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

by Lakota Grace

  Harriet shoved back from the table.

  “Excuse me,” she said, like a polite little girl asking a parent’s permission to leave the dining room. She rushed to the bathroom where she was violently ill, heaving gut-wrenching surges. When it was over, she wet one of the special guest towels with water and scrubbed at her face, again and again.

  She refolded the towel and placed it precisely on the rack. When she returned to Lenny, her features were rearranged into a calm mask.

  He looked at her, concerned.

  “Honey, are you okay? I did this for us, for our future.”

  Her stomach jolted once again, and she breathed deeply.

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it,” she reassured him. And she would, just like she always did.

  “Good. I told him you’d meet him at the old Cultural Center on the west side of Sedona, ten o’clock tonight. I’ll drive you. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll be right there, to protect you from the boogeyman.”

  He grabbed the last slice of lasagna and his half-finished beer and disappeared into the living room. A Law and Order rerun blared in her ears. Ka-chun went its signature ending.

  “Call me when you’re ready,” he hollered.

  Lenny was good to his word. At nine-thirty he clicked off the television and came to get Harriet where she’d been lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Time to go, babe.”

  Harriet let herself be led to the garage. Lenny even walked around and opened the car door for her. It was as if the action cemented their partnership in this venture. Or perhaps he wanted to be sure she got in the car. He reached across her and clicked her seatbelt tight.

  “Nothing too good for my lady,” he said. He patted her thigh. Then he circled the car and hefted himself into the seat and fastened his own seatbelt.

  The garage door rose with a syncopated grinding of the gear chain. Lenny always swore he’d fix it. But he hadn’t. Lenny never followed through. That was Harriet’s job.

  Harriet bit her lip and tasted salty blood in her mouth. What was done was done, and she’d deal with it. She’d just tell Malcolm it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. She’d take full responsibility for it and claim that Jill’s death had unnerved her, which it had.

  It would work out.

  Too soon they passed the Relics Restaurant and then the after-hours Emergency Center. In front of them, the Cockscomb red rock formation spread out in the bright moonlight, and beyond that, Bear Mountain lifted dark on the horizon. Lenny drove past the empty parking lots and into a vacant lot near the abandoned Cultural Center.

  Then they waited silently in the darkness. At one point Lenny cranked a window, but then the wind picked up and he closed it again.

  Harriet held her watch up in the dim moonlight. “It’s fifteen past the hour. Maybe Malcolm’s not coming.”

  “Nah, he’s coming. They always do.”

  How would Lenny know that? Those television reruns he was addicted to, Harriet thought with disgust.

  Just as she was about to tell Lenny to call the whole thing off, a car pulled into the far end of the open space and turned off its motor and lights. The two cars sat there, large black lumps in the moon shadows.

  Lenny poked Harriet’s shoulder.

  “Well, go on. He’s not going to wait there all night.” He gave her a shove. “I’m right here, backing you up.”

  Harriet made her way carefully across the lot, stumbling over stones she could not see in the darkness. As she neared the car, the driver’s window slid down.

  “Harriet.”

  “Malcolm.”

  There was a rustle of paper.

  “There’s been a—” Harriet began.

  She stopped as he shoved a large manila envelope into her hand.

  “I hope you’re happy. It took me the entire afternoon to get that much together.” He shook a finger menacingly. “Just so you understand. I won’t do it again. This is the only time.”

  Then he released the brake, and the car rolled away from her. At the bottom of the hilly lot, the vehicle jolted as the engine fired and the car disappeared into the darkness.

  Harriet held the envelope, frozen in place. Then she shook herself and made her way back to her own car. Lenny was waiting there in the shadows and grabbed the envelope out of her fingers.

  “See? Didn’t I tell you how easy it was?” He thumbed through the bills. “Yup, all there. I asked for ten thou and he delivered.”

  “Lenny, I won’t do this again.” Harriet made her voice firm as she unwittingly echoed Malcolm's words.

