money here. What do I do about that?”

  “I'll bring you over to water the houseplants when I can. But Rory asked me to keep an eye on you, and that's exactly what I plan to do.”

  Great! Now I was adding free taxi service to my other time-consuming non-paying gigs.

  She gave me a thoughtful look.

  “Rory. He your boyfriend or something?”

  “Or something.”

  None of her damn business. I started the Jetta and pulled out of the drive.

  We turned right on Highway 179, joining the never-ending line of traffic heading back to Phoenix. The Phoenicians would head up into the Red Rock Country in the morning, take the Pink Jeep tours, and head home in the afternoon, sunburned and happy. But their cars clogged the roads for people who lived here.

  After the Ranger Station, we turned right on Beaverhead Flat Road which traversed the Verde Valley. From there, the route led up Black Mountain to my cabin in Mingus. Where I would now have a very temporary guest. I hoped she liked venison roasts and coonhounds.

  “What were you in the sheriff's office for?” I asked.

  “Just a misunderstanding.”

  Yeah, right, a misunderstanding. Rory wouldn't be asking me to do this babysitting duty unless there was a good reason.

  “About what?”

  “Some gun. You should have seen it! An old six-shooter, with pearl handles. Cool!”

  I wasn’t impressed. “And your connection with this gun was what?” I asked.

  “Not important. Where are we going?”

  “To my house. I've got guests coming for dinner.”

  “Ma-a-ale guests? What does Rory say?”

  I was silent, and she poked my shoulder.

  “I bet he doesn't even know, right?”

  Well, she nailed that one. Rory didn't know about Wolf, and I didn’t plan to enlighten him.

  “Look, I've got to keep my mind on driving,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  She dug around in her pack and pulled out her cell phone and a set of earbuds.

  There wasn't much on this stretch of Beaverhead Flat Road. Six miles of highland prairie that turned black as pitch late at night, with that full reach of the Milky Way spreading out above.

  At the end of the plateau, the road curved into the little town of Cornville. Not named for corn, but for a pioneer family called Corin. Only the whole name wouldn't fit on one of those hand-postmark stamps, so the postmaster shortened it. That solution epitomized the pragmatic ranching community.

  It was one of the reasons I liked living in the Verde Valley. I even liked working here, except when I inherited clients such as Silver Delaney. Shepherd was going to get an earful.

  After cruising through Cornville at a staid 25, I checked the rearview mirror for the rarely-there patrolman. Then I goosed the accelerator. Twenty minutes later we climbed the curves of Black Mountain toward home.

  Soon, I turned into the gravel drive that led to the cabin. The low-slung Jetta bounced over the ruts that Wolf's construction crew had left with their big trucks.

  I'd have to sweet-talk my grandfather HT into bringing out his pickup with the front blade on it to level the potholes. I liked where I lived, but sometimes I missed the paved streets and conveniences that a larger town could offered.

  Silver roused as we slowed into my drive and pulled out her earbuds.

  “We here?”

  “This is it.”

  She piled out of the car and up onto the porch. “No flowers in a flowerpot. No welcome mat. Why don't you have a welcome mat to make people feel welcome?”

  She looked around. “Where do you hide your spare key? You've got one of those hide-a-rocks, I bet. The simplest thing in the world to spot. A fake rock.”

  My mind went to the hollow red stone by the old juniper tree. Maybe I could bury it or something. But then I couldn't find it.

  Reckless let out a coonhound bay inside the cabin and Silver jittered.

  “I'm allergic to dogs.” She backed down the steps. “I think I'll just stay at the condo if you don't mind. I'll be fine there.”

  “Bit as a kid?”

  She flung a look over her shoulder at me.

  Ah, the client had secrets.

  “I was, too, Sylvie,” I self-disclosed.

  “My name is Silver, not Sylvie.”

  Our microsecond of rapport vanished before I could even mourn its passing.

  I opened the door and Reckless jumped up on me to bestow a kiss and then he leaped off the side of the porch to anoint the pine tree and my fake rock. Definitely had to bury that thing. In two minutes he was back, sniffing Sylvie—make that, Silver's—pant leg.

  She shrieked.

  “No. Go back. Bad dog!”

  I crouched and Reckless shifted his attention to me. I rubbed his silky red ears.

  “Look, big guy. We've got company, and she doesn't know you're only half-grown and don't have any manners yet.”

  I snapped on his leash and then turned to Silver.

  “Make a fist and turn it toward him so he can sniff you.”

