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

by Lakota Grace

  “Would she be jealous enough to harm someone?” Rory asked.

  “Of course, not!” Manresa said indignantly.

  Rory wasn’t so sure of either woman’s motive. With Henry’s possible wealth, Manresa’s dream of getting the business in the black so she could marry would also be a possibility. He’d keep both women on the suspect list.

  As Rory drove back to the office, he wished he could talk over this case with Peg. They’d thrashed out so many others.

  Then he smiled. Maybe there was a way he could make that happen.

  Troubles with HT

  ~ 31 ~

  Pegasus

  It was near noon, and the young woman on the couch had not stirred, other than to turn over and present her backside to me. That dumped Reckless on the floor in a surprised heap. I let him out and walked onto the porch after him.

  There, long rolling hills descended to the valley below. The slopes were dotted with clumps of ailanthus trees. This part of the mountain was full of the groves, planted because they were the only tree that would live in the harsh, smoggy air that the mine smelters created. Now, with the mines closed, the trees were rampant throughout Mingus and especially here in the Gulch.

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I dug it out. Rory Stevens. I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to that traitor and ruin my perfectly good morning. It was he who descended upon the cabin with those flashing lights and forced Wolf to go on the run. My mind pushed away the uncomfortable fact of why Wolf had chosen to run.

  On the other hand, there was the matter of Silver Delaney, snoring on my couch. From the glance that she and Rory had exchanged when he came dashing into my house on the heels of Chas Doon, there was a story there.

  Curiosity won over pique, and I punched the green circle on the cell phone screen to take his call.

  “Yeah?”

  “Peg, look, I'm sorry about last night. It was all Chas's fault.”

  “What do you want?” I wasn’t in the mood for an insincere apology.

  “Who said I want anything, just calling to—ah, hell, Peg, I need your help.”

  Trust Rory to hit on my soft spot. And, truthfully, I wasn’t that angry. He'd been a friend too long. Not that I’d tell him that right now. He was still in the doghouse.

  “I'm listening,” I said, drawing out the syllables in a you-better-have-a-darned-good-story tone of voice.

  “Meet me at El Rincon and I'll buy you a late lunch,” Rory said.

  El Rincon was a third-generation Mexican/Navajo restaurant in the heart of Tlaquepaque, Sedona's upscale arts and crafts shopping center. Tourists could never pronounce the name of the complex, but locals navigated the “te-lah-kee pah-kee” syllables with ease. I checked my calendar. Since I was unemployed, except for the comatose client on my couch, why not?

  “What do I do with you-know-who?”

  “Chas says turn her loose.”

  “Chas says, Chas says,” I mocked. “You know if I leave, she'll be gone before I return.”

  “I know.” Rory's tone was glum. “That's part of what I want to talk to you about.”

  Now I was curious. “Meet you there in forty-five minutes.”

  I shoved Reckless into the house. He climbed onto the couch and curled around Silver's legs, his chin propped on her knees. He gave a big sigh, thumped his tail once and went to sleep. Silver didn't stir.

  Who knew? The way she was sleeping, maybe she'd still be there when I returned. I thought about it for a moment. No, not a chance, with this escape artist.

  I shrugged. Rory's problem, not mine.

  I scribbled a note telling her where I was, propped it on the kitchen table. The day was looking up.

  And then I received the phone call from Isabel. I considered letting it go to voicemail—maybe I should have.

  “HT, that man is a problem,” she began.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

  “I tell him, ‘medicines.’ Look at how many still left!”

  “Doesn’t he remember to take them?” I asked.

  HT worked hard his entire life. His jobs had been physical: construction and strenuous mine work. And the work took a toll on his body. His knees were swollen on humid mornings, and then his back “went out” to the point he was stove up in his easy chair for a week, sometimes. So the docs had put him on pain meds, and they eased the discomfort, usually.

  “Some medicines he takes,” Isabel said. “Some he refuses because he doesn't like how they make him feel. Doesn't take. Other days, he likes how they make him feel, takes too many. He doesn't listen to me.”

