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

by Lakota Grace

  Worse, I did not come clean regarding my actual feelings for Wolf Brandeis. It was none of Rory’s business, but he'd confessed his relationship with Silver.

  That omission might compromise my neutrality in the ongoing investigation which meant that I’d be fired which meant I wouldn't be paid which meant me and Reckless might be living under that bridge sometime soon.

  The Dog Interviews

  ~ 34 ~

  Rory

  When Rory returned to the office late that afternoon, he found Chas Doon pacing the floor and yelling into the phone.

  “I don't care who he's talking to. I want to hear his voice in two minutes or your job is on the line, lady.”

  Rory winced. His uncle always said you could tell a person's character by how they dealt with the “invisible people,” the wait staff at a restaurant, the maids at the motel, and the receptionists of the world. Not only was treating them with respect the right thing to do, but these individuals were gatekeepers for their bosses.

  He hid a smile of quiet satisfaction as someone on the other end of Chas's line terminated the conversation.

  Chas stared at his phone in puzzlement.

  “Must have been a bad connection. I'll call back later.”

  Chas slouched in his desk chair, wrinkled khakis and off-tucked shirt matching his dirty coffee mug. He took a slurp of coffee, spilled a dribble on the floor, and tossed the remaining liquid in the trash. His headlight glare swept Rory's direction.

  “So what you got for me, Stevens? Ready to wrap this Fisher case up so we can move on?”

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, anticipating Rory's report. Chas was poised to pounce, to blame, no matter what Rory had to offer, which was zero. How he got to this point, Rory wasn’t sure, but he knew he didn’t like it. He glanced at the wall clock. Maybe he could plead an outside meeting.

  “Well, to be honest,” he began.

  Chas jammed upright in his chair.

  “What you mean to tell me is that you got bupkis. I leave you in charge when I have to attend a conference that will benefit this entire department, I leave you in charge, and you got nothing. Is that what you're telling me?”

  Rory gritted his teeth.

  “I've gone back over the interviews we did at the scene with the family and staff. Forensics says the weapon used was a 45 revolver, so that jibes with Robbyn’s statement regarding the old man’s gun.”

  Chas stopped him in mid-sentence.

  “There are a zillion of those old guns in the Southwest. We’d have to get the actual gun to prove a connection, and you let that fence slip away at Quincy’s place. Any report on ballistics?”

  Rory shook his head.

  “I still think the grieving widow did it,” Chas said.

  “It's possible.”

  “It's possible.” Chas mocked his tone. “Well, we need to rule her out. If we can’t locate that gun, bring her back in. We’ll sweat her a little, see what happens.”

  Rory had a mental vision of Robbyn Fisher, a prominent member of Sedona society, being “sweated” by Chas. He needed to detract his partner from that brilliant line of reasoning.

  “I sent Peg Quincy out to research the widow's past job history,” Rory said. “Maybe we can find something there.”

  Damn! He hadn't meant to bring Peg into this.

  “Let me know what she finds out.” Chas frowned. “Quincy doing this on the come, right? We aren't paying her. She's doing it on the off chance that it will lead to a reinstatement?”

  Rory pictured the greenbacks flying out of his private bank account. Too late to do anything about that, either.

  “Well, okay, then.” Chas made a hurry-up motion with his hands. “What else?”

  “I went to see the attorney for Henry Fisher.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t there. His secretary wouldn’t give us information without a warrant.”

  “You listened to her. A secretary?” Chas was disbelieving. “You’re not showing me much here.”

  Rory wracked his brain. “Robbyn Fisher wants to go on television, do a personal appeal, a Silent Witness sort of thing.”

  “And that will bring every weirdo out of the hills. I hope you nixed that bright idea.” Chas jabbed two thumbs violently toward the floor.

  Rory shrugged, noncommittally. “And I thought I'd re-interview the neighbors this afternoon. See if anybody remembers something they didn't tell us before.”

  “Yeah, do that.”