  She did, gingerly. Reckless sniffed her hand and then gave it a big lick. Silver winced but held her ground. Had to give her that.

  “Does he bite?” she asked.

  “Only con men and strangers.”

  She didn't seem to think that was funny. She walked into the kitchen.

  “What's cooking? It smells like bacon.”

  “Venison.”

  “You killed a deer?” Her voice dripped
urban eco-accusation.

  “No, my boyfriend did. He's the one coming for dinner.”

  “Oh, the one Rory doesn't know about.”

  She continued her investigation of my small space. “A cake! Did you bake it?”

  “Yes.” But my culinary triumph was dashed by her next comment.

  “Canned icing? You aren't making the real thing? My uncle, the pastry chef, always makes icing from scratch. He studied in Paris, you know.”

  Silver had an incredible number of coincidences and famous people in her life. But heck, I had interesting relatives, too—an undiscovered cousin that was a dot.com genius, and a grand-aunt who was a Duchess in Spain, at least in my daydreams. And they were all going to die and leave me incredibly wealthy. Maybe Silver had dreams like that, too. Suddenly I felt closer to her.

  There was a knock at the door, and Wolf poked his head in.

  “Anybody home?” He doffed his red-maple-leaf cap and leaned to ruffle Reckless's quivering body fur.

  “Hey there, how's my favorite coonhound?”

  The dog leaped in ecstatic circles about him.

  Wolf straightened.

  “Know I'm early,” he said. He wore freshly pressed denim jeans and his hair was slick-damp from a shower.

  He brushed my lips with a casual welcome kiss and handed over a bottle of wine.

  “They were out of Mangas Colorado, but the clerk recommended this one.”

  A door slammed and Wolf looked around the cabin. “You got company? Don't mean to interrupt.”

  I looked about in bewilderment. Silver and her daypack had disappeared.

  “I wanted to introduce you to my new house guest,” I said. “She's probably visiting my new bathroom, thank you very much for that.” I kissed him back.

  Wolf opened the wine, and we shared a glass while he peeled potatoes and I checked on the roast. He liked the Betty Crocker icing, sampling it with one big finger and pronouncing it “amazing.” I felt myself relax in his presence as I always did.

  It seemed so right, having him here in the kitchen with me, talking about the events of the day. Just like an old married couple. I stopped in surprise. I hadn't thought about that ritual for years after my first dunking in those treacherous waters had ended so disastrously. But with Wolf standing here beside me, all things seemed possible. I hummed with contentment.

  Then I turned as Silver entered the room.

  “Ah, you're here at last. Let me introduce you to—” I stopped.

  Wolf and Silver stared at each other, and Wolf's demeanor changed. Instead of the easy relaxed manner he'd shown me, suddenly he was on full battle alert, his teeth bared in an ugly grimace.

  “You cheated me on the price,” Silver snarled.

  “Ignorance on your part,” Wolf retorted. “Where's my knife?”

  I looked from one to the other in puzzlement. “You know each other?”

  Before either could answer, a patrol car pulled up behind Wolf's pickup, light bar blazing.

  Wolf touched my shoulder and then dived through the kitchen door with a splintering of the doorframe. He disappeared into the dark backyard as Rory and Chas Doon squealed to a halt in front of the house.

  Chas Blows It

  ~ 28 ~

  Rory

  Rory switched off the light bar as they cruised to a stop in Peg’s drive. Stupid move by his partner. Chas liked to showboat it, and in the process alienated people. Rory wasn't sure whether Chas knew and didn't care, or just didn't give a damn.

  Peg opened the door as they walked up the porch steps, and behind her was Silver. At least Peg had the young woman in custody like she promised she would. That was something, anyway.

  Rory cursed his slip the night before when he tied one on and then got involved with Silver Delaney. He could blame it on the miserable relationship between him and Chas Doon, but when you came down to it, it was his fault. He chose to take that first drink and then the next.

  Peg glared at Chas and then turned her angry energy toward Rory.

  “What do you think you're doing, driving up into my yard with flashing lights on?”

  Chas pushed past her.

  “That’s his pickup out front. Where is he? Where's the guy with the gun?”

  “What do you mean?” Peg asked.

  “Your friend here had possession of the 45 that killed Henry Fisher,” Chas said. “My partner believed her when she said she sold it to a guy out in Cottonwood. Fenced it is more likely, and now we find his vehicle parked in your driveway.”

