by Lakota Grace
There had been speedy trips to the outhouse on dark nights this last winter, so frigid that my Redbone Coonhound, Reckless, didn't bother to accompany me. Now that would change.
I opened the cabin door, and Reckless brushed past me into the yard. His joyful bays echoed across the hills below the old mining town of Mingus that I claimed as home. Another good reason to live here in Desolation Gulch, away from the crankier folks. Hadn't they ever heard a coonhound before?
His former owner had recently been released from prison, and any day now I expected him to claim the dog I'd been caring for. I put that disquieting thought behind me.
I had grown to love this idiot canine. Reckless was my companion, taking up more than his share of the bed at night, head jerking up when the local coyote pack started yipping up on the hill. He kept me safe, and I kept his dog food dish full. Besides, he warmed my toes and didn’t mind my off-key whistling. What more could a human ask for?
I changed into a navy blue pantsuit and leaned over to see my reflection in the wavy mirror of the old bureau. I brushed my red hair into a long braid, applied a dash of lipstick, and clipped my sheriff's FLO badge to my belt. Whether we were dealing with a drug overdose or something more sinister, I was ready.
I whistled for Reckless. He came at a gallop, whippy tail waving in the air, inviting me to play.
“Not now, big guy. We’ll go for a run tonight,” I said, bending over for a slobbery coonhound kiss. I’d need the emotion-clearing exercise after today’s challenges.
I pushed him into the cabin, squared my shoulders, and walked out to the Jetta. Time to head back into town to meet with Rory and Andy Fisher’s father.
The guy on the backhoe waved as I passed and I snagged a closer look. Cowboy hat, white T-shirt, crisp blue jeans. A little older than I was, in his early thirties. He was a handsome dude, but then many construction guys were. Working outside gave them a nice set of muscles to match the physical competence their jobs required.
I waved back. He'd be around for a day or two, digging the hole for the septic tank that awaited under the old scrub oak. Maybe I'd mosey out for a closer look—at the project, of course. Always good to keep an eye on what was happening in the neighborhood.
Meeting the Father
~ 5 ~
Rory
Rory Stevens announced his arrival at the Fisher residence through the intercom box on the post, and the gate in front of him rolled back on a steel rail. He shifted into low gear and the vehicle crept up the steep drive. The higher on the hill he rose, the more spectacular the view of the red rocks.
Beatrix hadn't been kidding about the magnificence of the house, although he’d not term it a McMansion, more pure luxury. Rory lived in a restored Queen Anne Victorian in Prescott, over the mountain from Mingus. It was fun and quirky, but nothing like this. The huge residence in front of him had to be ten thousand square feet. Rory wondered if there was a basketball court or dance floor hidden in there.
He pulled in the half circle drive and shut off the engine. No sign of Peg Quincy and he grunted in irritation. It had been forty-five minutes. Plenty of time for her to grab a change of clothes and get over here.
Rory’s military training had instilled a precision and perfection in him that, as much as he hated to admit it, got worse when he was under stress. Like he was now. Where was Peg?
They'd had an off-and-on friendship with benefits in the past. Mostly off, at this point. A mistake to let her in on the murder case. Time he learned how to do death notifications on his own. This investigation was his first with Chas Doon and he didn't want to screw it up.
A grinding of gears and Peg's old Jetta appeared in his rearview mirror. At the same time, his cell phone rang. It was Chas.
“Stevens, where are you?”
“At Henry Fisher's place. Gotta give the notice to the father on that Red Rock State Park death.” Rory held up one finger to Peg’s knocking on his car window.
“Well, you can count it as a suicide. We found the note stuck in his back pocket. Typical 'sorry for all I've done' schmuck.”
Bleeding heart Chas. Good thing he wasn't doing this visit, Rory thought.
“Anyone there with you?”
“Peg. She's going to assist with the notification.”
“Oh, yeah, the Quincy broad.” The man's voice carried disdain.
Rory knew there was bad blood between them. It was a further complication—he welcomed Peg’s help, but he’d have to keep her and Chas at a distance from each other.
