by Lakota Grace
“Maybe so, but I want to check it out.”
“That a woman’s intuition thing?”
Interesting, I thought, that when men “played their hunches,” it was considered an enviable skill. Maybe I was just being too sensitive.
Reckless took the opportunity to grab the rest of Shepherd's sandwich and dived behind me, a piece of lettuce stuck to one lip.
“Damn! That was the last of my tuna fish.”
“Ah, your gut didn’t need it,” I said. “What’s the latest on Gil Streicker?”
My partner rocked back his chair. “We got the final word on his cause of death. Smoke in his lungs, substantial amount of arsenic in his system, plus a contusion on the back of his head. Looks like somebody knocked him unconscious.”
“Then we’ve got a murder on our hands,” I said. Finally, we could crank this investigation into high gear.
But with the passing time the evidence had grown cold. There wasn’t much, if anything, left. This family, divided in so many ways, had shown a sudden unity of purpose in obliterating evidence.
Shepherd was undeterred. “What do we know so far?”
“Maybe follow the money? We have a hunch Gil Streicker squirreled away a lot of cash—way more than he'd make as ranch manager.”
“So blackmail or possibly drug running?” Shepherd asked.
“I'd like to pin the death on Heinrich on general principles—that old bastard. But he's getting infirm—might not have the physical strength to do the deed.”
“So what about Raven LightDancer?” I asked. “He’s using an assumed name. That might mean he’d lose his job if his employer found out. And there are some rumors he’s the drug connection on the ranch. Or, if it's prescription drugs, Marguerite’s husband, Dr. Theo, might be involved.”
Shepherd circled back to the blackmail angle. “Ray Morales might have a motive for paying up. His niece, Alana, is not a U.S. citizen.”
“She’s here illegally?”
The Verde Valley had, town by town, established its own way of dealing with people illegally immigrated from Mexico and parts farther south. Such individuals often took jobs no one else wanted here in the valley: Washing dishes in the restaurants, backbreaking yard work for rich second-homers in Sedona, making the beds in tourist hotels. Often it was a case of don’t ask, don’t tell.
Shepherd fidgeted in his seat, his reputation as a hard-nosed law enforcer suddenly in question with the knowledge he’d just shared. “She’s a hard worker. Keeps her head down. 'Most everyone knows about her status. Now you do, too.”
Alana seemed a long shot to me; the family seemed more likely suspects. “What about passion?” I asked. “Marguerite and her daughter were in love with the same man. Maybe Marguerite decided it was better to kill Gil Streicker than to share him.”
“Or cast a wider net,” Shepherd said. “Consider the Battles, sister and brother. Serena’s got a fiery temper. She might have lost it one too many times over that water rights issue.”
I nodded. “Or if Hank got in trouble again, Serena wouldn't hesitate to kill to save him—she’s a real momma bear.”
The front door banged as Ben, our assistant-on-sabbatical, entered the building with a stack of books under one arm. He wore a crow feather in his windblown black hair. It looked like the Native American side of him was ascendant this morning.
Ben sat down at the computer in the foyer and turned it on. “Got to finish my paper for entomology.”
His motion caused the feather to drift to the desk and Reckless grabbed for it. Boy and dog tussled for a moment and then Reckless dropped to the floor, panting and happy. Ben refixed his badge of honor more firmly behind his ear.
“When are you balagaanas, you white people, going to fix the budget so I can come back to work? I need a car to court my new girlfriend.”
“Soon,” I said. “How are you doing out at the Spine Ranch?”
“I got the problem straightened out for Marguerite,” Ben said with satisfaction. “All I did was unplug the computer and plug it back in. Works about half the time. She thinks I'm a genius.” He grinned at me.
“Find out anything about the financial dealings at the ranch?” I asked.
“Other than Heinrich Spine is about to declare bankruptcy?”
“How’d you discover that?” Shepherd asked him. “Hack into the computer?”
