by Lakota Grace
I straightened my shoulders, walked to the open screen door, and knocked on the door jamb. “Sheriff's department.”
A little girl about eight came to the door. Her eyes were wide with shock. I knelt down to her height. “Hi, Honey. What's your name?”
“Holly.” She opened the screen for me and pointed behind her. “Mama's back there.” Then she took my hand and led me through the modest house. Small living room, two bedrooms off to the side, kitchen in front of us.
Although it was mid-afternoon, breakfast dishes still sat on the table. A spoon stuck out of a bowl of soggy cereal, and spilled juice from a glass next to it had dried into an orange smear. Time jerked to a stop for this family in tragedy.
We passed out the back door onto a covered porch where a woman sat rigid in a platform rocker. She stared blindly ahead, arms crossed tightly.
I touched her shoulder. “Ma'am? I'm Pegasus Quincy from the sheriff's department. I am so sorry for your loss. “
She started as if coming out of a nightmare. “Quincy? My uncle was named Quincy, back in Arkansas. Are you any relation? No, I guess not. Quincy was his first name…” Her features were rigid, and she stared at some point beyond my left ear.
She wasn't making any sense, but sometimes it’s hard for the mind to grasp the finality of death.
“We might be kin.” I gave her a smile. “Feel up to a cup of coffee?”
She nodded hesitantly and started to rise. I put a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t mind fixing it. Holly, why don't you come help?”
The coffee pot was full, and I poured two cups. Black for me.
I turned to the little girl. “How does your mama like her coffee?”
“Just cream.”
I pulled a milk carton out of the refrigerator, sniffed it. Sour.
The little girl reddened. “That milk is bad. We use that.” She pointed to a rounded container of powdered creamer.
My heart went out to her. Her brother was dead, and she had to make excuses for sour milk.
I poured some creamer into the cup, stirred it. Then I looked at the little girl and poured about half the coffee into the sink and wiped the bottom of the mug. I dumped the spoiled milk down the sink, too.
“Here, can you carry this to your mama?” I gave her the half-full cup that would be easier for her not to spill. I carried the other onto the porch and sat in a chair near the woman. Holly handed the mug to her mother and sat down on the floor near her. She leaned back against her mother’s leg.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” I asked Janet Miller, the mom.
“I went in to wake Johnny. He's always late for school if I don't remind him. I found him there. Those people,” she gestured vaguely at the front door, “said it was an overdose. My Johnny doesn't do drugs. What did they mean?”
She covered her face with her hands. Her little girl started to cry, too, and I stroked her hair.
“Was your son depressed, ma'am?”
“I visited the guidance office at the high school just the other day. They arranged for some counseling to start soon. His cousin killed himself last year, just about this time…”
She lifted the mug to her lips and then set it down without tasting. “I slept in this morning. I never do that. If only I'd gone into his bedroom earlier!”
Then her mind darted in another direction. She poked at her daughter’s arm. “Holly, you get ready for school now,” she scolded. “Johnny will take you...” She stopped, realizing her son could not take his sister to school ever again. Mrs. Miller’s shoulders tensed, and she gave a harsh hiccupy sob.
Getting the little girl out of the house for a time might be a good idea. “Is there a neighbor close? Maybe someone else could watch Holly for a while?”
I got the phone number and made the call. The woman said she was picking up her own kids from school and would swing by for Holly.
Then I called the counselor at the elementary school where Holly went and let her know what had happened. She said she'd call the guidance counselor at the high school, too.
I turned back to Mrs. Miller. “Ma'am, I'm here to answer any questions that you may have as you face these first hard days.”
She roused. “Where are they taking my boy? We don't have any insurance. Do I have to pay for that ambulance?”
“No, the county pays for that.”
“They won't have to autopsy him, will they? Our religion requires he be buried within twenty-four hours.”
“Most likely an autopsy won't be necessary,” I said. “We'll work with you on that. Have you thought about a funeral home?”
She shook her head, and I suggested one that was close. With her assent, I dialed the number. The funeral director told me they had a reserve fund set up for clients with financial needs. I handed over the phone to Mrs. Miller and listened as they set up a time for a meeting late that afternoon.
“Any family live close?” I asked her.
“My sister Eloise, over in Cottonwood. I haven't had the heart to call her.”
Mrs. Miller gave me the number and I dialed it. When the ring tone began, I handed her the phone. She relayed the news to her sister in a wooden voice. Then she hung up the phone and turned to me with more awareness in her eyes.
“My sister’s coming right over. I don't have to go down to the morgue and identify the body, do I?” She shuddered “I can’t do that, I just can’t!”
“No need.” I kept my voice low and gentle as I explained how an ambulance would deliver her son’s body to the funeral home. I put a packet of information on the table and told her so that she could read it when she was ready, or her sister could.
Then I sat there with Mrs. Miller for a while longer, holding her hand. I listened to her anguish as she replayed events in her mind, trying to make sense of the unthinkable. But nothing I could say would bring her son back.
Finally, she wiped her eyes and stood up. “I don’t mean to keep you. I know you’ve got more important things to do.”
