Silence in West Fork: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 5)

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Silence in West Fork: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 5) Page 3

by Lakota Grace


  “Her sister, Claire Marks,” Thorn said. “She and her husband have this pecan farm in Camp Verde. Jill told me that one day.”

  “And that means you’ll need to assign a family liaison officer,” Quincy said. “And start the death notification process. Or you intend to tell the family yourself?”

  Not if he could get out of it, Cooper thought. Notifications were never easy. Let somebody else handle it, was his motto. Such visits did nothing to further his cause of finding the killer and solving the case.

  But what was going on here? Were the women in front of him veering off topic, trying to change the subject? Rising to his feet, he grabbed a backpack leaning against the tree.

  “What’s this?”

  He yanked it open and rifled through the contents. Something clunked in the bottom. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it carefully around the object, and pulled it from the pack.

  “Did the missing weapon look like this knife, for instance?”

  Quincy and Thorn both stared at it with expressions of surprise.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Thorn Malone, I am taking you into custody for the possible murder of Jill Rustaine. Ms. Quincy, you and that dog of yours need to back off.”

  Best separate the two of them before this part-time cop ruined his chance at an inadvertent confession. He had Quincy’s name. He’d catch up with her later.

  The woman stood there with her mouth open. Then she closed it and gave Thorn a quick hug.

  “I’ll call your dad and we’ll get you out of this. Just don’t say anything until we get there. Don’t say anything at all.”

  With that, she started down the path toward the entrance, her dog limping behind her.

  Once Quincy had disappeared from view, Cooper turned to the teenager. The girl turned non-communicative, a sullen mask hiding her features as she slumped against the rough bark of an oak tree.

  Cooper put on a pair of latex gloves and teased the vic’s phone from her pocket. He thumbed through the contacts. Under the “favorites” section he found a phone number for one Claire Marks. That was probably the sister.

  He pulled out his own phone. At least it had charged on the way down from Flagstaff, but showed only one bar. Luck was with him, and the call to dispatch went through. Cooper relayed the next-of-kin information, and they said they’d send someone out to make the death notification.

  He requested a family liaison officer, too, pleased that he’d remembered this detail. They told him theirs was out today, but they’d schedule a meeting soon. Good.

  The Medical Examiner and the extraction team would be here soon. They’d have their work cut out for them. Cooper scuffed the dirt again with his shoe and winced when his toe hit a rock. Damn wilderness.

  “Hey, kid.”

  Thorn stared up at him, black mascara running down her white-painted face. Cooper grimaced.

  “What was the name of that company you and your dead boss work for?”

  “Jil-Clair Industries,” she said reluctantly.

  Cooper called the dispatcher once more and requested a patch-through to the firm. The president, Jill Rustaine, was away, the receptionist announced, and nobody else was available at the moment.

  “Everybody’s busy getting ready for a big event,” she apologized.

  Not anymore, Cooper thought. The big event has already happened.

  “Maybe Malcolm Vander, the company’s CFO, could see you for a few minutes tomorrow morning,” the receptionist said reluctantly. “May I ask what this is concerning?”

  “No, you can’t,” he snapped.

  Best to catch the company execs by surprise to judge their reactions. There was always the chance they’d hear something through the small-town grapevine about what happened to their boss, but he’d do what he could. His supervisors in Flag would understand that, surely.

  The medical team arrived with the coroner. He was a tall gawky man who introduced himself as Sidney Morrison.

  “Most everybody calls me Solemn,” he announced. “You new here?”

  “From Flagstaff. But originally from Florida.”

  “You ever hear the one about the drunk and the saguaro cactus?”

  “No, don’t think so,” Cooper said. All he needed was a talkative coroner. “Can you take a look at the body? I need to get down the trail with my prisoner here.”

  Solemn gave him a sharp glance. “You plan on staying in Arizona long?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Understandable.”

  The medical examiner knelt by the dead woman.

