by Lakota Grace
We talked about matters in Mingus and the valley until the last of lunch was done and the table cleared. Then Ethan went back to the barn while Ruby Mae and I moved to the living room to discuss arrangements for Cal's funeral.
“We want the service at the First Wildwood Church in Clarkdale. Ever been there, girl?”
“No ma'am.”
“Call me Ruby Mae, everybody does. Janny told you about the pallbearers…”
“About Otis,” I interjected. “Any chance he could check in early? Shepherd and I would like to talk to him.”
Her lips pursed in a frown. Guess not.
“The Right Reverend Billy Gerald's going to do the service. You met him?”
“Don't believe so.”
“He's single, not much older than you are. Good catch, too. A young girl like you, time you were married, had some babies.”
Me, date a man of the cloth? I wasn't an atheist, exactly, but hadn't been to church in years. I could see him already—scrawny chicken-neck, short-sleeved white shirt, black-string tie. Thanks, but no thanks. Puppies were all the babies I needed.
Ruby Mae moved ahead with the planning of Cal’s day. “After the service, we're coming here for the burial in our home cemetery. Tell HT to bring that old backhoe of his, help dig the grave. Probably need to start that soon, before the weather sets in. What else?”
Ruby Mae seemed to be going over a mental list. I knew the feeling, having just finished one myself.
She continued. “Casseroles for the lunch after. Most of the neighbor ladies will bring one. What's your specialty?”
My specialty, if I even had one, was ambrosia salad from the grocery deli, with those cherry pieces and pineapple bits—loved that stuff. But some noodle thing with mushroom soup and crushed potato chips on top? Beyond my skill level. Possibly Isabel, HT’s housekeeper, might help me.
“Ruby Mae, I need to talk to you about Cal's physical condition when he died.”
She switched from event planner to grieving widow just like that, drawing a somber mask over her face. Funny how quickly that change occurred, like two separate people in there. I told her the news about the cancer, and she nodded.
“Doctor announced it to us, Cal and me. I didn't ever share it with the children, never seemed to be the right time. But we'd been waiting. He picked out his suit, been hanging in the closet there for months. Even chose what music he wanted at the ceremony. Easter music he said, never mind that it’s fall. That's what he wanted, and that's what he'll have.”
Ruby Mae's jaw set with the strength that molded her character. “We shared that cancer news way before that Darbie-bitch got her claws into him, that's for certain sure. Bet he didn't tell her about that.” Her eyes glinted with homicide and it wasn't for her departed husband.
She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “So tell me,” she said. “How'd he die?” I had the odd feeling she already knew the answer.
“Blow to the back of the head. How'd he get into the marsh?”
She gave me a knowing look. “Suppose somebody put him there. Maybe figured he'd be lost and never found again.”
“Any idea who that someone might be?”
“Don't have the slightest,” she said, giving me a narrow smile.
That lady had an iron one, have to give her that. I’d overstayed my welcome here, and it was time to pick up Shepherd. I rose and gave her my hand. “Please let me know if you need anything, Ruby Mae.”
“I will, dear. Pay my respects to your grandfather.”
I promised I would.
I peered out the door to see if Reckless was waiting in ambush. He must have followed Ethan to the barn, though, and I made it to the SUV unscathed. It was almost two-thirty. Shepherd would be prowling the hospital corridors, unleashing mayhem on the poor nurses. I hadn’t meant to stay so long. Blame it on the puppies.
***
I SCREECHED INTO the hospital loading zone, yanked on the emergency brake, and strode to Shepherd's room. He had dressed in the clothes I’d left and was arguing with the attendant when I entered.
“No chair. I'll walk.”
“Sir, you have to ride in the wheelchair. Hospital policy.”
“Damn the policy. I’m a taxpayer, same as you. I’m walking out of this place under my own steam.”
I didn't have time for this. “Shepherd, get in the chair. Now! Time to go.”
