Silence in West Fork: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 5)

by Lakota Grace

  * * *

  Malcolm intercepted her as she entered the front door of the company.

  “We have to talk.”

  “If you want to talk, we can do it in the meeting room. The police are coming, and I have to set up.”

  He followed close behind her, allowing her to open the door with one hand while balancing the donut box with the other. Then he lounged against the big walnut conference table watching as she flicked the drapes open. Jill always wanted this room kept dark, insisting that the sun would harm the fine wood.

  If things had gone as planned, the board would have been meeting in this very room to vote approval of the IPO. But that was in the past, irrevocably changed. Jill was dead, and Harriet’s dreams vanished with her.

  Harriet opened the credenza doors and pulled out the coffeemaker. She placed a filter in and measured in a scoop of the special coffee reserved for guests. Then she filled the pot with water from the bar sink in the corner. The rituals calmed her anxiety as she set out the fine china cups, the sugar bowl, and the creamer, filled with artificial packets.

  Harriet caught her breath. She’d forgotten the cream! Jill always insisted on real cream for important conferences. Maybe there would be time to run to the convenience store after this meeting with Malcolm. She wouldn’t put out the pastries just yet. They’d get a crust, and she hated stale baked goods.

  Malcolm leaned against the table, not offering to help, not that she’d want him to. This routine was hers, something she’d done every month for Jill’s board meetings for the past seven years. As she sensed his impatience she moved slower, more deliberately, drawing the ritual out even further.

  “How much longer is this going to take?” Malcolm asked.

  Harriet smiled at the irritation in his voice, taking satisfaction that she’d forced him to speak first.

  “I’m done,” she announced. She appropriated the seat at the head of the table, ignoring Malcolm’s frown.

  Silently he closed the door and sat in the closest side chair. He shot his cuffs and pulled at his trousers to break the crease.

  He stared at her, and Harriet stared back, not breaking eye contact.

  Finally, he chuckled artificially.

  “I’m not the enemy here. We all want what is best for Jill’s memory.” He shifted uneasily in his seat. “Our friend once mentioned a memoir that she was writing. Have you seen any evidence of something like that? I know it’s silly, but I’d like to read it, just as a way of saying goodbye to a fine colleague.” His small mustache twitched.

  “Where did you get an idea like that? I’m sure Jill would have mentioned it to me if there was one.”

  She looked at him with her most innocent look, the same one she used with Lenny when she deposited money in the secret savings account that he didn’t know existed, her butter-and-egg money.

  Malcolm relaxed visibly.

  “Ah, well, good. I was just checking. We want nothing to interfere with the good name of the company. Did Jill sign the morals letter that the board of trustees on old man Rustaine’s estate sent?”

  “I assume she did. I sent it out special delivery yesterday to the Briar Patch.”

  The Morals Letter. An assurance that everything the company and its officers did was ethical and above reproach. The board sent it out every year for signature just before they made a substantial contribution to the company operations. Jil-Clair would have folded years ago without the influx of cash. Unfortunately, there was a look-back clause which meant they could recapture previous distributions if anything untoward was discovered.

  Harriet folded her hands in her lap and said nothing. She carefully kept her glance, and her thoughts, away from the small gold-tooled journal in her big handbag.

  “Coffee’s done,” he said. “How do you like it? Cream, sugar?”

  “Black, please.”

  Harriet knew the coffee preferences for every executive in the company, having served each one numerous times over the years she’d been with the firm. She prided herself on knowing a lot about the firm’s employees.

  Jill relied on her to know what was going on and report back. Her boss said it gave her the edge she needed in corporate negotiations and furthered her reputation for being a wizard mind reader. Harriet had been happy to do it. But she accepted that the knowledge wasn’t reciprocal.

  Malcolm set the cup in front of her, spilling a few drops into the saucer. Harriet reached behind her for a napkin to sop them up. Why didn’t the man get on with it? She had details to attend to before the police arrived.

