by Lakota Grace
The front door was ajar as I approached. I shoved it open and stood for a moment in the foyer, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The living room curtains were drawn, but on a side table was a spot of pink—the hat that Hank had lost. I'd come to the right place.
“I thought you'd be along, sooner or later. Come right in, Peg Quincy.”
Fancy Morgan sat in a side chair, a rifle in her hands. “Unholster your gun and lay it on the floor.”
I listened for a moment. The house was silent with no evidence of anyone near. I did as she asked.
“Now slide it over here. Slowly. And your cell phone. Now!”
I did.
“Won't do you any good to go grabbing for the house phone. I disconnected it. Sit there on the couch while I decide what to do.”
“I know who you are, Frances.”
Her grip tightened on the rifle. “That's who I was. I left that place years ago.”
“After you killed your parents?”
She shrugged. “They were close to dead, anyway. I just helped the process along.”
“And Gil Streicker?”
“Stupid man. Found out about my old life, wanted to blackmail me.” She laughed a short barking laugh. “Where would I find that kind of money? But Gil wouldn't listen. He never listened.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“I didn’t plan to, at first. Then I followed him to the barn the night of the fire, discovered his secret. That money was my ticket to a new beginning. Now I won’t have to take orders from anyone ever again.” Her grip on the rifle was unwavering. “See how things work out, Peg? All for the good.”
“What’s good about murder and theft?”
Fancy’s eyes turned distant. She’d already stepped over that invisible line between sanity and madness.
The ticking of the wall clock echoed in the empty house. Could I stall her until I alerted someone else in the house?
Almost as though she could read my mind, Fancy continued. “Amanda is in town with Rosa. I gave them a long list of supplies that I said we needed. They won’t be returning for hours.”
“And Marguerite?”
“Indisposed. She likes to mix pills and booze. See, I know her secrets, too.”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself for action.
“Think. Who’s left?” Fancy said.
“Heinrich.”
She nodded slowly. “That's right, Heinrich. Right now he's up in his room. He struggled a little when I gave him the medicine, just like my father did. If you listen, you can hear him struggling to breathe.”
She cocked her head. “But I'll give you a choice…”
“Yes?” I had a feeling it wasn't going to be a good one.
“You can cross that floor, try to reach me before I shoot you. You won't make it. I'm a good shot, close range.”
“Or?”
“Or you can dash upstairs to try to rescue that miserable old man, and I walk out this door. Your choice, Peg. Me or him?” She smiled bitterly. “Better decide soon. I don't know how long that bastard can survive without help.”
There was only one option for me. I took it.
Before I was halfway up the steps to Heinrich's room, the front door slammed behind Fancy.
I raced down the hall to the old man’s bedroom. He was still breathing, but his lips were blue. I put my head on his chest. A steady pulse. Perhaps we still had a chance.
I dashed across the hall to Marguerite's room. She lay passed out on the bed, a damp washcloth across her forehead.
“Marguerite!” I shook her, but she just moaned and turned the other direction. An empty glass sat on the bedside table. I picked it up and sniffed. Bourbon fumes. Fancy had been right about that.
Where was Marguerite's purse? I pawed through a pile of clothing on a wingback chair at the foot of the bed. There, I found a large Coach bag and dumped its contents on the floor. I spread them about frantically until I found the black rectangle I had been searching for.
“Medical emergency at the Spine Ranch,” I told the 911 operator and gave the address. “A poisoning. Bring a heavy metal antidote for arsenic.”
My second call was to Shepherd. It was high time he got back in the game.
Then, I strolled out to the front parking lot. Fancy wasn’t going anywhere, with the distributor cap on her old car disconnected.
***
The driver’s side door was half-open when I reached the car. Fancy cranked the starter, repeatedly. The hollow clicking mocked her.
“Car problems?”
“You!” She levered the rifle in my direction.
“Hear the sirens? They’re almost here.”
I held up my hands. “Fancy, killing me won’t prove anything. You still have a chance.”
She lowered the rifle, sobbing. “Nothing ever goes right for me. Not ever!”
Part of me felt sorry for her. Her life hadn’t been an easy one, and Heinrich Spine was one miserable bastard. Didn’t give her the right to attempt to kill him, though. Or her parents, either, for that matter.
I pried the rifle out of her limp fingers and set it out of reach. Then I helped her out of the car and handcuffed her. No Las Vegas trip for the lady this time around.
Chapter 33
It was nearly a week later before the hospital decided to release Heinrich Spine after his close call. I drove over to the ward to debrief him before he left for the ranch. Dr. Theo and Amanda were coming out of his hospital room. Amanda seemed excited as she held onto her father's arm.
“Peg, guess what! I'm going to veterinary school. My dad finally convinced me that’s what I need to do. I’m studying for the entrance exams—he’s going to help me. It’s what Gil would have wanted me to do.”
Her face shadowed at the name and then cleared. “Dad and I came down to give Heinrich the news.”
She looked young and excited, and was no longer slouching.
