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

by Lakota Grace

  In a vivid dart of color, a mountain bluebird swept past Thorn’s vision and into an old pinyon pine clinging to the steep hillside. A fly discovered her perspiring face and landed on her forehead. She batted at it, and it lifted and then dropped again to the moisture forming at her brow. Sweat poured into her eyes and she stopped to wipe it away.

  “Here,” Ben said, “use this.”

  He whipped off the bandanna that held back his dark hair and offered it to her. It was warm with his body heat, and she fashioned a sweatband for her short locks.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Let me rest a little more.”

  “You’ll get stiff if we stop too long.”

  Without waiting for agreement, he started off again.

  Thorn stumbled after him. Her stubbornness was all that kept her trudging up the path, eyes focused to avoid the catclaw acacia and paddles of prickly pear cactus that lay in wait. When she jerked back from one attack, her blouse had a big triangular rip on the sleeve.

  “Ben,” she gasped. “I’ve got to stop.”

  She leaned against the hillside, taking in huge gulps of air. Her legs trembled from the effort of the climb. She took off her shoe and inspected her foot. A hole had worn in the back of the sock, and beneath the hole, a blister was forming.

  “See,” she said, pointing to the damage.

  Ben returned from the fifty yards up the trail that he had covered since she’d stopped.

  “Moleskin will fix that.” He pulled a small square of fuzzy, adhesive-backed material from one pocket. “Stick this on.”

  “How'd you know I’d get a blister?” Thorn said, placing the patch on the blister and shoving her foot back into her shoe.

  “First day I climbed this trail I had three blisters. But by the end of the first summer, I ran top to bottom, many times each day, just for practice. I was the best cross-country team member that year.” He rose to his feet. “Time to go.”

  “I really, really need to rest.” Thorn reached out her arms, hoping to pull him down and gain a respite. “You could join me.”

  His mouth straightened in a flat line.

  “Not now. Move.”

  “You don’t have to be so mean.” Thorn pouted, but Ben moved up the trail, ignoring her pleas.

  Thorn used a scrub oak to lever herself upright. Her shins screamed with pain, and each time her foot touched the steep dirt path, sharp rocks tortured her ankles.

  Several hundred feet below them, the shadow of the mountain reached farther and farther across the brown plain. The silhouette of Ben’s motorcycle vanished beneath the juniper treetops below, and the paved road to Many Farms was a thin sliver of straight line cutting through the flatness.

  Then Ben disappeared above her. Had he fallen? She screamed.

  He poked his head back over the top of the cliff.

  “We’re here. Come up, lazy girl.”

  He helped her scramble over the edge of the mesa. Thorn’s legs shook from the effort of the climb, and she dropped to the earth.

  Tall ponderosa pines edged a small meadow filled with late summer grass. In front of them was a six-sided building built of rough logs. It created an angled circle, about sixteen feet across.

  Ben’s arm swept in a circle of welcome.

  “Vision Quest hogan. For you.”

  The roof was a slanting tin with a chimney in the center. The walls were built of sturdy cottonwood logs, shreds of bark still attached, interlocked at each of the six corners. The spaces between the logs were chinked with white clay. A heavy wooden door was built in the east wall, framed by two small windows.

  A musty smell drifted out as Ben pushed the door open.

  “Whew!” he said. “Nothing but deer mice in here for a long time. Come see.”

  Thorn heard the excitement in his voice and shoved past into the darkness. Ben fumbled in a corner and then struck a match and lit a kerosene lantern.

  “Nobody visited since I was here last,” he said in satisfaction. “This is good.”

  The light from the lantern illuminated the rough interior. A black pot-bellied stove occupied the center of the room, its chimney snaking up through the hole in the roof. Nearby was a stack of logs, and a wooden box filled with scraps of kindling.

  “You ever build a stove fire?” Ben asked.

  Thorn shook her head.

  “Watch.”

