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

by Lakota Grace

  On one wall hung a row of degrees: Ph.D., Licensed Psychologist, advanced training in hypnotherapy and existential counseling. If the credentials were intended to reassure me, they didn't. The love seat she gestured toward was low-slung and comfortable. I didn't feel low-slung and comfortable. I pulled up a green side chair and sat stiffly upright. The lady doctor did the same, and we angled each other, not facing exactly, but close.

  “You don't look like I expected,” I said.

  She gave a soft musical giggle. “People often say that. My mother is English, born within the sound of the Bow Bells, but my father is from Mumbai. They made an interesting couple. I miss them, always. And you? I hear a southern flavor in your speech.”

  “Tennessee, mostly.” I was never good with chitchat. Why didn't she get out the clipboard and start asking me psychologist questions? The clock ticked in the silence and I noted a box of tissues on the table. Did she expect me to cry? Not going to happen. I’d learned in grade school to stifle my tears—I’d rather be punched than be called a sissy.

  She must have noticed my unease. “To business then. Although this is a mandatory referral, the only thing I need to report to your employer is that you attended these sessions. However, should you tell me you are intending to hurt yourself or planning to take the life of another, I would have to break confidentiality.” She looked at me and I nodded my understanding.

  “You shot and killed a man.”

  Ouch! Maybe we could go back to the chitchat.

  “Yes,” I said. “In the line of duty, I defended a citizen who was being held hostage.”

  “As I understand it, you actually were not on duty. You had been relieved at that point and were acting as a private citizen. Am I correct?”

  She had me there. “Yes, but it related to a case I’d been working on.”

  “Fair enough. And how did you feel afterward?”

  A small hourglass sat on the coffee table. I reversed it and watched the grains of sand dribble down like a life’s blood draining away. “I don’t know—numb, shocked, maybe?” I paused, watching for her reaction. There was none. The lady could be a good poker player. I tried for honesty: “Mostly, I was thankful.”

  “Thankful?”

  Was that the wrong word to use? I backtracked. “I was gratified that I'd survived and he hadn't. What troops in combat must feel, I suppose.”

  That response seemed to satisfy her. I let out a breath I’d been holding. Had I passed the test yet?

  Maybe not, for her next question was, “What do you expect to get out of this counseling?”

  “My gun back.” I made a joke of it, but she wasn't laughing. No sense of humor. Check. I replaced the smile with a solemn expression. My left eyelid started to twitch, and I raised a fingertip to quiet it.

  “And that would certainly be a praiseworthy goal so that you'd be able to contribute to society with your work. But let's back up a moment. What social support do you have in your life?”

  Social support. What was she looking for—Facebook, Twitter? I started to sweat and dampness trickled down my back. I hoped it wasn't staining her chair. “Social support…Okay, that would be my grandfather, HT. His housekeeper, Isabel. My clerk, Ben.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

  “Not your partner, Shepherd Malone?”

  “Don't know him that well, he’s a new partner.”

  “If you did, would you turn to him?”

  “If I did what?” I temporized, scrambling for a good answer.

  “Know him better.” The woman was relentless.

  What was she looking for? All I wanted was the magic word that would unlock the gun safe holding my weapon. I was tempted to lie and say that Shepherd and I got on fine, but we didn't. “He's an asshole who doesn't trust women cops.” Maybe that would gain me some rapport, being that we were both women.

  “Hmmm.” She made a note on the pad in front of her.

  I tried to see what she was writing. I'm good at reading upside down, but she angled the tablet so that I couldn't. Must have had clients like me before.

  “Any bad dreams?”

  “Some at first, but they've lessened.” I wasn’t lying, exactly. Their frequency had lessened, even if the intensity was worse. Sometimes I awoke drenched with sweat. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “What do you do for stress?” she asked.

  “Well, I don't drink.” That ought to get me a few points. A lot of cops I knew did. But I didn't meditate, either. And that probably would be her next question. I'd watched Life TV one day I was home sick with the flu. I knew the expected responses.