“The vet school is gaining a great candidate,” I said. “How's your grandfather doing?”
Dr. Theo spoke up. “He's going to recover, thanks to your intervention, Peg. Any word on Fancy Morgan?”
“She’s considered a flight risk, so they’re holding her without bail while Arizona and Tennessee fight over who gets to try her for murder first.”
“I should have realized what she was up to,” Dr. Theo said. “I feel so stupid.”
“Don't. No one saw. I'm glad that Heinrich is recovering. He’s lucky to have his family to look after him.”
Dr. Theo nodded toward Heinrich’s room. “Marguerite is in with him. Go say hello. They'll be glad to see you.”
Marguerite adjusted Heinrich’s pillow as I walked in the door. He swatted at her hand.
“Go away. I can do it. Don't need your help.”
“What about some orange juice? It's got plenty of Vitamin C.” Marguerite’s voice was brittle and appeasing at the same time.
Heinrich looked up at me. “You! Where's Fancy? She knows what I like.”
“Father, you know Fancy tried to kill you. Officer Quincy, here, saved your life.”
The old man peered at me closely. “That so? Guess you think I owe you a thank you.”
I waited, but one didn’t seem to be forthcoming. “Could I talk to you in private, Dr. Spine?”
“Marguerite. Out.” He pointed toward the door.
She threw me a glare, stalked into the hall, and slammed the door behind her.
“I have a favor to ask you,” I said. “Would you rethink your position on the water issue? Hank Battle has been institutionalized, and his sister is going to need money to pay for his care.”
“What's that to me? I don’t run a charity. She want to sell? Ready to admit she’s wrong? Too late.”
He waved a bony finger in my face. “I don't need that worthless desert land she owns. I've got all the water I need.”
“Her water.” I held my temper with difficulty.
“Not until she proves it in court.
And she doesn’t have money for that.” His eyes held a crafty gleam.
“Then you won't reconsider?”
“Not on your life. What's mine is mine.”
His eyes shifted to the door. “Marguerite? I need you! Come in here.” His voice was needy and shrill.
I didn't envy his daughter's role, now that Fancy was gone.
I stepped out into the hall and gestured to Marguerite. “He's asking for you.”
When the door closed after her, I stepped farther down the hall and made one last call. The attorney answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Myra,” I said. “Remember when you said you owed me a favor? Well, I've got a legal case that should interest you...” Then I explained the situation.
Myra laughed and agreed to set up a meeting with Serena Battle.
“It sounds like exactly the sort of case I like. I'll take it on contingency. We ought to nail Heinrich Spine for plenty.”
Knowing Myra, I figured that’s exactly what she’d do.
***
That left me with a few other issues to put in order.
When I’d stood Rory up the night Fancy was arrested, he’d ignored my messages for days. I moved into my new house by myself, thinking how much easier it would have been with his help. I’d wondered if offering to wash the Hummer might help. Maybe not, this time.
He finally called, and we mended fences after a fashion. We left the relationship on hold. That's the way it needed to be right now. Best to stay sort-of friends—It was safer that way.
Amanda located Veronica Streicker’s address, and I packed up the picture books to send to the little girl as a remembrance of her father, Gil. I hesitated about what to say. Finally, I wrote, “Your dad was a good man. He died taking care of those he loved.”
I left it at that.
After the trial, that little girl would be coming into a good college fund when the bag of cash Fancy had stolen was released from evidence.
I hung the sled in my new garage to remind me that winter would be coming after this summer heat. If it ever snowed in the Verde Valley, I'd use it. In the meantime, it was a good reminder to be more flexible. As the soothsayer, Lucy Zielinski, had suggested, things were not always what they seemed.
Shepherd? He's getting ready for retirement, for real this time. Going to become a private investigator. He says there's a place for me there, anytime I want to quit this cop business.
One of these days, I might just do that.
<<<<>>>>
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And, if you'd like to sample a bit of Death in Copper Town, Book One of the Pegasus Quincy Mystery series, where Peg is first introduced to police work in the small town of Mingus, Arizona, keep reading!
Sample Chapter
Death in Copper Town
Chapter 1
I'D BEEN EXPECTING a quiet summer writing traffic tickets in the small mining town of Mingus, but all that changed the morning the fire chief called me.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Deputy Quincy.”
“I’m Peg Quincy. Go ahead.”
“We may have a problem.”
As he described the situation, it quickly became apparent that problem was an understatement. His hotshot crew was fighting an out-of-control campsite fire on Black Mountain. One of the men spotted a body in an old mining excavation several hundred feet below their mop-up activity.
That excavation had to be the now-closed copper mine William Clarke had carved out years ago on the outskirts of Mingus. That location was smack dab in the middle of my jurisdiction, so I went to investigate.
When I arrived at the open-mine pit, locals and tourists milled about the chain link fence securing the front entrance. Layers of sulfur-yellow rock had been blasted back like an inverted ziggurat, forming a semicircular cliff hundreds of feet high. Oil-slick water pooled in the center of the semi-circular opening. Behind that, next to the cliff, was a dark crumpled mass.
