Fire in Broken Water

by Lakota Grace

  When I gave him the case number, he checked it for me. “Just gave this to Shepherd Malone,” he grumbled. “Don't you guys talk to each other?”

  Apparently not.

  “Okay, here it is. Cuts on the wire are definitely man-made.”

  “Any clue as to the instrument?”

  “Not an ordinary pocket knife. Something with a small, crescent-shaped blade.”

  “Like a surgical scalpel?” I asked.

  “Could be. Look, you guys need to get your act together over there. It's a waste of my time to report this information twice.”

  Tell me about it. I thanked him and rang off.

  The fire was deliberately set, then. Sometimes that meant an insurance scam, especially if the ranch were in financial difficulties. Was it a coincidence that few of the horses were in their stalls the night of the fire or just the happenstance of a summer night’s outside pasturing?

  On the other hand, Gil Streicker had lost his life in that fire. The blaze may have been set to destroy evidence of a murder.

  I decided to head out to the Spine Ranch to follow up on the arsenic angle once Shepherd returned with the department SUV. Dr. Spine had been a chemist, so possibly he’d have some in his supplies. Or there was always the barn and gardening shed, where old rat poison might be stored. That stuff used to contain arsenic.

  I tried Shepherd’s phone again. This time he answered.

  “Where you at?” I asked, hearing the ding of a cash register.

  “Safeway. Dude came in here for groceries.” He was whispering like the announcer at the 18th hole of the Master's Golf Tournament.

  “That's not an arrestable offense.”

  “It is if he samples that wine he's buying, on the way home. Wait! He just picked up some peanuts to go with the liquor.”

  “Shepherd! If he spots you...”

  “Nah, I'm fine. I'm hidden over here behind the donuts.” The phone clicked as he hung up.

  I was on my own, in a suspicious death case that was rapidly spinning out of control, while my partner played his little game of hide and seek.

  My cell phone rang and I grabbed it. At first, I thought it might be Shepherd calling me back, but the number on the caller ID was unfamiliar. I pressed the connect button.

  It was Marguerite Spine-Riordan. “Officer Quincy. Thank goodness I reached you. Please, you've got to come at once.”

  “What seems to be the—”

  “There's a strange man out in the yard. With a gun.”

  “Didn't you call the sheriff's office?”

  “They put me on hold,” she said.

  “Did you tell them it was important?”

  “Well, I didn't want to be rude about it. I gave them my name and my address and told them that I was Heinrich Spine's daughter. That should have been enough.”

  “So then you called me.”

  “Well, you left your card on the table.” Her voice was querulous and whiny.

  I felt a sudden kinship with the sheriff's office dispatcher. Maybe it would be simpler to deal with her problem myself. I’d meant to visit the ranch later today anyway.

  “The man. Where is he right now?”

  “Out by the barn. He's arguing with our gardeners.”

  “And you are sure there's a gun?”

  “Well, I saw something shiny. It looked like a gun. I locked the door right away and came up here into the study. Amanda is in town and Heinrich is asleep and I certainly couldn't call Rosa or Fancy.” Her voice crackled with disgust at the last name.

  “Stay where you are. I'll be there soon.”

  “Well, where else would I be?”

  She slammed the phone in my ear ending the connection. I did likewise, taking out my rudeness on the device. I called dispatch and informed them of my destination. They said they'd stand by.

  ***

  When I drove through the Spine Ranch gate, I counted three men near the new barn construction. Two were ranch hands I'd seen there before. The third man brandished an iron crowbar.

  It could fit Marguerite’s description of something shiny. And a crowbar could be a deadly weapon, too. I'd attended an exhibition once where a man tossed one twenty feet and put an outsized gash in a wooden post. Wouldn't want one used on my skull.

  The squad car with light bar flashing would have made a better entrance, but the Jetta would have to do. At least I was in uniform. I jerked on the parking brake, got out and strode toward the group.

  “What’s the problem?”

  The men looked up at my approach, and one of the unarmed men started speaking to me in rapid Spanish.