  There was a sadness in her voice. Then the sound of sniffing. Was Isabel crying?

  “I quit,” she said with determination.

  “Whoa, wait a minute.” My heart dropped into my stomach. I'd taken this woman for granted. A big mistake.

  “You're doing a wonderful job, Isabel. HT needs you.”

  And if she left, then what? I loved my grandfather, but I wasn’t ready for this.

  “Look, hang in there.” I had a hopeful thought. “He’s not this way all the time, is he?”

  “No,” Isabel admitted reluctantly. “Once in a while, just like it was before. Old HT, he’s back.”

  “Okay, hold on to those times, and we’ll talk. I promise.”

  ***

  The traffic cooperated. I zipped through West Sedona and drove through a Spanish arch into the Tlaquepaque parking lot by Oak Creek.

  The sound of the water mingled with the rustle of the sycamore leaves overhead. Spring had arrived, and the old trees were just coming into leaf. By midsummer their leaves would be plate sized, shading the many intimate courtyards of Tlaquepaque.

  The center had originally been a nursery, and the first owner had refused to sell it to the developer unless the old sycamores were left intact. As a result, the old Spanish-style buildings often had sycamore branches weaving in and out of their thick pueblo walls. The spreading greenery wound through stairwells and the wrought-iron railings of second-story balconies, creating a welcome relief from the summer heat that would soon be upon us.

  El Rincon had just opened for lunch, and from the courtyard came the guitar strains of gypsy Flamenco music. I stepped up to the reception stand.

  “Inside or out? How many please?”

  The young man wore a tuxedo jacket, with a towel stiffly draped over one forearm. His voice sounded familiar. I took a closer look.

  He recognized me, too. His formal manner disappeared, and he gave me a big hug.

  “Peg! Good to see you.”

  “What are you doing here, Ben? How are classes going?”

  Ben Yazzie, my assistant when Shepherd and I ran the sheriff's annex in Mingus, was a half-Navajo, half-Italian computer nerd. He was currently taking classes at the local college to become a full-fledged member of the burgeoning vineyard industry of the Verde Valley.

  “My second cousin works here. He got me this part-time job. They fit it in between my class schedule. We start planting ten acres of vines at the college next week. Can always use another set of hands if you want to come help.” He opened his palms, showing a healthy set of blisters.

  “Only if you want your vines to die. You know my brown thumb.”

  I looked around. “I'm supposed to be meeting Rory. He showed yet?”

  “You guys investigating that murder? I read it in the paper. Need my assistance?”

  “I wish.”

  I had more than once utilized Ben’s hacking skills to discover back door leads on cases that had stalled.

  “But I’m only working part-time.” I explained my current job situation and got a sympathetic look.

  “Rory’s not here yet. Let me seat you on the patio next to the best heater, away from Gaetano's playing. That'll be quiet if you and Rory need to talk. Get you anything?”

  “Just water for now.”

  The stuccoed walls were covered with climbing vines:
green ivy and honeysuckle starting to flower. Their aroma drifted close. Huge ollas filled with purple and yellow pansies punctuated the corners of the patios, and a light breeze ruffled the umbrella overhead. I put the worries regarding HT out of my mind for now. It was going to be a beautiful afternoon.

  I had just taken a sip of the water when Rory came rushing in. Under one arm was his famous leather pros-and-cons portfolio notebook. It was then I realized his scheme.

  Rory wanted to rent my brain! I opened the menu Ben had left and ran my finger down the column. What was the most expensive thing on there? Guru say woman think best on satisfied stomach.

  I smiled.

  Pros and Cons at El Rincon

  ~ 32 ~

  Rory

  Rory saw Peg sitting on a corner of the patio at El Rincon. She'd grabbed the best spot with her back to the wall. If he'd gotten here five minutes earlier he'd have claimed it. As it was, he'd had to circle the lot twice to find a large enough spot to park the Hummer.

