by Lakota Grace
Rory couldn't help the scowl forming on his brow as he slid into the booth. Peg Quincy, collector of stray cats, wayward coonhounds, and troubled kids.
“We'll pay,” he announced.
The days of cops scrounging free donuts were long over. Anyway, Chas Doon would have a cow if he heard his detective partner was on the dole.
Rory grabbed the menus out of the kid's hand as they slid into the booth. He handed one to Peg and studiously read the list of options.
“I'll have a burger and fries,” he told the kid. “And coffee—black.”
Peg ran her finger down the menu.
“Bring me the deep-fried pickles and a peanut butter chocolate malt.”
“What? Can you afford those?” Rory asked. He poked at her midsection with a teasing forefinger. “Putting on a little weight there.”
A blush started under her freckles. “No,” she said shortly.
Now what? Rory was never sure how to approach Peg. Some days she was open to joking, other days not. Okay, then, to business.
When the waiter brought the meal, Rory snagged two packets of sugar, flicked them with a finger, and tore off the corners. Then he dumped them into his coffee.
Across from him, Peg’s malt was served in an old-fashioned metal cup, filled to the brim, overflowing with chocolatey goodness. She bit the top off her straw cover, tied the rest in a knot, and took the first slurp of the malted. Satisfaction spread over her face.
Rory looked at his black coffee and then at the malt.
“Can I have a sip?”
She sighed and pushed it in his direction. “A small drink, only.”
She didn't have to be that stingy. He took a measured pull—only one—and slid it back across the table, pleased at his self-restraint.
“Thanks for getting the GSR on Ms. Robbyn,” he said. “You think she might have done it?”
Peg accepted his peace offering comment and snagged a fry from his platter in payment.
“Not sure. She's the closest relative. Don't know if she'd be capable of doing it—you might check her experience with firearms.”
Now Peg was telling him how to do his job. Careful, he cautioned himself. Don’t be so touchy.
“I plan to,” he said. “And have their financials checked. This is the first murder Sedona has had in a while. The mayor will be on our Chief to settle it soon. Tourists don’t like the sound of crime.”
Peg looked up from the pickle she was nibbling. “It’s not been that long,” she contradicted.
“What?”
“There was that shooting on Main Street last year.”
“Peg!” Rory exploded.
“Okay, already. Just saying. Could have been a burglary, I suppose. Robbyn said they never set the alarm. That she could never remember the code. But don't let that blond hair fool you. She isn't as naïve as she appears. She used to work in that gallery in Tlaquepaque. The one with all the encaustic metal panels and imported leather goods. Might be another good place to investigate. See what her coworkers have to say.”
Peg appropriated everything she encountered. Rory’s defenses rose.
“I think there's a link between Andy Fisher's death and his father's,” she went on.
“What? One was a suicide, the other a burglary gone awry,” Rory contradicted. “Other than the fact they were distantly related—but not even speaking to each other—there's not a shred of connection between the two.”
“Don't be so sure,” Peg said. “I talked to Henry Fisher the other day. He admitted meeting Andy out at Red Rock State Park. And he said someone was watching them.”
“And you were planning to tell me this, when?”
“I did, just now,” she said. “I made a trip out there this afternoon, off budget. For Andy's widow, Beatrix Fisher, who you declared a fruitcake.”
They glared at each other.
Peg shoved her platter of deep-fried pickles to the side.
“Never mind,” she said. “This is your investigation. I won't interfere since I'm not 'on the force.' But be sure that my hours tonight are accounted for. And in the future, do your own work.”
“I'll get your voucher in when I get the time,” Rory said.
His ears reddened. His burger sat in congealing grease, no longer appetizing. Just like Peg to ruin his appetite, in addition to calling his own expertise into question.
“I'm done here,” she announced. She rose and grabbed her handbag. “Oh, by the way, you might want to talk to Manresa Snow in Mingus. She's Henry Fisher's rightful wife, not Robbyn.”