“Well, do what you have to and get back here.”
“Right.” Rory rang off and climbed out of the car. He shifted himself so everything was comfortable, wiped a suggestion of dust off his wingtips, and straightened. Peg looked nice, unlike her usual rumpled self. Still taller than he was, though. Couldn't change that.
Together they walked up the red sandstone steps and Rory dropped the iron doorknocker a couple of times in a muffled rat-a-tat-tat. Peg reached around him and punched a button hidden in the stucco exterior, and Westminster Chimes sounded inside.
A woman dressed in a white tennis outfit opened the door. She was in her mid-twenties, long legs with an athletic tan. Blond, blue. Short, maybe five-four. His mind automatically went to the cop shorthand. Was this a daughter or the wife that Beatrix had mentioned?
“Yes?”
Rory showed his badge as did Peg.
“Is Henry Fisher at home?” he asked.
“I'm Mrs. Fisher.”
Wife, then.
“Might we come in?” Peg interjected.
Rory suppressed a grimace. This was his interview; Peg was the secondary.
Mrs. Fisher led them into an immense room filled with outsized furniture facing a magnificent view through a bank of fourteen-foot windows. Peg and Rory sat side-by-side on a huge leather sofa, while the woman moved to a window and adjusted a drape.
“Henry is in with his physical therapist.” She picked up an intercom. A distant tone rang somewhere in the interior of the house.
“Sid, be a dear and tell Mr. Fisher there are people here to see him.”
The Fisher mansion was situated at the edge of the green belt between Uptown Sedona and the more commercial West Side. The early morning haze had burned off, leaving a brilliant turquoise sky that served as a backdrop to the intense red sandstone formations across the divide.
Mrs. Fisher gestured to the view. “That's Coffee Pot Rock. And if you look over there, you'll see The Fin and Brins Mesa.”
Coffee Pot was so named because it resembled an old-fashioned cowboy coffee pot, the Fin, because its top edge was impossibly narrow and imposing. Rory liked the idea of naming the formations; they grew friendlier that way. Tourists were always impressed when the locals rattled off the names in rapid succession: Lizard Head, Thunder Butte, Cathedral Rock. Rory prided himself on being a local.
As Mrs. Fisher pointed out the famous red rock formations, her voice assumed the singsong quality of a tour guide. It intruded on Rory’s enjoyment of the vista. Her social veneer seemed thin. He wondered what she did before marrying the old man.
“May I offer coffee?”
Rory was about to accept when Peg said, “No, thank you.”
Rory glanced at her in surprise and she gave him The Look. Oh, Death Notification first. Right. It was a simple slip. He’d make the D. N. as soon as the father arrived. It wouldn’t take longer than a minute or two. He tugged at his collar. They sure kept their house warm.
“How long have you lived in Sedona, Mrs. Fisher?” Rory asked. How they did this meeting wasn’t at Peg’s direction, it was his. He was the Alpha here.
“Please call me Robbyn. That’s with two Bs and a Y. My parents named me Robin, but I changed it to something that is more classical.”
The woman chattered on. “That's an original Miro that Henry and I picked up in Paris when we were there on our honeymoon. It was so romantic.” She touched her chest theatrically. “The Bridge of Sighs and those qu
aint little bistros. We didn't make it to Monaco. I did so want to see Grace Kelly, the princess.”
She stopped to check his reaction. Rory was flattered by her attention but kept his face neutral.
She started again. “But we did share the trolley car up to the top of Sacre Coeur with one of the Rockefellers; I'm not sure which one.”
The woman sat in a velvet wingback opposite them and leaned forward, offering a generous view of her cleavage, which Rory appreciated until Peg elbowed him back to the reason they were there. The death notification, right.
At that moment, Henry Fisher entered the room. The man appeared to be in his early seventies. He was thin, about six feet tall with sparse, white hair, and watery blue eyes.
Rory stood to greet him. “Sir, I’m Rory Stevens, detective with the Anasazi Sheriff’s department and this is my associate.”
