by Lakota Grace
When the car reached VOC, Silver asked her driver to pull over. With much thanks, she offered to pay for the gas, which they refused. She hitched her daypack to one shoulder and strode up the street with an easy athletic gait.
The Bell Rock vortex awaited.
Three Wives
~ 9 ~
Pegasus
After the initial shock of being fired at Red Rock State Park diminished, I started to breathe again. I still had the part-time work with the sheriff’s department and something else would turn up. It always had.
The scenery at the Red Rock State Park was spectacular, and the staff was amazing, but there were aspects of the job I wouldn’t miss, like the being-nice-to-visitors-and-snakes part. I’d be fine, I told myself.
I opened my car windows to enjoy the spring afternoon and headed up the road to the Fisher mansion. I didn't call ahead, thinking I'd pick up Rory's notebook and have a few words with Henry Fisher about Beatrix’s assertion regarding the late meeting at the meadow to close the matter.
But there was no response when I rang the front doorbell of the great house. No one at home? I didn't picture the old man as a traveler. If he was asleep, his wife Robbyn should still be there.
I rang again and turned to leave. Then quiet footsteps sounded behind the door, and it swung open. Henry Fisher stood there.
“Sorry, I'm a bit slow. Come in.” He ushered me into the house.
“I was upstairs napping. Robbyn’s at the gym, and the nanny is off with Henry, Jr. at the playground.”
We made our way into that magnificent living room. Fisher approached the coffee table and picked up Rory's notebook with thin fingers.
“I've been expecting someone to come to get this. Interesting reading.”
Great! Now Rory's thoughts were public knowledge. What a rookie mistake. He’d have plenty of Chas-fallout from this. I took the notebook and shoved it into my pocket. A defense attorney could make hay with that one.
“Thanks,” I said, “but that's not the only reason I'm here.”
“In that case, have a seat. No maid to bring coffee. We're economizing a bit, what with the real estate downturn.”
But they could afford a trainer and a nanny? Still, a story I’d heard before. People had put their investment cash into Sedona properties, thinking the market boom would never end. And then it tanked. I suppose that affected even rich folks. A world infinitely beyond my reach, especially at the moment.
“Not a problem,” I said, settling into the butter-soft leather chair, very different from the worn cast-iron bench at the residence I’d recently visited. No question, I felt more at home in Elmerville.
“I've just left Beatrix Fisher,” I said. “She mentioned that you met with Andy the night before his death.”
I expected Henry Fisher to deny it. It was his word against hers, and from what Beatrix said, there was no love lost between father and son. But Fisher surprised me.
“That's right. In the meadow at Red Rock State Park.”
“And the reason you didn’t bother to mention this when we were here?”
“You didn't ask. If you recall, your partner terminated the interview rather abruptly.”
He looked at me with a gaze of controlled intelligence, reminding me that this man had once been a Captain of Industry and could still assume the mantle of command whenever he chose. My back stiffened. Never liked those authority figures.
“Mr. Fisher, I—”
“Call me Henry. I didn't mean to pull rank on you. Let me explain.”
I gave him a go-ahead gesture.
“I was upset at the news you brought. But what I said at our last meeting was true, if out of place. Andy wasn't my biological son. I had paternity tests run, and he wasn’t mine. I stood by my first wife, even so, and acknowledged legal guardianship for the child.”
If he expected me to applaud his noble act, he'd be disappointed.
“And that first wife's name is?” I pulled out my own notebook, which would not be left behind as Rory's had been.
“Zillah. Now departed into the hereafter, so looking for her would be futile.” He pointed to the notebook where I was scribbling away.
I stopped writing and my face reddened.
“Go on.”
“After Zillah's death, I married my second wife, Manresa. An artist-type. She left me and moved to Taos, New Mexico. I tried to contact her recently without success, so I doubt you'll be able to reach her either.”
I quit scribbling. It was all well and good to get his life story, but that didn’t explain Beatrix's assertion that Andy's death was not a suicide.