  “Limbs still flexible, so time of death recent. From the blood scattered about, I’d say she was killed here.” He touched the woman’s face gently. “She must have been quite beautiful. A shame to die so young.” Then he reached for his equipment bag and clicked it open. “Let’s get to it then.”

  Within minutes he had completed his preliminaries. Techs placed the body in a black neoprene body bag and loaded it on a stretcher for the hike out of the canyon.

  Members of the forensics team scoured the forest floor but didn’t appear to find evidence. Not even much trash, which was unusual in Cooper’s experience with the East Coast beaches. Maybe that “pack it in, pack it out” sign at the trailhead meant something in Arizona.

  “Any footprints?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nah. Too rocky, and what isn’t sandstone is leaf covered,” a tech said.

  That was okay. Cooper still had the knife, complete with Thorn Malone’s fingerprints, according to her admission. And she’d also admitted being here close to the time of death.

  Nice for Quincy to hold her until he arrived on the scene. Get a quick confession and he’d be done with this case. A simple open-and-shut, just the way he liked them.

  A huge owl swooped overhead, disturbed by the men milling through the forest. Cooper ducked, and a shiver ran through him. Gen told him that an owl was a sign of death for Indian tribes. Well, there’d been a death here that was for sure.

  He signaled to the supervisor of the forensics team.

  “Process that knife as soon as you can. I want a positive ID on the fingerprints.”

  The man gave him a two-fingered salute.

  Leaving his sergeant in charge, Cooper signed the checkout book and started down the trail with Thorn Malone. He considered handcuffing her and decided against it. The surrounding cliffs cast deep shadows on the path, and the water crossings were treacherous in the gloom of the late afternoon. She’d need her balance to make those creek crossings. He sneezed as his boots kicked up pine pollen. Beast of a place.

  He’d have to hurry if he was to get this Malone kid into a formal interview room with a recording setup before the parents intervened. He needed a quick case close-up to put his transfer plan into action. He’d deliberately not asked her age. If she was working, she was out of school, right? Had to be 18 at least.

  Thorn stumbled on the path and fell to one knee. Cooper leaned to steady her, and she slapped his hand out of the way. Too bad, he thought. They needed to keep moving to make it out of the woods before dark.

  “Almost there,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. He needed to keep the girl calm until they got back to the car.

  Then the girl straightened and looked at him directly.

  “I got to pee,” she announced.

  Oh, damn.

  “All right. I’ll wait here. You go,” he looked around wildly, “behind that tree over there, okay?”

  She nodded and disappeared. Cooper turned his back to give her privacy. Just what he needed on his record was a baseless civilian charge of harassment.

  What was taking her so long? Cooper pivoted and tripped over a fallen branch. He struggled to his feet, startling a chipmunk who darted under the leaves. Then the forest was silent.

  The girl was gone. She had vanished into the canyon like a puff of autumn fog.

  CHAPTER 3

  HARRIET WEAVER, the executive assist
ant to Jill Rustaine, pushed open the heavy doors to Jil-Clair Industries. She glanced nervously at her watch. It was almost five and Jill Rustaine’s car wasn’t in the lot. Surely she hadn’t left already.

  The watch was gold, clunky and extravagant, not her style. But Jill insisted she enjoy the gift. She said her executive assistant deserved the best. She could be like that on days when her sunny side was evident.

  That hadn’t been yesterday. Yesterday was a Bad Mood Day with Jill stressed about the Open House for the company. She declared she was going on a personal retreat, and when Harriet suggested that might not be a good idea, Jill told her she’d do whatever she damn well wanted to. Harriet wasn’t her father.

  And the argument escalated from there. Jill yelled and Harriet raised her voice, too, and then Jill had fired her!

  It wasn’t the first time. The firings didn’t last, thank goodness. The next day, Jill would be full of contrition and rehire her. Harriet had sent a big bouquet of yellow roses out to the Briar Patch Inn where Jill was staying. Jill liked roses. And Harriet added a handwritten note of abject apology. Jill liked those, too. It was part of the game they played. But Jill still hadn’t returned, and Harriet was worried.