Rory wondered why he’d added the “sir,” but this guy radiated power, every inch the top executive of a high-dollar company. That part of Beatrix Fisher’s story checked out.
The man glanced at Robbyn as he settled into an easy chair. She was the trophy wife, then, and Fisher enjoyed showing her off. What was the saying? Each ten million you were worth shaved a year off your age with the ladies.
If this guy was in his seventies that meant…. Rory looked at Robbyn again as he made the fantasy calculations in his head. She looked to be the same age as Beatrix. Rory was impressed in spite of himself. Of course, not something he’d have to worry about for a long, long time.
A toddler’s cry interrupted the scene, and Robbyn rose. “Please excuse me. Our son, Henry, Jr., just woke up. I need to check with the nanny before I head to the gym.”
She touched her husband's shoulder as she uttered the words, and he reached up and squeezed her hand before she left. The picture of domestic bliss, Rory thought. And then he wondered, too perfect?
He braced his shoulders. No way to make this easier. “Sir, we have sad news. Your son, Andy Fisher, was found dead this morning at Red Rock State Park. There is evidence to believe it may be a suicide.”
Henry Fisher rose, his gait suddenly unsteady. “Young man, my son is upstairs with my wife. The man of which you speak was sired by another father. My wife at the time tried to assert he was mine, but I knew better. Andras, she insisted we name the boy. That's Greek, like that individual who always came into the salon for a haircut when I arrived for mine. I knew, oh I knew.”
The man's lips puckered as if he'd tasted bitter alum.
Peg warned Rory that a death notification might go down like this. The person getting the news of a death rejected it and veered off in a weird direction instead. Too bad she didn’t happen to mention what the Announcing Officer was supposed to do then. Rory opened his mouth and then shut it. The room started to close around him.
“Sir, did you hear my partner?” Peg leaned forward. “Your. Son. Is. Dead.” Her quiet voice stabbed every word.
Tears welled in Henry Fisher’s eyes as her statement registered. He dropped back into the chair, shaking his head. “My son. Dead.”
Rory’s heart pounded. A stabbing pain radiated down his arm. Heart attack! He couldn’t breathe.
“Peg, here, is our Family Liaison Officer. She'll be in touch with you. We have to be going.” He rose and started to leave the room.
Peg murmured a few words to the old man and gave him her card. Then she followed Rory out the front door.
A cardinal sang in the afternoon sun, and Rory breathed the fresh air. The pain in his arm vanished. He turned to Peg.
“Well, I think that went well.”
“You idiot! Did you leave them a card? Did you question if there was anyone they needed us to call? Did you even think to ask where they were when Andy died?”
“The incident is not under investigation. It's a suicide. Chas called me just before you got here.”
“And you didn't bother to tell me that?” she asked.
“Need-to-know information. You're not officially on this case.”
Now her hands were on her hips. “No, I'm not. And the person who is handling it is doing a pretty piss-poor job of it.”
She stomped out to her car, did a jerky U-turn, scattering gravel as she sped off.
Rory stood there, his mouth gaped open at the attack. So the interview could have gone better. He was ready to admit he’d been a little shaky on the emotional thing. He’d need to deal with it. He was dealing with it. He’d just made a death notification, hadn’t he?
It was nowhere near as bad as his last SEAL mission—that kid burning to death—his mother shrieking. And he’d had to remain in hiding—not go to their aid because the mission depended on his silence. But it was something he’d not shared with anyone, even Peg. And he didn’t intend to. He’d handle it fine on his own. He gave his head a shake to clear the unpleasantness.
Pegasus just made it worse sometimes. Peg Quincy—red-haired, short-tempered, impulsive. Maybe Chas was right. Peg was a distraction Rory couldn't afford.
But the death notification was complete, that was the important thing.
Rory patted his side for the notebook he'd used to record the meeting. Gone! It must have slipped out of his pants pocket. Should he knock on the door and ask for it back?
He hesitated, remembering the upset father, and then shook his head. He'd call Peg and have her retrieve it. A FLO needed to stay in touch. That was her job.