  My high school Spanish class was a decade behind me. Now I wished I'd paid more attention.

  “English, por favor.”

  “This man, he rips open the turnout gate on the drainage ditch.”

  “Our water!” Crowbar Man shouted.

  As I drew closer, I recognized blond scraggly hair and that pink beanie. It was Serena Battle's brother, Hank.

  “Not yours.” His fist clenched the bar tightly, his stance aggressive. “You stole it from us.”

  “Idiota!” Another torrent of Spanish, curse words spat out like machine gun bullets.

  I kept my eye on the crowbar. I was facing an angry man who was also brain-damaged. Even so, the outcome would be the same if he threw the bar. I touched the Glock at my hip, not wanting to escalate the situation, but ready if I had to.

  “Hank, remember me?” I asked. “You were hunting snakes when I came to visit your sister, Serena.”

  Some clarity returned to his eyes. “Serena...”

  The hand with the crowbar dropped to his side and Hank shook his head. He looked at the two angry men and me in uniform.

  Then he dropped the bar. He ran in an awkward, uneven gait for the side of the big house and disappeared behind it.

  “Stay here,” I ordered the men and gave chase. I'd had the record for the hundred-yard dash in the police academy, but the ten pounds of duty belt and my Glock slowed me some. That, and too many lunches at Beto's Mexican Restaurant.

  Hank had a twenty-five-yard advantage on me. As I rounded the corner, he increased that lead, darting across the backyard. In a one-handed vault, he cleared the barbed-wire fence into a paddock beyond. I jumped the fence, too, and doubled my speed.

  Hank swerved around two grazing cows that jerked up their heads, and then bounded over a far fence. Picking up speed, he vanished into the woods beyond.

  I jerked to a halt.

  A Brahma bull appeared from behind the cows and trotted aggressively my direction. Criminals I faced without fear. But bull vs. cop? I knew who’d win that contest.

  I paused, hands on knees, assessing its reaction. With no picador’s lance, my only option would be flight. I took a quick glance behind me at the fence, some twenty paces distant. Then I edged sideways, trying to put the cows between the bull and me. That confused him for a moment, and I pivoted, racing for the fence.

  If the ground shook, I didn’t feel it. But hot breath dusted my neck as I vaulted the fence one-handed. I landed on the other side in a splatter of dust. One palm was bleeding, and my uniform pant leg was ripped at the knee.

  But I was on one side of that barbed-wire fence and the bull was on the other. I had made it!

  The bull chuffed, uprooting plugs of grass with its hooves. We made eye-contact for a moment, then it whirled and trotted heavily back to the cows, honor satisfied.

  I rose shakily to my feet and threw the finger. More than one kind of honor. Anyway, I knew where Hank lived. Maybe Serena could calm him down a little before I got there.

  The two men looked up as I returned from behind the house. One held out his hand. “I'm Ray Morales, head gardener here at the ranch.”

  Unlike the first man, his English was unaccented, prep-school perfect. Bilingual? I'd always admired the ability of people who can speak two languages fluently. I often had trouble making even one language work for me.

  I winced a li
ttle as we shook hands. He turned my hand over and examined my palm.

  “Ol’ One-Eye stopped you, did he? Come back to the barn and let’s clean that out.”

  At the faucet, he washed the scrape gently, then applied some disinfectant ointment from the office first aid kit.

  “You want a bandage?” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Didn’t think so. Interferes with the shooting hand, right?” He mimicked a six-shooter draw.

  “Thanks. That feels much better.” I smiled and then queried him about the incident. “Hank Battle. He bother you before this?”

  Ray nodded. “Some. It's not his fault, though. He and I used to go motorcycling, over to Prescott and down Yarnell Hill before, you know...” He tapped his head.

  “Still, he threatened you. Want to press charges?”

  “Not for me to say. Up to the Boss Man.” He pointed to the big house. “But Hank and his sister are entitled to some of that water, too.”