“Didn’t have to,” Ben said. “Amanda told me everything. She’s worried. If the ranch doesn’t acquire additional water rights, they'll be forced to sell off the far pastures. Without those, their horse operation couldn’t exist. It’s already in the red.”
“If they were about to lose the ranch, maybe the barn was burned down for the insurance proceeds. It could be Gil was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I sighed. “I can’t believe Amanda had anything to do with Gil’s death, though. She’s not the type.”
“Don’t let your heart get the best of you. Everybody is the type, given enough provocation,” Shepherd said.
“Okay, then,” I countered. “What about this? The husband would be another likely candidate, if Gil was involved with both his wife and his daughter.”
“Why don’t you go see him, Peg?”
“You want to come?”
He hesitated. “Got matters to attend to here.”
It sounded as though Shepherd's Porsche obsession had surfaced again.
“Shepherd...”
He raised a hand to ward off my objections.
“Don't, Peg. Not your concern. Keep digging on this Streicker thing. I’ll help as I can. We’ll get something nailed down, soon.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Shepherd's business might be his own, but what he did or didn’t do at work directly affected my job security, too.
Ben chose that moment to toss a handful of chips out of Shepherd’s half-eaten bag to Reckless. Most fell on the floor, and the dog dived to scoop them up.
“Don’t feed that damn animal the rest of my lunch!”
Time to leave before I was minus a dog. I collared the mutt and we left.
***
Later that afternoon, I went for a drive. When I reached the highway exit for the Middle Verde, the talk of death was still on my mind. I turned right and stopped at the nursery. They had the last of the spring plants on sale. I spent a dollar on a small geranium, bright with pink blossoms. Maybe it would cheer up my place.
Then, since I was in the neighborhood, I drove to Janet Miller’s place. The woman looked terrible at the garden party. Figured I’d stop in for a moment and see how she was doing.
The small residence huddled under the shade of the big trees. Janet Miller’s little girl played in the shade of a cottonwood tree. A small corral built of twigs corralled a herd of plastic horses. The little girl talked to herself as she played, pretending each horse could speak.
“Hi, Holly. Your momma home?”
She looked up with a scared expression. “Momma told me to go play. She's sick.”
I walked up the steps and knocked on the front door. “Mrs. Miller, it's Pegasus Quincy. I need to talk to you.”
There was a long pause, and then the door opened slowly. She looked even worse than she had at the party. Her hair was straw texture, unkempt. Her face was drawn and blotchy-red. She wore down-at-the heel slippers and an old housecoat which she clutched to her chest
“Now's not a good time,” she croaked. “Come back later.”
Normally I would have acceded to her wishes, but something made me push a little. “Sorry, I need to talk to you now.”
“Is it about Johnny's death?” She mustered some energy. “Come in.”
The living room was a mess, unlike the neat-as-a-pin house I had first visited. There were clothes strewn about. An empty pizza carton sat on one end table, buzzing with flies.
“Just a minute. Let me put on some clothes,” she mumbled.
She disappeared into the bedroom and the shower started.
This place needed some wor
k. I folded the clothes, took the dirty dishes out to the kitchen, and dumped the pizza carton in the trashcan outside the back door. I thought for a moment and then walked out to my car. There, I retrieved the little geranium plant and set it on the coffee table.
“What about some coffee, Mrs. Miller?” I hollered at the bedroom door.
There was a muffled response from the bedroom that I took for a yes, so I made a pot. The carafe was half-full by the time she reappeared, and I interrupted the brew cycle to pour her a cup.
Janet Miller had put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. It looked like one of her son’s with a picture of The Growler’s World Tour on the front. But she'd brushed her hair and put on some lipstick. Good.
We sat at the kitchen table.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“One day seems to blend into another. Oh, I take care of Holly—she's all I've got left—but the rest?” She looked around the house and made a helpless gesture.
“It must be difficult.”
