Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  I spent the rest of the afternoon on foot patrol, weaving in and out of the trick-or-treaters on Main Street. I kept a sharp eye for Otis Stroud. That man needed to be sent away for a long, long time.

  ***

  THE DANCE STARTED at eight, and I was still fussing with my hair when I heard a knock at the door. Thinking it might be late trick-or-treaters, I put on the star tiara and pounded down the stairs in my stocking feet. I opened the door to see Reverend Billy, dressed in a formal suit. He held a corsage box in one hand and balanced nervously, one foot in front of the other.

  Super Woman stared at Mr. Traditional. “It's a costume dance,” I pointed out.

  “I don't believe in masquerading as something I'm not,” he said firmly. He shoved the corsage box my direction.

  Good thing I hadn't chosen to go as a witch. I considered changing to street clothes and then decided against it. This was Halloween and even cops deserved a little down time. “Wait a minute while I get my shoes,” I said.

  I grabbed the box and pounded up the stairs in my blue star-spangled tights. When I opened the box and spotted the orchid, my heart sunk. Wonder Woman, with a wrist-strap corsage.

  Then I laughed. I slipped it on my arm, squeezed toes into the highest stiletto heels in my closet and tottered downstairs. Reverend Billy could join in the fun of it, or not. Either way, I planned to let my hair down tonight.

  ***

  WHEN WE ARRIVED at the Armory Hall, Shepherd sat at the door collecting tickets. He still wore his cop uniform. Smart move. Get overtime pay that way. He took Billy's money and stamped both our hands with a purple pumpkin. He paused at the sight of my orchid and looked up at me.

  Wonder Woman shrugged back.

  The hall had black-and-orange crepe paper streamers running from each corner to a glittery dance ball hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Chairs lined the sides of the hall and apples floated in a barrel of water.

  The band warmed up on the front podium, two fiddles, and a bass. A classical guitar leaned against one wall, and a drum kit fanned out along the back of the stage—high hat, cymbals, and snares. The set included a nice bass drum.

  I’d always wanted to be a drummer. But my mother wouldn’t hear of it—instead, I got piano lessons until my teacher fired me—told my mother not to waste her money. But I could still learn the drums, maybe, someday. Bet the Mingus ghosts wouldn’t mind.

  Janny, dressed in a peasant wench costume, touched my star tiara. “Cool outfit. Why aren't you in disguise, Billy?”

  He stared down at her cleavage. “Too late to get one,” he murmured. That should have been my first warning. Never trust a man who looks—especially one who lies, too.

  Something furry banged against my knee and I glanced down to see Ben's dog, Bitzer. He had a red-blinking LED light tied to his wagging tail and silver-epaulets on his shoulders. Ah, disguised as the video game’s General Pepper.

  Ben grabbed the leash. “Hi Peg.” An early-twenties brunette with long straight hair joined him, and he put a companionable arm around her shoulder. His friend from the attorney's office?

  “This is my date, Ashley.” Ben was dressed in a square box labeled “Bar of Soap” and Ashley was a mirage of pink tulle with a rope around one bare shoulder, a shower pouf.

  Next to arrive was a figure dressed in black, with glowing red horns on his head. Reverend Billy stroked his throat and grimaced as Rory Stevens headed our direction. I wondered whether Rory had chosen the costume on purpose, just to needle my date.

  The Imp stopped in front of me and his eyes sparkled. “Nice corsage. How's the weather up there?”

  I jammed his instep with my spike heel. Had to give it to him, he didn't even wince. Must be that SEALs training.

  Rory turned to my date. “Reverend Billy. Nice to see you here. You the chaperone?”

  Before Billy could respond, Rory spun into motion again. “Catch you later for that dance you promised me.” He gave Ben a high-five slap, then crossed the floor to visit with HT.

  The band started with a slow one, a waltz, and Billy led me out onto the floor. His moves were stiff. Probably the man hadn’t been dancing since he’d courted his wife. But he gave it a good try, shuffling me around the floor with a one-two-three box step.

  Darbie Granger and Howard Nettle passed us, an elegant couple in medieval velvet. Then the room swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors as others took the floor. The ball overhead glittered and twinkled.