  She surprised me, though. “You look physically fit. Run?”

  “I jog. Helps after a hard day.”

  “Me, too.” Again that musical giggle. “I like ultra-marathons. Training for one in Hawaii this summer.”

  My respect for her ratcheted up. “The hundred kilometer race? Never run that far. Must be hard.”

  “Painful, mostly. Perseverance gets you there, and luck. Bad weather day, it's not going to happen.”

  The rest of the hour passed quickly. We talked about my mother in the nursing home. And my fear of the death which I knew would happen, but which I hoped wouldn’t, anytime soon. And we spoke of my reluctance to rely on anyone.

  I was just getting into the swing of things when she looked at her watch. “Time's up for today.” She got out her appointment book. “When would you like to come in again?”

  Not so fast. I’d done what was expected, put in some seat time in her precious office. It was her turn to deliver. “When do I get my gun back?”

  “Soon. A few more sessions should do it.”

  Rats. But I made the appointment she seemed to think I needed for the following week. As I walked out her door, she touched my shoulder gently. “You did nice work today.”

  I hate to say it felt good, but it did. I chided myself. What was I looking for, some mother-figure approval? When I left the office, I passed a thin man on the waiting bench staring at his feet. Glad I wasn't crazy like he was.

  ***

  SHEPHERD WAS STANDING in front of his doctor’s office when I pulled into the medical center lot. He limped to the SUV and climbed in, his expression glum. “Damn doctor says I may have a MRSA infection. Put me on another antibiotic and if that doesn't work, I'll have to return to the hospital. That's where I caught the damn stuff. Why'd I want to go back for more?”

  “Sorry,” I said in a soothing voice, “I know you'll beat it, you're tough.”

  He looked at me like I was loco. “What's wrong with you, Quincy?”

  “Never mind.” So much for practicing loving kindness like the lady doc recommended. She didn’t know Shepherd. “Back to the office?” I shifted the engine into gear.

  “No, I'm done for today. Take me home and pick me up tomorrow morning at six.”

  “Right.” The SUV groaned as we climbed the hills in the shadow of the mountain. “What’s it like, Shepherd, to be so close to retirement? Think you’ll miss work?”

  “Never,” he said. Then, “Every day. Both.”

  “What you going to do?”

  “Sit around all day and watch soaps. What the hell you think I’m going to do?”

  Touchy. Maybe I would be, too. Good thing I didn’t have to face that one for another thirty years. I’d have a better attitude when I got there, though, that’s for sure.

  I turned into his drive, glad to be done with his depression. Maybe Fluffy’s version of loving kindness would work better than mine. At least I could tell the counselor I had tried. He limped to the entrance, turned all three locks, opened the door, and bent to pet the cat. Then he moved inside and slammed the door.

  I drove up the mountain to the Mingus office to write up the burglary report I’d taken earlier and to clean my desk before quitting for the day. Not like me. I must be spending too much time under Shepherd's influence.

  That's when I got the call.

  Sally Ann the Snitch
/>   16

  “HELLO, THIS IS SALLY ANN. Remember me?” The voice on the phone sounded familiar.

  “Sure I do…” I racked my brain.

  “You don't. That's okay. Can't expect everybody to have a memory like mine. I live—lived—downstairs from Janny Nettle.”

  The lady in the CSI sweatshirt in Janny’s apartment complex. It was all coming back to me. “What's up, Sally Ann?”

  “I read Cal Nettle's obituary in the paper. Ronald—he's the meat manager down at FoodWay—gives me his papers when he's done with them. Jogged my recollections. I know something might be useful to you.”

  “Why don't you come up here to the office and let's discuss it.”

  “Can't. Cottonwood bus line doesn't run to Mingus. You have to come see me. This is important.”

  Finish the paperwork or go see Sally Ann? I debated for about five seconds.

  ***

  SALLY ANN WAITED for me on the bench outside her apartment and approached the SUV when I turned into the parking lot.