“And this is important because?”
“This is Andy’s story, too. When I married Manresa, he was ten. I was in the midst of delicate corporate negotiations, so she took over care of the boy.” He shrugged. “It seemed a convenient arrangement.”
I could just imagine it was.
“After Manresa left, I put Andy in boarding school. The boy and I drifted further and further apart.” He pointed a lecturing finger at me. “Although I paid for his college education as well.”
I grew weary of his self-serving rationalizations. Time to interject some reality.
“Beatrix said Andy was part of your corporation for a while. She mentioned patent rights?”
Henry Fisher’s mouth tightened.
“Andy’s word against mine. He volunteered for the military after a few short years with my organization, wasting that good degree I paid for. And then married that woman.”
“Beatrix Fisher, you mean.”
“At her insistence, Andy started calling me, showing up at odd hours. He bothered Robbyn, and I wouldn’t have it. I went to the park to tell him that.”
“I note that your present wife is much younger than you.” It was hard to keep the hostility out of my voice.
He seemed proud of the fact. “Yes, after Manresa left, the house was too quiet. Robbyn was a gallery salesperson at that point and very willing to become Mrs. Henry Fisher. And now we have my son, Henry, Jr. who will be my heir.”
My feminine indignation rose at his arrogant dismissal of the women in his life. They were more than accessories to his career!
“Back to the argument you had with Andy the night he died,” I said.
Henry raised a finger of correction. “Discussion, not argument. Yes, I agreed to meet him at the park as he requested.”
“And you got in, how?”
“Andy mentioned a back entrance to the park. I've done a fair amount of hiking in my time, and it wasn’t hard to find. Andy wanted a loan.” He sighed. “He's come to me many times before with the same request and I’ve agreed to it. Loans that were never repaid. He mentioned battle fatigue, but frankly, I’m convinced the money I give him goes up his nose. I think that woman puts him up to bothering me.”
The man had reverted to present tense as though his foster son was still alive. It was hard, sometimes, to acknowledge the finality of death. But I needed more information, so I went along with his story.
“And you refused. The fact that Beatrix wanted to start a family didn't make a difference?”
“Why would it? Their child will be no blood relation to me. I told Andy to go to work as I had all my life. Instead, he insisted on doing that free-loader volunteering.”
“Perhaps volunteering made sense to Andy,” I countered.
“Pulling weeds? Ridiculous! I tell you, Andy was fine when I left the park.”
“Anyone see you there?”
“In the dark of night?” Henry paused. “Actually, someone might have. You know that old abandoned house on top of the hill, the one that Helen and Jack Frye built?”
He was referring to the House of Apache Fires high on a hill that overlooked Oak Creek. It had been the reason the park existed, the Jack-and-Helen history. Jack Frye was the magnate friend of Howard Hughes, president of Trans-World-Airlines in the fifties. His wife, Helen, fell in love with the Verde Valley and persuaded him to
buy the land and build the mansion. When they divorced, she got the house and then willed the land to the park at her death.
“No one lives there,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” Fisher said impatiently. “But I saw a light up there winking on and off when Andy and I were talking. It looked like one of those battery lanterns campers use. Check out the house and you'll find a witness. As if I need one. Andy Fisher committed suicide and we both know it.”
He leaned back triumphantly, the case proved in his eyes.
I wasn't so sure, but I'd encountered only roadblocks so far. The House of Apache Fires was worth a look.
“If there’s nothing else?” Henry Fisher rose and gestured toward the front door.
I sat in my car and jotted what I remembered of the meeting, gathering the facts surrounding Andy Fisher's death into neat mind-compartments. It probably made good sense to go along with what Rory’s partner Chas Doon had decided, that it was a suicide. Any reasonable person would have done that.