  The next two dances were fast ones. We sat on the sidelines, Billy becoming more and more restless. Finally, he muttered, “Going for some punch,” and disappeared.

  A burly lumberjack with a three-day beard and a rubber ax invited me to dance. I joined him on the floor for some free-form moves that passed for an oldies rock and roll number. Out of breath, I returned to my chair and scanned the hall for my date, Billy. He was over at the punch table with his arm around a can-can dancer in a ruffled red skirt. When he bent close to whisper something, she tilted her head and laughed.

  What was Billy pulling here? He was my date. A flush of irritation began at my throat and spread to my cheeks. I rose.

  HT dropped into the chair next to me and pulled me back down. He pointed the opposite direction. “You're in for a treat. Watch this,” he said as the floor cleared.

  Ethan Nettle climbed up on the stage, costumed in a red velvet shirt, with a Zorro mask and a flat black hat. He picked up the guitar and sat in a chair, tuning it softly until satisfied. Then sat there waiting. The crowd stilled.

  To the side of the room, Isabel appeared in glamorous black, wearing an elegant ivory comb and lace mantilla. She walked purposefully to the center of the room and struck a pose with hands arced over her head. Then she clapped three times, with authority, and began a passionate flamenco, keeping perfect time to Ethan’s guitar.

  Circular wrist movements lent strength to her graceful hands as Isabel struck the dramatic poses. Her back arched as she lifted through rapid heel work, tapping out the rhythm. The flamenco dance became a shared experience, sucking the very air out of the room with its energy.

  Finally, Isabel halted, motionless in the same beginning pose, alone in the center of the dance floor. The audience breathed out a collective sigh of release and then exploded into thunderous applause.

  An orange baseball-capped man stood at the side, watching Ethan play. Otis Stroud! His slouch straightened as the man caught my gaze and he bolted out an emergency exit door. Jerking into cop mode, I dashed after him.

  But within a block, my ankle turned, betrayed by my high heels. I grabbed at a trash can for support, but it crashed to the street, dumping me on the cracked sidewalk. I slapped the wet cement in frustration as Otis vanished into the fog as easily as a miner’s ghost.

  Reluctantly, I abandoned the chase and limped back to the hall. Reverend Billy leaned against the far wall, in attendance to a Maid Marion. Enough was enough. Time to call him out. I stalked in his direction, brushing fog-damp hair out of my eyes.

  But fate intervened in the form of a tall, skinny woman in her late thirties who appeared in the doorway. “Where is he? I know he's here!”

  The room hushed with anticipation. The band, sensing something wrong, stopped playing with an awkward fiddle squawk.

  Spotting me and Billy, the woman strode over with a purposeful step. She reached up and slapped my face. “You home wrecker.”

  Then she turned to Billy. “They told me you'd be here, you lying minister of God. I'm on my sick bed, close to death and you're out consorting with sinners.” She glared at me.

  Billy spread his hands in supplication. “Please, Agnes. It's not what it looks like.”

  “You better believe it's not. Here, I don't want this anymore, you—you—devil’s spawn.” She extended a shaking hand in front of her, yanking and pulling at her ring finger. “Our engagement is over.”

  A sparkle arced in the air as she threw her ring to the floor. She turned on her heel and stamped out the door. Bill
y shot a look of indecision in my direction. Then he snatched up the ring and dashed after her.

  The dance ball gyrated slowly over my head, its promise of enchantment shattered. People murmured to each other, heads close, and someone half-pointed at me, alone in the middle of the hall. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd.

  All of a sudden, I was back at a Jr. High dance, crushed by the smirks of popular girls. My cheeks burned, and I started to shake. If only they’d stop looking at me—I yearned for a bag to shove over my head so I could disappear.

  There was a hand on my shoulder and I flinched.

  “Time for that dance you promised me.” It was Rory Stevens.

  “No…Don't want to…Tired.” I stumbled over excuses.

  He took my hand in a firm grip. “Breathe.”

  I took in a shuddering breath.

  “Now take off your shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Work with me here, Peg. We’re going to do a fantastic West Coast Swing. You need good footing.”