  I rolled down the window. “Hey, there.”

  She shivered in the late afternoon wind. “Cold out here. Can I get in your patrol car?”

  “Why not meet in your apartment?”

  “Don't want folks to see me talking to you. Figured we could drive around for a while.”

  I clicked opened the door for her. She scrambled into the front seat, looking nervous. I drove down the road and into a vacant field. The body of the SUV tilted left and right as we crossed the weedy ground. The field was dark under Black Mountain’s shadow, but across the valley, the Sedona red rocks still glowed hot in the setting sun. I jerked the vehicle to a stop in the middle of the field, with a clear view in all directions. A safe place to talk.

  Sally Ann piled out and leaned against the SUV. “Got a smoke?” she asked. Her fingers jittered against the fender in a nervous tattoo.

  “Don't smoke. What you want to tell me?”

  “Don't informants usually get paid?” Her eyes were bright and expectant.

  My wallet was so flat I couldn't feel it when I sat down. Maybe a limp twenty in there, I couldn't remember. “Depends on what you've got, Sally Ann. Your info has to be worth something.” I lowered my voice to sound tough, playing the part she seemed to expect.

  “I know who killed Cal Nettle. How's that?” She wiggled money-hungry fingers in my direction.

  So that's how I paid my very first informant.

  Sally Ann seemed disappointed there wasn't more than a twenty, but tucked it into her jeans pocket, and started her tale. “Some weeks ago, I was coming back from emptying my trash, minding my own business, you know, when Janny Nettle comes clipping down those steps to meet this old Ford pickup that comes banging into the parking lot. Window rolls down and Janny talks to the driver.”

  She looked up expectantly and I showed her the moths that were missing the twenty she'd conned out of me.

  She sniffed. “Pretty cheap sheriff's office. Don't they pay you more than that?”

  “Guess not. Recognize the driver?”

  “This your story or mine?”

  I gave her a go-ahead wave, and she continued. “I went back into my apartment with my empty trash can. I'm not nosy, you understand.” She paused and gazed at the vista in front of us. “Right purty, isn't it. Reason I moved to Arizona.”

  How long was she going to draw this out? She had my money.

  “Like I said, don't pry about visitors, not my nature. But I kept my front door ajar for air when I went back to the apartment. Hot you know, that afternoon sun beating down. Those two came and sat on this bench right there outside my apartment. Some of what they was saying caught my attention.”

  “Like what?”

  “Guy asked Janny to help him dispose of some trash, said he had this 'heavy package' to lift. Janny argued, said she wouldn't. Must have changed her mind, though, because later on, she asked me to keep an ear out for Aurora.

  “Janny didn't get back until real late and it was pitch black by that time. I'd already watched the evening news and put my face cream on—amazing what that stuff does for wrinkles. Didn't even think of the incident again until I read that obit. Wrote it up real nice, down at the paper.” Her hand brushed the dust on the SUV, leaving a smear.

  “The guy Janny talked to, know him?”

  “Didn't see him, sun in my eyes when they drove up. And after, I never came out of my apartment.”

  “Recognize his voice?”

  “It wasn't her brother, that Ethan. Know him. He gave me a ride once. Got dog hair all over my green print skirt. Took me forever to get it off.”

  “Anything distinctive about the voice?”

  “Tweedy, reedy, what do you call it?”

  “Tenor, maybe?” I asked.

  “Like that opera guy? I listen to him on PBS sometimes. I watch those educational shows, you know, keep my brain active. Won't catch me watching Oprah. Bunch a junk, that's what she is.”

  My mind went to the Nettle home place and that duet between brother and sister. Howard Nettle would fit this woman’s description with a certainty.

  Sally Ann rambled on. “Oh! Now I remember. Someone else in the truck with the guy, a woman I think, wild hair flying around her face. She musta stayed in the truck, didn’t hear her voice outside.”

  That might be Pietra, Howard’s wife, or even Ruby Mae. “What else?”