He harrumphed once for effect and climbed in. The orderly put down the footrests and set Shepherd’s injured foot on one. Shepherd jammed the other in place. The man put the bag of clothes in Shepherd's lap and tucked in the cane Ben had delivered next to Shepherd’s leg. Then he released the safety brake and steered the chair into the hall.
The orderly and I made small talk as we walked—what the outcome of the local election might be, whether the school bond would pass. Shepherd sat there without a word, hunched down as though fearful of being recognized. In the wheelchair, out of uniform, he seemed older and smaller in stature. We checked out at the reception desk and then moved through the automatic doors into the outside air.
“A bit cold, sir. Do you want your jacket?” the orderly asked.
“Don’t need a coat, just get me in the damn car.” He waited impatiently with the orderly while I retrieved the SUV and drove back to them. I dumped the clothes and cane in the rear and then held the passenger door steady while Shepherd lifted from the wheelchair and grabbed the door handle, grimacing. He hopped on one foot to the front seat, hitched himself up and positioned his bad leg with both hands.
I closed the door and turned to the orderly. “Thanks for your help. Sorry he's been so cranky.”
“No problem. He's probably in pain with that leg. He your dad?”
The remark hit me. I didn’t have a father. He’d left us while I was still a child, escaping from my mother’s drunken rages. But if I needed parenting, Shepherd wouldn’t be the one I’d choose, that’s for certain.
“No, he’s not. Thanks for everything.” There was an awkward moment, while I muddled about whether or not to tip him. Finally, I shook his hand instead.
I walked around to the driver's side and climbed in. “Got your seatbelt fastened?”
“Don’t you be starting on me, too,” Shepherd clicked the belt into the lock, stiffened his back and ordered, “Take me to the office.”
Sure, why not. The guy was in pajamas and slippers, in distress with no pain meds, and he wanted to go to the office, not home. Without a word, I reached under my seat, retrieved his service revolver and handed it to him.
“On it,” I said, and shifted the SUV into gear.
***
WHEN WE ARRIVED in Mingus, I double-parked in front of the station and shut off the engine. Shepherd jolted awake. By the time I opened my door and walked around to help, he had already hopped across the sidewalk and stood waiting for me to open the station door. “Took your time,” he said, fingers braced against the building. His Code of the West bravado satisfied, he limped through the door, leaning heavily on the cane.
Inside the station, Shepherd refused assistance. He moved awkwardly to his office and collapsed into his chair. I shrugged and went to park the SUV. It was his high-necked pride, not mine. When I returned, Shepherd already had acquired a cup of green tea and was reading a law enforcement journal.
I went into my office, crumbled Ben’s paper sign, and tossed it in the trash. No coffee perking in the kitchen, either. Sighing, I grabbed a bottle of water and knocked on Shepherd’s door jam.
“Enter. That mud on your uniform?”
I brushed at it. Durned dog. Shepherd’s eyebrows creased together with pain as I brought him up to date on the Nettle case. “Medical Examiner says it was blunt force trauma.”
Shepherd pointed to a stack of papers on the desk. “Got the faxed report here. You talk to those scuba guys?”
“Call's in to them.” I briefed him on the visit to Ruby Mae's.
“What about Howard? He back yet?”
“Due in tomorrow. Funeral's set for day after. Ruby Mae wants you to be pallbearer.”
“Might be a challenge with this leg, but I'll manage. The whole valley will show up for this one, maybe even the killer.”
“Who do you think did it?” I asked.
“Could be anyone. One of the kids. That pregnant lady. Ruby Mae. Her brother, Otis. Hell, even one of the shady folks who bought his hooch. We'll keep nosing around. Spook that wildlife from the brush, sooner or later.” He looked at me. “You call that counselor yet?”
My own leg twitched. “Soon.”
“Good. Need your gun available. Give me a half hour and I'll be ready to go home.”
He would stay just long enough to make his appearance, keep his record intact. Maybe the guy was smarter than I gave him credit for.
He hollered after me. “Call Isabel. See if she can make me up some salve for this leg. Make it heal quicker.”