But part of me was irritated at Rory for following that decision without questioning its wisdom. And the rest of me raged that Chas Doon was now calling the shots. He started with the Sheriff's office after me. He was dumber and less qualified, and yet he rose through the ranks with ease. What did he know that I didn’t? The answer to that question gnawed at me.
If Andy Fisher hadn’t committed suicide, if he had been killed, I needed a suspect. The grieving wife? If Beatrix was the murderer why would she insist on an inquiry? It didn’t seem likely, but stranger things had happened. I kept her on the list, but way down at the bottom.
Or could the trophy wife, Robbyn be the killer? With two Bs, I reminded myself. If Andy had a legitimate claim to the sizable Fisher estate, he might be a roadblock to her little son inheriting. She was a possible.
The old man, Henry Fisher? He seemed upset at his adopted son’s death, and I didn’t see him as violent. But he had wealth. He could have hired somebody to do it for him.
I tried to put aside my judgment of his old-money attitude. Not all wealthy people were crooks. On the other hand, I had a hunch that he was hiding something. If Rory didn't care to find out what, I did. I’d investigate for Andy’s sake, and for the sake of his widow, Beatrix.
That didn’t add up to many viable suspects. I’d keep digging, but if nothing promising surfaced soon, I’d let Chas close the case and return to my humdrum existence as a rent-a-cop at Red Rock State Park. Then I realized I no longer worked there. No, I had to play this hand as it was dealt.
Chas, my nemesis. I couldn’t allow him to win! If I could prove Andy's death wasn't suicide, I'd be steps ahead of Rory, who'd dropped the case, and light years in front of Chas Doon.
At least I could check out this witness-on-the-hill tip from Henry Fisher. If I chose to follow this line of inquiry, the next step was to gain access to the old mansion at Red Rock State Park. That's where Henry Fisher said he'd seen a light.
I didn’t have a way to enter the fenced-off area of the park anymore, being currently unemployed, but I knew somebody who could get in, my good buddy Grady, if only I could think up an attractive enough bribe.
She was honest as the day was long, so money was a non-starter. But there must be something Grady would be willing to bend park rules for. I reached for my phone and dialed her number.
The Meringue Pie Caper
~ 10 ~
Pegasus
Grady was cheerful when she answered my call.
“Hi Peg. Heard about them letting you go. It's bananas out here this morning without you. John inherited your duties as keeper of the peace and he's not good at it. What's up?”
I took a deep breath and dived in.
“I need access to the abandoned Frye mansion. I'll make it worth your while if you help me.”
“You know HAP is closed to the public, of which you are now one.”
HAP was short for the House of Apache Fires, named by Helen Frye for the evening campfires of the Yavapai Apaches who built her home. The monolithic house overlooked the park like a redstone sentinel. It should have blended right into the surroundings, but a religious cult who had briefly owned it had mirrored the windows and they reflected back sunlight into the eyes of curious park visitors.
There had been tours for a while, but with no maintenance money in the tight park budget, the house had been neglected. Then winter snows caved in the roof and management fenced the home in to keep the hikers out—a nice high fence with barbed wire on top. There should be no way intruders could get in, but Henry Fisher said there’d been someone there.
There was a pause and the sound of munching. Grady must be on break.
“How worthwhile?” she asked.
I recalled a conversation in the lunchroom last week. Something about Grady loving her grandmother's pie. What kind? Cherry? Apple? No, it was...
“Grady! I make a great lemon meringue pie.”
“Keep talking.”
“What say you meet me up at the Mansion at the end of work today?”
“How you going to carry a pie all the way up there? Anyway, I'm not sharing it.”
A good buying signal. She already tasted the meringue.
“Wouldn't think of it,” I assured her.
“Why do you want to go there?” she asked. “I thought you were off the job.”
I could tell from her tone that she was considering my proposition.
“Look, Grady, Andy’s wife doesn’t think it was a suicide and I don’t either.”
“That makes three of us, but what has that to do with HAP?”
“Andy’s dad said he met with Andy the night before he was found. Old man Fisher says somebody was watching from the house.”