“It doesn't seem real. I keep expecting Johnny to walk in that door, hair in his eyes. He’d stand in front of the open refrigerator, chugging milk out of the carton. I yelled at him for doing that. If only...” Her lower lip started to quiver and her voice broke.
It was the downside of being a family liaison officer. I witnessed a lot of pain that I couldn't take away. This room radiated with it. I could tell Mrs. Miller it would get easier with time, and it would, but nothing would bring back her dead child.
So I did the best I could. I patted her hand and gave her a box of Kleenex and listened. I laughed with her at the reminiscences and reaffirmed that she’d done the best she could, that she’d raised a good son.
When I sensed she had finally calmed a little, I stood to leave. I dug in my purse for one of the counselor's cards I kept there. The therapist had helped me through my own nightmares following the killing a man. Perhaps she could assist this woman as well.
Janet Miller dropped the card on a table. Her lips set in a hard line. “I will never forgive that man, that Gil Streicker, for giving my Johnny drugs. He got what he deserved.” She sobbed loudly for a moment, then dabbed angrily at her tears. With an effort, she quieted her emotions.
She reached out her hand. “Thank you for making the effort to come out here on your day off. This meant a lot to me.”
As I pulled out of her driveway, I heard her calling to her daughter. Perhaps the little girl could pull her out of this deep slump. But Janet was a tormented woman who needed help.
I pulled off before I reached the highway and called Myra Bank’s office. I left a voicemail for the attorney telling her of my visit to the Miller household and recommending she get her sister into counseling as soon as possible. No break of confidentiality there. I wasn't a priest or a doctor. Just a family liaison officer, wishing I could do more.
My phone beeped. I answered, thinking perhaps Myra had gotten my message already. But it was Bettina Schwartz, the realtor. There were complications with renting the cabin in Desolation Gulch.
Bettina told me the owner wouldn't sign the lease without meeting me first. “She lives in Silver Maples Retirement Home in Cottonwood…”
“And?”
“Well, if you aren’t doing anything, she’s free this afternoon.”
Like I needed to check my social calendar. “Be there in about a half hour,” I said.
***
A grove of huge sycamore trees, their leaves shimmering in the summer heat, surrounded the retirement complex. I stopped at the office to get directions to Dorothy Harper's apartment.
“You can't miss Dot’s apartment. The door has a big Halloween pumpkin decoration hanging on it,” the administrator said.
The door was ajar, and it sounded like Metallica was giving a concert inside. In addition to the pumpkin, a glittery Christmas star, and an Easter bunny decorated the door. I knocked and waited until the sound of footsteps neared.
Dot Harper was elf-size, under five feet tall, with shock-white hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing purple capris with a chartreuse top.
“Come in, come in. Ms. Schwartz told me you were coming. Let me turn this music down. It bothers the neighbors some, but they can't hear too good anyway. Here, sit, and let me take a look at you.”
She swept a pile of magazines off a burgundy couch and pulled me down beside her. I looked into eyes that were sharp and alert.
“Call me Dot. And you are?”
“Peg. Peg Quincy.”
“And you’re here about my house in Desolation Gulch. You want to rent it, why?”
“It has potential. Needs some indoor plumbing, though.” I said. Never act too interested when you are the buyer in a negotiation.
“Nonsense. I lived in it that way for fifty years.” She pointed to a framed picture on the opposite wall. It showed the cabin with a couple standing on the front porch. Dot Harper and her husband?
I didn’t relish the thought of making the trek to an outhouse in the middle of the night in my skivvies. “An inside privy would be nice.” I made my tone a little wistful. Okay, a little pathetic.
“True. Fair enough. I'll see to it. Anything else?”
“Bettina said something about a tax issue?”
“I've been fighting with Elmer Ganzo down at the assessor's office. I had his father in my Latin class when he was a boy. He isn't any smarter than his father was.” She reached behind her and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper off her desk.
She smoothed it out, handed it to me. “Mistake on the bill.”
