by Lakota Grace
“My husband, Gary, of course. God knows what he saw in me, but he accepted Ralphie totally. They have this amazing connection. We got married, and we made a family together. But then, at Thanksgiving dinner one year…”
Her open face froze at the memory.
“Jill announced that she and Gary were having an affair. Right at dinner over the mashed potatoes! I’ll never forget that. I asked her to leave my house and never return. And she didn’t. Gary and I patched it up and we’ve made a life here. But Jill and I haven’t spoken for years.”
“Oh my goodness. That had to be awful for you.”
I wondered if the falling out might be a possible motive for murder. Not likely, since it happened so many years ago. Still, a tragedy that the two sisters hadn’t patched things up, especially since both parents had died. And husband Gary gets off scot-free? He was fifty percent of the action. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
And Ralphie’s biological father?” I asked.
“The sperm donor.” She grimaced. “Oh, he was a football jock. He swore it wasn’t his, of course. Left me to handle my pregnancy alone. And I did. I clerked in a supermarket while Jill was getting her accolades at college. Honors I could have had,” she said wistfully. “But Gary and I, except for that episode with Jill, we’ve had the perfect marriage.”
I’d heard that one before, but maybe it was true this time.
Claire took another sip of tea. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you with my sordid family story. But you’re easy to talk to. Thanks for letting me unload.”
“Not a problem.”
An old farm tractor rounded the corner of the house and parked in front. A man wearing blue jeans and a straw hat stood on the back brace, and Ralphie steered the tractor.
Although Ralphie wasn’t speaking words I could understand, his excitement was contagious as they bustled in the door. Claire touched her son’s shoulder and then turned toward me.
“Gary, meet Peg Quincy. She’s the family liaison officer from the sheriff’s department. She came to talk to me about Jill’s stuff.”
The man took off his hat and held out a work-hardened palm. I looked up at the most handsome face I’d seen outside a Ralph Lauren commercial. He had deep blue eyes and chiseled features. Adorably tousled black hair, with a striking white stripe running up the center. No wonder Jill Rustaine had been attracted.
“Pleased to meet you. Help Claire out, will you? She deserves the best.”
“Honey, Ralphie and I are heading out for a fishing trip.” He tipped his head to me. “Have a good day, Ms. Quincy.”
And then they were gone.
“Wow!” I said, mock-fanning my face.
“Everyone says that. I don’t know how I was so lucky to snag him, but he’s my life. He and Ralphie, of course.”
“I usually offer some avenues for grief counseling when someone in the family dies,” I began.
Claire’s face turned somber.
“Jill has been dead to me for many years. In a way, it was a relief when I heard the news. I no longer had to keep up the pretense that we were loving sisters. I hope that doesn’t sound unfeeling.”
I made the usual assurances, but yes, inside it did seem cold-hearted. How could you give up on a blood relationship just like that?
“Have you made any decisions regarding burial arrangements for your sister?” I asked.
“Oh, Harriet Weaver, her assistant at the office, will take care of that. I suppose I’ll have to attend the funeral.” She looked doubtfully at her blue-checked gingham blouse. “Only I don’t have anything black that still fits.” She shrugged. “We’ll get through it, I guess.”
She brushed her hair back in a gesture I’d seen before.
“It was you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now I know where I saw you. You were at the creek that morning, with Ralphie.”
“No, absolutely not.” Claire stiffened. “I was here all day, just as I am every day. Gary can attest to that.”
She stood and held out her hand.
“Thanks for coming, Peg. Sorry it was a wasted trip. We don’t need what you had to offer.”
I could have pushed further, but I chose to let it go. I was here in the role of family liaison officer not investigating detective. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I was positive that both Claire and Ralphie had been in the canyon the day Jill Rustaine had been murdered. But I needed to prove they were there before I made any accusations.
I said goodbye and drove along the road toward Mingus and the upcoming meeting with Myra, Shepherd and Thorn. But my subconscious chewed on Claire Mark’s denial.