  He gestured to the luxurious lawn and magnificent weeping willow trees framing the house entrance “This place feels like a goddam golf course.” His voice deepened with intensity.

  I couldn't argue with that observation.

  “But don’t repeat that to Dr. Spine? I need this job. Got a wife and three kids at home.”

  I promised him what he said would remain with me. “Got a quick question for you, though. Any arsenic around the ranch?”

  “You mean rat poison, that sort of thing?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Ray shook his head. “No, I’d rather foster the barn cats and let them destroy the rats. Dangerous to keep poison like that around, with the horses and ranch animals.”

  I gave him my card. He promised to call if Hank trespassed again.

  Then I walked up to the big house to talk to Ms. Marguerite and the Boss Man.

  Chapter 13

  The nurse, Fancy Morgan, opened the front door. She was dressed in jeans and a man’s gray shirt rolled at the sleeves. Without makeup, her face looked vulnerable and tired, as though she’d kept too many late nights.

  “Is Marguerite or her father around?”

  “Heinrich is napping. Marguerite is in her room with a migraine.”

  Her words were matter-of-fact, without emotion, and she made no effort to open the door wider.

  “Marguerite called me,” I said.

  “About the fight. Yes. She might be down later.”

  “Might I wait inside?”

  Fancy sighed and her lips tightened.

  Something had irritated her, and it couldn’t be me since I’d just arrived. If Heinrich was asleep that only left Marguerite. Having dealt with Marguerite myself, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Suit yourself. I was about to make some tea anyway,” Fancy said. “I’ll set an extra place.”

  She turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  I entered, closed the door, and followed her. I’d rather have coffee than tea, but the invitation gave me a chance to learn more about the nurse and her interactions with the family.

  In the kitchen, I sat on a bar stool while Fancy spooned tea leaves from a metal container into a fine china teapot and added steaming water from the built-in dispenser in the wall.

  Reaching into a cupboard behind her, she carefully lifted down two teacups and saucers so thin they were translucent, together with linen napkins edged in lace. She set them down on the table and poured hot water into the beautiful old teapot.

  I turned over a teacup to examine the maker: Spode.

  “Careful!” Fancy reached over, took the teacup and set it carefully back on the saucer. “These was Mrs. Spine’s wedding china. She said I could use them whenever I wanted. Her voice was defensive like a little girl caught doing something bad. “And now that she’s dead, Marguerite could care less.”

  I wave my hand in agreement. Not my territory.

  Fancy lifted the teapot lid, judged the color of the tea and poured two cups. Next, she offered me cream and sugar which I declined. She took her cup delicately in one hand, a pinky crooked, and took a sip.

  I followed her action. Not as good as the Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee that Ben used to prepare at the office, but not bad, for tea.

  Fancy looked around the kitchen. “Raven LightDancer's in town getting supplies. This is his place, that is when he’s not helping himself to the family’s money.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What’s his background?”

  “Everybody's got a back story,” Fancy said, evasively.

  “Even you?”

  “Let me check upstairs again.”

  She dialed an internal number, there was a short pause, and Marguerite’s slurred voice mumbled something. Fancy put the phone down with unnecessary force.

  “Your tea about finished? I wouldn’t bother waiting for Marguerite. In her current condition, she may never show.”

  “I’m in no hurry.” I stirred a little sugar into my cup and settled back. “Your name is unusual.”

  “My mother had pretensions. I always hated the name. It sounded like some dance hall girl’s.”

  Fancy didn't look much like an entertainer these days.

  “How did you meet Heinrich?”

  “It's a long story.”

  She paused and I had the feeling it was a tale she didn't want to share. I waited in the silence, hoping she would.

  “I took care of my parents, back where I grew up,” she said. “A little town in the Midwest—just a slow place in the road.”

  Her eyes had a far-away look. “When my mother died, I took care of my father. When he died, I headed west. I met Heinrich Spine at a truckstop coffee shop. We hit it off, and I came here, first as a nurse to his wife, then as a housekeeper. That changed back to nurse when he got more infirm. End of story.”

