by Lakota Grace
“Track scholarships paid my way through school, psychology major. Ended up in Africa for a time in the Peace Corps. Came back to take care of my mom, then out here to re-connect with my granddad, HT. Haven't been too successful with that, as yet.” Rory was easy to talk to. I liked that.
The waitress arrived with our food, got them mixed up, and we crossed plates after she left, my wrist touching Rory's. A zing of connection. The grilled tuna was superb, and so was the chicken. Rory reached a forkful, melting with cheese and basil, across the table for me to taste. Amazing! I shared the tuna with him, and his nose wrinkled at the piquant spices. But he was game to try it.
We did the usual get-to-know-you dance. I asked about his family—two older brothers, both taller than Rory. He asked about mine. Only child, I replied.
“What’s one thing about you most people don’t know?” he challenged.
I thought about the ballet I’d taken as a child until I broke my ankle. Ballet and being a cop probably don’t go together. Too sissy, some might judge. Or the way I cried for days when my puppy got run over? Discarded that one, too. Cops hated the sensitive label. Decided on: “Got a tattoo in a private place.” I held up my hand, laughing. “No, you don’t need to know more than that. What about you?”
“I know Pashto.”
“The Afghan language? How’s that?”
“It was my backup plan. If I didn't make the SEALs, I was going into foreign language school. I figured knowing Pashto would give me an edge. Always important to have a Plan B. What's yours?”
“What would I do if I wash out being a cop? Be a private investigator, maybe. I seem to have a talent for finding things. But I’m happy where I’m at right now. Learning this deputy job is huge.”
“I hear you.”
And I got the feeling he really did.
The waitress cleared our plates and asked about dessert. Rory raised an eyebrow at me and I shook my head. “Just coffee then,” he said.
When the waitress returned with two steaming mugs, Rory reached for a folder he had placed beside him on the seat. “Here's the main event. We found it tangled in the reeds at Tavasci Marsh.”
I grabbed it and pulled out the photo. It was a picture of a flat stick, about the size of a baseball bat. “I've seen one of these before,” I said.
“What? Here?”
“No, at my great aunt's house in Tennessee. She had one hanging on her wall. It’s called a battling stick.”
“What?”
“A battling stick. It was used to beat the clothes on the rocks when you washed them at the creek. I'll bet it’s made out of red oak, too. The best ones were. My aunt kept hers as a reminder of how far women have come.” I looked at the photo once more and put it back in the envelope. “Okay if I keep this?” He waved a palm in assent. “You think it's the murder weapon?”
“Could be. Forensics is testing it even as we speak.”
Something more to share with Shepherd. “Time to leave,” I said. “Early morning for me.” It wasn’t, really, but babysitting Shepherd all day had worn me down to a nubbin.
Rory nodded and signaled for the check. When it arrived, the waitress set it in the neutral ground between us. I grabbed, but he beat me to it.
“This time the gentleman will pay for everything,” he said.
So I let him. Next time I'd get it. Shoot, maybe I’d even learn some Pashto in the process. If there was a next time.
“Offer you a ride home?” he asked as we left the restaurant.
I looked at the mini-sports car parked at the curb. No way could my long legs fit into that.
My hesitation didn’t faze him. “Plan B,” he announced, taking my arm.
He chose the street side of the sidewalk like a well-mannered gentleman and walked me back to the apartment.
When we arrived at my front door, he said, “Let me show you how we handle this.” He stepped up on the landing and put his arms around me. “Consider Javier Bardem. He's my height.” And then he kissed me slowly, thoroughly.
I enjoyed every minute of it.
***
THAT NIGHT I DREAMT of romantic motorcycle rides down hilly roads in Greece, just me and Rory.
But when I awoke in the pre-dawn hours, my ghosts rose with me. Unbidden images of blood dripping down a wall, and a dying man sprawled on the floor coursed through my brain. I’d relived that scene countless times, examining it from all angles. I had to kill the man to free his hostage, no choice. That didn’t make what I lived with each day any easier to bear.
