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

by Lakota Grace

  “Her word against mine.” Her eyes snapped. “That busybody.”

  Shepherd didn’t buy it. “No time to be lying now, Janny. Were you talking to your brother Howard that day?”

  “So what if I was?”

  “What about the woman with him?”

  “What about her?” Janny countered.

  “Was it Darbie?” he asked.

  “Nah, she didn't have anything to do with...” Janny pressed her lips together.

  “Who, then?”

  Janny sat there, stone faced. Shepherd turned to me. Good cop, bad cop time. Although I wasn’t sure which I was.

  Sometimes it helped to tangent and then return to the matter at hand when the suspect was off guard. “I’m still curious about the accident at the still,” I said. “Why did Howard leave the home place instead of staying to help?”

  The distant past seemed a safer topic for Janny. “We'd had a bad storm, power still out, no phone, and the weather circled around, ready to hit us again. But Daddy was set on making that run. Said he had people waiting on him, important people.”

  She pulled in her arms and legs, scrunching into a tight ball. “The storm set everybody on edge. The lightning strikes were getting close—you could smell the sulfur in the air. Ethan and Howard were arguing about loading the truck—they never did get along. Lucas fussed with the equipment, said something was wrong. I went to find Daddy to fix it—he was out in the marsh, drunk as usual. I left my baby with the boys, for a second—just a second.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Daddy and I got back just as the still blew up. Nobody was watching Aurora like they were supposed to. And then I saw her on the ground near Lucas, the flames all around them. The fire was so intense! I tried to get closer, but I just couldn’t bear the heat. Daddy and Ethan beat the fire back with gunnysacks so they could reach Lucas and my baby girl.”

  She was openly crying now. “By then it was too late. My poor baby was shrieking, and Lucas just lay there, quiet, like he didn’t feel anything. Momma wanted to take him to the hospital, but Daddy refused. He said Lucas was a goner.

  “Aurora was burned so bad, I didn't know what to do.” Janny’s face contorted. “Daddy stood in the way, blocked me from leaving. He said he needed the time to hide the still equipment. I picked up a two by four and rammed him hard in the stomach. He went down. I grabbed my baby girl and ran along the road. A neighbor gave me a ride to the emergency room. I recollect you were there, Shepherd?”

  He nodded.

  “And your Uncle Otis?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” Janny said. “He should have been at the still, attending the machinery. If he’d been there, maybe Lucas would still be alive. After the accident, Otis disappeared for two-three months. Momma said he went to the hill country visiting family. When he got back he and Daddy went out behind the barn, had a long talk.”

  “What did you do after that?”

  Janny raised her hands defensively. “What could we do? Aurora was crippled; Lucas was dead. Daddy said the accident was Howard's fault, forbade him to set foot on the home place again.” Her mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Brother Howard always caves when the going gets rough. His whole life, he’s run away like that.”

  In Biblical times, the priest would send a goat into the wilderness carrying the sins of the people. Perhaps that was Howard’s function within this broken family. In the anteroom outside our door, I heard Ben's encouragement and Aurora's squeals of delight as they played video games together. They were sunshine juxtaposed against the horror Janny had recounted.

  Janny sat back in the chair, her arms crossed and her mouth set in a firm line. “I ain’t got nothing else to say.”

  So much for circling back around to Sally Ann’s story. Sometimes a diversion worked, sometimes it didn’t. We got nothing further from Janny that day.

  After the Nettles, mother and daughter, left, Shepherd and I reconvened to debrief. It was near lunchtime, but Janny’s words had killed my appetite. “Tough, that explosion,” I said.

  “Family's been fractured ever since,” Shepherd said. “What do you make of Janny's explanation?”

  “Of the explosion? True as she saw it. Of the meeting outside the apartment? She may be lying.”

  “How so?” asked Shepherd.

  “I still think Darbie is involved. She told me she served Cal apricot bars, and the medical lab found traces of apricots in his stomach. She’s involved, somehow.”

  “You might be right. Why don't you nose around out where Darbie lives, see what you can find. Ben and me’s going to hang some Halloween decorations. Holiday's coming.”

  Halloween. With its affinity for ghosts, Mingus embraced the holiday. All the buildings in town—shops, hotels, and bars were festooned with skulls and cobwebs. There was even a masquerade ball planned in the old Amory building.

  I'd had fun as a kid trick-or-treating until neighbors poked fun at my height and said I was too big to be begging for candy. Then, at the after-school dances, the petite girls came as this fairy or that princess. I was the hobo or the Hulk until I finally just quit going. Maybe I could be designated cop for the night and skip the whole thing this year.

  Shepherd must have been reading my mind. “I'll take over guard duty if you and Rory want to step out.”

  I threw him a suspicious look. “What do you know about Rory?”

  “Small town, word gets around.”

  “Well, there's nothing to get around. He's a friend, that's all.”

  Out in the foyer, Ben sniggered.

  “And you shut up, too.” I stood. “I'll take a drive down by the river to scout out Darbie's neighbors. I should be back in time to deliver you to Miss Fluffy.”

  Ben laughed again, and I punched his shoulder as I left the station.