  Chas swiveled back in his chair, fingers dialing a number on his phone.

  “Hey, we got disconnected. Your boss free yet?”

  Chas pressed the mute button and made a shoving motion with his hand.

  “The day ain't getting any younger. Hop to it, Stevens.”

  The secretary at the front desk gave Rory a sympathetic glance as he dived out the door.

  ***

  The late afternoon sun had set over the nearby mountains when Rory pulled into the Fishers’ elite subdivision. He hoped to catch neighbors returning from work. Even so, he had no illusions that he'd find new discoveries. Casual bystanders were rarely observant.

  In a vacation hot spot such as Sedona, a good third of the houses—and expensive ones at that—were vacant, visited on occasional weekends by rich folks who lived in California or Phoenix. Each Friday afternoon, a flotilla of private jets landed at the small airport perched on top of the mesa, and each Sunday afternoon the same jet traffic headed south and west. But maybe he’d get lucky and find somebody at home.

  Rory pulled to the curb, letting the motor idle. In front of him were several dog walkers and joggers. Crews of Hispanic landscapers did the weekly pruning and raking, but there was still the occasional gardener doing yard work. Could be someone had noticed a detail. He could hope.

  He sighed and turned off the car. As Chas reminded him, the day wasn't getting any younger, and the longer they went without a solid lead, the more likely that this murder stayed unsolved.

  Rory stopped a couple walking three greyhounds. Sedona had a big greyhound rescue club that resettled dogs normally sentenced to death after their short career at the racetracks had ended. One greyhound sniffed his hand and then stood obediently, waiting for a signal from his owners.

  “I'm from the sheriff's department,” Rory said, showing his credentials. “We're checking with everyone regarding the unfortunate incident at the Fisher residence.” He pointed vaguely up the hill. “You see or hear anything out of the ordinary the night of the burglary?

  “I was up late,” said one owner. She patted a brown and white greyhound on the head. “Fidget was restless. That happens sometimes with rescue dogs. I thought it was just a raccoon or a stray deer. We get both up here.”

  “But you didn't see anything?” Rory asked.

  “No, sorry.”

  Her partner had nothing to add, and Rory flagged down a runner.

  The man jogged in place, sweat gleaming from his forehead.

  “This going to take long?” He glanced at his Fitbit wristband with an irritated look.

  Rory went through the same questioning sequence he had with the greyhound couple.

  “No,” the jogger said shortly. “My wife and me, we're staying at a vacation rental on the next street. The agency assured us it was a safe neighborhood. We didn't expect this. I'm demanding a refund.”

  The guy who got killed didn’t expect it either, Rory thought.

  “I'll take that as a no.”

  “You got it, mister.” The guy jogged down the hill.

  He flapped his elbows when he ran. Rory gave his running style a three-and-a-half, tops.

  Two down, how many to go? Rory hitched his belt and walked up the street. As many as it takes.

  The following two houses were silent when Rory rang the bell, and he shoved one of his business cards in the crack of each front door. Because people always entered through the garage, the cards, damp and tattered with each new
rainstorm, would remain undiscovered until the next FedEx delivery. But he had to try.

  At the third house, Rory caught an old man pulling out of his garage in a golf cart. Late in the day to be playing golf. Then he saw what he was doing.

  The gentleman held a small black-and-white Shih Tzu under his elbow, the dog obviously excited about the ride. They rolled down the circular drive to the mailbox.

  Still in his golf cart, the guy pulled out the mail and then released the handbrake to complete the circle. He looked in fine physical shape. Couldn't he have just walked? Rory shrugged and approached the cart.

  “I know who you are,” the man said. He held out a weathered hand. “Name's McGregor. Everybody calls me Duff. I run the neighborhood patrol for the community. Jenny across the street gave me a call. Said you were working the block. How can I help you?”

  The dog yipped excitedly.

  “It friendly?” Rory asked.

