Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  “Don't go away,” Rory called over his shoulder.

  As if I had anywhere else to go. I retrieved my shoes and climbed carefully into their boat to wait. It felt good to stretch out my legs in a level position.

  Half an hour later I was unnerved by two black heads popping up next to the boat like oversized otters. Rory removed his mask and shook his hair, tilting his head one direction and then the other to ease neck tension and clear his ears. He and James pulled stanchions from the boat and strung jackstay lines to start an underwater search in front of the beaver lodge.

  I guess I've watched too many avalanche movies. I assumed they’d hold onto the lines and poke sticks along the bottom. Instead, they removed their flippers and walked in a back-and-forth pattern, feeling through the cloudy, murky water with their sensitive neoprene booties.

  I watched them for a few moments, their locations marked by fine silt plumes roiling to the surface. When Rory next appeared, I called to him. “Mind if I borrow your boat and head to shore? It's getting cold out here.”

  “Go for it. This may take several hours. We'll swim in and retrieve it when we’re done.”

  I placed the oars in the locks and rowed through the reeds back to the landing. When the nose of the boat hit the edge of the bank, I shipped the oars, slung my shoes around my neck, and waded toward shore. My right foot hit a sinkhole and I plunged into the water, halfway up my thigh. I swore and yanked my foot from the sucking ooze. Another uniform, ruined.

  When I hauled the boat up on the beach, Shepherd’s amusement greeted me. “Nice maneuver there.” He rose from a comfortable folding chair and put down a coffee mug. “You take over the perimeter-zone access control. I've already strung the barrier tape at the top of the path.”

  He signed the crime scene logbook with a precise signature and handed it to me. Whistling, he strode up the hill, abandoning the marsh. I sat down in the chair, shuddering as the cold breeze hit my wet uniform.

  The logbook had my name, with arrival time and purpose filled in, and below that his entry and those for Rory and James. The medical examiner’s crew had arrived while I’d been sitting on the beaver lodge, signed in, gathered the dead body, and signed out. Darned efficient.

  However, while I was delegated to the cold damp amidst the reeds and muck, Shepherd awarded himself a dry-land folding chair and coffee. Guess that’s how management works.

  My stomach growled. What time was it, anyway? No lunch, breakfast a distant memory. I wondered if Shepherd had left some coffee. I jiggled the mug, disturbing the half-inch of cold sludge in the bottom. In the excitement of the moment, I hadn’t brought a jacket, either, and the night air crept closer like a wolf circling a kill.

  Replacements should be here soon, assuming Shepherd remembered to send someone to relieve me. Wouldn’t put it past him to “forget” for a while, though. That seemed to be how his mind operated.

  Three long hours later, a uniformed officer came swinging down the path. Gratefully, I signed out and turned logbook control and responsibility over to him.

  The Visitor Center was closed when I reached the top of the hill, all tourists departed. The wind had died down and an unearthly quiet surrounded the ghosts of old Pueblans, those souls interred within stone walls.

  There was meager cell phone coverage. Just enough to call my grandfather, HT, for a ride home.

  “Be right there,” he said.

  It took him twenty minutes to arrive, rather than Shepherd's speed-demon ten, but I didn't care. HT had the heater up full blast, and the warmth curled my toes. He must have sensed my need for quiet and made the drive to Mingus in silence. I felt corpse-like myself, after spending long hours with a dead body. I was tired and discouraged, and ready to quit for the day. But I was resentful, too, about the way I’d been treated.

  When HT pulled into his drive and turned off the engine, I paused before opening the door. “I didn't have to sit out there in the swamp that long,” I complained. “Shepherd was messing with me.”

  HT chuckled. “When I was little I used to help my granddaddy with his carpentry. He was always sending me to the shop for a left-handed monkey wrench or a wall stretcher.”

  The light bulb went on. “In other words, I was sent on a snipe hunt.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Come on inside, Peg. I’ll make us some hot chocolate.”

