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

by Lakota Grace

  On the basis of his confession, Ethan got indicted for manslaughter in the death of Otis Stroud. Thanks to the good efforts of Myra Banks, he was out on bail. Armor was making book at the biker bar that he'd get a year or less.

  Shepherd lent me a revolver until mine was returned. He didn't press me for details about what happened at Tavasci Marsh, and I didn't volunteer.

  Everything was settled, or so I thought until Ruby Mae requested that I visit the Nettle place.

  ***

  THE BIG DOGS were locked up when I swung the SUV into the yard, but Reckless greeted me as I opened the vehicle door. I leaned down, even as Aurora had done, and he licked my face.

  Ruby Mae stood on the porch, watching my approach. “Dog likes you,” she said, opening the screen door so that I could enter the living room. She asked about my grandfather, served me sweet tea.

  “Heard you got a good offer on the property,” I said.

  “Over two million. They move fast, want to close in a few weeks.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Staying here for the present. Ethan asked me to keep this house and the graveyard on the hill as his share. I'll live here until he returns from prison, then move to town. I figure to try some of that country club living, maybe join a book club.”

  I couldn't resist asking. “Did you bury Otis up on the hill?”

  Her lips tightened. “That’s a family plot. Cremated him. Sent the ashes to the folk back home, have him scattered there, not here.”

  We looked at each other, and the questions in my mind were blocked by her direct stare. I had no doubt that if she’d been at Tavasci Marsh she’d have pulled the trigger on Otis Stroud herself, to protect her family.

  “Did you bring your camera like I asked you? Need you to take some pictures for me.”

  We talked over her plan, and it seemed sound. I took shots of her and the other family members as she specified.

  Then I walked out to where the whiskey still had been. It appeared somebody had been busy. The distillery was burned to the ground once more, leaving scarred and blackened ruins. I shot pictures of that location as well.

  When I came back to the house Ruby Mae gave me a check that I tucked in my pocket. “Go see Ethan, now, before you leave. He’s out in the barn with the pups.”

  Reckless gamboled about me as I walked through the late fall sunshine to the barn. Ethan was sitting on the floor surrounded by a whirling vortex of red energy. He got to his feet and brushed off his pants. Reckless waded through the puppies, licking one, tumbling another out of the way.

  “Peg, good to see you. Momma said you'd be out.” He offered a hand and I shook it.

  I took some more pictures of him and the redbone coonhounds. As I turned to leave, he clipped a leash on Reckless. He held the line out to me, his jaw set in a determined line. “You promised.”

  Reckless settled into the SUV like he owned it. He turned once on the back seat and then settled down, comfortable.

  I left the SUV at the station, told Shepherd I was taking the rest of the day off. He didn't object, just nodded and went back to his paperwork. “Nice dog,” was his only comment.

  Reckless and I walked back to my apartment. I opened the front door and let him loose. He clattered up the stairs. By the time I reached the top he'd settled in the middle of my bed. “This is just temporary,” I warned him. “Don't get too comfortable.” His tail whapped the bedspread in response.

  I changed into blue jeans and T-shirt and closed the door on Reckless. Then I walked over to HT’s place to borrow his old pickup. It had a nasty habit of quitting on me, but maybe it would make the trip to Phoenix one more time.

  I stopped at the office supply store on the edge of Cottonwood before I left the Verde Valley as Ruby Mae requested. Then I drove out Highway 260 to I-17 and headed south to Phoenix.

  ***

  THE TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY, and I didn't reach Big Al’s place until late afternoon. His secretary was gone, but he waved me into his office. We looked at each other over his battered desk.

  “I'm here in an unofficial capacity,” I said.

  “Heard about the land sale. Figured somebody would be down.” He leaned forward. “You got something for me?”

  I put the manila envelope on the desk and pulled out the pictures I’d had made at the copy center. One by one, I turned them his direction: The ruined whiskey still, inoperable now that both Cal and Otis were dead. A picture of Lucas that Ruby Mae had given me, the first of the Nettle clan to die at the still. Janny with Aurora in her lap. Darbie still in hospital garb with baby Ruby Janell. Ethan with the redbone coonhound pups.