I turned over in bed, trying to return to my romantic motorcycle dream, but sleep was elusive. Finally, I threw on a robe and walked out onto the balcony in my bare feet. The air was cold and still. I shook my head in an attempt to banish the night terrors.
I didn’t have PTSD like the guys coming back from the war zones. Kept my temper under control, usually. Didn’t drink to excess or numb out on weed. Would talking to someone help? Perhaps. Today, without fail, I'd call that counselor.
Wisps of fog curled around the corners of abandoned buildings on the street below. Sure you will, they whispered.
Mistress meets Wife
13
A FRONT MOVED IN the morning of Cal Nettle's funeral and gusty winds pushed dry cottonwood leaves into windrows in front of my apartment. My mood was unsettled and jangly as I picked out a long, dark-gray skirt and jacket with a plain white blouse. The skirt was a buying mistake, a mid-calf pencil skirt that I regretted the moment I walked out of the store. An unexpected use for it here. I French-braided my red hair, added a touch of lipstick, and shoved my feet into flats, since I wasn't making a height statement.
HT and Isabel picked me up at ten for the services. Isabel had baked a casserole, so my nonexistent “specialty dish” wouldn’t be missed. I sat with the crock warming my ankles on the way to the church. Our office clerk, Ben Yazzie, had elected to stay at the station and I wished I were there with him. Never did like attending funerals.
The First Wildwood Church sat on a hill overlooking Cottonwood, framed by a row of green-black cypress trees. The white church had a tall bell tower and as we entered the parking lot, it tolled the years of Cal Nettle’s life, fifty-eight solemn tones, one after the other. Sometimes in the early days of the town, the bell peeled more than eighty strokes to measure the life of a pioneer. Janny’s father would never see that age. I hoped I might.
HT, Isabel, and I walked up the front steps, the three of us a family. I hadn’t had that for a long while, with my father’s desertion and my mother’s drinking.
The church was small, one long pew on either side of an aisle, about ten rows deep. Maybe room for a hundred or so, if you counted little kids squeezed in between parents. Not many of them at this type of service, though.
HT and Isabel went ahead, while I sat in back to observe the folks coming in. I squirmed to get comfortable on the hard, varnished-pine bench. Above me was an old-fashioned tin roof. White-washed windows let in pale light. A cross of twisted wood hung over the altar, and the chancel held seating for a small choir. It was a no-nonsense church, foregoing the fripperies of stained glass and statuary.
A plain wooden burying box rested under a spotlight in front. Did Otis make the casket? Families from the hill country of Appalachia sometimes followed this practice, a mark of respect for the deceased. The too-sweet aroma of lilies drifted by. The Nettles had requested donations to the local food bank, but some people sent flowers anyway. HT had done both.
As the people filed in, music played softly. Ethan Nettle sat facing the visitors, a guitar cradled in his arms. He strummed some hymns, but mostly it was music of his own making. His eyes closed as he played for his father.
Everyone stood as the rest of the family entered. Janny and Howard supported Ruby Mae who walked stolidly between them, her face set. Aurora followed with a strange woman by her side. That must be Howard Nettle's wife, Pietra. She had long black hair draping to her waist and a red, outsized hat that flop
ped and tilted as she turned her head. Strange choice for a funeral.
Behind them, Otis walked alone in an outmoded suit too short in the sleeves. He glanced at me and then stared straight ahead as he marched to the front pew, joining the family.
That brought up one small detail I'd neglected to tell Shepherd yesterday, that he'd be sharing pallbearer duties with Otis. My partner jolted upright when he spotted the fugitive, and then swiveled around to catch my gaze. I made a hands-up motion and hunched back in my seat. Shepherd had been blindsided, and I’d hear about it.
When the family procession reached the front, ushers removed the ropes that reserved the section, and the mourners filed into the front pew. Aurora squeezed beside her mother and Janny gave her a pat. Ethan put down his guitar and joined them. The congregation fell silent, waiting for the service to begin.
Darbie Granger slipped quietly into the back pew next to me. She wore a flowered summer dress in an empire style that emphasized her pregnancy. Her hair hung in soft ringlets, with pink and blue ribbons intertwined. She pulled off big sunglasses and gave me a sad smile.
