by Lakota Grace
“Yeah, doing fine, now that we got that bathroom in,” I said.
“Heard about that. And that beau of yours?”
“Fine, just fine,” I assured her, even though there wasn’t one. “I’m calling on something else this morning, though.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I crossed my fingers. We needed Myra on board, and if I approached this in the wrong way, she might refuse to join with us.
“You know Shepherd’s daughter, Thorn?” I asked.
“The one with the tattoos and pink hair?”
“Well, the hair is black now, but yes, that’s her. She’s in a bit of a jam. We need your help.”
“Why isn’t Shepherd the one doing the calling?”
Count on Myra to state the obvious.
“Uh, he’s—”
I glanced over at Shepherd who was shaking his head.
“He’s got laryngitis,” I said. “That’s why he asked me to call you.”
“Right.”
Myra wasn’t buying it, but she was still on the phone, hadn’t hung up. That was a start.
“It’s a long story, Myra, but Thorn was involved in a murder, err, she witnessed one, and now she’s in custody.”
“If she’s in jail she did more than witness it. Does her mother know?”
I glanced over at Shepherd who shook his head frantically. So he hadn’t contacted his ex-wife, either. Great, just great.
Myra, being the good attorney she was, read meaning into the silence on my end of the phone.
“You mean to tell me he hasn’t even let Thorn’s mother know what’s happening.”
“Uh, at the moment Thorn is estranged from Tabatha,” I said.
“And that’s why Thorn is here with Shepherd, and now she’s not speaking to him either. Get the bastard on the line. I know he’s there.”
I shrugged and handed the phone to Shepherd.
“Hello, Myra.”
“I’m not even going to countenance that with a greeting. Your daughter is in jail and you’re sitting there having a mug of green tea with your feet up on the desk.”
Shepherd’s feet hit the floor with a thump.
“The first thing you’re going to do when we get off the phone is call Tabatha and let her know exactly what is going on.”
“Myra, I will. It’s just that things have been happening so quickly.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“Honest to God, I don’t know.” The sweat beaded on Shepherd’s forehead.
“Well, it doesn’t make any difference. The poor girl doesn’t belong in jail at this point. And she’d probably lie to you anyway, good cop that you are.”
I was beginning to see why Tabatha had chosen this firebrand for her attorney.
“Myra, look,” Shepherd said, “would you just arrange bail and get Thorn out of jail? We’ll get things sorted out as we go. Peg has said she’d help you.”
I did?
There was a pause while Myra considered the possibilities.
“You’ll sign whatever papers are necessary?” she asked.
“Every last one of them.”
“And I presume you’ll stand bail with that retirement fund of yours. Only thing you’ve got left of any value since your wife took you to the cleaners.”
Shepherd snorted and his face turned red. Must have gotten some of that tea down the wrong throat.
“Myra, I—”
“Never mind. Put Peg back on the phone.”
He handed over the cellphone with alacrity. Then he paced back and forth as Myra and I made arrangements to meet at the jailhouse in an hour.
CHAPTER 9
At the jail, I showed my sheriff’s deputy ID and went through security. Myra was waiting for me in the holding area wearing a red power suit and spiked heels, and carrying an expensive briefcase. Her hair and makeup were immaculate.
I glanced down at my own rumpled T-shirt and blue jeans. How did she do it? I surreptitiously smoothed the shirt and ran a hand over my hair. At least I’d remembered to put on clean socks.
“Thorn’s mom, Tabatha, called me on my way over here,” Myra said. “She was frantic, but I’ve calmed her down a little. She’s agreed to let Shepherd handle this one since he’s here. But she wants Thorn on the first plane out of here when it’s all cleared up.”
“Hello to you, too,” I said. “She's probably worried.”
Myra’s bedside manner was worse than mine was. She was intelligent and effective, though, and that’s what counted. I tried to ignore her fees, which were the highest in the county. If she could clear Thorn, it would be worth every penny.