“Andy was a good guy,” Grady said. “If someone is to blame for this, I want them caught.” There was silence on the phone. “Okay, I’m in. But don't forget the pie. A deal's a deal.”
“Absolutely,” I assured her. “Just for you—homemade.”
She wasn’t finished dictating terms.
“I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll meet you the day after, high noon at the visitor’s center. Be there, pie in hand, and I’ll get you into HAP.”
Rats! I had hoped to do it sooner.
“What about tomorrow?” I countered.
“No way. Dentist appointment. You know how long you have to wait for those things. Come to think of it, once I get my teeth cleaned maybe I shouldn’t be…”
Doubt crept into her voice, and I pictured my arrangement vanishing under her promises to a dental hygienist.
“It’s a deal,” I said quickly before she could change her mind. The extra day would give me more time to negotiate the second part of my plan.
But this was the last try. If I didn't find evidence at the House of Apache Fires, I was done with this wild goose chase. Beatrix would just have to accept the reality that Andy took his own life.
I hung up with Grady and dialed the next number in my directory. I'd assured her the pie would be handmade, but I didn't have a clue how to do that. Baking was one of the many things my mother in her drunken days had never bothered to teach me.
But I knew who could help: Shepherd Malone, my old partner. He worked for a bigwig private investigator in Phoenix, and Shep was in charge of Verde Valley work. That gave him lots of time to clock hours toward his own license. A win-win deal for both of them.
I was envious. Shepherd always knew where he wanted to go next while I floundered, searching for a flashlight that never appeared to show me the way.
And my plan wasn’t so outrageous. Shepherd was an admirable detective, but even better for my purposes, a master baker. He’d been a sous pastry chef at one of the Scottsdale resorts before joining the police department.
“I’m calling to invite you to lunch at my house tomorrow. Reckless misses you.”
“Peg!” My old partner's voice brightened with recognition. “As it so happens, I'm free. Make it an early lunch though? I’m a working person.”
And I wasn’t, but I tried to ignore that fact. Sometimes you had to call in the favors. This was one of those times.
***
The next morning, I stopped by the deli for lunch fixings. My sense of honor assuaged me that I was trading sandwiches for pastry, a fair deal in my mind.
Then I visited the post office in Mingus before heading back to the cabin. After I tossed the circulars, bills for my car insurance and Reckless's trip to the vet when he attacked the prickly pear cactus—still paying on that one—remained. My good mood took a hit.
It was after the fifth of the month and my rent was due, too. I'd call my landlady. Tonight for sure. Tomorrow at the latest. She'd understand. Once I got my severance check from the park and my FLO stipend from Rory, I'd be just fine.
Of course, I would. A cloud of shame-filled morose filled my mind. Here I was nearly thirty and couldn't pay my own bills. This wasn't what I planned when I joined the police force several years ago.
I pushed the thought away as I spread thick, deli bread with mayo, added thin-sliced cheese and sprouts the way Shepherd liked it, piled ham on mine, the way Reckless and I liked it. I stacked the four-inch high creations, complete with lettuce and tomato on a plate, as Shepherd pulled into the yard. Perfect timing!
We carried the sandwiches and bottles of Oak Creek Amber Ale out the screen door to rocking chairs on the porch. The cabin had a magnificent view of the Verde Valley two thousand feet below us. In the far distance, the San Francisco Peaks, still snow-capped, gleamed in the spring sunlight. Reckless settled on my toes, watching my sandwich with laser focus.
Shepherd dropped into his chair and propped his boots up on the rail.
“Ah, Peg, you live in paradise.” He looked at the pile of dirt by the side of the house. “Old lady Harper finally putting in the septic, I see. Good-looking guy running the backhoe. You made his acquaintance yet?”
“Soon, maybe.”
I blushed and choked on a bite of sandwich. I'd had the same thought, but it was embarrassing when Shepherd pointed it out. Did I look that hard up for a date?