  Ignoring him, Thorn walked around the corners of the hogan, exploring while he worked. The floor was swept earth, the walls bare except for a row of handmade shelves, and one space draped with an old curtain.

  Thorn pulled back the cloth to see a makeshift pantry. It contained a few cans of food, the labels torn off. Next to them was a box of oatmeal. Her nose crinkled at the acrid smell. She thrust it back and wiped her fingers on her shirt.

  “There.” Ben twisted a piece of wire on the chimney pipe. “Damper. Turn it if you need more air to the fire.”

  “Whatever.”

  Thorn returned to exploring. In one corner was a folding tent cot made of rank canvas. No mattress, and covered by an old sheepskin. She picked up the skin, and dust flew up. She sneezed.

  “Have I forgotten anything?” Ben stood thinking for a moment. “Come, let me show you the outside.”

  He grabbed her hand and led her into the meadow.

  “The latrine is a ditch that way.” He pointed.

  “Rain barrel by the corner of the hogan.”

  He lifted the lid. “Oops. Turn away.”

  There was the sound of something wet and soppy being removed from the barrel.

  “What was that?” Thorn asked.

  “Dead mouse. But it’s gone now.”

  He handed her his Leatherman knife, that all-in-one extravaganza. There was an unexpected heaviness when he dropped it in her palm.

  “Be careful with this. It’s sharp,” he said. “And I want it back. My grandmother gave it to me for high school graduation.” A sad expression fell over his face.

  Thorn surveyed the roughness and desolation rising around her. The utter quiet of the scene plunged into her stomach like a heavy stone.

  “Ben, I don’t think this is a good idea. I need to go with you.” Suddenly the small mining town of Mingus seemed a very civilized place.

  “I need to call my dad, let him know where I’m at,” she protested.

  “No cellphone coverage here,” Ben pointed out. “I’ll tell him as soon as I reach Flag, promise.”

  “But—”

  “Thorn, when things are bad at your mother’s, you run to your father. When he does something you don’t like, you run back the other way. Even now. You get in trouble with that lady’s murder, the first thing you do is run. From that policeman at West Fork. And then from Peg Quincy at her grandfather’s house.”

  Ben looked at her, his face solemn.

  “You need to stop running and find out who you are inside.” He gave her a brief hug.

  “I’ll be back in three days. Nights are cold. Don’t let the fire go out.”

  Then he hiked to the edge of the mesa and disappeared down the side.

  For the first time in her life, Thorn Malone was utterly alone.

  CHAPTER 16

  Later that afternoon, I sat on my cabin porch listening to the traffic driving down the hill from Mingus. I rubbed Reckless’s silky ears as he leaned against my leg. The call to Myra had gone easier than I expected.

  “I was only giving Shepherd a hard time,” she had said. “I wouldn’t desert him over a little thing such as an errant daughter. Besides, I like a challenge. But you’re going to have to tackle that detective on your own. I want distance there if I have to face him in court.”

  Cooper would have to be notified, of course. We couldn’t put that off indefinitely. He was expecting Thorn Malone to appear in his office after the meeting with her attorney that never took place. I’d have to call him, since Myra refused to, and Shepherd wanted to stay out of it. Not that I didn’t want to beg off as we
ll, but I needed to set this to rights. Maybe the non-appearance of Thorn would be softened if I had another possible suspect to offer in her place.

  I wanted to talk to Claire Marks again. She might be able to give me an entré to seeing Harriet Weaver at Jil-Clair, and I wanted to talk to her again about her presence in West Fork the morning of Jill’s murder.

  On the other hand, if I expected Claire to be honest, I had to be that way myself. I’d have to admit I’d lied to her about my own involvement. I’d have to fess up to knowing the prime suspect for her sister’s murder and to being there at the scene of the crime.

  Yes, there was estrangement between the sisters, but perhaps some love as well. Would Claire blame me for Jill’s death? If I’d arrived sooner in the canyon, her sister would still be alive. And I had to make this right for Shepherd, too. If I hadn’t chased after my dog, Thorn wouldn’t be in the mess she was.