The news of her arrival rushed to the front of the church like a football wave. Ruby Mae jumped to her feet, turned one-eighty, and glared at the intruder. She started to say something, but Janny tugged at her arm and Ruby Mae allowed herself to be pulled back down. She put her head on Howard's shoulder momentarily, and Janny touched her hair.
After Darbie, the preacher's entrance was an anticlimax. He entered from the side and strode to the pulpit. Reverend Billy was tall, with a striking pompadour of blond hair. He ran a hand over it as he climbed to the speaking area, smoothing the strands. He looked to be early thirties—Ruby Mae had been right there.
“All rise for the first hymn,” he announced. “ ‘Fair are the mountains, fairer still the woodlands.’ ”
I grabbed a hymnal and searched for the right page. Couldn't find it and just mouthed the words, hoping nobody would notice. Churches created that kind of awkwardness for me.
Reverend Billy gave a short prayer and then everyone sat. I assumed some member of the family would give a eulogy, but instead, that task fell to the Reverend. He proclaimed Calhoun Nettle to be a sterling member of the community, a wonderful father, and a faithful husband.
I thought of the beatings that Ethan described and the mistress sitting beside me. My gut wrenched. Describing Cal Nettle in such terms was false, and I couldn't see how it made anybody feel better.
We sang two more hymns, a quavering tenor soloed a third, and the service ended. Reverend Billy called for the pallbearers, and they marched to the front in solemn cadence.
Sons Ethan and Howard paired in front, then friends Armor Brancussi and HT supported the middle of the casket. Otis and Shepherd brought up the rear, one on either side. There was some shuffling for balance, and then on an unspoken signal, the men lifted the casket by its handles.
The walk was a little lopsided. Armor had a bad hip from an old motorcycle accident and Shepherd's injured leg was still healing, but they managed. Otis and Shepherd didn't make eye contact the entire way to the entrance of the church, engaged in a silent truce for the ritual.
While I stood in line to greet the Reverend, I examined him at closer range. No string tie. In fact, it looked like an expensive Armani four-in-hand. When I reached the head of the receiving line, the preacher grabbed my hand and covered it with his other, trapping it. He held it a second too long, deep brown eyes staring down into my own. That made him over six feet tall, maybe six-two.
“Glad you could attend, Miss…Are you a member of the family?” he asked.
In hill country parlance, that statement meant, identify yourself. What’s your connection here?
I debated telling him I was a third-cousin once removed, which I actually might be, and settled for: “Deputy Peg Quincy, from the sheriff's department. Nice words about the deceased.” Half of the statement was true, anyway.
“Glad to meet you, Ms. Deputy Peg Quincy from the sheriff’s department.” He mimicked my tone. “Come visit my church anytime. No lawbreakers here, just honest sinners.” He winked at me, released my hand, and moved on to the next in line.
Once in the churchyard, I stood there for a moment in the sunshine with the other sinners. Ruby Mae and the family gathered under a big cottonwood tree. No sign of Otis. Somehow I was not surprised.
Darbie Granger, her chin in the air, made her way toward Ruby Mae. Folks parted to let her through and followed after like kids in a schoolyard anticipating a fight. Howard and Ethan closed ranks around their mother when Darbie reached Ruby Mae's side.
“I'm very sorry for your loss,” Darbie said, her voice barely a whisper.
Ruby Mae stood silent a moment and then reached out her hand the barest amount.
Darbie grasped her fingers.
“Likewise, I'm sure,” Ruby Mae said, in an evenly modulated, Emily Post voice. Then she dropped her hand and turned away.
I thought that would be an end to it, but didn't reckon with Howard's wife. Pietra shoved her way to the front and shook a finger in Darbie's face. “Shameful! Cursed, carrying that bastard child.”
Howard grabbed her arm. “Now’s not the time. Tend to Momma.” He pushed Pietra in the direction of the family group.
The tightness of his grip raised angry welts on Pietra’s arm. She glared at him and reluctantly complied with his directive.
Howard grasped Darbie's fingers. “I apologize. My wife is unwell. See you to your car?”