  He loved the vehicle, hardly missed the classic BMW Z4 it had replaced, but that wide wheelbase was a pain sometimes. He'd been forced to leave the car parked dangerously near a Mercedes in the cobblestone lot beside the restaurant. He'd put his official sheriff's parking pass on the dash and hoped it would be noticed. Hopefully, a Mercedes driver wouldn’t ding one of his fenders.

  Rory stopped worrying about the Hummer and focused on Peg's red hair, a beacon across the patio. Knowing Peg, the upcoming agreement would be negotiated to her benefit.

  The nice thing was he could afford it. The same uncle that bequeathed him the old Victorian in Prescott had set up a trust fund in his name. Rory rarely mentioned it to the cops at work, but it sometimes came in handy.

  He dropped into the chair across from Peg and ordered a margarita with Patron Anejo tequila.

  “How are you getting along with Silver?” he asked Peg.

  “She complains about my dog, my new bathroom, and the view. And just why did you scare off my date?”

  Rory dipped a corn chip in the guacamole. Fresh avocado, onion, and the right touch of hot pepper sauce. He licked his fingers.

  “Silver's a possible suspect in a murder case,” he said, ignoring her other accusations. “I thought with your powers of persuasion you might find out something.”

  “She communicates in monosyllables. And before you ask, she doesn't dream, just mumbles in her sleep about cheap dates.”

  Peg looked pointedly at Rory and took a chip herself. She dunked it in guacamole and popped it in her mouth. Then she chewed twice, slowly, and swallowed. Watched him while she did.

  Rory turned red, slugged the margarita, and choked. Peg pounded his back to help the drink go down.

  “What happened? You can tell Aunt Pegasus all.” She smiled at him like a barn cat cornering a rat in the corncrib.

  Ah, hell. Might as well get this piece of it out of the way up front or she'd never cooperate. He needed what she'd learned in her investigations for Shepherd.

  “I was having trouble with my partner, Chas Doon.”

  “Other than he's rude, overbearing, and boorish, what's not to like?”

  “Well, true,” Rory admitted, “but he's making dumb judgments, too.”

  “Like dropping the surveillance on Silver Delaney?”

  “Right. And getting calls on his cell and disappearing for hours. I don't think he's invested in this case.”

  Rory waved his hand in the air in frustration. How could somebody not be interested in a murder?

  “So anyway,” he continued, “this being a slow time in the department and all, I wondered if I could hire you, temporarily.”

  “To do what?”

  Peg’s voice sounded suspicious. But Rory, undeterred, plowed ahead.

  “Well, for a starter, we could share information on suspects, like.”

  “Who pays me?” Peg asked, diving for the bottom line.

  “I would, for right now.” Rory put up a hand to forestall her objections. “Call it a loan, if you want. But I'd give you credit for what you discovered. It might be a good way to get back on the force full time.”

  Their server arrived to recite the specials, but Rory knew what he wanted. “Bring me one of the deep-fried chimichangas,” he ordered.

  Peg looked up at the waitress. “The Number 12 Combo, but give me the blue-corn encrusted rellenos instead of the tamale. The chilies are fresh, right?”

  “Yes, ma'am. We got a new delivery from Hatch, New Mexico, just yesterday.”

  “And a flan with whipped cream for dessert.”

  “That all?” Rory asked.

  “Oh, no, I'm just getting started. Where’s that margarita you’re drinking?”

  He pointed to it on the menu.

  “I’ll have one of those with—what's the most expensive tequila on the shelf?”

  Rory groaned. Even with his elevated bank account, count on Peg Quincy to make him feel poor. He opened his leather portfolio before she could think of something else to order and drew a precise line through the center of the page to list pros and cons for each person in the case.

  Peg looked on with interest, curious.

  The first suspect would have to be the current wife/mistress, Robbyn. Pros: no alibi, possible anger over lapsed insurance policy or a possible marriage breakup.

  Peg watched as he wrote, reading upside down. It was a skill taught in cop school.

  “Woo-hoo! No insurance proceeds,” she said. “No wonder she's so angry at him for dying. I hadn’t caught the divorce angle, but she was so much younger than he was. She having a possible affair, you think?”

  “With who?”