Once hiking with my grandfather, I’d seen a mourning dove, dragging a broken wing, crying pitifully. I wanted to rescue her, thinking she was hurt. HT just chuckled, explaining that the dove had a nest close that she didn’t want us to find and was detouring us away. Mother-love in action he called it. Sure enough, when we passed out of the vicinity, her wing miraculously healed, and she flew into the nearest tree.
Maybe Claire Marks was a mourning dove with a chick to protect. Ralphie liked to put messy things away. Would that pertain to knives as well as spoons?
There were unanswered questions about the Marks’ family that belonged in an investigation, a murder investigation. Claire had given me something that could possibly get Thorn Malone off the hook. Detective Cooper Davis and I needed to talk.
CHAPTER 12
COOPER DAVIS overslept. Luckily the meeting with Jil-Clair Industries was set for late morning. He still had time to make it if he hurried. He’d rather use the freeway but figured he’d gain a few minutes using the 89A route through the switchbacks in the lower canyon.
Then, after the meeting, he’d pick up that Malone girl at the sheriff’s annex and loop back up here. Make one trip. Efficiency, just the way he liked it. Maybe some time in jail would convince Thorn Malone that she was in a heap of trouble and needed to be more cooperative. It would make his job a lot easier.
The narrow country road to Sedona carved through a mixed forest of ponderosa pine and scrub oak, then dropped abruptly through two miles of switchbacks to the floor of Oak Creek Canyon. Several of the turns were 15-mile per hour reverse curves, and Cooper’s mind was occupied with navigating traffic. He gritted his teeth as his vehicle slowed behind an RV pulling a small sedan.
When he reached the bottom, Cooper swung into a turnout. A stream of spring water poured from a gray stone foundation, and several people were filling plastic jugs. Cooper got out of the car, tossed out the dregs of coffee, and filled his cup to overflowing. He took a sip of the icy water.
Some dude in the office bragged about this water. “Just taste this mountain spring, peaty and clear, aged ten thousand years in its journey from the San Francisco Mountains to this fountain.” Maybe so. But it just tasted like water to Cooper.
He pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and reviewed the facts he’d gathered so far. The medical examiner at the scene had placed the approximate time of death as late morning. Although the autopsy would be needed to confirm it, it appeared that the woman had died of stabs directly to the heart. Cooper had recovered a knife consistent with said wounds, covered with blood that had been conveniently hidden in that girl’s backpack.
Good thing he’d thought to check the backpack for evidence, a smart move on his part. They’d test the knife for fingerprints, but the teenager admitted handling it. He was half way there to a closure on the case. This trip to Jil-Clair Industries was just for confirmatory evidence.
He’d need to establish motive, but the guilty look on Thorn Malone’s face said it all. The important thing was the physical evidence. He’d use it as a lever to get the rest. He’d sweat a confession out of her. He’d done it before.
And with the case closed so quickly, he wouldn’t have to worry about the small matter of his resume. An honest mistake. Anyone could make one of those.
He stuck the notebook back in his pocket a
nd unplugged his cellphone from his car charger. Leaning against the fender of his car he dialed the holding jail in Sedona. If the message he’d gotten from the father was right, the girl he’d “lost” yesterday should be waiting for him.
“Cooper Davis, here, from the Coconino County sheriff’s department. A courtesy call to determine if my prisoner, Thorn Malone, is ready for pickup.”
“Nope. Nobody by that name here.”
The man sounded like he had a mouthful of donuts. Cooper pictured an out-of-shape country guy, his belly hanging over his belt buckle.
“What? That’s got to be a mistake. Look again. She was supposed to be delivered last night.”
Papers rattled on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, here’s the report.” The deputy read it off in a monotone. “Thorn Malone. Booked two a.m. at the request of her father for a ‘scared straight’ lesson because she’d called in a felonious 911 call.”
“Right,” Cooper said impatiently. “So where is she?”