  Her brief statement summed up years of hard living.

  “How did your parents...”

  “Let me get you some more tea.” Fancy snatched my cup so fast that some of the dregs slopped onto the floor. She placed the cup on the counter and grabbed a paper towel. She scrubbed at the floor nervously.

  “Clumsy of me.” Then she poured us more hot tea.

  “How is the family here doing since Gil Streicker’s death?” I asked.

  “As good as can be expected, I suppose. You know.” She shrugged.

  I pushed a little. “Amanda said that she and Gil were a couple. How did Heinrich react to that?”

  Fancy’s mouth twisted, and she got a peculiar expression, like anticipating guilty pleasure from hurtful gossip.

  “He didn’t know,” she said. “Gil and Amanda kept quiet about the whole thing after what happened with Marguerite.”

  I took a sip of the bitter liquid. “Marguerite?”

  Fancy gave me a direct look, made a decision, and went further. “Gil first went after Marguerite. When Heinrich found out about the relationship, the old man changed his will, leaving everything to Amanda. Gil broke it off with Marguerite the next day and started courting the daughter. Some women have all the luck.”

  She gave a polite smile, showing her disdain for some women.

  “Marguerite must have been livid. Did she and her daughter have words?”

  “Amanda pretended the prior relationship had never happened. They never talked about it, far as I know.”

  Poor Amanda! Not particularly attractive, but being wooed by the handsome Gil Streicker. I could see her need to minimize the affair he’d had with her mother, or pretend it didn’t exist.

  “Heinrich’s in ill health,” Fancy said, “and he wasn't going to last forever. Gil aimed to get this ranch, whatever it took.”

  Interesting. A jealous Marguerite—that could be a motive for murder. Or if Amanda finally owned up to the earlier relationship that Gil had with her mother? More complications.

  I set my teacup and saucer carefully in the sink. “Where around this place might I find a medical scalpel or arsenic?”

  “How should I know? This a scavenger hunt or something
?”

  “It could concern Gil Streicker’s death.”

  “His death was an accident,” Fancy said flatly.

  “Still under investigation,” I countered.

  She thought a moment. “Well, a scalpel…Nothing around here. You might check with Dr. Theodore Riordan, Marguerite's soon-to-be-ex-husband. He’s supposed to help out when Heinrich gets fussy, but somehow he’s always unavailable when that happens.”

  Fancy’s voice turned self-righteous, as she described another person who had failed her when times got rough.

  “Where’s Dr. Riordan live?”

  “Not here. Heinrich would never allow it. A camping trailer down by Beaver Creek is good enough for him.” She scribbled hasty directions to the campground on a slip of paper and handed it to me.

  “And what about arsenic? Where might I find that around the ranch?” I asked.

  “You mean, other than the stuff in our water? Surprised that hasn’t killed me before now. Might be some in the gardening shed—use it for rat poison. You'd have to check with Ray.”

  “He says there’s nothing there. Does Dr. Spine have a chemistry lab for his experiments?”

  “He doesn’t allow visitors.” Her mouth pursed in proper gatekeeper refusal.

  The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “Police business. Call up and ask if I can take a look.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Fancy picked up the house phone once more. “Marguerite, the policewoman wants to see your father’s chemistry lab.” There was a muffled response and a click as the other receiver disconnected.

  “Marguerite says she is totally indisposed and can't meet with you. Her way of dealing with troubles.”

  Fancy grabbed a ring of keys hanging by the side of the kitchen door. “If you must, follow me.”

  We walked through the dark cool of the house, our footsteps echoing from the Saltillo tile. This Spanish-style hacienda seemed an unlikely setting for a full-blown chemistry lab but perhaps it fit Heinrich.

  I’d always had a fondness for chemistry. In high school, I had this wild-eyed science teacher. On the last day of class before summer, he spewed a thousand ping-pong balls out of a bucket filled with liquid nitrogen. We looked on in awe as the balls erupted in all directions. I don't think they renewed his teaching contract after that. Pity.