She gestured to plastic chairs at the rear of the room. “Thorn is being processed for release. They said she was here on a ‘tough love’ holding. What’s that all about?”
I explained Shepherd’s dilemma after Thorn called 911.
“Well, maybe it is just as well she was taken in,” Myra said. “That young woman needs the riot act read to her. But she isn’t being held for the murder charge?”
“Not yet, apparently,” I said. “She was supposed to be arraigned this morning, but I haven’t heard back from the detective in charge.”
“I’m not telling them if you’re not. That means the clock isn’t ticking yet for the bail bondsman. Although we’ll need him sooner or later. Might as well have the arrangements in hand. They’ve confirmed that Shepherd’s made arrangements to pull money out of his retirement account for the bail when it’s needed. We’ve got that going for us at least.”
“Myra, Shepherd wants to meet Thorn on neutral territory until they get this misunderstanding between them sorted out.”
“Probably a good idea. I don’t know how I’m going to defend her, anyway. So where else can we stash her for a day or two? With you?”
Not with me! I’d had my share of squirrelly roommates, and I didn’t want another one. Anyway, I needed free time to do my own form of investigating. But perhaps HT could help.
Isabel, HT’s housekeeper, picked up the phone. “Hallo?”
“Is HT there?”
“He’s still asleep.”
I looked at my watch. It was after eight a.m. and HT was an early riser. What was my granddad doing still in bed? Then I remembered. I’d been the one keeping him up last night.
“Look, Isabel. Thorn, err, Sheryl, Malone needs a temporary place to stay.”
“Shepherd’s daughter.”
Shepherd had intervened to help Isabel through difficult times. I hoped that might count for something.
“Okay, yes,” Isabel said. “I’ll fix the loft. You remember, Peg, where you stayed.”
I’d spent many nights there when I first arrived in Mingus, bumping my head on that low ceiling and occasionally sharing the space with other strays, both human and animal, that HT’s soft heart allowed in.
“And tell my grandfather what the arrangements are when he wakes up.”
“Yes, I tell him.”
Good. We had a place for Thorn if she needed one.
I called Cooper to let him know our intentions, good family liaison officer that I was. There was no response on his cellphone, so I left a message, purposefully brief and vague.
“Cooper, this is Peg Quincy. Please call me.”
If he didn’t call right back, perhaps we could get Thorn sprung on the minor Scared Straight charge and figure out what we were going to do before the detective took more serious steps.
Shepherd wasn’t responding either when I tried his number. Coward. I left a message for him, too, letting him know that we were at the jail to spring Thorn and would meet him at HT’s house at two. The girl needed her dad. He and Thorn needed to get past this argument and work as a team.
“Now let’s collect the errant teenager,” Myra said. She picked up her briefcase and led the way to the jail release area.
The hall held odors from dinner the night before, combined with sweat and that acrid smell of anxiety. The women’s holdin
g cell was an informal one in the back of the branch station, a temporary facility for prisoners waiting to be transferred.
When we arrived, Thorn sat cross-legged on a narrow cot. She’d been playing cards with a lady-of-the-night wearing a tight neon orange dress and what appeared to be a homeless person clad in drab green Goodwill camo. Thorn had a pile of greasy playing cards in front of her, and from the look of the stack of matchsticks, she was ahead.
“About time,” she said. Her eyes searched the corridor behind me. “Where’s Dad?” Her voice held disappointment.
“He told me the two of you weren’t speaking,” I said, “after you called the cops on him.”
“That was last night.”
Apparently an eon ago, in Thorn’s book.
“Are you going to get me out of here? Food’s terrible.”
She handed me an apple as she strode out of the cell.
“I didn’t eat this for breakfast,” she said. “You can have it.”
I stuffed the apple in my jeans pocket where it made an unbecoming lump.