  “Of course not, sweetheart. This is the only time. I promise. Here, you hold on to it for safekeeping. It’s for us, babe, for our future.”

  When they reached the house, Harriet walked slowly inside. Leaving Lenny to his television, she entered the kitchen and stuffed the envelope behind the sugar canister.

  Suddenly she was very, very tired.

  CHAPTER 20

  It was after one in the morning, and I wasn’t going to get any sleep this night. I let Reckless out and sat there in the darkness. Somewhere in the still air, a horned owl hooted.

  I’d left the meeting with Cooper Davis in a dissatisfied mood. I gained a three-day reprieve so that Ben Yazzie could return Thorn from wherever he’d stashed her on the Reservation.

  Would a Vision Quest, that search for truth, even do Thorn any good? Frankly, I doubted it. Deprive the body of food and water, and hallucinations happened. It made sense that starving people would create fantasies. I shivered in the unheated room. Usually, though, Vision Quests happened in warmer months.

  A spit of rain hit the window as clouds suddenly darkened the moonlight. Unsettled fall weather here in the Verde Valley sometimes meant snow in Flagstaff and locations northward. Thorn was from a big city in Colorado where there were things like snowplows and rock salt, not an isolated Navajo community.

  I had three days. What else could I do? I paced the small confines of my cabin, restless beyond measure. Then I pulled a dark T-shirt and jeans out of my dresser.

  Sometimes the first step in finding a killer was to know more about the victim. Cooper Davis’s officers had searched Jill Rustaine’s home, but cops were human. They might have missed something.

  Melda, the sheriff’s dispatcher, was pulling the night shift when I called the sheriff’s office, and she looked up Jill Rustaine’s residence address for me. I pulled a black watch cap off my closet shelf. No sense alarming the neighbors or calling attention to myself.

  I slid a lock pick set into my pocket although I didn’t know if I’d need it. Half the folks in the Verde didn’t lock their doors, and many of the rest had that simple thumb lock that any credit card could jigger free.

  And if I found something of interest that the patrolmen had missed? I’d decide what to do then. No point in borrowing trouble.

  I whistled for Reckless. He bounded up the front steps full of energy, his ears flapping. He whined, inviting me to rejoin him in the pursuit.

  “Not this time, big guy.” I gave his head a pat for good luck and put him inside. I closed and locked my front door.

  Then I walked over to my Jetta and headed out.

  * * *

  Jill Rustaine’s home was in an exclusive gated community near the forested green belt between West Sedona and the Uptown district. Sedona was surrounded by forest service land, which meant valuable lots sold for a premium. At one point Sedona was rumored to have a hundred millionaires within its small city limits.

  Now, with real estate prices recovering, there were that many high-dollar residents and more based on the value of homes alone, with underground wine cellars and salt-water lap pools. I wondered if Jill’s home would be one of these.

  The moon had set when I reached the development and police-keyed the entry to the exclusive subdivision. The wrought-iron gate rolled back on well-oiled hinges and I coasted through. According to my GPS, Jill Rustaine’s house was at the top of th
e hill.

  I parked in the dark spot between two streetlights and turned off the motor. A coyote yipped in the distance and a breeze sifted through the fall-brittle leaves of an old cottonwood. Nothing else. Satisfied, I got out, allowing my eyes to adjust to the night.

  I hiked up the silent street to Jill’s house, a large adobe with a flat roof and a big-pillared porch. I skirted the front and approached the back shadowed under an old pine.

  There was a small fountain with running water. Large olla jars filled with night-blooming flowers edged a sandstone patio. Soon the winter frosts would decimate this garden, but for now, the fragrance of moonflowers, wisteria, and white alyssum perfumed the air.

  I checked the screen door on the enclosed back porch. Not locked. Good! That meant I could work on the interior door in peace without the noise arousing the neighborhood dogs.