  “I don’t like what you are insinuating. And you are blocking my access to the street. If you don’t have a warrant—”

  Peg had that uber-quiet tone to her voice which meant she was ready to explode. Time to push the conversation in another direction. Rory moved past her to confront Silver.

  “You said the guy with the gun would be in that parking lot. He wasn’t. And when we came here to check on you, we find a pickup, just as described, with that MIA bumper sticker, sitting right here in Peg’s driveway.”

  There was a moment of silence while they waited for Silver to explain.

  “He was here, but now he’s gone!” She pointed with wild-eyed innocence to the other room.

  Chas rushed into the kitchen and looked through the broken doorway.

  “You telling me he was here and now he's not?”

  “Apparently,” Peg said. “If you hadn’t come roaring in here like a bunch of two-bit show-offs, we could have figured something out.”

  She put both hands on her hips. “Rory Stevens, you owe me a doorframe.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted, ducking his head.

  He hated it when Peg got angry. He knew better than to submit to the sheriff’s department for reimbursement, which meant that frame would come out of his salary, to the tune of a big hee-haw from Chas. But at least the moment of ugly confrontation with Peg seemed to have passed.

  He turned to Chas with an open-handed gesture. He hoped the expression on his face was neutral.

  “What would you like to do, partner?”

  Chas grunted. “The guy’s gone and we don’t have the manpower to set up surveillance.”

  He smiled without warmth at Peg. “Guess you’ll just have to figure out what to do with that pickup blocking your driveway. You can always call a tow truck to pull it out. Your problem.”

  Chas turned on his heel and left the house, not bothering to shut the door.

  Rory hesitated.

  “Peg, I’m sorry if we’ve screwed things up for you. But don’t get involved in something you can’t handle. That guy shouldn’t have run like he did.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Peg said. “I’ll be just fine. Maybe you better catch up with your partner before he decides to leave you.”

  Her eyes held a scorn that stabbed at Rory’s core. Working with Chas was hard enough without Peg’s derision.

  He hesitated a moment longer, and then walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.

  Hotwire the Truck

  ~ 29 ~

  Pegasus

  After the two men left, Silver looked at me with a calculated glance.

  “Truck's still out there, blocking the drive. You can't get your car out.”

  “Yeah?” I responded. She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.

  “Red-maple cap guy give you a key?”

  I shook my head.

  “Guess you don't know him that well if he doesn't even give you a key to his truck.”

  Maybe she was right.

  “If you let me hot-wire it,” Silver continued, “then I can drive it to do my house-sitting job, and you won't have to bother.”

  How thoughtful of her. The minute she had the truck running, she would disappear, and I'd have to answer to Rory. Then he’d never fix that kitchen door, which was problematic since I had no income coming in.

  “I've got a better plan,” I countered. “If we can crank the truck over, we’ll park it at my
grandfather's for safekeeping. Then I'll drive you wherever you need to go.”

  I smiled. Point, counterpoint.

  I was curious if she really could get the truck started. Some kids I'd picked up on patrol could hot-wire a vehicle in two minutes flat. Might be fun to watch.

  “Okay, whatever,” Silver said.

  Wolf's truck was an old '77 Ford 150. Battered, beat up, but still running. That's what mattered. No guy in the trades would be without a pickup.

  His vehicle was that light tan color the trade called “construction white.” It blended in so well with its surroundings that you never noticed it. Maybe that was intentional. Its owner did the same thing.

  Silver walked to the front of the truck and popped the hood.

  “You got a long flat-head screwdriver?”

  “You look like you have experience doing this. Ever heist a vehicle?”

  She looked at me nervously. “Well, of course, I've never stolen a car, but I watched my cousin hot-wire his old pickup when he lost his key at a mud race or something.”

  “Right. You sure have a lot of cousins.”

  I retrieved a screwdriver from the old garage and settled back to critique her performance. This could be fun.

  Screwdriver in hand, she walked to the right front fender. Good move. Newer vehicles had the solenoid built into the ignition, but on one this old, the solenoid held a place of importance bolted to the side of the engine compartment.

  Silver confidently laid the metal blade across the terminals of the solenoid. Sparks shot forth, and the engine cranked a few times and then quit.

  She stopped, perplexed.

  “That should have worked.”

  I'd had enough entertainment. Anyway, I didn't want the kid to be electrocuted in my front yard. Hard to explain the loss of a suspect to Chas Doon.

  “Why don’t we try another method?” I suggested.

  I walked around the truck and felt under each fender, my fingers seeking the small black magnetic box in which many construction guys kept an extra key.