About that time, the neighbor arrived to check on Holly. She shooed the little girl next door to play with her kids and said she’d stay until the sister arrived.
Another call came in for me, and I had to leave. I gave Mrs. Miller my card and asked her to call if she had any questions.
I'd only been there two hours, but when I stepped back into the sunlit yard, I felt like I'd traveled to a very dark place.
***
When I picked up Shepherd at the courthouse later that afternoon, he had a morose expression on his face.
“Well, was it one for the good guys, or one for the happy-hour crowd?” I asked. It felt good to return to the normalcy of cop talk after the bleak hours with Janet Miller.
“Judge was ready to throw the book at him. Third time the jerk’s been before the court,” Shepherd said.
“Well, that should make you happy. Now he won't be out on the street for a while.”
“I wish. His attorney asked for a continuance. Said there were extenuating circumstances. Judge granted it.”
I whistled. “Tough call. Got your defense prepared?”
“Guy's not going to get away with it. I can tell you that.”
I believed him. Shepherd was like a bulldog with a crunchy bone when it came to wrong-doers.
“How'd you do with the fire investigator?” he asked, ready to leave his own topic.
“Well, at least I didn't start another fire. That’s about the only thing I got credit for. You could’ve warned me about that guy.”
He chuckled.
“He seems to think that the barn fire was caused by an electrical short,” I said. “But there were cut marks on the wire—could be rodent damage, could be something else.”
“Hope you collected the wire for analysis.”
When I told him that I had, Shepherd grunted, “Good.”
I liked that grunt of approval. I’d miss it when he retired, although he’d be the last person I’d tell that to.
“Looks suspicious, that's for sure,” he said. “Watch your step out there. Heard some rumors about ol’ Heinrich…” Before he could say more, our incoming business line rang. He waved at me that we’d talk later and reached for the call.
I walked back to my office holding the frustration of that half-expressed thought. What about Heinrich Spine had alerted Shepherd’s suspicions? And why wasn’t Shepherd declaring this a murder investigation?
Okay, the medical examiner hadn’t said the death was anything but an accident—yet. I pushed away the unwelcome thought that maybe my partner was just featherbedding it, waiting out the days to retirement, not wanting to get involved in a messy situation unless absolutely necessary.
Not my call, but I wondered what I’d be doing if it were my case. I knew for sure a simple traffic ticket violator wouldn’t sidetrack me. What was wrong with Shepherd?
***
Work picked up and I never got another chance to talk to him. The day ended, my own problems clamored for attention. As I cranked the Jetta’s engine in the parking lot, the idiot light glowed an ominous red. I tapped on the glass and it blinked once, twice, then disappeared. Yes! It must be a loose fuse, that was it.
I probably should get it checked, though. How many more days until payday and would the car run until then? I’d just baby it along. I eased it downhill from the sheriff’s station to my studio apartment.
Reckless brushed past me and bolted into the front yard, knocking the yellow notice on the table to the floor. “Eviction. Ten Days.”
Actually nine, now. I resolved to visit my property owner, the bank, the next day and see what the problem was. Or call, anyway. It was probably a mistake. I examined the tattered piece of paper. Maybe it was some kid’s prank. The paper didn’t seem all that official. Shouldn’t there should be a seal or something?
If I had to move, I wondered where I’d go. I’d lived with my grandfather, HT Tewksbury, when I first came to town. In fact, I’d bunked in the loft with Ben, my assistant, when his uncle had kicked him out. We were both homeless at that point. But I was nearing thirty. Kind of old to be a boomerang kid.
And it wasn’t just HT. He’d let me in, easy, if I needed to go there again. I had a more problematic relationship with his housekeeper, Isabel. Sometimes we got along just fine, but other times she looked as if she wanted to skewer me with a serving fork. She was jealous, that’s all. HT and I were making up for those lost years when we never spoke. A granddaughter should come before a housekeeper, that was for sure.
I changed out of my uniform and walked up the street to HT’s house to talk to him about temporary shelter. My grandfather lived in a huge three-story monstrosity that used to be a boarding house for miners during the copper heydays. Now only HT and Isabel lived there. Plenty of room for me, although I didn’t want to call in the free-room-and-board marker unless I had to.
When I arrived at HT’s, he invited me in to sit for a while. My stomach growled, telling me it was dinnertime. Maybe there’d be enough for me. Then I could talk to HT about moving in. Slip the topic into conversation over dessert.
When I asked what they were having, Isabel said “salad” with this determined look on her face. I glanced at HT and his face was set. Okay HT had put on a little weight—blame Isabel's wonderful tamales and enchilada casseroles for that—but you didn’t have to starve the man.
Not in the mood for another conflict-laden meal like I’d had at the Spine Ranch, I gave my regrets. I’d talk to HT later about housing. Now wasn’t a good time.
Reckless and I headed to the Sonic Drive-in to share a couple of burgers. That was fine with my dog. When I got back to the apartment, I parked the Jetta and ran a few hills for good measure. That was okay with him, too.
As we pounded up my front steps after the run, out of breath and virtuous, my cell phone rang a Coldplay guitar rif which meant a stranger’s text. It was from Amanda Riordan, Heinrich Spine’s granddaughter.