  Stay on task, my rational self reminded me.

  My cellphone sat beside me on the porch, its blank screen waiting. I had to admit to Claire Marks that I’d hidden my true role in the investigation of her sister’s murder, then convince her that Thorn didn’t kill Jill, and finally get Claire to trust me enough to give me a way to meet with Harriet Weaver and then get her to cooperate. If only so much didn’t rest on this call.

  Suddenly I realized I couldn’t do it over the phone. I had to talk to Claire Marks in person. That was the only way. Before I lost my nerve, I pushed Reckless inside the cabin and jumped into my car.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the Marks’ pecan farm, the old pickup truck was gone and no border collie escorted me to the house. I knocked on the screen door, and Claire Marks greeted me.

  “Hello, Peg. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Have you found Jill’s killer? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No,” I admitted, “we’re still in a holding pattern about her death. But I need to talk to you about another matter. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She ushered me into a spotless kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “I was just enjoying the peace and quiet. Gary took Ralphie and Midge to the Sonic Drive-in for an ice cream cone. Ralphie feeds most of his to the dog, but everyone seems to enjoy the outing.”

  I sat at a small kitchen table, watching the late afternoon sun dapple the leaves of red-blooming geraniums in a clay pot. A yellow wall clock ticked a quiet beat, its second-hand marking off the minutes. Minutes before Gary and their son would return.

  There was no simple way to do this. I dived in.

  “Claire, I lied to you.”

  Claire stiffened, and her smile disappeared.

  “Lied? You do work for the sheriff’s department, don’t you? You’re not a reporter or some snoopy gossip columnist?

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “I’m a family liaison officer, and a good one. But I have another link to this case.”

  She sat there silent, waiting.

  I started again. “You love your child.”

  “Of course. He’s my life.”

  “Well, my old partner Shepherd Malone—”

  “He fathered your child?”

  “No. I don’t have any children. But he has a daughter, older than Ralphie, by his then-wife.”

  “I hope so! I’d hate to think of a child born out of wedlock!”

  Not a good reminder, maybe. Her own child, Ralphie, had been deserted by his birth father. I continued, running my words together until I got the whole story out.

  “Anyway Shepherd’s daughter, that’s Thorn, came to stay with her dad, that’s Shepherd and he asked me to watch her because he was going to a conference in Phoenix.”

  “Still hot in the Valley of the Sun,” Claire observed. A small smile twitched at one corner of her mouth.

  “Yes, and so I invited Thorn to go hiking, and we ended up in West Fork where she discovered your sister’s body. The detective Cooper Davis thought Thorn did it only she didn’t. She ran away and now she’s wanted by the police.”

  “It sounds confusing,” Claire said.

  “Shepherd is my friend and I feel responsible.”

  “Even though you had nothing to do with it,” Claire observed.

  Right. Funny how that works I thought.

  “It sounds like a huge mess.” Claire’s blue eyes looked at me. “But I don’t understand how I fit into this.”

  “I need a way to talk to Harriet Weaver, at Jill’s company. I’m not part of the official investigation, so there’s no reason for her to talk to me, and I hoped you know something about her that would allow me to gain entrance.”

  “I could probably help. Harriet and I have kept touch over the years.”

  She looked at me and her eyes narrowed.

  “Let me refresh my memory. You and I first met when you came here in your family liaison role, is that correct?”

  It was clear she was asking me to forget our earlier encounter in West Fork the morning of Jill’s death. I swallowed hard. My memory might return, should Cooper ask the right questions, but for now I could keep it a nice empty space.

  We gazed at each other, secrets closeted.

  Claire nodded.

  “If we put our heads together surely we can find something,” she said. “What about pretending you’re part of the investigation and talk to Harriet that way?”

  I’d considered that. But if I tried that avenue, my last vestige of cooperation from Cooper Davis would vanish like an escaped canary out an open window.

  “Wouldn’t work,” I said.