  Aldo inhaled on his cigar, then placed it in the crystal ashtray. He picked up one picture after another, studying them. “Family,” he declared. Then, “Don't see Howard Nettle in here.”

  “Howard needs to fend for himself. Maybe he and Pietra will make it.”

  “Maybe so. He’s a terrible car salesman, though.”

  I set down one last photograph, turned it so he could see. Ruby Mae on the porch, shotgun in hand, chin raised and a glint in her green eyes.

  Aldo chuckled. “Wouldn't be wise to cross that momma bear.”

  I agreed. Then I pulled the check out of my pocket and pushed it toward him. “Ruby Mae says this is your share.”

  He picked it up, frowned. Flicked the paper with his finger. “Doesn't include enough interest.”

  “Rough times on that family because of the whiskey still,” I countered. “Lucas dead. Darbie's child missing a father. Ethan going to jail.”

  He still looked doubtful.

  “And Aurora needs surgery on that burned hand…”

  He studied on it a moment. “Doesn't mean I won't come up to the Verde Valley. To take in the sights, say.”

  “But not with the Nettle family.”

  He paused for a long moment, thinking. “Fair enough.”

  We shook on it, a matter settled. He walked me out to the street and looked at my granddad's old truck.

  “Give you a great deal on a new car. Drive it off the lot today.”

  His dark eyes sparked as he opened the pickup door for me, not expecting an answer.

  He didn't get one.

  ***

  MY OFFICIAL STATEMENT was never questioned. Why would it be? There'd been a murder suspect convicted. Justice had been served.

  But Otis Stroud’s actions marked all the Nettles, even though he was no longer on this earth. And it branded me as well. I knew that both Howard and Ethan watched Otis die and did nothing, even as he had watched their father suffocate on Ruby Mae’s porch.

  That omission in my statement became another hill-country secret added to the others I carried deep within my soul. Someday I'd go see the lady doc again, talk about it. Until then I was working through it, day by day, the best I could.

  <<<<>>>>

  KEEP READING for a SNEAK PEAK

  at Fire in Broken Water, Book 3

  of the Pegasus Quincy Mystery series!

  Sneak Preview of

  Fire in Broken Water

  Chapter 1

  The radio crackled to life. “Dispute in progress, lethal weapons involved.”

  My partner, Shepherd Malone, grabbed the mic and claimed it for us. We took the Middle Verde Valley exit off I-17, heading toward the river. Turning left, we bounced along a dirt road for about a mile, through gray-green hills of mesquite and catclaw acacia trees.

  The spring bloom had faded and dust blanketed the sparse leaves. Heat waves shimmered at the end of the valley. I squinted at the cloudless June skies and hoped for rain. It was the age-old problem here in the Southwest—we needed the water, just not too much of it all at once.

  My name is Peg Quincy and in addition to being a newly appointed sheriff’s deputy, I'm a volunteer Family Liaison Officer, a FLO. I’m usually one step behind the firemen and the EMTs, smoothing the way for those in need. I gather information for the law, too, when a tragedy involves murder. I hope
d this current call wouldn’t involve that.

  The dirt track leveled out into a graded gravel throughway. On each side of us, the desert scrub made way for fields of manicured grass, bounded by a white-painted fence. In one pasture a herd of thoroughbred horses grazed, some with frisking colts. Money here. We passed under an arch labeled “Spine Horse Ranch” and under that in smaller letters, “Black Onyx at stud”.

  At the small gatehouse, Shepherd lowered his window. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked the security guard.

  “The ranch manager, Gil Streicker, told me to call you. We got a trespasser down by the first barn.” He pointed to a deep red wooden structure with a peaked roof.

  Shepherd pulled into a parking area and we got out.