  She’d sent out that young intern with the letter from the trustees. They wanted a signed statement about the morals clause before the meeting. Harriet foresaw problems. Morals weren’t Jill’s strong suit. She was the worst example of a trust fund baby ever. She didn’t make the money, but she was determined to spend it all, that was for sure.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to send the intern. The girl and Jill had gotten in an argument. When Jill was stressed she fought with everyone. She said that it relieved her tension and made her feel so much better. Never mind the collateral damage!

  But Harriet couldn’t worry about that just now. She had her own share of problems.

  She hadn’t expected to return so late, but husband Lenny had one of his episodes. The salary and benefits from this job were vital to take care of Lenny’s “problems.”

  Harriet sighed. Lenny’s real problem was the series of TIAs he’d had over the past several years. Each one took a little more of the Lenny she had known and loved away, leaving this stranger for her to deal with. A stranger that ignored the reality of his deteriorating condition and instead came up with strange illnesses that required expensive out-of-pocket funds to treat.

  Like today. Lenny had called and demanded that she come home immediately, that it was a dire emergency. But when Harriet got there, he was watching old reruns of Jeopardy, the moment forgotten. And now she’d be in trouble for being late.

  But Jill wasn’t here yet. Where was she?

  Harriet wished that her joints didn’t ache so. But stress always kicked up her arthritis, and this formal opening tomorrow was critical. The Initial Public Offering, the IPO, Malcolm Vander their chief financial officer called it, needed this celebration Open House to encourage investors to buy the company stock.

  Harriet had toiled on the event for months. She checked off the details in her mind as she hastened toward the executive suites. Flowers. Caterer. Hotel accommodations for the out-of-town guests. Jill’s remarks.

  Jill’s remarks! Harriet hadn’t printed them off. Her pace increased as she reached her office. Maybe she’d be lucky and be hard at work when Jill arrived.

  The door to her office stood open. And Harriet had left it locked. She always locked her door when she left. She checked it twice to be sure. That way she didn’t have to return in an anxious panic.

  Malcolm leaned over her desk, thumbing through her private papers.

  “How did you get in here? And what are you doing?”

  Harriet grabbed the papers.

  “Tut-tut, Miss Harriet.”

  She detested that. Why couldn’t he call her Ms. Weaver like everybody else did? Their relationship had never been good, but as Jill Rustaine’s right-hand person, she deserved more respect than he gave her. Her mouth tightened in frustration.

  “Who let you in? This is my private office.”

  Malcolm smiled at her, a superior, world-wise smile that spoke volumes. His lean face was lined beyond his years, and his hair had that touch of executive gray. Harriet patted her tweed skirt, smoothing out a wrinkle. Why did this man always bring out the worst in her?

  “I have a key,” he said. “And I need to know the status of tomorrow’s event preparation. It’s crucial to me, as I’m sure it is to you, Miss Harriet.” His nasal voice enunciated each syllable as if she were a child needing a scolding.

  Malcolm had a key! Now she’d have to change the locks, just as she’d done twice before. Had Jill given him a copy of her key? Jill wouldn’t do that, would she? Harriet had felt him watching her for months now. That cat-and-mouse feeling that never disappeared. Jill said it was all in her imagination, but Harriet knew better.

  Malcolm was up to something. He’d been appointed Chief Financial Officer when Jill’s father had died and Jill inherited most of the company. Not sister Claire’s stock, of course, but that didn’t count, since it wasn’t Voting Shares. Harriet knew that much. She’d been old man Rustaine’s right-hand person and knew a lot more than anyone else at the company. Especially Malcolm Vander. And she’d been like a mother to those two girls since their own mother had passed away.

  And where was her charge? Jill should be here, getting ready. But no, she’d insisted on this crazy retreat.

  “You can handle everything, Harriet. You’re so good at all those fussy details. But I have universes to vanquish yet.”