  “It’s a comfort,” Malcolm said, “to know that you and I were here when Jill met her unfortunate end yesterday. However, police can be suspicious. We need to direct their attention elsewhere. They’ll ask regarding employee relations. Any that we’ve been having problems with? That’s your bailiwick, not mine.”

  “What about the security guard issue?” she asked.

  He looked puzzled.

  “You know, that man Jill had an affair with. Oh, you didn’t know about that?”

  Plus one for her.

  “Yes, of course,” Malcolm said quickly. “He still working for the company?”

  “Jill fired him two weeks ago.” Just like she was preparing to fire you, you self-centered little snit.

  “That’s a possible suspect,” Malcolm said, encouragingly. “What about that intern with the piercings and tattoos? I heard she raised quite a stink the other day.”

  Harriet enjoyed Thorn Malone, earnest and excited about getting the big corporate internship. She’d gotten in trouble when Jill caught her taking money from the petty cash. Money that Harriet had asked Thorn to give to the water delivery person. The poor man was down on his luck and about to lose his car.

  The intern had stood up to Jill, not mentioning Harriet at all. By the time Harriet heard of the argument, it was too late. She asked Jill to give the intern another chance, and Jill reluctantly agreed. It was one of the reasons that Harriet had sent Thorn on the errands Saturday, a way to make some extra cash as a thank you. Maybe that was a mistake.

  But with Jill gone, Harriet needed to look out for herself. She inclined her head slightly.

  “I doubt there was anything to that. I can go through the personnel files, though, for other employees with issues.” She paused in thought. “We could mention irate stockholders, not that there are that many.”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said with satisfaction, “starting with that sister of Jill’s. What did she want money for this time?”

  Harriet remembered the conversation clearly. Claire Marks dropped by unexpectedly, excited about a special school for that son of hers. She’d asked Jill for tuition money, and it hadn’t gone well.

  The voices had been so loud they could be heard in the receptionist’s foyer. Harriet had sent the receptionist on an errand and appropriated her seat to listen. Yes, if anyone had a reason to wish Jill dead, it would be Claire.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Malcolm said. “Call me when the police arrive.”

  Harriet felt a small twinge of conscience as she assessed other possible employee-suspects, but brushed it away. The uproar surrounding Jill Rustaine’s death needed to be settled quickly. If the board of trustees withheld the payment, if the IPO didn’t bring in additional funds, Jil-Clair would fold.

  Then Harriet would be out of a job, and the insurance for Lenny’s expensive treatments would cease. No matter how bad Harriet felt at Jill’s death, it was time to divert attention elsewhere. Malcolm was right. Jill would have wanted the company to continue as a legacy marking her brilliance.

  Harriet straightened. She was a survivor. Her mother drilled that into her, too. Harriet washed the cups and set the top of the credenza to rights. She had just enough time to get the fresh cream if she hurried.

  CHAPTER 11

  I wasn’t due back to pick up Thorn until afternoon. There might be time to meet Claire Marks on the family liaison interview before then. She lived in Camp Verd
e, a small farming community on the east side of the Verde Valley.

  I respected my former partner Shepherd, and I’d been assigned to make the family liaison call. The fact that those coincided was strictly a coincidence. I’d visit Claire and pass on pertinent information to Cooper, especially anything that might help Thorn Malone. I didn’t like Cooper, didn’t trust him in fact, but that was okay. Just doing my job. I dialed the number that the dispatcher had given me.

  “Marks Pecan Orchards,” a woman answered in a deep voice.

  “Is Claire Marks there?”

  “This is she.”

  “This is Peg Quincy from the sheriff’s office. Is now a good time to talk?”

  The woman’s tone softened. “They told me you might be calling about Jill. Yes, of course.”

  “Might I come by for a few moments this morning?”

  “I’ll be here all day, me and Ralphie.” She gave me directions to their farm.