Then she stormed out of the restaurant before he could reply.
The waiter stopped by and they both watched Peg's Jetta squeal out of the parking lot.
“Women,” the guy said.
“Women,” Rory rejoined.
But he pulled out his notebook to make a notation of the conversation. Now and then Peg Quincy came up with an interesting slant on things. He'd check out her parting statements, when he had the chance.
He reached over and drew Peg's chocolate malt closer. No sense letting it go to waste.
Stolen Revolver
~ 18 ~
Silver
Later that morning Silver waited impatiently at the coffee shop near the gym. She wanted to reconnect with Robbyn Fisher, to be sure the husband had not identified her after she had fled.
Silver had spent a cold evening in the garage of the vacant house after trying the back door and finding it securely locked. That happened sometimes. At least she had been able to shower in the Fisher guest room.
But after paying that private investigator’s retainer, she was broke. Silver played with the coffee mug, making designs with the moisture condensed on the table in front of her. Could she play the poor-friend-on-hard-times con. Robbyn might fall for that one. It was worth a try.
If Robbyn followed her usual routine, she'd drop the kid at the daycare they'd had to get since the Fisher family was “economizing.” Silver gave a cynical chuckle. Small savings of money since then Robbyn would visit her personal trainer at the gym.
She knew how much personal trainers cost. They didn’t impress her—their patter wasn't any better than her own was. And she'd listened to how they gossiped about their clients. Some physical trainers were skilled professionals, but the worst shared schemes to get their “favorites” to sign up for more lessons.
And their clients were as bad. They spent their energy showing skin at just the right moment so that they could take a break and not have to do that extra rep. No, both clients and trainers played games that Silver had no patience for. It seemed pointless.
For her, life was a matter of timing and opportunity. Right now, she had spent an outrageous sum on whatever they called this cup of coffee, nursing it until Robbyn finished her session with the trainer. Silver waved off a server hovering nearby. Not getting any more of her hard-earned money.
At the same time, she automatically monitored the tables of departing customers while she waited. Sometimes it was possible to pick up coins, free money in her opinion. Silver never took the dollar bills. Servers watched those like a hawk.
A group of ladies departed from a table near the restroom. That might be a possibility. Putting her tattered copy of Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil face down to keep her spot, she walked swiftly past the table, keeping eyes straight ahead. She scooped up the coins closest to her—cheap tippers—and kept moving into the restroom.
Several moments later she returned to her reserved table under the dirty look of the server. Not for pocketing the change—they'd never caught her on that yet—but because he wanted her table free for new tipping customers. Sorry dude. Later.
Silver slumped in the chair and placed a hand on the philosopher's book as if to absorb its wisdom. Her favorite Nietzsche quote was, “ One must have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” The chaos she had, for sure. She wasn't dancing yet, but she would be when the gravy train came in.
What
was that detective-woman's phone number?
She dug the card out of her pocket and had the first five digits dialed when Robbyn slouched in the door. Silver canceled the call and waved. Finally! She took another sip of the now tepid coffee and rose to greet her new best friend.
“Robbyn. You look terrible!”
Silver normally didn't tell the truth when interacting with marks. Compliments went much further. But in spite of herself, Silver liked Robbyn. With her mascara smeared and her frosted hair in disarray, she did look like something the dog dragged in, if someone were dumb enough to have a dog.
“My husband's dead,” Robbyn said.
“Oh, no! Heart attack?”
Robbyn shook her head. “He was shot last night. A burglary.” Then she started to cry.
Silver handed her a napkin to stem the tears. Her mind fast-tracked to the events of the night she’d had that ill-fated visit to the Fisher house.
“You said a burglary. What’s missing?”
Silver’s eyes went to the diamond tennis bracelet on Robbyn's wrist. Should have taken that when she had the chance. Now there'd be cops swarming the place.
“They stole my husband's money clip. He had this huge wad of cash.”