  I moved inside the porch and pulled out a small Maglite. I held it between my teeth as I worked an expired American Express card between the door and the jam. The door opened with a click, and I checked for an alarm. Seeing none, I entered a large chef’s kitchen. Jill Rustaine was a cook?

  Apparently not. Drawer after drawer in the enormous bank of cabinets was empty. The counter contained nothing but an elaborate coffee maker. I opened the lid on the bean reservoir and sniffed. The heady aroma of expensive Ethiopian beans fragranced the still air.

  A door led to a small utility room with a washer and drier, top-of-the-line Boschs, and beyond that a small bedroom. It might be a mother-in-law suite, although Harriet Weaver had indicated Jill was single. Maybe maid’s quarters. The furnishings were cheap IKEA knock-offs, and the mattress had a sag in it. No sign of recent occupancy.

  I returned to the kitchen and through a central arch into a high-ceilinged living room. It was filled with overstuffed leather furniture. I closed the drapes and turned on one small light. Several modern bronzes and carved stone pieces occupied alcoves.

  An immense sound system filled the far wall and a nearby cabinet contained vinyl record albums. I pulled out a few to check the titles: Old Nina Simone and Queen concerts. Off to the side was a stack of CDs—Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins oldies. The mix of genres seemed odd.

  Down the hall, a door opened to a small study. Oak-paneled bookshelves held leather-bound sets of the classics. I opened a gold-tooled copy of the Odyssey. The binding creaked stiffly. I was probably the first person that had cracked the cover. So Jill wasn’t a reader, either.

  There was a disconnected keyboard, and the dust on the expensive antique desk showed a distressed square where a laptop had sat. Cooper’s men had done their job here.

  At the end of the hall was the master suite. Massive double doors led into a large room, now shadowed by damask curtains. I turned on a small bedside lamp. An immense four-poster bed with dark mahogany pillars stood under a coffered ceiling. The bedspread was a heavy blood-red velvet, the linens rumpled, as though someone had slept on top of it. Silken scarves were tied in elaborate knots draped from each post.

  I opened the nightstand drawer.

  Inside was an assortment of sex toys including a set of handcuffs. I hefted them. Professional weight, but the lock could be easily picked. What fun would that be?

  In a second drawer were a feathered boa and a remote control. I switched on the power button, and the room lighted from an immense wall television positioned so occupants on the bed could view it with ease. I critiqued the technique of the three enthusiastic individuals on the screen for a moment and turned it off.

  Obviously, Jill didn’t read or cook, but she had other interests.

  I heard a muffled noise from a closet door on the far side of the room. Did I have company? I moved to the side of the door and listened. I’d seen no evidence of pet dishes in the kitchen. Unless there was a mountain lion taking up residence in the house, I had an intruder on my hands.

  I yanked open the door and switched on the light. “Police. Freeze!”

  The naked man standing in the middle of the closet held black jockey briefs in front of his privates. Gary Marks, Claire’s husband, blinked in the sudden shaft of light.

  “What are you doing in there?” I asked.

  “I heard somebody and hid.”

  “But how did you get in the house?”

  “Got a key.” He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “May I put on some clothes, please?”

  “Step out here,” I ordered, “away from the closet.” I picked up a pile of clothes on the floor and after checking for weapons, tossed them to Gary.

  He wriggled into the clothes with the artfulness of a surfer getting into a wet suit in a crowded parking lot. Soon a fully dressed, barefoot man stood there before me, shoes in one hand.

  We stared at each other.

  “You don’t look much like a cop,” he observed.

  “I’m undercover.” I snatched off the watch cap. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came over one last time to remember Jill.” Gary sighed.

  “Naked?”

  “We had that sort of relationship.”

  I glared at him with my best tough cop look, disbelieving.

  “Look,” he said, “let’s move this conversation to the living room, and I’ll explain.”

  Gary brushed past me and padded down the hall. He switched on a table lamp and sat in a big leather chair. I moved to the couch, keeping him under surveillance, willing my heart to stop its adrenaline throbbing from the unexpected encounter.