  In his opinion, dogs were a nuisance. He couldn’t see why people kept them, especially these little-bitty ones. Even a working breed like coonhounds barely made it off neutral on Rory’s scale.

  “Oh, yeah, adores strangers. Give her a pat. Puddles loves attention.”

  Rory held out a doubtful fist and the mop-on-legs gave it a lick.

  “What did I tell you?” The man smiled. “She’s the sunshine of my life.”

  Rory wiped his fist on his trousers. “Did you see anything strange the night of the burglary at the Fisher residence?”

  “You mean a murder suspect or something? I read the account in the paper. Keep up on those things, you know. Get down now, Pud-poo.”

  The dog sat on the golf-cart seat beside him, quivering with barely restrained energy.

  Rory waited for the man to expand on his comment, but he just sat there, awaiting Rory's next question.

  “Okay, did you?” Rory asked.

  “Young girl came by. Nice, neighborly, put the paper on the porch of the Stanton couple. They’re away for the season. Won't be back until it warms up. Asked me to keep an eye on the place.”

  “But they always forget to stop the paper delivery,” he fumed. “Usually I pick up the papers for them. Otherwise, a sure sign of vacancy, pulls in the riff-raff. Then we have squatters or thievery. That's where I come in, my job, you know, watching the neighborhood. But that young woman got the paper before I did this time. Nice of her to do that.”

  “Age, description?”

  The man pulled out a notebook, identical to the official one that Rory used. Purchased through the Internet, probably. A lot of cop wannabes shopped there.

  “Late teens, early twenties, maybe. Light blond hair. Probably blue eyes, the most common, although I couldn't swear to it. Five-five or so.”

  “What else?”

  “She was tanned like she spent time outdoors. Carried a daypack.”

  “And then?”

  “And then?” the man echoed.

  “After she picked up the paper.”

  “Oh, she disappeared around the side of the house. Didn't see her again.”

  “You didn't think she might be a burglar?”

  “That little gal? You've got to be kidding. I know what a burglar looks like. She was just a neighborhood kid or a hiker off the trail. We get them walking through. But this is Sedona. Low crime rate. Keep the stats right here.” He patted his pocket where he'd stashed the notebook.

  Rory gave him a business card, asked him to call if he thought of anything else.

  “Already told you everything I know. Mind like a steel trap.”

  The man touched his forehead as proof and then filed the card in the notebook.

  “Good talking to you. Always nice to exchange pleasantries with another arm of the law. Got to get Puddles back to the house. She expects her treat for going out for exercise.”

  The golf cart circled toward the house, and Rory continued his walk up the street.

  He neared the Fisher residence when the door banged open, and Robbyn appeared on the doorstep. She talked rapidly to a person behind the door.

  “Now put him to bed early, don't forget. I'll be back when I can. Thanks so much for staying later tonight. You're a lifesaver.”

  Robbyn wore platform heels that tottered as she clumped down the steps, and her hair was piled high on her head. The lady must be off to someplace special.

  She dashed to the garage. An engine cranked over but didn’t start. Two more attempts, then Robbyn slammed the car door and rushed into the street. She waved when she spotted Rory.

  “My hero! I'm late and my car won't start.”

  Rory tinkered with his own vehicles. This might not be too difficult. He slid into the car and cranked the engine with the same results. Then he looked at the dash.

  “When was the last time you gassed up?”

  Robbyn pouted. “And have that horrid smell on my hands for the rest of the day? I never gas the car. That's Henry's job.”

  “Well, you need to call roadside service for gas. You got insurance? They'll bring you a tank.”

  “And how long would that take? I'm late as is. Please, pretty please, give me a ride?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  Rory looked at the vacant houses he’d passed walking to the Fishers. No one else to talk to. What the hell. He'd interview her on the way. A twofer.

  “All right. I’ll bring my car up.”

  “You’re an absolute doll,” she gushed. “What would I do without you?”

  He hoisted Robbyn and her heels into the Hummer.

  “Where to?”