I tried to read Thorn’s attitude. Was it the usual teenage bravado or was there something more? I couldn’t tell and was ashamed that I still looked for signs of guilt in Shepherd’s daughter. She deserved the presumption of innocence, at least until proven otherwise.
Out in the parking lot, we said goodbye to Myra.
“I’ve got to be in court this morning, but I’ll meet everyone about two,” she said. “And we’ll go from there.”
“Shepherd says if Cooper Davis is still insistent, we can all drive up to Flagstaff after our meeting. He’s hoping this can be explained away so that Thorn doesn’t have to go to jail awaiting a grand jury or something.”
“Well, I should hope so. See you this afternoon.”
With that, Myra left us with a clicking of her Manolos on the pavement of the jail parking lot.
“Where’re we going?” Thorn asked, cheerful now that jail was behind her. “I need to take a shower. My hair’s a mess. You leaving me at my dad’s place?”
The kid was up for a murder charge, but her first concern was washing her hair? It took me back to my own adolescence when saving face was paramount to everything.
“No,” I said. “Your dad wants a cooling off time. He’ll meet up with us this afternoon.”
“Fine with me.” Thorn’s voice turned sulky. “Where to, then?”
“My grandfather HT’s place. He’s glad to have you.”
The lie sat uncomfortably in my mind. I hadn’t actually talked to HT, but Isabel was close, wasn’t she?
“I suppose,” Thorn said frowning.
What did she expect? A five-star Hilton? It was no wonder both her parents had given up on this balky teen, but I clenched my teeth and said nothing. The girl needed a friend, and I’d been appointed.
“You’ll like it,” I said. “Isabel is a great cook.”
“Whatever,” Thorn said, and then pawed through the duffel that Shepherd sent. She grabbed her phone, then dug further.
“Where’s my iPad? Didn’t he even remember to pack that?”
Too bad, kid, I thought.
Thorn slouched in the seat, crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and closed her eyes. She gave an odd shiver that spoke to fear she might not want to show. She didn’t open her eyes until we got to HT’s big old barn of a residence.
I waved to Isabel who was standing at the kitchen window and took Thorn up the outside stairs to the third-floor loft.
“Whew! It’s dusty up here. Don’t they ever clean this place? And those bent ceilings. I’m going to crack my head.”
She opened the door to the bathroom.
“Tiny,” she sniffed. “I can’t shower here. And where’s the shampoo?”
I reached behind the shower curtain and grabbed a half-empty bottle of Suave left over from when I’d been there. There were old soap runnels decorating one side.
Thorn took it reluctantly and set it on the counter, wiping her hands distastefully on her pants. Then she shook her head.
“I can’t stay here,” she announced, turning toward the door.
“And where would you like to stay? Out on the street? That can be arranged.” I grabbed her and swung her around roughly.
Damn. That was what got Shepherd into trouble with this witch-in-training. I had a sudden sympathy for my partner. I dropped her arm and backed off with both hands raised in a peacekeeping gesture.
“I didn’t mean to do that.”
She looked at me, her lower lip quivering. Her persona of an angry teen melted into a waif, scared, alone and facing a murder charge.
I touched her arm again, softer.
“Look, this is just temporary. It will get straightened out. I’m sure of it. Take your shower and have a nap. I’ll be back soon. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
And why did I make that promise? A woman had been murdered, and things weren’t fine and might not ever be again for Thorn and Shepherd.
I gave a half wave and left. If she was innocent, I’d do everything in my power to help her regain her normal life again. And if she was guilty, this daughter of my best friend? I didn’t want to go there, not yet.
Out in the car I checked for messages. One, from the home sheriff’s office. I called and Melda, our dispatcher, connected me with the human resources department.
“Peg,” the administrator there said, “we have a family liaison assignment for you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about that poor woman killed in the canyon yesterday. We want you to meet with her sister, Claire Marks. There’s been the formal next-of-kin visit, but she may need additional help.”