  “That would just be another lie,” Claire agreed. “No, that wouldn’t be the best plan, for sure. Okay, what about this?”

  She reached behind her and took down a picture and handed it to me.

  I examined it. Gary, Claire, and Ralphie, posed against their gray barn.

  “One of my favorites,” Claire said. “I sent the companion photograph to Jill, thinking it might be a way to mend the bridges between us. She’s got it on her desk.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. She’d told me she hadn’t talked to her sister in years.

  “Oh, I’m guessing. Fantasy, on my part, I suppose. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

  “Harriet is usually there late, maybe we can catch her.” She twisted around in her seat and pulled the receiver off a phone on the wall.

  “Harriet, this is Claire. Jill had a photograph on her desk, at least I think she did, and I want it back. I’m sending over a friend to get it. Her name is Peg Quincy. Could you give the picture to her? She’ll be there in a little while.”

  Here she paused and looked at me again.

  I held up one hand, my fingers spread.

  “Fifty minutes. You’ll still be there? Great.”

  She talked with Harriet Weaver for several more minutes, arranging the meeting. Then she hung up the phone and brushed her hands together.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” She had a satisfied expression on her face. “Maybe Harriet can help.”

  The rumble of an old pickup sounded from the drive.

  “Gary and Ralphie are back,” Claire said. “I imagine you’ll need to leave soon.” She shook my hand formally, our earlier friendly rapport transformed into a conspiracy of silence, it seemed.

  But her words echoed in my mind. How had she known that picture was on Jill’s desk if she hadn’t spoken to her in years? And why was she familiar with Harriet’s schedule?

  My cop’s rational brain couldn’t help turning over the facts in my head. Was Claire just being helpful because she liked me or was she connected with her sister’s death? I knew the answer to that one, and it wasn’t my winning smile. I’d use her help to prove Thorn innocent. Still, that didn’t take Claire Marks off the list of suspects.

  The fact remained that Jill Rustaine died at West Fork. And her sister, Claire Marks, had been in that canyon that day. I was positive of that fact.

  * * *

  When I drove into the parking lot for Jil-Clair In
dustries, it was after five and most spaces were empty. Not surprising, I suppose, given the murder of their CEO and the cancellation of the IPO.

  Harriet Weaver, Jill Rustaine’s executive assistant, met me in the foyer. She had a visitor’s sticker in her hand, filled out with my name.

  “The picture is in Ms. Rustaine’s office. Please follow me.”

  I plastered the sticky label on my chest and followed her to the executive suites. The door to Jill’s office was open, and Harriet paused, seemingly perplexed.

  “That’s odd. I left this locked just a moment ago.”

  She disappeared by a side door and came back visibly upset. “You haven’t seen a handbag anywhere have you?”

  I peered around and spotted a large brown leather bag wedged beside a chair.

  “Is this it?”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” She opened it, checked something, patted it once and then placed the handbag carefully on the floor by the desk.

  “I’d be lost without my bag—it’s my security blanket. Now, where were we?”

  “The family picture,” I reminded her.

  She handed me a parcel enclosed in Kraft paper.

  “I put bubble-wrap around it so that the glass will be protected.”

  She looked at me sharply through black-rimmed glasses.

  “But this isn’t the reason you came to see me.”

  “Isn’t it?” I feigned innocence.

  “Look, Ms. Quincy, I know who you are: Family Liaison Officer with the Anasazi County Sheriff’s Office. And your old partner was one Shepherd Malone, right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “And his daughter is Thorn Malone,” she said triumphantly. She turned the computer monitor so I could see.

  There on Thorn’s Facebook page was a picture, carefully tagged, of me and Shepherd at a long-ago Halloween party. Shepherd was professionally attired in his on-duty sheriff deputy uniform. I, on the other hand, looked awesome in a Wonder Woman costume.

  “It’s amazing what a few moments’ research on the Internet can produce,” Harriet Weaver said. “Now, how can I really help you?”