  “Thanks, but I’m heading down the hill to my apartment. Things to work out.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  The night turned dark and sleety as I walked down the street to my studio apartment. When I reached my front door, even the stray cat had deserted my porch stoop. The same bitter wind that echoed my mood swept down the mountain to disturb the reeds in Tavasci Marsh. I was alone, the way I had chosen to spend most of my life. At least I was alive, not taking up space on some morgue shelf.

  And somewhere out there a killer lurked, waiting for us to find him.

  Death Notification

  4

  INSIDE MY APARTMENT, I stripped off the wet, ruined uniform and tossed it in the corner. I stood in the shower, letting the welcome heat soak into my bones. When the window was steamed and the water frigid, I stepped out and pulled on my pink robe. Even though the man who had worn it once in a former relationship had left, the robe still held warm memories, pleasing on this cold night.

  Food was next. Opening my refrigerator in my kitchenette, I took stock. Not much there. I hacked some mold off a lump of cheddar cheese and cut it into bite-sized pieces, added some crackers, and a forkful of bread-and-butter pickles. Then I popped the top on an Oak Creek Ale and dropped into my favorite red armchair to eat my supper.

  This studio apartment had worked for me when I first arrived in Mingus, but now it felt cramped. Hard to entertain guests when the couch faced the bed, only four feet away. For some reason, an image of Rory Stevens, the scuba diver, entered my mind. I’d always been partial to black, curly hair. I pushed the thought into a compartment of my mind reserved for possible-but-not-likely opportunities.

  I tried to read for a bit—an Ian Rankin mystery I’d picked up at the drugstore in Cottonwood—but my eyelids kept drooping. I scraped the remains of my dinner into the trash, dumped the empty bottle in the recycle bin, and crawled into bed.

  ***

  IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS, an odd buzzing near my head woke me. I swatted at the night table trying to hit the alarm clock, but the noise continued. I struggled upright and saw my cell phone glowing on the night stand, Shepherd's name on the ID.

  I grabbed it and punched the talk button. “Hello?” I mumbled.

  Shepherd’s deep voice grated in my ear. “I'll be by in fifteen minutes. We've got an ID on the dead man.” He hung up.

  The clock said two a.m., but that didn’t seem to count in Shepherd’s book. I scrambled out of bed and pulled on my last clean uniform. Splashed some cold water in my face and plaited my hair into a hurried braid. Still not awake, I pushed my feet into socks and shoes and pounded down the stairs, just as Shepherd pulled into the driveway.

  I opened the door and scrambled in. “What’s up?”

  “That corpse you found at Tavasci Marsh? It's Calhoun Nettle. Some janitor found the driver’s license when he sluiced the morgue channels. License must have dropped to the floor when they transferred him out of the body bag.”

  “They sure it’s him?”

  “The medical examiner on duty compared his face to the photo. It's Cal Nettle, all right. We need to make a death notification to the family.”

  A lot of strange things happened in the dead of night at the morgue. Someone would have their head handed to them for losing that piece of identification—glad it wasn’t me.

  The light of a rising moon illuminated the mountain ridges on the far side of the valley as we drove down the hill. The black coffee that Shepherd had picked up helped, but I shook my head, trying to clear the late-night cobwebs. Shepherd seemed to know where he was going, taking the curves at a fierce cli
p. Didn’t the man know any speed except too-fast?

  “You know the Nettles?” I asked.

  “Last time I was out there, about four years ago,” he said. “Explosion at Cal Nettle's moonshine still. The eldest boy, Lucas, was killed. A little kid burned pretty bad, too, as I recall.”

  That would be Janny’s daughter, Aurora. But Janny hadn’t mentioned this older brother, Lucas. Secrets in the family. And now I was carrying a few, too.

  I should have told Shepherd about my conversation with Janny. I could call Shepherd a son-of-a-bitch, which he surely was, but there’d been opportunities to fill him in, and I hadn't. A cardinal sin in any organization, particularly ours. Even now I kept quiet, not willing to be drawn into controversy over my interview with Howard Nettle and the unofficial conversations with Janny. What I did on my own time was my business.

  “Quiet over there,” Shepherd noted. You okay with this death notification?”

  “I'm fine.” I straightened on the seat and put my mind to business. “How many kids total?”