  Peg gave him That Look that turned him into a five-year-old with an IQ not much higher.

  “That trainer at the gym?” she asked. “Or didn't she work for an art gallery here in Tlaquepaque? Perhaps somebody there could tell us more.”

  Rory wrote the suggestions under Robbyn’s name. “But Henry's the father of her child.”

  “So we assume,” she said. “But even so, if Manresa never divorced Henry, that child would be illegitimate. And if Robbyn’s fooling around, it might not even be his. Henry would be furious if he discovered.”

  “Good point.” He added both facts under the Con column and drew a wavy line beneath it.

  “If Robbyn and he argued,” Rory added, “It would be regarding money. The bookkeeper said Robbyn spent it as fast as Henry could make it.”

  “But Robbyn says a burglar killed Henry,” Peg said.

  “Well, there's the fact of the extra slug.” Rory told her about returning to dig it out of the wall.

  “Maybe the old man defended. That would confirm Robbyn’s story.”

  “And she didn't hear any of the shots?” Peg was scornful.

  Rory shrugged. “Claimed she was in another bedroom, had taken a sleeping pill. Who else?”

  “Well, there’s Beatrix Fisher, Andy Fisher's widow. It's a long shot, but if Andy died of drugs, maybe Beatrix blamed Henry and killed him.”

  Rory added the name to the list. “What have you found out so far from her?”

  “Beatrix asked me to investigate whether Andy killed himself, or if he had help departing this world.”

  Peg leaned back while the waitress served their food. Steam rose from the dishes and Rory's mouth watered. He took a forkful of the chimichanga, the cheese lifting in a string from his fork as he moved it skyward.

  “How did Henry fit into that scenario?” he asked when his mouth was empty once more.

  “Remember what Beatrix said regarding an argument between Andy and his father. There was the financial strain since he returned from military service. Henry said a person at the House of Apache Fires witnessed the argument the night Andy died. I visited the place to see.”

  “What did you find?” Rory asked.

  “A lot of rat droppings. Some marijuana crumbs. A really good view of the creek.” Here Peg sipped her margarita. “But was Henry truly Andy’s fa
ther? He denied it. Says there was no basis for the claim on his company’s assets.”

  There was a momentary pause in the guitar music as the musician announced a short break to a scattering of applause. A breeze lifted from the creek, and Rory relaxed. It felt good to be working with Peg again.

  “You missed a heck of a row up at Manresa Snow's gallery,” he said. “Her partner was furious that Manresa never divorced Henry. You were right there.”

  “Which means both women could be guilty of murder. Adaire to free her lover to marry. Manresa for the same reason.”

  Rory reached over and snagged a forkful of refried beans off Peg's platter. If he was paying for this food, he at least deserved a taste.

  “Financial problems at the gallery, too. Adaire wants a big wedding and Manresa isn't so sure they can afford it.”

  “So Henry became the scapegoat for everything that’s not right in their relationship. A big enough reason for murder?” Peg asked.

  “Possibly, but it’s a long shot. My bet’s still on Robbyn Fisher.”

  He studied his notes. “Or here’s another angle: The bookkeeper mentioned a lawsuit in India over a defunct chemical plant. If there was a loss of life and Henry was blamed, it could be a revenge, an eye-for-an-eye thing.”

  “I call that an outside chance,” Peg said. “And even if true, after the murder, the assassins would return wherever they came from and we'd never find them.”

  “True. Maybe it was a burglary, just like Robbyn said.” Rory circled to his earlier assumption.

  “Then why wouldn't the crook bring his own gun? Why use Henry’s?” Peg asked. “Shepherd always said, if you can't follow the money, then follow the weapon. What was Chas shouting when the two of you invaded my house?”

  “That was the revolver that Robbyn said she removed from the bedroom and gave to Silver who in turn—”

  Peg pounced on the name. “And just what is your connection with Silver Delaney? There’s something between you. I saw it!”

  There it was, sitting on the table, the prettiest little elephant you ever saw. Rory had hoped it wouldn’t come up, but once Peg latched onto a fact, she never let go.