“She was released to Anasazi County Sheriff’s officer Pegasus Quincy and Miss Thorn’s attorney, one Myra Banks, earlier this morning.”
“She’s a prime murder suspect in my case. Why didn’t somebody call me?”
“Let me check.”
There was a squeak of a desk chair. The moron probably had to turn on his computer.
“Says here an attempt to call you was made when she came in, and again at six this morning.”
The disembodied voice held a note of satisfaction that Cooper tried to ignore. There was an unspoken rivalry between the two counties, especially over joint custody investigations like this. Maybe he should have been nicer to this cop up front.
“Got a number for the attorney?” Cooper forced himself to be more cordial.
The guy rattled it off and repeated it once for good measure. Then, before Cooper could say anything, the man closed with “Have a nice day.”
The hang-up rang in Cooper’s ear, and he tossed the phone in disgust to the car seat. Now he’d have to go through formal channels and talk to the kid with the attorney and the extended family present, probably including aunts and uncles, to get what information he could.
He shrugged. What had happened was out of his control, blame it on technology failure. That phone wasn’t recording messages properly. He’d make an appointment with the legal beagle for later in the day. He got in his car and grabbed the cellphone again to make one last call before he drove to Jil-Clair Industries.
The forensics lab answered on the first ring. Finally, someone with professionalism. Cooper introduced himself with forced courtesy and asked for the officer assigned to the case.
“You have that knife processed yet? Fingerprints and such?”
“We can’t do that. Didn’t they call you?”
“Look, I know you’re backed up.” Cooper exuded what he hoped would sound like understanding and empathy. “But this is really important.”
“Yeah, but we can’t.”
“What the hell you can’t? This is a murder investigation,” Cooper snarled.
“There was a fire in the lab last night,” the man said. “Bunsen burner tipped over, caught onto a notebook, and then the blaze spread to the counter. We had an awful mess on our hands. Luckily the fire station is only blocks away. They put the fire out in minutes. Nobody was hurt.”
Cooper couldn't care if the whole force had third-degree burns over the majority of their collective bodies.
“What about the knife?” he asked. “What happened to my evidence?”
“Uh, it was on the counter at the time. We still got it,” the man said. “But it’s missing the handle. Musta been plastic. Melted right off.”
Cooper broke the connection without speaking. His jaw clenched, and a pounding headache pulsed behind his left ear. This damn investigation was turning into a can of very smelly worms.
With no forensics possible on the murder weapon and with the prime suspect wandering around wherever in the Verde Valley, the upcoming interviews at the company had suddenly ratcheted upwards in importance.
Cooper jammed the vehicle into gear and pulled out into traffic. At a passing lane, he zoomed past a startled Toyota driver and a van packed with tourists. But then he got caught in the conga line of leaf-peepers. He passed Slide Rock and Indian Gardens at a staid thirty-five miles an hour and arrived in Sedona just in time for his appointment.
Cooper turned into the parking lot of Jil-Clair Industries The building was a slit-windowed, two-story adobe with only half a dozen cars in the parking lot.
With the abundance of press this company had received, he’d expected something flashier. Even his own stockbroker had called him about the pending IPO. Cooper had passed. Give him blue chip stocks like Google and Facebook, not a flier, was his motto. Not that he had much to invest and would have less when Geneva, his ex-wife, got through with him. Maybe he should have let her keep the cat.
The spot labeled for the president, Jill Rustaine, was occupied by a late model Mercedes. The vanity license plate said, “Malcolm.” Didn’t take long for the vultures to gather, Cooper thought. He pulled in next to it.
Inside, Cooper was asked to sign in and received a visitor’s badge. He was escorted to the executive suite by a crewcut young man. Was that a security earpiece? The escort handed him off to a receptionist who rechecked his credentials. The atmosphere was off: Silent halls with no people, empty desks. What kind of company was this?
Cooper sat in the entryway outside Jill Rustaine’s office, thumbing through expensive magazines. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past the appointment time. He crossed his legs one way, then the other. Finally, he got up and approached the desk.
