by Lakota Grace
Table of Contents
PERIL IN SILVER NIGHTSHADE
Other Books by Lakota Grace Prologue
The Rattlesnake ~1
Dead Body in the Meadow ~2
A Free Breakfast ~3
Death Notification ~4
Meeting the Father ~5
Workout at the Gym ~6
Peg gets a New Job ~7
A Place to Stay ~8
Three Wives ~9
The Meringue Pie Caper ~10
The Red Stone Rescue ~11
Moonlight Madness ~12
An Expensive Shower ~13
A New Client ~14
Uncooperative Parents ~15
House of Apache Fires ~16
Burglary Gone Bad ~17
Stolen Revolver ~18
A Second Slug ~19
Wigs and Sequins ~20
The Bookkeeper Talks ~21
Hook Up ~22
Rory’s Dilemma ~23
Robbyn Has a Plan ~24
The Sand Trap ~25
Handcuffs and Interrogation ~26
Broken Door Frame ~27
Chas Blows It ~28
Hotwire the Truck ~29
Fight at the Art Gallery ~30
Troubles with HT ~31
Pros and Cons at El Rincon ~32
Pilfering Jewelry ~33
The Dog Interviews ~34
Texas Hold Em ~35
Wolf Has No Alibi ~36
Shoplifting Fever ~37
Peg Won’t Tell ~38
HT and the Doctor ~39
High Water Crossing ~40
Wild Fire ~41
Robbyn in Danger ~42
Three Magic Words ~43
Silver’s Gamble ~44
A Offer for Peg ~45
HT at the Hospital ~46
Peg Makes a Decision ~47
Sample Chapter
About the Author
Other Pegasus Quincy Mysteries
PERIL IN SILVER NIGHTSHADE
by Lakota Grace
Other Books by Lakota Grace
PEGASUS QUINCY MYSTERY SERIES
Death in Copper Town
Blood in Tavasci Marsh
Fire in Broken Water
Peril in Silver Nightshade
DEDICATION
To the animals in this world that support us, no matter how human we are.
Prologue
As the train conductor neared, Silver Delaney swung into action. She jerked the stolen train ticket from her pocket and bumped her seatmate’s arm in a follow-through movement. Hot Starbucks coffee cascaded down his front and onto the ticket she purposefully held below his cup.
Apologizing profusely, Silver shoved the limp cardboard at the conductor, coffee dripping off the edges. He glanced at the destination, Flagstaff, Arizona, declined her damp offering, and strolled down the aisle.
Several moments later, the snoring man three rows up who she'd stolen the ticket from was awakened by the conductor. Silver kept her head lowered, reading a tattered copy of Ayn Rand that fit her new role as an earnest college student.
The man-without-a-ticket was escorted to the front of the train. He’d be booted out at the next stop or have to repurchase his fare, but that wasn’t Silver’s concern.
A half hour before arrival in Flagstaff, Arizona, she descended to the lower level of the railroad car, where an expensive suitcase resided in the luggage rack. Silver had placed it there for that nice older lady going to Albuquerque, assuring her it would be perfectly safe.
When the train reached the station in the black early morning hours, Silver hefted the woman's suitcase off the rack in one easy gesture and bolted across the dark lot before the baggage handler arrived.
The next step was to hitch a ride from Flagstaff to Mingus, that small mining town on the other side of the Verde Valley. Silver knew her life could change. All it took was money—lots of money. And she had a plan.
The Rattlesnake
~ 1 ~
Pegasus
Retribution comes when you least expect it. It was spring in Arizona and I was in trouble. Whether the huge black-tailed rattlesnake coiled on the trail in front of me was reward or punishment for past misdeeds, he was my responsibility now. And I didn't have a clue what to do with him.
My name is Pegasus Quincy, and I'm a Family Liaison Officer—that’s a FLO for short—with the Anasazi County Sheriff's Department. A FLO arrives with the first responders, providing emotional support when tragedy strikes.
Unfortunately, it’s a part-time position. Because of ongoing bills and a hungry Redbone Coonhound at home, I also worked as a security officer at the Red Rock State Park near Sedona. And that made me Ms. Point Person in this encounter.
“Hey, get away from there!” I yanked back a tourist who leaned close to snap a photo of the snake.
Then he turned around to take a selfie. His finger flicked across the screen, probably sending the photograph to his Instagram account. And I’d forgotten to tell the snake to smile. Darn.
“Go the other way,” I ordered. “This trail is closed.”
He muttered something in German to his wife and looked hopefully at the manzanita-covered hillside above us.
“And stay on the path,” I ordered.
The man sighed, replaced the lens cover on his expensive camera and left, wife in tow.
It was an early spring morning, and I was on the Kisva, the Hopi name for the shady trail I patrolled. The path ran near Oak Creek where swift currents sent the water rushing over boulders in the stream bed. Overhead, migrant robins chuckle-grunted, and a cardinal trilled through the bare-branched sycamore trees.
I checked on my adversary. The snake was still there, a solid coil of reptile in the center of the path.
Should I shoot it? Not a good idea. I was trained for targets of human size, and this was a state park.