A sunburned tourist in Bermuda shorts pointed through the fence. “Is that a body? I've never seen a dead body before.”
Neither had I. Maybe seasoned veterans could view a corpse with no problem, but I was a rookie, barely a month out of the police academy and on temporary summer assignment in this small Arizona mining-turned-tourist town. I hadn’t even been in town a week, and now this.
I pressed my lips together and talked my stomach into staying where it belonged. Then, while I awaited the arrival of the mine employee to unlock the fence gate, I canvassed the crowd. Nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.
A late-model Lexus braked to a stop, spattering my uniform pants with mud. It was Roger Heaton, the vice-mayor of Mingus. He opened the door of his Lexus and stepped into the same mud puddle he’d splashed onto me. Too bad.
“What's going on?” he demanded.
My red hair bristled at his sharp-edged manner. His damp handshake probably came from nerves or ulcers, but I still didn't like his attitude. My six-foot height had two inches on him, which ought to count for something. Maybe not.
“Body in there.” I gestured. “I’m waiting for access from the mining company.”
“Need help? Or you got it under control?” His voice dripped with condescension.
Sharply aware of my position as the only law enforcement officer on duty, I swallowed my pride. “Thanks. I could use you to stand at the entrance to control ingress when we get the gate open.”
A few moments later, the mining official arrived, puffing at our mile-high elevation. “Sorry, I'm late.” He wore a khaki shirt with a pocket protector, but no I.D. badge. Perhaps he was an engineer for the mining company.
“We usually keep this area fenced and padlocked,” he said. “Don't want any amateur prospectors breaking a leg in here.” He stared at the shape inside the fence.
I've noticed two types of people—those that are attracted by death, and those that are repelled by it. The engineer must have been the second, for after he opened the gate he didn't stick around long.
With Roger Heaton fending off the curious spectators, I paced the parameter of the death scene. The dead man lay sprawled face down, with his head canted at an unnatural angle, and one arm pitched beneath him. He wore a stained white shirt, soiled khakis, and cheap loafers with no socks. The neutral colors of his clothing contrasted against the dark red and blue gravels of the mine tailings.
I gagged at the foul mixture of smells— the man hadn't bathed for a while and had soiled himself in death. And an another odor was instantly familiar. A smashed bottle of Scotch lay next to the body: Cutty Sark, my mother's brand of choice.
The man appeared to be in his late twenties, with dark hair worn long in front, but ragged in back, as though he’d cut it himself. Death had robbed the face of all expression, the features gray from blood drainage after death. I glanced up at the mountain cliff, already in late afternoon shadow. Did he trip and fall under the influence of too much alcohol? It might be an accident, then. That would make the case easier to close.
I shot digital pictures of the corpse from all angles and then centered in on a head shot. No one I had interviewed thus far had knowledge of how or why he got there, so photos might be essential in making a positive identification.
When the medical examiner arrived, he concurred with my initial findings. “I'll have to do an autopsy to be sure, but it looks like a simple accident to me.”
“Approximate time of death?”
“He's not been here long. From the liver temp, probably sometime after midnight.”
“Okay if I roll the body?” I asked.
“Sure, I'm done for now. Let me give you a hand.”
It was the first dead body I'd ever moved. We put our weight i
nto it, and the body plopped over, rigor mortis already setting in. Heavier than I’d expected.
The fall had mushed the side of the man’s face into a bloody mask. It didn’t look human, and the view made me light-headed. I clenched my jaws together again. No way was I getting sick in front of all these witnesses.
I slipped my hand into the dead man’s shirt pocket. Then searched the pockets of his pants looking for any sort of ID. Nothing. The gestures felt like a violation of the man, somehow. The body was cold, no warmth left, and I hurried my motions.
From the condition of his clothes, the dead man might be homeless, belonging to no one. Or maybe he had a family—I tried to imagine kids waiting someplace for a father who’d never return. Hard to think about that. I shifted back to the present.
Unless he had served in the military or been arrested, there was a good chance he might not even be in the national identification system. Nevertheless, I made a note to press the medical examiner for a quick fingerprint scan. If that didn’t turn up anything, we’d have to go the dental identification route and hope that he was local.
Green flashed from the hand that had been wedged beneath the body. Bending down for a closer look, I discovered a fragment of silk in a striking emerald hue. I photographed it, tagged it, and put it in an evidence bag for the lab. Nothing else appeared in the immediate vicinity of the body, and the hard gravel surface surrounding the body revealed no footprints.
I glanced upward. If the man had fallen from the campsite above, there might be signs of a scuffle. If so, this case could change from a simple accident to a homicide. I’d best go up there and check it out. Did I want the complication of a murder investigation? Part of me, the conservative side, protested “no way,” while the ambitious side shouted “Hell, yeah” inside my head.
After the medical examiner left with his loaded van, I relocked the mine fence to secure the area and stuck the key the mine official had given me in my pocket. I sat in my squad car finishing my notes and then made some follow-up calls.