Silver's hand involuntarily went to the pocket of her jeans. Not that much cash, and now considerably less, after her visit to the detective's office. Still, the metal clip holding the remaining bills felt unexpectedly cold.
“But that's not the worst part. They think I did it.”
“And you know that how?” First get the facts then react, was Silver’s motto.
“Well, they asked me awful questions. And he was killed with his own gun. And they swabbed my hands for some stupid thing.” Robbyn shuddered.
“GSR,” Silver said, impatiently. “So what did you do?”
What had she touched when she'd been there? The doorjamb, perhaps. The night table. The gun. This was so not good.
“I hid the gun before I called them.” Robbyn waved her hand to stave off Silver's words. “I know you're thinking I shouldn't have done that, but Itouched it, which means my fingerprints are on it. I watch True Crime. I'm not stupid.”
Silver had serious doubts. “Where's the gun now?”
Robbyn patted her big handbag. “Right here. I didn't dare leave it in the house, and I certainly didn't want to take it into the gym, so I left it in my purse in the car.”
Silver did a mental eye-roll. You stashed your purse in your vehicle while you had your session with your trainer. Don't you read the theft-warning signs? They aren't put there for FedEx drivers, lady. In fact, Silver herself had been known to check a door handle or two of parked cars. Sometimes they weren't locked, even.
Silver assumed her you-can-trust-me look, one of her Top Five.
“That's a wise plan,” she assured Robbyn. “Exactly what I’d have done. You know, I have an idea.”
Silver paused, counting in her mind, One... Two... Three...
“What?” Robbyn asked, right on schedule.
“Give me the gun, and I'll dispose of it for you.”
Before she did that, she'd be wiping all the fingerprints off it. And she’d negotiate a decent price when she fenced the piece, too. Maybe this situation could be retrieved.
Robbyn looked relieved. “You'd do that? For me?”
“What are friends for?”
Robbyn didn't hesitate. She dug the pistol out of her handbag and slipped it to Silver under the table. It disappeared into Silver’s daypack.
Silver tried not to look smug. She’d visit the discount store on the edge of Cottonwood. The cop she'd climbed Bell Rock with said he'd seen a suspicious guy there. Easy to identify, the cop said. Had a maple leaf on his baseball cap.
Silver gave Robbyn condolences and a big hug. Then she left the coffee shop, promising to keep in touch.
Without a backward look, she stuck out her thumb when she reached the main road. She told the lady who stopped for her she was volunteering at the food bank in West Sedona, filling in for a staff member that had had a death in the family. It was good for a fiver.
After the lady drove away, Silver walked to the nearest bus stop and caught the shuttle bus into Cottonwood. Maybe she'd even get enough from the sale of the pistol to pay for her next detective's visit. Always keep your eye on the prize. That's what Nietzsche would have done.
The shuttle dropped Silver off at Brian Mickelsen Parkway, named for a local hero who died while doing a long-distance run. Silver wasn't surprised. Too much exercise could kill you.
She hiked the quarter mile to the Cottonwood Public Library and spent the afternoon researching the cost of historic Colt 45s online. No sense getting less than it was worth. She'd be glad to get rid of the gun that weighed heavy in her daypack, though. Guns were dangerous things.
After a patron complained that she was taking too much computer time and it was “his” turn, Silver ended her research and asked the checkout clerk for a restaurant recommendation.
She had a choice of a Thai place, Thai-on-Main, the Firehouse donut establishment and a local DQ. She passed on the Thai—too expensive—and regretfully declined the donuts as well—too much sugar. She walked into Dairy Queen, counted her change, and ordered a peanut buster parfait. Peanuts had protein. Hold the whipped cream, she virtuously told the server.
Her stomach cooled with the ice cream and with the afternoon leaning toward dusk, Silver walked out to Main Street and caught the local bus to the big box store.
When Silver entered the store parking lot, she observed the local “Will Work for Food” guy set up on the exit corner with his dog. She could have told him kittens work better. Nobody gives to a guy with a big dog.