  Gary Marks put on his socks and shoes, avoiding eye contact with me.

  When fully dressed, he straightened and looked directly at me with those baby blues. Damn, but the man was handsome.

  “I suppose this will come out,” he said. “Jill and I were having an affair.”

  “So you came back here to reminisce. Claire told me about that affair.”

  “I know you may not believe it, but that first time around, Jill and I never did the deed. It was totally platonic. Claire and I were going through a rough patch in our marriage, and Jill was there, a sympathetic ear. She and I would get together and just talk. Claire got wind of it, and we broke it off.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, recently Jil-Clair Industries came on hard times, and Jill needed somebody to talk to.”

  “And you were there.”

  “I was there,” he agreed. “You going to tell Claire about this?”

  “It’ll come out, anyway.”

  “I suppose.” He leaned forward. “You don’t understand. Jill was a lovely, sensitive person.”

  “Who was into kinky sex.”

  “She was trying to discover who she was. She’d been having flashbacks to childhood abuse, and her therapist encouraged her to work through it.”

  “With porn and bondage?” It didn’t sound like any counselor I’d talked to.

  “Well, she might have taken the counselor’s suggestions too literally,” he admitted. “But Jill never harmed anyone.”

  “Someone harmed her, though. Jill Rustaine was brutally murdered.” Then I realized the implications of what he had just said. “You weren’t the only one she had sex with?”

  “No, unfortunately. Most of the available men at Jil-Clair Industries had one-night stands in that bedroom. But Jill always came back to me.”

  “Would those men include Malcolm Vander?” The idea of Jill Rustaine with that reptilian creature curdled my stomach.

  “No, Malcolm’s preferences ran in another direction.”

  I thought about what Claire had told me of the group of four in high school.

  “Would one of Jill’s lovers be your brother Buzz?”

  Gary’s calm exterior cracked. He clenched his fists and his face turned red.

  “Jill had nothing to do with my brother!”

  Time to change to a more neutral topic. The law would be talking to this man in the near future. I’d make sure of that.

  “What about issues at the company?” I asked.
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br />   “Jill was never explicit. She said it was something I wouldn’t understand.” Gary gave a self-depreciating laugh. “She was probably right. I’m just a pecan farmer. What would I know about high-tech security systems?”

  “But Jil-Clair Industries was having financial problems?”

  “That’s what Jill told me. Apparently one of their primary biologic tests kept coming up negative. They’d assured the investors it was working fine. If something like that leaked out, the IPO would be off. And without that new infusion of cash, the corporation would go bankrupt. Jill was frantic.”

  He gestured to the front door. “This is past history. It won’t bring Jill back. I’ve got to go. Little Ralphie is expecting me. I promised him Butter Brickle ice cream, his favorite.”

  His calm demeanor seemed to indicate that his son requested a lot of ice cream. Or perhaps it had just become a ruse to meet with Jill Rustaine. I wondered how much Claire knew or suspected. Wives were intuitive when it came to cheating husbands.

  “We’ll be in touch,” I said. “Expect an official call from the sheriff’s office.” I held out my hand. “Key.”

  “What the hell.” He gave it to me. “With Jill gone, no reason for me to come back here again. Can I take my music with me?”

  He walked over to the sound system and gathered a few CDs. That answered one question. The Country Western artists were his choice, not Jill’s.

  I listened to his car move off in the darkness, jiggling the house key in my hand. Jill Rustaine had been murdered, and this man had possible motives to kill her. And Jill’s sister, Claire, could also be a suspect. Jealousy was way up there on the list of reasons to kill family members.

  For that matter, we couldn’t rule out the financial bind for Jill’s company either. Love or money. The old one-two punch when it came to homicide. The arena of potential suspects had widened from Thorn Malone to a whole universe of new individuals.

  That’s what I’d been searching for. I should have been pleased, and I was. But part of me was sad as I considered the possible breakup of Claire’s family by what I had just learned. What would that do to its members, especially Ralphie?