Darbie daintily took his arm just above the elbow, tottering on heels too high for the uneven ground. The two moved in the direction of the parking lot. In the distance, Janny leaned down to soothe Aurora. I wondered how she’d explain to the child the unresolved family issues bubbling to the surface along with the day’s grief.
Shepherd caught up with me as I opened the door of HT's pickup. “Ride with me,” he ordered.
I followed him to the sheriff’s department SUV and buckled up for the dusty drive to the Nettle homestead. “Where's Otis?” I asked, introducing the topic before he could.
Shepherd pulled into the funeral procession. “Slipped away, soon as the casket was loaded. You knew he'd be here?”
“Uh, Janny said he'd turn himself in, after the funeral.”
“You believed her?” His tone held scorn. “Thanks for checking with me first.”
“Check with you about what?” I retorted. “Family's decision to have him here, not ours.”
“What happened to the Be-On-The-Lookout I asked you to initiate for the county?”
I said nothing.
“Would it be too much trouble for you to operate as a team for the remainder of the afternoon?”
My resentment flared like lightning in a too-dry forest. “Would it be too much trouble for you to treat us like a team?”
That was it. He jerked to the side of the road. A cloud of dust billowed around the SUV as the rest of the procession passed us.
Shepherd slowed his breathing with effort. He reached for the mike and patched through to our dispatcher, Melda. “Put out a Be-On-the-Lookout for Otis Stroud.” He gave the man's description in a matter-of-fact tone and clicked off the mike.
He sat for a moment and then turned to face me. “You're a rookie—I need to respect that—but fighting with each other lets the bad guys win. That what you want?”
My color rose and I bent my head.
He continued in a softer voice, “I need to know you’ve got my back, Peg. Can we work toward that?”
How long this uneasy truce would hold was uncertain, but for the present, it was better than the constant sniping—I agreed with him there. I reached out a hand and we shook on it.
Shepherd gave a short nod and pulled in behind the last car of the funeral procession. We ate dust all the way to the Nettle homestead.
The small family graveyard crowned a hill behind the house. People sat on rickety funeral chairs in groups of twos and threes, the artificial tu
rf beneath their feet garish against the red earth. The casket, supported by a mechanical lever, rested over the open hole in anticipation of the final lowering. HT's backhoe stood to one side ready to refill the grave.
The wind blew, picking up the red dirt and flinging it into eyes already burning from too much emotion. Women held onto hats with one hand and skirts with the other. In the distance one of the coonhounds set up a chop and a mournful bay, others followed until the whole pack cried, one tone piling onto the next. Then silence fell.
Reverend Billy began with the Seasons passage from Ecclesiastes, “A time to be born, and a time to die...a time to weep and a time to laugh…a time to mourn.” He recited the words with honest feeling, and my eyes filled with tears as I remembered my grandmother's funeral, and also my mother, now lost to me in the fog of her dementia.
Reverend Billy invited each family member to say something. Janny and Ruby Mae declined, but Howard Nettle rose and stood by his father’s raised coffin. He placed a hand against its side and brushed back his windblown hair. “My daddy and I argued, that’s a fact, but in the end, I loved him, and he loved me. I'll miss him.” He sat down, and Janny gave his hand a squeeze.
“Anyone else?” asked the Reverend.
Ethan shook his head. He leaned forward in his chair, hands in front of his face.
Reverend Billy intoned the final benediction, raising his voice so his words could be heard over the bracing wind: “We commit this body of Calhoun Nettle to the ground, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
The cables whined and slowly the casket disappeared from view. Reverend Billy handed a shovel to Howard who pitched dirt onto the casket. Howard passed the shovel to Ethan who repeated the action, the clods hitting the wooden box with a hollow echo. Janny reached down and trickled a handful of earth into the cavity, and Aurora, her little face solemn, dropped a yellow rose that she'd clutched during the service.
I stood to one side watching the mourners pass by. Some used the shovel, some bent to toss a small handful of dirt as Janny had done. Then they filed down the hill toward the homestead. Reverend Billy said something to Ruby Mae, nodded to me, and joined the others.