  My stomach tightened as I readied for what lay ahead. The problem could be a homeless person with a psychotic break, a domestic dispute, or a burglary in progress. Even in our quiet rural community, violence was often only a step away.

  We rushed past the corner of the barn to see a stout, middle-aged woman dressed in overalls, her long, black hair pulled into a knot. She held a pitchfork and jabbed threateningly towards the tall man standing in front of her.

  “Damn you, Gil Streicker, I’ll make you wish you were never born.” Her voice was strong, and she accented each word with a push of her pitchfork.

  “Yeah, well tell that miserable cripple brother of yours to stay the hell off our property.”

  “He’s just claiming what’s ours,” she said. “You're stealing our water.”

  “Your water. Prove it,” the man yelled.

  She tilted the pitchfork closer to his waist, the tips of its sharp tines gleaming in the sunlight. “You stay away from what’s ours or I'll kill you!” she exclaimed.

  The ranch manager backed a step and his boot heel stubbed against the barn wall, halting farther retreat. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his hand dropped to a revolver on his hip.

  “Get back, Serena. So help me if you don't, I'll—”

  My partner drew down his weapon and I clasped mine as well.

  “That's enough folks.” Shepherd’s deep voice cut through the conflict. “Miss, drop that pitchfork and step away.”

  She hesitated.

  “Drop it, now.”

  She released the pitchfork, and it tumbled to the ground.

  “Sir, hands in the air,” Shepherd ordered.

  The man did so, and I breathed out the breath I'd been holding. If we’d gotten here minutes later, this dispute could have turned deadly. And it might still not be over.

  “Peg?” Shepherd gestured toward the man’s gun, a six-shooter. I walked over and drew it from his holster. I emptied the bullets and dropped them in my pocket. I checked the gun’s chamber and then stuck the empty gun in my waistband for safekeeping.

  “I need my gun back,” Streicker protested. “I keep it handy for varmints.”

  “You'll get it back when we figure out what's going on here,” I said.

  Gil Streicker was a man in his early forties. He wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat, a denim shirt, and faded blue jeans. The jeans settled around his lanky hips like they’d been molded there. He was taller than me, too. At my six-foot height, I notice these things.

  Shepherd holstered his own revolver and propped the pitchfork against the barn, away from Serena. “Now, folks, time to calm down a bit. Peg, take Mr. Streicker over there and get his story. Serena, let's you and I walk in this direction.” He took her arm and led her away.

  Standard policy. Separate disputants to get both sides of the story. But Shepherd called the woman by her first name. Did he know her? Not surprising. Shepherd, close to retirement, had called this rural valley home for most of his life. I’d only moved here recently from Tennessee and was still learning this western environment.

  The ranch manager huffed a breath and held out his hand. “Call me Gil.”

  I took it in a solid handshake.

  “Why don't we sit over there?” I pointed to a picnic table under the shade of a big cottonwood tree. The air was cooler in the shade, a light breeze rustling the leaves. A gray-and-white barn cat brushed against my leg and then drifted away.

  Gil Streicker scowled, ready to make his case. He was breathing heavily, too, and I understood. Confronting an angry woman, an armed angry woman, could get the juices flowing better than a cliff side of rattlesnakes.

  “Take a breath, Mr. Streicker, and tell me exactly what is going on here.”

  He shifted his attention to me, gave me a direct blue-eyed stare. “Peg—can I call you Peg?”

  The man radiated unexpected sexuality, a physical heat perhaps heightened by the recent argument.

  “Sure glad you showed up when you did,” he said. “I might have had to hurt that woman.” He touched my arm.

  Standard approach for an alpha male—make first contact.

  I leaned back out of reach and lowered my voice an octave “You can call me Deputy Quincy.”

  He shrugged. “Serena Battle’s brother—” Here, he turned and spat on the ground in disgust. “—destroyed our irrigation ditch. Cost a bundle to repair it. I sent my man over there with a bill and she tore it up. Now, this. She has no right to threaten us. Next time either one of that clan shows a face around here, I'll...”

  “You'll what?”