Isabel was said to be a curandera, a medicine woman. She could identify more herbs growing in this valley than I knew existed. If anyone could help Shepherd, it would be her. I called HT’s house and got her on the phone. “Shepherd says he wants something for his leg.”
She thought for a moment. “He needs something for pain. He won't take that, but a salve to speed the healing, that I can give him. Stop by for it in a half-hour. I’ll have it ready. Shepherd is a good man.”
If he was such a good man, why did I get nothing but complaints and judgments coming my way? He was retiring in six months, though. I’d outlast him, easy.
Isabel put HT on the phone and we made arrangements for the grave digging. I got the impression his backhoe had been used more than once for that purpose. HT said he'd stop by the Nettles’ place in the morning and start on the project.
I called the counselor next. She was gone, but her assistant was there. Didn’t anybody in this valley take the weekend off? I made an appointment for ten on Monday. That should keep Shepherd happy.
Finally, I called and left another message for Rory Stevens. The guy was undoubtedly out playing in a pond someplace. He’d grow webbed feet if he wasn’t careful.
In thirty minutes, precisely, Shepherd packed up his papers, ready to depart. I knew he was itching to drive the SUV, but I didn't trust his mind-over-matter attitude. I kept the keys and drove: first to HT's house to get the salve from Isabel and then down to Cottonwood to Shepherd’s house.
We were almost there when I broached a subject that had been bugging me. “When I was feeding Fluffy I saw some photos.”
“Yeah?”
“The little girl—your daughter?”
“Was. Her mother and I split years ago. Haven't kept in touch.”
“Fluffy her cat?” I asked.
“A wild stray, came to the back door. Sheryl was the only one who could handle her. When she and her mother left, Fluffy stuck around.” He adjusted the bandaged leg, trying to get comfortable.
“And the photograph with the German shepherd—that where you got your nickname?”
He nodded. “Kaiser. Loved that dog. My wife said I loved him better'n her. Might have been right. When he died, my heart went out of K-9 training. Never be another one like old Kaiser.”
More information than I'd gotten about him since we’d met. I pushed a little. “Saw the Blue Book for AA on your shelf. You a recovering alkie?”
“What is this, the third degree?” His deep voice lowered an octave. “Stick to business.”
Fair enough, learned what I needed to, anyway. When I pulled into the cottage driveway, Shepherd grabbed his cane and limped to the front door. I followed behind, carrying the duffel. He snapped his fingers for the house keys and I handed them over. He opened the locks and bent down to greet Fluffy. Then he turned to me and held out his hand.
“Appreciate everything you've done,” he said gruffly. “You've got potential, Peg, but don't be so stiff-necked. Pick me up Monday morning about five-thirty. Want an early start.”
Shepherd gave with one hand and took away with the other. Why should I care what he thought, anyway? Except I did.
I drove up the hill to Mingus ready to leave the job behind me. All I wanted was to go home and spend the rest of the evening with a hot bath and a cold beer.
But as I walked in the door, a call from Rory Stevens changed all that.
Fight with a SEAL
12
“SAW YOUR MESSAGES,” Rory said. “We might have found the murder weapon at Tavasci Marsh. You interested?”
“What you got?”
“A photograph. Like to show you in person. You free for dinner tonight?”
“Where?”
“At Grapes, there in Mingus,” he said.
It was a lame excuse for a date, but I was hungry. “Okay, meet you in an hour.”
Grapes was a tapas eatery specializing in fancy wines. The building had been a pony express and stage coach stop at the turn of the century. Now the historic structure housed this restaurant, serving excellent food in a quiet atmosphere.
I locked the office and walked down the street to my studio apartment. I changed out of my uniform into clean jeans and added a shimmery green top that set off my red hair, tassel-y earrings made of feathers and rhinestones, and a pair of high-heeled cowboy boots. Darned if I was going to wear flats, just to accommodate some short guy. Never had, wasn't starting now.
I walked up the hill to Grapes and reached the door just as Rory whooshed up in a yellow BMW Z4, top down.
“Nice wheels,” I said as he jumped out.