  It took me an hour to traverse the switchbacks from my mountain town of Mingus into the bottomland near the Verde River. The altitude dropped two thousand feet, and the temperature was Indian summer warm when I reached the valley floor.

  Unlike Oak Creek and its subsidiaries, the Verde was a slow, meandering river during this low-water time of the year, filled with a brackish current that reflected the big cottonwoods overhead.

  The Marks place was close to the river, at the end of a dirt road edged with towering pecan groves. A border collie joined me at the entrance to the farm and paced me as I drove in, its white tail whipping in the breeze.

  I passed a small, whitewashed shed with a closed display window. “Pecans here! Pecan pies, pecan relish, fresh shelled pecans,” its sign read.

  The road ended at a sprawling ranch house. It had wide generous lines with a screened porch on three sides. The building was framed by two huge pecan trees, their fruit, in bunches the shape of miniature bananas, still encased in soft yellow-green hulls. These would harden and split to reveal the pecans nestled inside in another month when colder weather arrived.

  Claire Marks opened the screen door and welcomed me in. She was a plain, heavyset woman with medium-length, brown hair. Her cheeks were tan, her eyes cornflower blue.

  She walked with a solidness of someone who knows her place in the world and likes it. Somehow, she looked familiar. I tucked that fact in the back of my mind for my subconscious to chew on. It would come up with an answer for me when it was ready. It always did.

  “I saw the dust cloud as you turned off the main road and put some water on to heat. I hope you like tea. Sit here while I bring everything out.”

  “You look familiar,” I said.

  “Everyone says that. I’ve got one of those average faces.” She smiled.

  Odd. Her demeanor was almost cheerful, welcoming me in an old-friend manner. Not what I would have expected in a grieving relative.

  I sat in a wicker chair on the screened porch and watched the squirrels harvesting the pecans in tree branches outside the window. They shucked the husk in less than a minute. Then they’d scamper down the tree, gray tails plumed, to bury the pecan in a corner of the yard.

  This farm exuded a feeling of peace, enhanced by the sound of the river flowing just beyond the backyard. I let the tranquility wash over me, not wanting to darken my mood with the conversation of death that would come soon.

  Claire banged open the door from the kitchen carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of cookies. She rested it on the coffee table and settled into another wicker chair near me.

  “Let’s give the tea a minute to steep.”

  Her actions indicated she wasn’t ready to delve into the difficult subject of her sister’s death, either.

  “I’ve been watching the squirrels,” I said, waving to the yard.

  “Yes, I do that, too. Gary, my husband, coddles me and allows these few squirrels to remain. But out in the orchards, they just disappear, and I don’t ask. They’re a nuisance, I suppose, and eat the cash crop, but such graceful creatures.”

  “You and your husband own the farm?”

  “Gary, me, and the bank. We were able to just make the down payment with proceeds from my mother’s estate, and it’s been a struggle ever since,” she said.

  “Problems with the pecan business?”

  “A lot of hard work and a big pile of bills.” She sighed. “We’re no different from a lot of farmers nowadays I suppose. Fierce competition from the Chinese imports. We’ve scaled back, let a lot of our workers go. Most of our harvest goes to the Pecan Festival in Camp Verde and mail order. Fruitcakes, candied nuts, that sort of thing, for Christmas. Diversification, Gary always says.”

  “Gary’s your husband?”

  “Has been for eleven years now. We married just out of high school.”

  She popped open the lid of the teapot and peered inside.

  “Looks ready. Lapsang Souchong, first flush.”

  She poured the steaming brew into the teacups and offered a plate of cookies. Pecan, of course.

  The tea was excellent. Even I, not the connoisseur that Shepherd was, could appreciate it. I examined the teacup, a Spode so thin that the tea’s color shadowed the curve of the porcelain. It looked like the set my grandmother had kept for “good.”

  “Exquisite china.”

  “Thanks. One of the few things I inherited from my father’s estate. He lost heart when my mother died, passed away soon after.”