  Harriet glanced up. Malcolm stared at her. Had she been daydreaming again? She straightened the folders on her desk with tense efficiency.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Are you positive you are up to this responsibility? Perhaps it would be an appropriate time to retire, given that the company is going to expand so rapidly.”

  He smirked with a reptilian turn of his thin lips.

  Surely he didn’t know about the argument she’d had with Jill. Or did he? Harriet’s heart tightened.

  “It’s quitting time, but how can I assist you, Malcolm?” With an effort, she quieted her breathing and settled her voice.

  “I’m astonished you’d say that, Harriet. We remain until the work is done. You can appreciate that.” He flicked at the top sheaf of papers on her desk.

  “Let’s go over the profit-and-loss statement once more.”

  “We’ve reviewed it four times.” In spite of her best intentions, her expression turned hostile.

  “Tut-tut, Miss Harriet.” His elegant slim fingers traveled down the sheet. “There’s a mistake right here: line ten should be double-spaced. No telling what else might be wrong.”

  That was the line he’d demanded be single-spaced on the last modification. Harriet’s temple throbbed. She had a thousand things yet to accomplish for the reception.

  Malcolm settled into the chair he had appropriated, apparently in no hurry. He scooted closer to her desk. In the process, he ruined the perfect smoothness of the thick carpeting. Now she’d have to get out the hand vac and smooth the nap in one direction after he left.

  As if noticing her discomfort, Malcolm pushed the other side chair two inches out of plumb and leaned his elbow on it, grinding the caster into the rug. Then without asking permission, he shifted her in-box aside and turned the picture of her and Jill face down. He laid the profit-and-loss statement in the cleared area and cracked his knuckles.

  Harriet winced.

  “Now, then.” He proceeded to examine the report, line by line, searching for errors.

  There weren’t any, of course. Harriet was exacting with details. She stole another glance at her wristwatch.

  Fifteen minutes later, having discovered no further “mistakes” in the report, Malcolm departed.

  Harriet yanked her legal pad from the bottom of the stack that he had shuffled. The papers were scrambled, but that couldn’t be helped. She opened her center desk drawer and sn
atched a Hershey bar she kept there for emergencies and swallowed it in two bites. She crammed the wrapper into the trashcan, licked chocolate crumbs off her fingers, and centered her to-do list on the blotter.

  The first item was the equipment rental place. Harriet punched the numbers into the phone. By the time the store owner got on the phone, Harriet’s face was rigid with anxiety.

  “Where are the tables?” she asked. “They were supposed to be here by noon and it’s five o’clock. I insist on a twenty percent reduction on the bill for lateness. When you guarantee you’ll do something, do it. We need the furniture here, now.”

  Before the man could reply, Harriet slammed the receiver down.

  She rammed into high gear to finalize the event arrangements. Forty-five minutes later, she had a dozen items crossed off her lengthy list.

  The phone buzzed and Harriet grabbed it. “Jill, where are you?”

  But it was Malcolm.

  “Claire called.” He sounded peculiar.

  Jill’s sister? Why would she be calling? She wasn’t coming to the celebration tomorrow. She and her loser husband, Jill had explicitly instructed, were not to be invited.

  If Jill considered them losers, then that’s what they were. Harriet quieted the voice inside who protested that there was nothing amiss with living in a modest older home. Her mother had before she passed away.

  “Harriet, are you there?” Malcolm asked. “I have unfortunate news.” He cleared his throat, the edgy sound rattling the receiver. “Jill is dead.”

  No! He was mistaken. Harriet spoke to her boss this morning. And Jill promised she’d return in plenty of time. Plenty of time.

  Harriet sunk into her chair. Jill was dead?

  “Wh-what happened?” she asked.

  “Some unfortunate accident in the canyon. I’m upset, of course, but our first concern must be the well-being of the company. We cannot help her now, and I know she would want us to carry on.”

  Seeming to accept her silence, Malcolm shifted into planning mode.

  “We’ll have to delay the IPO. Bad news will depress the initial stock price, and we can’t have that. Damned inconvenient for this to happen today.”

 

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