  “Never mind.” He gained control of himself with obvious effort. “I know you're just doing your job.” He gave a rueful grin and hitched at his trousers. The man was determined to be his own version of charming.

  I wasn’t impressed. “Serena and her brother live close?”

  “Work this run-down plot of land south of us,” Gil said. “We use the same irrigation ditch. With this drought, water has been scarce. Serena claims we been taking more than our share.”

  “Have you?”

  He blustered. “You saw the pastures coming in. Maintaining that grassland for our horses takes water.” He swept a hand of dismissal. “Hell, Serena's just growing a few vegetables down at her place. What does she need that much water for?”

  I tried to remain neutral, but it was hard. My family came from farming background. They didn’t have a lot of money either, but they were hard workers and honest as a clear shaft of water.

  “So you're stealing it.”

  “That's what she says. Anyway, if she thinks something's wrong she can always sue us.”

  His easy manner seemed to indicate she wouldn't. Lawyers can eat up a lot of money in a hurry. On that battleground, this expansive ranch property probably had already won.

  “You own this ranch?” I asked. He seemed overly involved and I wanted to check.

  “No, not yet.” He gave me a peculiar smile. “I'm the ranch manager.”

  “Then I'd like to talk to the owner.”

  “That would be Heinrich Spine. Let's see if he's available.”

  He rose in a loose-limbed way and strode toward the barn, perhaps assuming I wouldn't keep up with him. No problem. I matched him stride for stride.

  The earthy scent of big animals filled the dim barn. We passed several empty stalls, and then one containing a magnificent black stallion. Big, with a long flowing mane. He hung his head over the door, his alert ears tracking our progress toward him. Gil paused to stroke the horse’s cheek, caressing it gently like he might a woman's face.

  We entered an office at the end of the building, and Gil waved to a girl behind the desk. She looked to be about twenty and had brown hair slicked-back in an unbecoming ponytail. The pungent odor of stable manure drifted from her clothing.

  “Gil, are you all right?” She looked up at him with shining eyes.

  “I'm fine, honey, nothing for you to worry about. Call the main house and see if Heinrich is accepting visitors.”

  She talked on the phone for a few moments. Then she hung up and addressed Gil, ignoring me. “I'm sorry. The nurse says he's sleeping. He's not feeling well.” Her voice had a little-girl tentativeness, as if she were seeking approval
from him.

  Gil flashed her a smile and turned to me. “Sorry, Peg. That meeting will have to wait for another day.” He raised his hands, palms up, in a see-how-reasonable-we-are gesture.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. “Sooner or later, I'll have to speak with him. This matter needs to be resolved.”

  Gil shrugged, conversation over. As we left the barn, he bumped into me and I felt a secondary rush of heat.

  At the end of the drive, Gil took my hand. Held it. Gazed into my eyes for a long moment, his invitation clear. Then he dropped my fingers, and held out his own palm, all business: “You've got something that belongs to me.”

  I gave Gil back his revolver. “Don’t be threatening people with that again or we’ll have to…”

  “Got to protect what’s mine,” he said, unrepentant. He wriggled his fingers in a give-me motion.

  “I’ll leave the ammunition at the gatehouse.” I straightened, my voice formal.

  Gil turned on his heel and left me standing there feeling as if I'd gone ten rounds in a welterweight boxing ring. The man was a primal animal, no doubt about it. And what did that make me?

  Serena Battle had left by the time I reached the squad car.

  “What did you think of our resident Lothario?” Shepherd asked.

  “Heavy.”

  He chuckled. “Thought you might appreciate the experience. Brighten your morning.”

  “You didn’t arrest Ms. Battle?”

  “No cause. She’s got enough on her hands with her brother, Hank. She promised to stay away from the ranch.”

  “And you believed her?” I asked.

  “I’ve known Serena for years. Her daddy and I went deer hunting every fall until that stroke killed him. She’ll keep her word.”

  “An arrest would emphasize the seriousness of what she’s done…”

  “Peg!” His tone held warning.