And he was on the wrong corner, situated to hit people up as they left the lot. Silver sniffed. A professional would set up to catch shoppers on their way in, not out when they'd spent all their money and felt poor themselves.
The guy caught Silver’s glance and gave her a hostile stare that said, “Move on.”
Silver did.
Sitting on a corner looking hopeful for hours was hard work. In Silver’s opinion, a scam where you at least talked to people was better. Social interaction was good for a person’s mental health.
Silver parked herself on a bench outside the store. She tracked the people coming in and out like a modern-day Daniel Boone who located the honey hive by following the bees.
She didn't have long to wait. Two homies with heavy chains sagging their jeans pockets sauntered by, appraised her, and then walked on. Silver followed them with her eyes, satisfied when she saw action at the far end of the parking lot. There he was, just as the cop said.
She surveyed the entire lot. No sign of police, but they could be up on the flat roof of the store. Lots of times they watched drug exchanges through binoculars from high vistas like that. Which meant she needed a disguise before she approached the gun dealer.
No problem. Silver entered the store and headed for the accessories department. In minutes she could totally transform who she was, at no cost to herself, of course.
A Second Slug
~ 19 ~
Rory
Later that afternoon, Rory heard his phone ringing as he stepped into the squad room. It was Chas Doon calling from his conference and he was livid.
“What do you mean, doing a GSR on that woman? She's the victim's wife for heaven’s sake.”
“I take it she called you.”
“And the Sheriff and the Mayor left messages, too.”
Rory winced. He knew that Chas had his eye on politics when he ended his police career. The man was on a fast track.
Then Chas Doon's voice quieted. “Oh, hell,” he said, “I’d have done the same thing, partner. Good work.”
Rory beamed at the compliment. But Chas wasn’t finished.
“Mrs. Fisher said there was another woman there. That wouldn't be Pegasus Quincy, would it?”
Rory hesitated. He had heard several versions of the
inter-office warfare between the two: that Peg showed Chas at his worst, that she had taunted him in the briefing room about an affair done wrong. Peg had a biting tongue, and she didn't spare it around Chas. Bad idea, since Chas might authorize her pay vouchers.
“She did the Family Liaison stuff that the sheriff had okayed,” Rory said. “That frees our time for important things, like solving a crime. And that's exactly what we're doing here.”
“Well, keep that woman out of it from now on. She’s suited for directing traffic at that state park. Leave her there.”
Then suspicion entered Chas’s voice. “You did tell her that Andy Fisher's death was ruled a suicide.”
“But I thought the medical examiner said the evidence was inconclusive, left the final call—”
“—Up to me, and I made it. Suicide.” Chas left no room for argument. “Look, I'll be back from the conference day after tomorrow. When I walk into the squad room, I want to see the murder book on Henry Fisher in tip-top shape and this case moving forward. You think you can do that, kid?”
Rory ground his teeth. He was only three years younger than Chas.
“Sure, sure, whatever. Good luck with the presentation.”
It was a National Conference of Law Enforcement Personnel in DC, and Chas had been working on his speech for weeks. No wonder he was stressed. But everything was under control at this end, and Rory intended to keep it that way.
“Just so you understand, the win over the bad guys goes on my tally, but I'll put in a good word for you.” With that final comment, Chas was back to his conference.
Rory sorted through his phone messages. There were two from Peg. He crumpled those and tossed them in the wastebasket. If it was important, she'd call again. Peg always did.
Only one left, from the forensics department. Rory dialed the number. Robbyn's hands were negative for GSR. Maybe Chas was right, but on the other hand, she could have changed clothes, washed up before calling the police. Was she that smart? If she had the guts to kill her husband, she probably was.
Rory reviewed his impressions of the grieving widow. Was there guile behind those weeping eyes? Maybe. She stayed on the list, but he'd handle her more gently like Chas asked.