Rory tried to ignore the forming tickle of guilt. Chas said a true executive delegated. And Peg could use the extra cash. Rory knew she was short right now.
He was done here. He shoved the car into gear and drove the hill in a sedate responsible manner, unlike Peg Quincy’s hasty exit.
Workout at the Gym
~ 6 ~
Silver
After a meager lunch at Wendy’s, Silver walked across the street to a Fitness Center. She pulled a tattered copy of Atlas Shrugged out of her pack and sat in a central courtyard, planning her next move.
Silver needed exercise. Running outside meant dealing with predators. She learned to recognize and avoid dangerous men in LA, but she didn't like dogs. They were too unpredictable. In Silver’s judgment, gyms were safer for serious exercise. But first, she had to find a way in, since she didn’t have a membership.
The gym complex spread in windowed rooms around the central courtyard. Silver framed the variables of the challenge. An airhead sat at the front desk, more interested in her cell phone and her fingernails than the entrance. She’d be no problem to circumvent.
This being mid-morning, a class of older folks followed a Tai Chi instructor in one windowed classroom, and die-hard grunts lifted weights in the big-machine room. They’d not be following her action.
Her glance turned to the free weight area and slowed. There were some real muscle guys—firemen or off-duty police, likely. Interesting. Maybe later. She shifted her attention back to the main gym floor and then to the parking lot beyond the courtyard entrance.
What she was looking for suddenly appeared: A gray-haired man sporting a baseball cap with military scrambled eggs on the brim. He walked at a quickening pace with a spring to his step. And on the other side of the glass, a trainer wearing the gym insignia checked his watch. Perfect!
Silver timed her approach so that she reached the key fob-locked entrance just as the man arrived. She looked up with an expectant smile.
“Allow me,” the man offered, swiping his fob. There was an unlocking click and with a sweeping gesture, he opened the door for her.
“Thanks!” Silver said, smiling up at him and entering.
The trainer greeted his client as she had anticipated. Silver walked through the gym, keeping the two men between her and the front desk guardian.
The treadmills awaited.
Silver set the machine at an easy 7.5 but cranked the incline to mountain-steep. That way she could get a good workout without drawing attention to herself by running at her full-out pace. A half-hour later, sweat dripped
from her brow, and she hit the stop button. She grabbed a towel from the stack, swiped her face, and then wiped down the treadmill like a responsible gym member.
On to the next item on her to-do list, a good place to sleep, preferably one with a shower. She'd been crashing in garages since she ditched the guy in LA, which was fine for temporary, but she needed a better location for her mission here in the Verde Valley.
The front desk person left for an extended break, and Silver switched to the rowing machines. No quality exercise on these things, but they stretched out her back after the treadmill work and gave her a chance to monitor the entrance.
The rowing apparatus offered a good view of the parking lot, too, and Silver periodically swiveled that direction, watching. A gold Mercedes screeched to a halt and parked lopsided as though the driver didn’t know where the front fender ended.
A young pony-tailed woman stepped out. The sun glinted off professionally tinted hair—a nice shade of blond, Silver observed. The woman closed the car door and walked up the front steps with a water bottle, a pink designer sweater for after, keys in hand.
Silver followed her progress through the wrap-around windows of the gym. Well-tanned, head high, but uncertain. And no friends with her. She had that harried mother look. Good. That meant she wouldn’t be paying close attention to her surroundings.
Silver resumed her rowing, waiting for the woman to enter. She felt the change in pressure as the front door beeped open for the young woman and then swished closed again.
Beneath a shadow of eyelashes, Silver risked a quick glance at the cubbies placed at the front of the gym for the convenience of the members. The young woman’s pink sweater now resided bottom row, third over. Her keys were stashed carefully out of sight beneath the sweater.
Silver waited until the young woman moved into the group room, for a yoga class it sounded like. She checked the front desk—still vacant. It must be change-of-shift time. She stood up from the rowing machine, again wiped her brow, and walked by the cubbies.