  “Well, isn't that enough? Them three was conspiring against that girl's poor father. You need to do something about that.” When I was silent, she said, “Give me a ride downtown? Things to pick up at the grocery store.”

  I gave Sally Ann her ride, and she assured me she'd find a lift home. Her return driver better keep a tight hold on his smokes. Sally Ann was a pro.

  ***

  THE NEXT MORNING I picked up Shepherd before sunrise. He seemed in a chipper mood and suggested we stop by the Flat Iron café for some breakfast before work. We parked the sheriff department SUV out front, nice and conspicuous, to slow down the early morning speeders.

  The shopkeeper held open the door for us. Two sides of the triangle-shaped room were windowed and a small mini-kitchen took up the third wall, so we had to forego our preferred back-to-the-wall seating arrangement.

  Shepherd tried some of the gluten-free, multigrain waffles with real maple syrup. The owner even found some green tea bags, which pleased my partner. I settled for a chocolate-chip muffin, king-sized. Did I mention the coffee? Its aroma steamed the entire three-hundred-eighty-foot café. No wonder Shepherd liked this place. I was beginning to, as well.

  Around bites of muffin, I told him about my conversation with Sally Ann.

  “How much did she hit you up for?”

  “Twenty.”

  “You got robbed. She’ll talk for ten.”

  Great. Now I couldn’t even pay the town snitch the right amount. “You know everybody in town, Shepherd?”

  “Just about. Wait thirty years and you will, too.”

  Not likely you’d still find me here then. On the other hand, Shepherd had found enough of interest to stay. Looking that far into the future gave me a headache.

  He finished the waffle, gave a satisfied belch. “Ah, that was good.”

  The café manager went to sweep the front step and Shepherd and I turned to the business of murder.

  “I can't help thinking that Lucas’s death ties into all of this,” I said. “What do you remember about that explosion at the still?”

  Shepherd sipped his tea thoughtfully. “I was the officer in charge, met the ambulance at the hospital. I heard Lucas breathe those raspy breaths. Lungs gone, the guy didn't have a chance.” Shepherd twisted in his seat, uncomfortable at the memories. “Lucas asked me to tell Ethan goodbye. Not his daddy or his momma, just Ethan.”

  “That moonshine business tore the family apart.”

  Shepherd nodded. “The Nettles started out farming—sold honey, ran some milk cows, grew hay for sale, that sort of thing. But it was t
hat whiskey business brought in the cash to support the family during the hard times. Law in these parts kept a blind eye, mostly.” Shepherd stretched his stiff leg, easing the pain. “And times change. Now wineries cover those hills, all operating legally.”

  My coffee was cold and I helped myself to fresh from the pot on the counter.

  “I'll dig out my notes on the case for you if you’re interested,” Shepherd said. “Couldn’t hurt to give it another look.”

  He grabbed the breakfast receipt and I let him. Supervising partners get paid more than rookies. I put an extra bill under my coffee cup and we waved to the restaurant owner as we walked out to the SUV.

  Later that morning, I called Janny Nettle and set up a meeting with us at our office the next day. Following my resolve to get along better with my partner, I even reviewed our interview strategies with him.

  Was there a connection between Cal Nettle’s death and the death of his son Lucas? Janny might know if we could get her to talk. And we intended to grill Janny on her part in ridding the town of the “heavy burden” that Sally Ann mentioned. Sooner or later, someone in that family had to break their silence, and I intended to be there when they did.

  Explosion at the Still

  17

  THE NEXT DAY JANNY arrived with Aurora. Shepherd set up the interview in his office since it was larger. We settled the little girl in the outer office with Ben. Soon I could hear muffled laughter as they bent over the computer, intent on Ben’s video games. If Aurora could laugh, why couldn't she talk? I'd ask Dr. Westcott about that the next time I saw her.

  Janny checked on Aurora one last time through the office door window and looked at me. “What can I tell you that I haven't already?”

  I summarized my conversation with Sally Ann. “She says you were talking to somebody.”