  I slipped out of the high heels and handed them to Janny, standing nearby. Then I followed Rory onto the floor. The band took the cue and swung into a loud rendition of “My Give-a-Damn is Busted.”

  We anchored and whipped. Then we pushed-and-pulled in a slot that got longer and more extravagant. Rory did a right side pass and I followed with a swivel.

  I got this crazy grin on my face—Wonder Woman was back! The crowd parted to give us room and shouted approval when the song ended.

  Rory stayed by my side the rest of the evening, a courtier in black with red glowing horns. Shepherd brought me a cup of punch and stayed to talk a while. Ben pulled me out on the floor for a spirited salsa. Even HT and Isabel came over to give me a hug. Family surrounded me, at a time when I needed them the most.

  When the Halloween Dance was over, I walked to the door with Rory, my heels in one hand. The night was bitter and the wind howled. Billy had never returned and it would be a cold, slippery walk home.

  “Give you a lift?” Rory asked.

  I thought of his small sports car and the agony of trying to fit in, once more, where I didn't belong. I started to say no.

  “Plan B,” he said. “Borrowed my roommate's Hummer.”

  So I rode home with plenty of legroom on All Hallow’s Eve, accompanied a guy who understood me. I didn't slip once. Not even when he followed me into the studio apartment and stayed for a while.

  For once, my ghost gave me a holiday.

  Shepherd's Daughter

  23

  I TOOK THE REST of the weekend off and walked up to HT’s house for Sunday dinner. I asked Isabel if I could help, but she just laughed. Must have known my disaster-prone proclivities in the kitchen. HT shared the paper with me in the living room while we waited for her to finish. He got the sports page; I propped my feet on the coffee table and read the funny papers. They made more sense, sometimes, than the front sections did.

  We assembled at the table, and after grace, Isabel passed a soup tureen filled with lamb stew fragrant with bay and cinnamon. Dinner rolls, so warm that the butter melted and ran off onto the plate. I took a bite, flaky and sweet.

  “Saw Howard with Darbie at the dance,” HT commented, passing homemade cherry jam. “Making free since his wife has gone back to Phoenix.”

  “That Pietra’s a witch,” Isabel hissed.

  “A witch? Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I can tell. Evil woman, not good at a funeral.” Isabel was definite in her judgment.

  I had to agree. “Did you see Otis at the dance?”

  HT nodded. “Yeah, saw him there watching Ethan play. Surprised Shepherd didn’t arrest him. Or that you didn’t. Seems to me that you work at that sheriff’s department, too?”

  His voice was teasing, and I swatted at his arm with my hand. “Believe me, I tried.” I rubbed my ankle, sore from the tumble I’d taken.

  “Not surprising he escaped, though,” HT allowed. “Man’s had a lot of practice slipping and sliding in that bootlegging business.”

  That brought up bad memories for me. “Would he kill Cal Nettle?” I asked. It was always the question at the back of my mind.

  “Otis has a dark side. Always on the outskirts of the family, never quite fit in, even if he was a brother to Ruby Mae.”

  Isabel brought a sweet potato pie from the kitchen and cut slices for us. “That Billy preacher. Making a scene like that. You deserve better, Pegasus.” Her soft accent gave my name a melodic lilt.

  Before I could respond, Ben entered. “Sorry I’m late. Leave some pie for me?” His teenage energy filled the room, and the moment passed.

  After dinner, I sat with them on the front porch for a bit and then went for a hill climb up Black Mountain. Exercise was my answer to stress. Someday I’d be able to laugh about what happened at the dance, but not yet.

  ***

  I'D PLAN TO ARRIVE at the office early Monday morning, but when I climbed out of bed, the temperature in my studio apartment hovered south of forty degrees, cold even for November in Mingus. I put in a call for a heating repair service, but by the time the furnace guy arrived, the morning was half over.

  He delivered the bad news that the thermocouple had arced. Had to order a new one, be a couple of days, he said. I shivered. The weather bureau was predicting temperatures in the teens that night.

  When I finally arrived at work, I stood for a moment under the ceiling vent, soaking up the warm air. Good to be in a place where the heater worked. I thought I’d get some nasty comments from early-bird Shepherd for my lateness, but his door was closed.