  “Four. Lucas, the eldest, dead now. Three after that.” He counted them off. “Next came Janny, then Ethan—he’d be over twenty-seven now, and the youngest, Howard.”

  Lucas had been Cal's favorite, Shepherd told me. When he died, Howard became the scapegoat for the family tragedy. Shunned, he left the valley. That jibed with Howard’s tale to me. On the other hand, if the father needed someone to blame for the tragedy, Howard might have been the most convenient. And then Janny had followed suit, blaming Howard for Aurora’s injury. It didn’t make logical sense, but then family dynamics rarely did.

  Shepherd took another slug of coffee and negotiated the next roundabout with one hand as we sped through the deserted streets of Clarkdale. Several miles out of town we circled around the far end of Tavasci Marsh and then turned right at a hand-lettered sign nailed to a sycamore snag: “Keep the hell out. This means you.”

  “Getting close,” Shepherd observed. He put the coffee mug in the holder and negotiated the narrow dirt road with two hands. Potholes formed dark craters in the headlights and the vehicle swerved one direction and then the other, as the SUV negotiated the curves. We detoured around a fallen cottonwood tree and approached a house concealed among the shadows.

  When Shepherd came to a stop, the SUV headlights illuminated a ramshackle house with hand-hewn timbers supporting an unpainted porch. A chain-link fence, four feet high, surrounded the house, a half-open gate marking the front. The wire sagged and bowed in spots as if rammed by a heavy vehicle.

  I reached for the door handle and Shepherd touched my arm, cautioning me to wait. Two black shapes hurdled around the side of the yard, baying like air-horns on an eighteen-wheeler. One dog circled the SUV, nose to the ground. The other stretched paws up my window, nails scraping against the glass and jowls slathering. He made a short series of cries, deep “oowoofs.”

  “How's it feel to be treed like a varmint?” Shepherd chuckled. “Redbone coonhounds. Nothing in the world like them. Boy should be coming out soon.”

  A light went on in the front window and the door opened. Shepherd’s “boy” turned out to be a young man, tall and lanky, with a down-turned shotgun in one hand. Shepherd lowered his window four inches, aimed the spotlight on the man, and shouted, “Police. Put down your gun and leash your dogs.”

  The man shaded his eyes with one hand and peered into the light. Then he leaned the gun against the wall of the house and walked down the front steps. He gave a shrill whistle and slapped the side of his leg. “You, dogs. To me.”

  The dogs abandoned the patrol car and rushed him. They nosed his crotch, long tails wagging. He grabbed their collars and chained them close to the porch. Only then did Shepherd open his door. I did the same and followed him into the yard.

  “Ethan? Deputy Malone.” Shepherd reached out his hand to the man. “I was here a few years ago about your brother. Sad affair, that.” The men shook hands. Shepherd turned to me. “This is my subordinate, Deputy Peg Quincy.”

  “Peg?” Ethan examined me. “Janny told me about your meeting with Howard. Come up on the porch.”

  Shepherd gave me a quick sidelong glance.

  I shrugged. The telling could wait. I joined the two men on the porch landing.

  “All right if we step inside the house, son?” Shepherd asked.

  Ethan nodded and pushed open the door, motioning us in.

  “Is your mother here?” Shepherd’s deep voice was quiet, yet firm. “We need to speak to both of you.”

  Ethan's jaw set as if anticipating our news. “You want to speak to Janny and Aurora, too? They're bunking with me in the trailer.”

  “Might be best.”

  Ethan stepped into a back hall and called softly to his mother. I heard her murmured response, and then he reappeared. “I’ll fetch the others.”

  He let the screen door bang on his way out and I jumped at the sound. I wasn’t looking forward to what would happen next.

  Shepherd exhaled heavily and settled into a worn chair. “I'll talk,” he ordered. “You watch the family’s reaction.”

  Fine with me. I pulled two wooden chairs from the adjoining dining area and sat down facing the couch. A late-dinner smell of fried onions and stale fish hung in the air, closing around me.