Another group of hikers approached, their excited chatter scattering like dry sycamore leaves. The German couple stopped them and gestured in my direction. The tourists turned around and retraced their steps.
It was down to the snake and me. I'd seen videos of snakes reaching out beyond their length to strike at targets. Just how long was this snake, anyway? Had to be at least six feet. I calculated the sandy ground between us. Was that six feet? Maybe less. I backed up another few inches.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot. The reptile showed no signs of moving. Why should he? He’d claimed the one sunny spot on the trail. I shivered in the shade on my edge of the path.
My shoe brushed a stone, and the clatter startled the snake. He raised his head, his black, forked tongue flicking in and out. He gave a precautionary rattle. I backed up a few more steps behind my six-foot line.
Time to call in reinforcements. I pulled out my park walkie-talkie.
“Uh, base camp, this is Quincy.”
“Who?”
“Peg Quincy. I'm the temporary employee.”
“Oh, yeah, the rent-a-cop. What's up?”
“Rattlesnake. A big one,” I said.
“Out on Kisva?”
The woman's voice was steady and reassuring. I'd reached Grady, one of the more experienced rangers at the park. She was short, dark-haired, and never at a loss for words. So unlike my six-foot height with red-hair and introverted nature. We made a pair.
“That's Blackjack,” she said. “He's not aggressive, except when female rattler
s are around. He got any company?”
I took a survey, left and right. Just Blackjack and me.
“What do I do?” My voice squeaked. Maybe she'd take it as static on the transmission.
“You scared, Quincy?”
Intuitive lady, that ranger.
“I got hikers coming both directions,” I said, defensively.
“Okay, hang tight. I'll bring a snake stick and bag. We'll relocate him to the north end of the park. Won't do much good though. He'll return. But if it makes you feel better, Ms....” Her voice held unspoken amusement.
“My name's Peg Quincy,” I asserted, hoping to forestall the dreaded nickname, rent-a-cop.
“Right, Peg. I'll be there in ten. Protect the tourists.”
I backed another five feet and jammed my heel into a low-lying cholla cactus. One of the segments broke off and stuck to my boot. I scraped it off on a rock and leaned against a mesquite tree in what I hoped was a casual pose, waiting for Grady.
I should be more comfortable with the desert creatures by now. I was familiar with the timber rattlers, more common in my home state of Tennessee. These Arizona rattlers were just second cousins. Yeah, and no matter how I looked at it, I still hated snakes.
Grady arrived fifteen minutes later, breathing heavily.
“I had to come over the long way on Kingfisher Bridge. Sentinel Bridge is still out. They’re supposed to put it back up today.”
There were three bridges across the creek: Kingfisher, Sentinel in the middle, and Black Hawk on the far end. The last two were low-water bridges, built on pontoons. The wooden sections were chained to pylons but allowed to float free in high water.
Early spring was always an unsettling time of year. When the snowmelt roared down, the bridges disintegrated into a crisscross mess eerily similar to derailed train cars. Often they'd be left in disarray until the lower waters arrived. Then crews would reset them. The bridges’ early repair must be a sign the new park ranger was in charge. That could be good or bad, depending.
Grady's radio crackled to life with a call from base. “Problems in the meadow by the water recycling pond.”
“What kind?”
“Not sure. Visitors milling around. You want to handle it, Grady?”
“Nah, I'm on snake duty. Gotta relocate Blackjack again. I'll send over the Rent-a—uh, Ms. Quincy—and she can check it out.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose. I was no “rent-a” anything. Why was I even here? A ghostly image of my coonhound howling in the night air emerged. Never mind.
“You okay with that?” Grady asked. “Just follow the trail and take the Kingfisher Bridge. Dead ends at the meadow.”
I looked doubtfully at the reptile halting any progress. Grady waggled her snake-collecting pail at me.
“Make a circle to the creek and you’ll be fine. Blackjack’s up here, not down there.”
I squelched through the mud at the creek edge, made a wide detour around Blackjack, and returned to the path. Then I crossed over the high water bridge and hiked up into the meadow.
A skinny kid in mountain biking shorts and a red bandanna ran up to me and grabbed my arm.
“Hey! There's a guy lying on the ground. I think he's dead.” His stance was rigid with excitement as he pointed to the clearing ahead of us.
I picked up the pace, and he jounced along beside me.
“Why do you think he's dead?” I asked.
“Not moving.” His voice had the positive conviction of youth. “I watched him for a while. He’s not breathing. Do we need to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? I'm a cadet. I learned how to do that last summer.”
I didn't bother to respond. The time for mouth-to-mouth had been twenty minutes ago. If the guy wasn't dead before, he likely was now.
Dead Body in the Meadow
~ 2 ~
Pegasus
Spectator comments greeted me as I entered the meadow where the dead man's body lay.
“He’s probably a homeless person. Drunk.”
“What’s the world coming to when they let anybody in?”
“Here’s the park ranger. She’ll handle it.”