  “I'll give you directions as we go. Turn at the bottom of the hill onto 89A going west.”

  Several moments later, he stopped facing a big sign for Red Rock TV. Without asking, he sensed what came next.

  Robbyn had a bright smile on her face.

  “Want to come in? It'll be fun.”

  Rory hesitated a moment. Either way, he was toast. And if Chas spotted him on camera behind Robbyn, lending credence to her statement?

  “Why didn't you check with me before you decided to do this?” he asked her.

  “Well, I told you, and you never got back to me, and that nice television reporter considered it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Never mind, I get the idea.”

  “Wonderful! I'm so glad you're with me. You can give me a ride home, too.” Robbyn’s voice had that planning tone his mother had used when she’d gotten her way.

  “Forget it. Call a cab,” he said, leaving her standing on the curb.

  Rory could predict Chas’s reaction to this good news. It was Peg Quincy's fault. If she’d given him something decent to report to Chas he wouldn’t be out here doing neighborhood surveillance where Robbyn could find him.

  After the TV interview, there’d be dozens of strange calls from vortex believers and the crystal people and the pet channelers. And Rory would get to talk to each and every one of them. Chas would see to that.

  Rory hit the McDonald's down the street. Over a Big Mac, he dialed Peg's number. She better have something good from her interviews with the jewelry store staff, or he’d be holding down squirrel duty for the next decade.

  Texas Hold Em

  ~ 35 ~

  Silver

  Silver hesitated in HT’s driveway until Peg's car turned the corner. She sniffed. Not much of a relative if she wouldn’t even visit her own grandfather.

  Silver didn’t intend to spend the night here, anyway. No, she’d ditch this scene and confront her mother instead. She'd sneaked a look at Peg's notes on the investigation. Piss poor detective work in Silver’s opinion.

  Maybe she needed to hire somebody new. The old guy, Shepherd Malone, would have been better, but Silver didn't have much faith in Peg Quincy. Her dog was okay, though.

  As Silver readied to cut through the yard on her way to the gallery, someone called from the blackness.

  “Hey!”

  Silver paused, her mind sorting through possible scenarios. If
the voice belonged to the grandfather, she'd smile and play Little Girl. If it was the housekeeper, she’d receive disdain.

  But this voice sounded younger, male. That would be simpler. Guys were easier to con. They believed what she told them.

  A new encounter might be fun, after what she endured from that guy Rory Stevens. She'd broken one of her rules there. Never get involved with the law; it always led to problems.

  And never ever let anyone close enough to hurt you. She'd had that pounded into her like hard sand through the long years of foster care.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously.

  “Up here.”

  She walked up the steps to HT’s house and dropped her daypack by the porch swing.

  Silver assessed the stranger in a swift glance. Her age, maybe a little older. Dark hair he wore shaggy. He needed a haircut. It hid his expression and made him harder to read. She liked the feather stuck behind his long bangs, though.

  She reached for it, and he jerked back.

  “Nobody touches my feather,” he announced. “A Shaman gave it to me.”

  “And that makes it magic? So you can fly or disappear?”

  “Like you'd know anything. You the girl staying with Peg?”

  “I am the woman, and it's only temporary.”

  “Sure it is. Out of money?”

  “Never mind,” Silver said in a wounded voice.

  Then he smiled, and his face lit up.

  “Sorry, that was uncalled for. I'm Ben Yazzie.” He held out a slim hand.

  “Silver Delaney. And yes I’m staying with Ms. Quincy.” She ignored the money question.

  “You here for the peach cobbler?” he asked.

  “Actually I—”

  “Actually you were going to skip the social and head to the art gallery. I'll go with you later. First, have some of Isabel’s cobbler. It almost makes up for her crabby disposition.” He winked at her. “She doesn't approve of me, either.”

  Silver assessed her options. If she stayed, she'd get to eat. Her years in foster care gave her a miser's outlook on calories. Never enough. But this guy, why would he want to help her?