  “Did you and Jill bond together then? I hear that happens with families sometimes when the parents are gone.”

  “Nice if that happens. Not with us.”

  No love lost between the sisters, then. A story there. I nibbled on one of the excellent pecan cookies, giving Claire space to tell it.

  Before she could, the house door opened, and a gangly pre-teen stood in the threshold.

  Claire’s face lit up.

  “Ralphie, baby.” She rose and gave him a big hug. Then she turned to me.

  “Say hello to Ms. Quincy.”

  The boy held out his hand hesitantly. I saw an edginess in his eyes, in sharp contrast to Claire’s friendly manner. He dropped my hand, shifted his attention to the cookies.

  Claire gave him one. Hugged him again.

  The boy moved into the kitchen. On the counter was the teaspoon Claire had used to measure the tea. Ralphie picked it up and placed it in the cutlery drawer.

  Claire noticed his action and jumped to her feet. Rushing into the kitchen she removed the used teaspoon from the drawer.

  “No, Ralphie, if the spoon is dirty, we put it into the dishwasher. Why don’t you take Midge to the barn and visit with your dad? I’ll join you soon.”

  He walked out into the yard, and the black-and-white sheepdog joined him. Together they disappeared behind the house, the young man feeding crumbs of the cookie to his eager companion.

  Claire watched them leave and then turned back to me.

  “Ralphie is a special needs child. I’ve been trying to home school him, but sometimes it’s a challenge. I worry about when Gary and I are no longer here to take care of him. Then what will happen?”

  “That’s got to be tough on all of you,” I said.

  “You can only imagine! I got pregnant in high school. The plan was I’d put the child out for adoption, but he arrived early and weighed less than two pounds. It was nip and tuck for a while. His care cost my parents a fortune in hospital bills.

  “The doctors hoped his development would catch up, most times it does. But in Ralphie’s case, it didn’t. By then I was so hooked on my darling boy I couldn’t put him up for adoption—who would love him as I do?”

  “You never went back to school yourself?”

  “No, taking care of Ralphie was a full-time career. My father used to say my son’s hospital costs were my inheritance. I thought he was joking, and then he wrote me out of his will. I wanted to protest. Heaven knows our farm could have used the money. It’s an amazing place, don’t get me wrong, a
n environment where Ralphie can have a somewhat normal life. But still.”

  “So the company went to Jill?”

  “Oh, I got some non-voting shares of stock, but since Jil-Clair pays no dividends, they were virtually worthless.”

  “That is, until the IPO,” I said.

  “Yes, that would have been a windfall. Strange, I hadn’t made that connection.”

  “What connection?”

  “Buzz, Gary’s brother, offered to buy my shares last year. At a substantial discount I might add. Heaven knows where he would have found the money. I was tempted, but Gary convinced me to hold on to them, and I did. But now with Jill’s death, the IPO probably won’t happen either.”

  “Do you stand to inherit from her estate?” I was straying into formal interview territory here, and I kept my voice soft and casual.

  “I doubt it. We don’t, we didn’t, speak.” Her lips firmed and her eyes filled with tears.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you have the time?”

  I nodded that I did.

  She poured herself more tea.

  “The four of us were best friends in high school: Jill, me, Gary, and Buzz.” She waved off my next question. “I know what you’re thinking. No, neither one is Ralphie’s father. I made a stupid, rash decision after a prom date. Then when Ralphie arrived, I dropped out, and the foursome became a three-friend group. I wasn’t invited.”

  That had to be tough. A young mother confined by the cares of a premature infant while her sister and friends had a good time.

  “Jill graduated college and went on to get an MBA. She joined our father’s company as the heir apparent.”

  “You had every right to be envious.”

  “I wasn’t, surprisingly. I had my wonderful baby boy. It was what she did later that caused the estrangement between us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jill had everything, but it wasn’t enough. She was selfish that way. And I had something she wanted.”

  “And that one thing was?”