Yeah, I just hoped I could. I was no stranger to death, but it was never pleasant. I approached the cluster of people, all looking down. They were the park’s usual mix of tourists and locals: one tall guy with a comfortable beer belly, an older couple with binoculars—bird watchers. At the back of the group was a white-haired woman who looked sick—please, don't throw up, lady!
“Okay, folks, move to the side so I can examine the man. But stick around. I'll take your statements in a moment.”
He lay face-up on the ground. His eyes were closed, as though he’d fallen asleep, but I discerned no pulse and his skin was cold. He was dead.
He was Caucasian, casually dressed, late thirties, no obvious signs of violence. A daypack bunched underneath his left shoulder. The soft earth around him was trampled with footprints worse than a desert watering hole. Outwardly I remained neutral, but inwardly I seethed. Any hope of effective evidence collection had been dashed.
A little kid with big glasses leaned closer, watching me.
“Hey lady, that's a harvester ant colony you're standing on. You're going to get bit.”
His dad grabbed his hand and pulled him close.
“Well, she is,” the kid protested.
I didn’t move. Dead or not, the man was armed. A K-bar knife in a worn leather holster splayed from his belt. I looked closer: an unusual handle, some sort of blue stone.
Even more ominous was a syringe next to him, half hidden by his jacket. At least that had been untouched by the inquisitive folks shuffling about. I’d alert the forensics crew when they arrived.
The ants shifted interest from the dead body to my boots. I winced as one chomped on my shin. With what I hoped was a casual gesture, I brushed a couple more off my pant leg and moved to neutral ground. I hated it when little kids are right.
I needed more help here, and that meant contacting my other employer, the Anasazi Sheriff’s Department. When I reached the headquarters in Camp Verde, they told me to stake out the area around the body with tape. I could do that, sure, no problem.
Then I pondered my dilemma. My roll of police tape was in my car, in the main parking lot, a twenty-minute hike from here. And if I left this venue unattended, the lookie-lou’s would trash the rest of the crime scene.
I clicked on the park walkie-talkie and called Grady. “How you doing with the snake? Looks like we got a dead body.”
“Well that drops our visitor count by one,” she said. “You want somebody to set up blockades on the trail?”
Grady’s pragmatism bothered me sometimes, but I let it slide.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ralph, from Maintenance, free?”
“I'll send him. Anything else?”
I remembered the police supplies in my locked car trunk and the keys in my pocket.
“I need you for a minute.” If Grady could retrieve the tape for me, I could maintain surveillance here.
“Be there in ten,” she said and clicked off.
The lack of caution tape reemphasized my awkwardness in this non-cop role. I wanted my full-time deputy job back. But the budget cuts had closed the sheriff's office annex in Mingus, and I was scrambling to pay the bills.
What we needed was an old-fashioned crime wave, maybe a serial murderer or two, so they'd re-open my old office. Just kidding. Sort of.
But this portion of the Verde Valley of Arizona was a quiet place, with not much serious crime. My old partner, Shepherd Malone, had finally retired. He was in Phoenix getting his private investigator's license.
My former assistant, Ben Yazzie, had departed to complete his enology, wine-grape growing, degree at Yavapai College. That left me, marking time here in Red Rock State Park until the “real cops” showed up. Sometimes life wasn't fair.
I scratched the ant bite on my leg with the toe of my shoe and surveyed the surrounding meadow. Oth
er than a marshy pond filled with horsetail, the ground was covered with small, prickly-stemmed plants. A few had lavender-blue flowers, but most were covered with fat yellow berries.
I’d missed breakfast. And dead bodies make me nervous. I picked one and popped it into my mouth. It was bitter, acrid. My mouth stung from the taste.
Grady arrived a few moments later and stared at the man, her face expressionless. I’d expected an emotional reaction. But Grady was like that. She’d spend an afternoon building a barricade to protect the nesting Black Hawks, but had less empathy for human beings. They ruined her park, was her unspoken opinion.
“You know him?” I asked.
“Andy Fisher. He's a volunteer here at the park.” Grady kicked at one of the yellow-berried plants.
“We're trying to eradicate this stuff, and Andy offered to help. Invasive. Grows where cattle overgrazed the land—this used to be a ranch.”
“Guess he's pulled his last weed,” I said, matching her casual tone.
We pondered the body for a moment.
“What are these things?” I asked, nudging a plant with my boot toe.
“Silver nightshade. Pioneers used them to tan hides. Poisonous. Birds won't touch them.”
I spat out the last of the berry. Great. Even birds were smarter than me.
“Who is Andy's next-of-kin?” I asked.
“Probably his wife, Beatrix. I think he's got other family in the area. She could tell you. I'll find her address up at headquarters.” Grady turned to leave.
“While you're up there, could you stop by my car?” I explained what I needed and handed her my keys.
“Back in ten,” she said and left.
But when she returned with the yellow barrier tape, Chas Doon and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, Rory Stevens, followed close behind her.
Both men had made their detective grade while I languished in Family Liaison purgatory. Now they worked as partners, with Chas being the senior. He used to be called Charlie when he was a mere patrol officer, and I never let him forget it. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe not.