For a nano-second, I considered my response. It might be a conflict of interest since I was sort of involved with the prime suspect. Could get me in big trouble with the detective-in-charge, Cooper Davis. On the other hand, if it were a quick meeting Cooper might never know.
What could it hurt, just to talk to the woman? I could help her. I had lots of good resources. And I might discover something that could aid Shepherd in his defense of Thorn.
“Sure,” I said, grabbing paper and pen. “What’s the address?”
CHAPTER 10
HARRIET WEAVER was late. Those police were coming to Jil-Clair Industries for their interview, and she had to stop for pastries before she went to the office.
But when she came downstairs into the kitchen, the vision of her husband’s balding head greeted her, shining like a beacon in the morning sunlight. There was no sign that he’d had breakfast, which meant she’d have to fix it for him before she headed in to work.
He was reading something. Harriet’s heart froze when she saw Jill’s private journal clutched in his fist.
“Who told you to go through my purse?” She rushed over to him.
“Woo-hoo,” he said, ducking an imaginary blow. “I was just getting some loose change. I’m going out with the guys at the Safeway coffee shop this morning. Networking, you know.”
Networking her eye! Those bums did nothing but rehash politics and ogle the grocery clerks, especially that Hispanic girl, young and beautiful in her early pregnancy. Lenny had told Harriet about her, even enjoyed, it seemed, her discomfort at the comparison between the youthful beauty of the clerk and her own aging body.
“Hey, I’m only teasing,” he said.
But now he’d seen Jill’s journal. Harriet calmed with effort.
“That book is private. You shouldn’t have touched it.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grinned up at her. “But I had no idea your Jill was such a swinger. All those boyfriends.”
How much of the writing had he deciphered? Jill wrote in an odd conglomeration of high school Gregg shorthand, abbreviations, and short phrases in the bright turquoise ink she favored. But Harriet couldn’t afford to take the chance Lenny was bluffing.
“If you ever, ever, repeat any of that at your coffee group, I’ll leave you. I swear I will.”
&nb
sp; “Hey, I won’t say anything. Why do you even have the book? Cleaning up Jill Rustaine’s messes, like you always do,” he said.
“That’s not true! She told me to take care of it if anything happened to her, and I will.”
“But why don’t we use it to our benefit, this time? She’s dead. What could it hurt?” Lenny had that crafty look in his eyes.
“I bet that Malcolm guy would pay plenty to have his name kept out of the paper. A neat arrangement they had. He provided your precious Jill with a built-in escort for the corporate affairs and if he had a boyfriend on the side…”
Now she knew he was guessing. Surely Jill wouldn’t have written down anything like that.
“Shut up!”
“Hey, lovey-bird, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Lenny patted her arm. “My lips are sealed.” He made a closing-zipper gesture across them. He proffered the book in mock surrender.
Harriet grabbed the journal and shoved it into her purse. Her appetite gone, she finished dressing and left the house, giving a cursory “goodbye” to her husband. He could fix his own damn breakfast.
She was so upset that she drove past the bakery. Hands tightening on the wheel, she circled the block and pulled into the store parking lot.
Even as she approached the counter, her stomach clenched. What else had Lenny noticed in that journal? Harriet stayed up last night reading through it, and Malcolm’s deceptions were the least of what she’d seen there.
The passages Jill had written burned in her mind, callous and cruel thoughts about family members and executives at the company. Even about her. Harriet had no idea that’s what Jill was thinking. Finally, she banished the writing to the far reaches of her memory, secured by the image of a big padlock, just as her therapist taught her.
Harriet gave her head a shake. There would be time to decide what to do with the journal after this police meeting. She added another mental lock to the ugly thoughts and smiled cheerfully at the clerk.
“Give me a dozen of your finest.”
Harriet tucked the bakery receipt carefully in her billfold so that she could copy it later. She’d turn in the reimbursement request with her other expenses, just as she did every month, balanced to the penny.