“Thanks! I had a rich uncle who left it to me.” He patted a fender. “I call her Tweetie-Bird.”
Convertible driving had to be frigid coming over the mountains from Prescott to Mingus this time of year. Maybe he put down the top to make an entrance as he reached the edge of town—what I would have done.
Rory held the restaurant door open for me and we walked in. With the early hour, the dinner crowds hadn't arrived, and the hostess put us in a corner booth. We did the cop shuffle over who would sit with their back to the wall. Rory lost. I slid in and did a quick check of both the restaurant and the front door, looking for potential bad guys. Found none.
“How’ve you been?” Rory asked.
I had forgotten how alert his eyes could be. “Busy.” I told him about the set-to with Otis Stroud in the swamp.
“That bastard. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, and Shepherd’s on the mend. We’ve got a BOLO out on the guy.” Well, we did, sort of. Shepherd had requested it, and I would have done it, except I knew Otis would be at the funeral. That counted. Half of me felt protected by Rory’s concern and the other half felt I didn’t need any rescuing. Both halves were right.
“Shepherd's got a reputation in the department for being a cranky cuss. How you getting on?”
“Poorly, at times,” I admitted. “What's he got against women?”
Rory took a breath. “Peg, he might not have anything against women, just against you.”
I tensed. “Meaning what, exactly?”
He spread his hands in a peacemaker gesture. “Look, like it or not you’re a rookie. If you hesitate at the wrong moment, his life could be in danger. Has nothing to do with whether you’re male or female.”
I was spared from a knee-jerk feminist rejoinder by the waitress’s arrival.
Grapes specialized in wine flights, a row of tiny glasses used to sample a selection of wines, the theory being that you’d fall in love with one and buy a nice expensive bottle. Rory suggested we try a flight, and we picked a pinot noir from California, Chianti from Italy, and just for fun, something called Cycles Gladiator Merlot.
All expensive wines, and that usual niggle started in the back of my head. Just who is paying for this, and what do they expect as payback? I shook the buzz out of my brain when the waitress brought three small tasters for each of us.
Rory tried the merlot first. “Ah, I taste ruby red with violet hues, and is that a cedar aroma?”
“And you've been reading the menu.” I laughed and sipped some myself. Not bad.
“Rory, what about you? No hang-ups like Shepherd has?”
“None I'd share in mixed company. I do like them tall, though.”
Not a pickup line I appreciated. Was he going to be like some of the other guys I dated? “How does it feel to be short?” I asked bluntly. At six foot, I’d never had that problem.
He could have blown it off and made some funny joke, but instead, his reply was serious. “It sucks to be short. They called me leprechaun or ankle biter when I was a kid. Stuffed me in a dryer once. 'You're so short you're the last one to know when it rains.' I’ve heard them all.”
Honesty on a first date. This was refreshing. “How’d you cope?”
“Humor, sometimes. There's always a comeback line. I was less than five feet tall until I got into high school. Then I had a major growth spurt. Made it all the way up to my present five foot eight.”
Four inches difference between us, then. If the genders were reversed, that wouldn’t make a whole heck of a lot of difference. I pondered that thought for a moment.
His eyes dared me to make a joke about it. I didn’t, because my experiences were a mirror image of his. “Look,” I said. “I haven't crossed my legs under a desk since fourth grade. What I heard was, ‘How's the air up there?’ It sucks to be tall.”
We smiled at each other in mutual understanding. Then we tried the other two wine samplers, and had the waitress bring us a bottle of the Chianti. She whisked away the tiny glasses and poured us each a nice goblet full. Rory ordered the chicken saltimbocca—chicken breasts with prosciutto and mozzarella—what's not to like there? I selected the seared ahi tuna with ginger and wasabi. Wasabi, a close cousin to my favorite horseradish.
“How did you get into scuba diving?” I asked.
Rory took a sip of his wine. “Started out in gymnastics. That paid for college. But always loved swimming. Wanted to get into the SEALs. You know that old slogan: Join the Navy, see the world? I did, all underwater. What about you?”