“How long is this going to take?”
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”
The receptionist fielded calls. It did not appear she was forwarding them to anyone, rather, simply transcribing messages into the computer in front of her. Many of the calls were apparently for the dead woman and the receptionist responded neutrally. Perhaps the word about Jill Rustaine hadn’t gotten out yet. Couldn’t blame the company for wanting to contain the tragic news.
“Jil-Clair Industries, how may I help you? Jil-Clair Industries, how may I—”
With effort, Cooper tuned out the mantra and thumbed through another copy of the Economist. His mind slid off the analysis of the latest Mideast crisis and back to the scene the day before.
The Malone kid was guilty as sin. Her body language gave her away, the first time he spotted her. These interviews at the company would be critical to confirm the motive. But he couldn’t be too obvious about it. That could be construed as leading the witness.
At last, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and conservative dress walked up to him and extended her hand.
“Mr. Davis, I’m Jill Rustaine’s executive assistant, Harriet Weaver. Sorry for the wait. We are meeting with Malcolm Vander, Chief Financial Officer for Jil-Clair Industries. This way, please.”
She clicked off in her sensible heels, assuming that he’d follow her. He did.
They came to a conference room, and Harriet stood aside, waiting for him to precede her. The room was dim from filtered light through sheer curtains. Expensive southwestern art hung on the walls. Cooper recognized a watercolor rendition of a Hopi procession by Jeffrey Lungé.
“That a Lungé?” he commented, hoping to impress the woman with his artistic knowledge. He’d seen a feature on the guy in the Arizona Today magazine when he’d stayed at the Hilton his first night in Flagstaff.
“Yes. Jill was godmother to one of his grandchildren. Is he a friend of yours, too?”
“Distant.”
He stood up and peered at the painting nameplate. Turned out Lungé died in 1993. So much for name-dropping.
“I was so sorry to hear he’d passed away,” he added. “A tragedy to the Southwestern Art Community.”
At the head of the table sat a man in a gray worsted
suit. The cut was perfect, the tie expensive, the wingtips polished. Although shorter than Cooper and slimly built, the man radiated power. He extended a hand.
“Malcolm Vander. Please have a seat. Sorry for the wait. As you can imagine, things have been somewhat unsettled since the news about Jill’s demise.”
“Mr. Vander,” Cooper began.
“Actually, it’s Doctor,” the man corrected. “But feel free to address me as Malcolm. We’re all friends here. Harriet, some coffee for the gentleman.”
Friends, right. Cooper made a note in his book.
Harriet set a cream pitcher—fresh cream—and sugar bowl next to him, then a silver spoon and a cloth napkin. After she served his coffee, she poured a similar cup for herself. Then she chose a club chair across from him at the huge burled-walnut conference table.
“I’ll be taking minutes,” she announced.
She nodded at the man at the head of the table and sipped her coffee. She didn’t offer to get a cup for him. Cooper made another note in his book.
“I saw the vacant desks out front,” Cooper began. “A staff holiday?” Not a layoff, he assumed, this close to their Initial Public Offering.
Harriet Weaver started to respond and then stopped at an abrupt hand-wave by Malcolm Vander.
“We leased this building in anticipation of a ramp up. That has been postponed because of poor Jill’s death.”
Okay, no employees, just a vacant building. Cooper got it.
“What is it you do here?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, that’s classified information.” The woman’s lips pursed tightly.
“No, it’s fine, Harriet,” Malcolm said. “This gentleman is from the law. It’s not likely he’ll pass on insider tips.” He turned to Cooper. “We manufacture proprietary security access systems. A patented, totally unique process using combinatory biometrics.”
Cooper nodded as if he knew what that explanation meant.
“You mean like scanning eyeballs and that sort of thing?” he asked.
“That’s the basic idea, although our system goes way, way beyond that. That’s all I can tell you at present. We’re under a period of silence now before the Initial Public Offering. You understand.” Malcolm gave a frosty smile of condescension.