  I rose and paced the room. On the mantel was a sepia picture of a bearded man in a black felt hat. I examined it closer. Cal Nettle? He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and canvas pants with suspenders. He had a sharp, no-nonsense mouth and piercing eyes that looked straight out of the photograph. The image did not resemble the bloated corpse we had pulled from Tavasci Marsh.

  The front door opened with a blast of cold air, and Ethan re-entered with the other two. Janny had slipped on a gray sweatshirt and jeans, but Aurora was still dressed for sleep in a ruffled flannel nightgown. She hugged a stuffed yellow bunny with a ragged ear and giggled a little. Her mother shushed her.

  Janny pulled Aurora down on the couch and clutched a pillow to her own chest. It was fringed with green, a picture of a young Elvis embroidered on the front. Ethan settled into one of the straight-backed chairs. I licked my dry lips and tried to ignore the lump in my throat while we waited in silence.

  Finally, the last member of the family, Ruby Mae Nettle, appeared. She wore a faded chenille bathrobe pulled tight about her. Long silver hair flowed like a waterfall down her back and green eyes blinked at the bright light. She hesitated for a moment in the doorway and then entered the room. The two men half rose to acknowledge her.

  “Sit here, Momma,” Janny said scooting over to make room. She squeezed her mother's hand as she sat. All eyes centered on Shepherd. A wall clock ticked down the seconds.

  “Mrs. Nettle, I have terrible news for you.” Shepherd’s statement was formal leaving no room for mistake or error. Your husband, Calhoun Nettle, is dead.”

  Ruby Mae was still for a moment, absorbing the words. Then she snapped her head rapidly back and forth, the gray mane hiding her face. She screamed, shriek after shriek filling the room and spilling into the hall, the noise assaulting my ears. I thought it would never end.

  Abruptly she stopped and glared at us. “Get out of my house. You don't belong here. Cal is coming home soon and I have to get supper ready for him. He allus likes a hot meal. He don't want you here.” Her voice rose hysterically and she started to scream again.

  Janny scooped up Aurora and handed her to me. “Here, you take the baby. I'll settle Momma down.” The little girl felt warm and awkward in my arms, and I hid my own tears of upset in her soft hair.

  Janny stood in front of her mother and reached for her hand. “Come on, Momma, let's go in the other room for a little while.”

  As they rose, Ethan joined them, and for a moment, all three clung together. Then the two women moved from the room, Janny holding her mother upright with one arm tightly around her shoulders.

  Ethan sat down on the now vacant couch, hiding his face in his hands for a moment. Then he ru
bbed his cheeks and looked at Shepherd. “I love my momma. Hard to see her in that state.” His voice cracked and he swallowed awkwardly. “Guess I'm the man of the family now. You best tell me what happened.”

  Shepherd was matter-of-fact. “Cal's body was found floating in Tavasci Marsh. The estimate is that he'd been there for some time.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “We're not sure. We'll get back to you on that. Or Peg will. She's our Family Liaison Officer.”

  A F.L.O.! When did that bird fly the nest? I could just hear him. You'd be good at it since “you're a woman.” Next he’d be asking me to serve tea with my little pinky crooked! I tuned back into the conversation as Shepherd changed to interrogation mode.

  “Sorry to intrude at this time, Ethan, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The man nodded.

  “When did you last see your father?”

  “Monday, so that would make it five days or so.”

  “When on Monday?” Shepherd asked.

  “Probably about ten in the morning. He was going over to Darbie's house.”

  “Darbie?”

  “Darbie Granger. She lives over in Cottonwood, got a little trailer over there.”

  “And Darbie is?” Shepherd prompted.

  “My daddy’s other wife.”

  Aurora had fallen asleep, with her legs hanging off my lap and one thumb in her mouth. I shifted her weight to one arm and retrieved my notebook to scribble down this new person’s name.

  “Oh, they weren't hitched or anything,” Ethan explained. “Momma would never give him a divorce. Said she and Daddy were married 'til death do us part.' But something had to give. Darbie is eight months pregnant, and she swore she wasn't going to bear an illegitimate child.”

  “And Miss Granger’s address?”

  He gave it to us, and I wrote that down, too.