“The statement is computer generated,” I said. “Computers don't make errors.”
“This one did.” She pointed with one precise finger. “See, right there.”
She was right. Darned if the bill hadn't mis-added her payment. According to the computer-generated receipt, Dot still owed the assessor seven cents.
“Let me get this right,” I said. “If I fix this tax bill for you, you'll rent me the house.”
She held up a finger. “Of course, that also includes the attorney's fee to file the lien-removal paperwork. I’m not paying it. And anytime I talk to that lawyer woman, the clock is running. I do a better job handling my affairs than she does.”
“And that lady attorney would be...let me guess, Myra Banks?”
“Yes!” Dot clapped her hands delightedly. “I knew I'd like you. Let me fix you some tea.”
And she did. In the midst of the colorful chaos of her small apartment, I started to relax for the first time in weeks. In between sips of tea and nibbles of shortbread cookies, I told her about the foreclosure notice, and my job as a family liaison officer, and my dog Reckless.
“Redbone coonhound,” she said. “Best dog on the planet. The breeder might be Cal Nettle?”
“He's gone now.”
She nodded. “That's right. Seems to me your hound was involved in his death if I'm not mistaken. How's it feel to sleep with a criminal?”
I wasn't sure if Dot Harper was serious or not, so I laughed, just a little. “I'll bring him by to visit you one day.”
“Good. I'd like that. Too quiet around here, by far.”
“How old did you say you were?” I asked.
“I didn't.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “In here, about seventeen or so, I guess. And that's all that matters.”
As we sat in the sunlit room, she skillfully pulled the story from me of Shepherd's vendetta against the Porsche driver and the stalled Gil Streicker investigation.
I wasn’t the only one getting her attention. Dot Harper’s phone was busy as she dispensed advice, cleared up administrative problems at the front office, and rearranged a volunteer schedule for the retirement home’s library.
We came to an agreement on particulars for the cabin and I promised to call attorney Myra Banks the next morning. I needed to move out of the apartment, and fast. Perhaps the bank wasn’t serious about the eviction notice, but I didn’t plan to be around to find out.
Tomorrow, my work week would begin all over again.
Chapter 23
When I walked to the station the next morning, traffic lights blinked impotently up and down Main Street. Traffic was already backing up as the tourists arrived in town.
Shepherd held a glass of water into the sunlight, rotating it my direction as I walked in.
“What's up out there?” I asked.
“Wonder why this water is so pure and drinkable, why it doesn't have any arsenic in it?” He gave the glass one last turn, sending reflections dancing on the white wall behind him.
“Deep wells on Black Mountain,” I answered. “The water flows to Mingus via the old wooden sluices that the miners built a hundred years ago.”
Shepherd looked grumpy, foiled at his shot of knowing superior knowledge.
“Well, maybe you don’t know this. The overflow creek just caused a sinkhole on Hillside Road. And the crew repairing it didn't check for the underground cables...”
Ah, that was the reason for the traffic backup. Unfortunately, it was our problem as well as theirs. Shepherd and I flipped for who would go direct traffic, and I lost. Shepherd promised to relieve me in about three hours if the DOT people hadn't fixed the break in the electrical cable by then.
I put on a reflective vest—hot but worth it—and bright white gloves. I didn't want to become a statistic. People are so used to watching for green and red lights that they are blind to a figure standing in the middle of the road.
We'd only had a half day of traffic training at the police academy. It had been sandwiched in between field stripping a service weapon and Krav Maga training. Those had been a lot more fun.
I forced myself to remember what I’d learned about traffic management—management, they stressed, not control. The one good thing about the operation, however, was that I got to use a whistle and blow it loud. One long blast for stop, two short ones for go.
By the time I walked up the hill to the T-crossing, the light was totally dead. Not good news. A blinking red, folks understand: stop and look both ways. But no light at all? The aggressive drivers start edging out into the lanes, not waiting for their turns. Things can turn ugly.