  Ben was dithery with excitement. He put one hand over his heart. “I'm in love, I'm almost positive. Now I know what Bill Gates felt when he met Melinda. Pure bliss.”

  “Ashley?” I remembered his date in pink tulle at the dance.

  Ben waved his hand in dismissal. “Adolescent infatuation, a flash in the night. This is the real deal, the love of my life, sitting right in there.” He pointed to Shepherd’s office.

  I dropped my coat on a chair and knocked on Shepherd's door. I couldn't wait to see this perfect woman.

  “Enter,” Shepherd said.

  The young woman held out a confident hand. “Hello, I'm Sheryl Malone, Shepherd's daughter.”

  Bare traces remained of the little girl in the photo at Shepherd’s house. This grown-up Sheryl wore a micro black leather skirt with knee high boots and fishnet stockings. Her salmon-colored T-shirt had been slashed in strategic places, and she wore enough metal-filled piercings to trigger airport security devices. She topped it off with spiky, lavender-tipped hair.

  Shepherd stirred uneasily in his chair. “Sheryl just arrived. She's going to spend some time. Her mother and she...”

  “My mother is a bitch and I knew I'd be much happier living here with my dad.” She turned to smile at him.

  “How long are you staying?” I asked.

  “As long as I want to.”

  My partner would have fun with this girl-child.

  “Sheryl, would you go out into the waiting area for a moment while I talk to Peg? Police business.”

  She grabbed her backpack and sashayed out to bedazzle Ben. Shepherd closed the door behind her and slumped in his chair. “I haven't talked to her mother in years, and Sheryl shows up half an hour ago in this rattle-trap Volkswagen. Said she hadn't slept since the day before yesterday. Made it here on uppers, she says.” He rubbed an agitated hand across his face. “What am I going to do?”

  I suppressed a smile. “Go learn how to be a dad again. Ben and I will take care of things here.”

  My partner shifted to disaster-planning mode. “I'll leave the SUV with you—Put out another Be-On-The-Lookout for Otis—Work the angle with little Aurora—Talk to Ruby Mae again but don't lean too hard—Don't touch that mess down in Phoenix with the Nigglieri bunch until I get back—And what about that appointment with your counselor?” He paused for breath.

  “We'll be fine.”
r />   “And check in every hour. Text me.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Shepherd went to retrieve his daughter. When they departed, Ben’s dazed expression focused on the closing door.

  Time to reassert my own control. First I switched off my cell phone. I'd report to Shepherd when I had something to say, not before. Then I poured a leisurely cup of coffee and sauntered back into my office. I sat down and propped my feet up on my desk.

  “Print me up another desk sign,” I called out to my assistant. Pegasus Quincy, Super Cop, was at the helm once more.

  Only after I finished my coffee, did I write down Shepherd’s new to-do list before I forgot it. Then I got to work.

  The sheriff's office in Camp Verde said they’d issue another Be-On-The-Lookout for Otis Stroud. I knew the chances of locating him were slim. He'd evaded the first BOLO and probably would this one as well. The guy slid in and out of view like a snapping turtle in dank marsh water.

  Next, I called Dr. Westcott. She agreed to let Janny and Aurora take my appointment that afternoon. If the mother approved, the counselor said I could sit in. Another one of Shepherd’s to-do’s crossed off.

  I'd been dreading the upcoming visit to see the counselor, but now I had something new to report. Rather than rehashing all the stuff I’d talked about last week, I could focus on Aurora’s problem. The way I saw it, that showed I had compassion and concern for my fellow humans, an obvious sign of a well-balanced and responsible adult, a person capable of handling a weapon once more. Besides, I liked the little kid and maybe this could help her, too.

  Janny was excited about the appointment and assured me I could attend. “Since Aurora likes you, it's fine by me. Never been to a shrink before. Not going to cost us anything, is it?”

  “Not a red cent,” I assured her. The sheriff's department could pay the counseling charges. Be worth it if we could get some good info out of it. “You might bring Aurora’s stuffed rabbit,” I suggested, “Help her feel safe.”