Please come see me when you can. I've remembered something about Gil , the message read.
I called back but got her voice mail. I briefly debated driving back down the hill to the Spine Ranch. Then Reckless nosed my hand, reminded me the day was over. I left a message to say I’d stop by in the morning. That was soon enough to find out what she wanted.
Chapter 5
Shepherd wasn’t in our office when I arrived the next morning, and I drove to the main sheriff's office in Camp Verde to check in.
Sheriff Jones caught up with me in the hall. “What's going on up there in Mingus?”
I temporized. “What do you mean?”
“Shepherd. Usually, he's right on top of things, but I've been leaving messages all morning and he's not responding. Don't you have a clerk up there to answer the phone?”
“Gone. Budget cuts,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yeah. Well, when you talk to Shepherd, have him call me. You free this morning? Got a project for you.”
Never volunteer, I kept reminding myself. Never volunteer.
Too late. The sheriff said we'd had a rash of break-ins in the small town of Beaver Creek. He wanted me to go door-to-door handing out flyers on burglar-proofing homes. Community service, he called it.
Seemed like a waste of good patrol time to be stopping at each house. Couldn't we just send out an email blast or something? But chores like this put bread on the table and dog food in the dish. I checked a map to plot out a likely route and angled my stops to finish near the Spine Ranch.
I’d visit with Amanda Riordan then and find out what new information she wanted to give me. Shepherd might be steering away from calling Gil Streicker’s death a homicide, but more and more, that’s what it seemed like to me.
As I neared the ranch, a mailbox to the left of the road read “Serena and Hank Battle.” Pitchfork Woman and her brother. I’d passed it before, but perhaps it was time to become better acquainted with the Battles.
I turned onto a dirt drive which disintegrated into ruts patched together by big boulders. Before my Jetta could high-center, I parked and set the emergency brake. Then I hiked toward to a small house squatting at the bottom of the hill. Sharp stones embedded in the roadbed poked the soles of my shoes.
The farm was close to the Verde River, and high humidity turned the air swampy. A herd of goats and one dispirited cow grazed in a weedy meadow. They looked miserable in the summer heat. I knew how they felt.
An empty irrigation ditch fronted the meadow, and there a huge bulk of a man, with wispy dirty-blond hair, held onto a noose-pole. He shouted at me as I walked closer.
“Killed a rattler right there yesterday. Looking for his little brother.”
I jumped a little in spite of myself, but little brother must have gone home. I swatted at a mosquito. Hope it didn't carry West Nile virus. From the red smear on my fingers, it was too late to ask it.
“I'm looking for Serena Battle.”
He gave me an odd look as if trying to figure out a response to my statement. “I live by myself in my trailer. My name is Hank.”
He pointed to his hat. It was pink felt with his name written in sparkly letters, the kind you get at a carney booth at the county fair. He was missing a few teeth in front, too. Didn't appear to bother him. I tried not to let it bother me, either.
Hank left abruptly, without saying goodbye, sweeping his snake stick through the long grass. I stuck to the short grass I could see through and made my way cautiously to a small house at the end of the road.
A motor coughed behind me and I swung around to watch as a decrepit Ford half-encased in gray primer and missing a back fender barreled down the hill. The vehicle tilted this way and that, missing the boulders—probably knew them all on a first-name basis—and pitched to a stop six inches from my foot.
I didn't flinch. I must have used up my startle response on Hank’s rattlers.
Serena Battle climbed out of the truck, solid on her feet, with that gray-black hair tamed into a rough knot. “Deputy
Quincy, isn’t it? Is that miserable Gil Streicker pressing charges? God knows I’ve got more to complain about than he does.”
“No, that’s not why I’m here. I have a few questions for you.”
She smoothed her hair back in an exasperated manner. “Well, then, you might as well come into the house. It’s hot out here.”
I wiped sweat-dampened palms on my trousers and followed her. Large tin cans lined the front porch, planted with tomato vines that struggled against the summer heat. The next cool breeze wouldn’t arrive until late September, almost three months from now.
Serena flipped the switch on a swamp cooler that filled the air with a musty blast of dampness. The room was a combination kitchen/living room, with one end reserved for a small dining table. The floor was a rust-colored painted cement, cracked in places. Neat, but sparse.
“The cooler takes just a minute to cool things down. Sit there.” She gestured toward a worn couch, its cushions sunken with use. “What can I get you? Water? Lemonade?”
“Water would be fine.”
She pulled two glasses from the cupboard, filled them, and handed one to me. Then she dropped into the chair across from me, pushed the glass against her forehead. “Ah, that feels good. Sorry I was abrupt out there. I’ve been at the courthouse, filing a citizen's complaint.”
“Against Dr. Spine?”
She nodded. “You saw that empty ditch in front of the field? We depend on it for irrigation, have for years. Under the laws of prior appropriation, that water is mine. I've tried to reason with those people up there, but they won't listen. Told me to get a lawyer.”
She laughed bitterly. “Look around you. I've barely got enough money to keep myself and Hank fed. I live here quiet, everybody can tell you. Don't want any trouble. But those greedy bastards...” She clenched her fist.