  Darbie gets Protection

  18

  FORTY-DEGREE TEMPERATURE swings from night to daylight hours were common on Black Mountain in the fall. By the time the SUV reached the valley floor in Cottonwood, I had shrugged out of my jacket and turned on the air conditioning.

  The dirt road to Darbie’s trailer paralleled the Verde River and I stopped to walk for a bit along its bank. My shadow scattered the bottom-schooling minnows, and a green heron started from the reed bank as I drew close. Nearby, a golden eagle lifted from one tall sycamore, spiraling higher on the afternoon thermals. Would Darbie be moving from this peaceful spot, now that Cal Nettle was dead? Hard to foresee the twists that life takes.

  I got back in the SUV and drove past Darbie’s trailer. The first of her neighbors lived in a small cinder-block house, a couple and a young child outside enjoying the sunshine. The guy appeared to be in his early twenties, drug-skinny. He was tearing apart an old dirt bike as I entered the yard, parts scattered in a heap. He wiped greasy hands on ragged denim shorts and strutted over to see me. His face was just out of pimple stage, and the fringe on his upper lip almost made mustache grade. “Yeah?”

  “We're checking the area for any strangers.”

  “Nothin’ around here.” His job as man of the family done, he strode back to his bike project.

  His partner was friendlier. She sat in a worn nylon-webbed chair near the house, untangling orange Halloween lights. Her stringy brown hair escaped from a clip, obscuring heavily mascaraed eyes. On the straggly grass next to her was a toddler just learning to walk.

  She gestured me closer. “I'm June and this here's little Mikey.” The child tilted his face like a baby bird and she stuffed a piece of biscuit in his mouth.

  I lowered myself into a second tattered chair, hoping I wouldn't break out the bottom. “Any unusual activity around here recently?”

  “You mean with Darbie? I talk to her sometimes. She walks up and down the road for exercise, on account of the baby coming. Don't know what she saw in Cal Nettle, he's so old.” She looked approvingly at her man, and he hiked up his pants for her.

  “How’d you know it was Cal Nettle?”

  “He drove that o
ld ’29 Ford pickup. Proud of that truck. Drives it in the parade on Memorial Day. But there was another, this beautiful silver car. Buddy, what was it?”

  “2002 Trans Am, last production year.” He went back to sorting parts.

  “How often did you see the Trans Am?”

  “Oh, three or four times over the last several months,” June said. “Wasn't that about right, honey?”

  He grunted at her.

  “But never when Cal was here. First one, then the other, but never together. Always wondered if she had two of them on the string.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There was this homeless guy. Hoodie pulled down over his head, even on hot days. Small beady eyes. Reminded me of, who was that guy, Buddy?”

  “Unabomber.”

  “Right. I called out to him, friendly like, but he'd never answer me. He'd just stop in front of Darbie's trailer and stare.”

  “How'd you know he was homeless?”

  “He didn’t seem to have a car. Would just appear and then vanish, the minute my back was turned. And he smelled. Pee-you.”

  “Rank? Like a skunk or something?”

  She nodded. “I teased Darbie about him. I said if she was dealing drugs to give us some. She got real mad at me, said he was family.” June’s voice turned cranky. “Darbie said I was being nosy. I wasn't, was I, Buddy?”

  “No, babe.” He picked up a wrench and ratcheted off another part.

  “Who's in the house across the street?” I asked.

  “That's Martin Campbell. Comes down here from Canada every year. He's probably home right now. I saw his car pass about an hour ago, groceries in the back. He's nice. Always asks if there's anything he can bring. But Buddy, here, has everything I need.” She beamed in his direction and he waggled his hips at her.

  I gave her a card, added another for her boyfriend. She tucked them in the pocket of her short-shorts and I left.

  When I pulled into the Campbell driveway, the smell of grilling meat drifted from the back yard. My stomach grumbled, reminding me it hadn’t been fed recently. Maybe I could stop before I went back to the office—Somewhere there was a burger with my name on it.

  I rang the bell and heard a couple of dogs bark. I waited a minute and walked behind the house. Two chocolate labs lay on a brick patio, attentive to their master cooking steaks on a small portable grill. Martin Campbell was in his sixties. Big, with a hefty gut, and sunburned, his face almost matching the color of his bright Hawaiian shirt.

  When the dogs spotted me, they rose and he turned around. “Just a minute while I corral these pests.” He grabbed their collars with a practiced hand and pushed them into a screened porch. When he returned, he volunteered to pour me a beer, which I declined and then offered me a seat, which I took.

  “Saw you over at June and Buddy's place. Figured you’d be coming here next. Those two—babies having babies.” He held out a big hand and we shook.

  He turned the steaks once more and then collapsed into the lawn chair next to mine. He took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You here about Cal Nettle?”

  Small town. Everybody knew everybody else’s business. I wondered if folks talked about me that way in Mingus, a small town just like this one. Of course, they did. A sobering thought.

  “What do you know about activities at Darbie's house?”

  “You mean having two boyfriends? I don't approve, but I can understand. Cal, he had to be her father's age. But that third guy, he worried me, spying on Darbie like that.”

  “Spying?”

  “Had these Army surplus binoculars. I flushed him out once down by the river, ran him off. I regret I didn’t call you folks to nail him proper. He poisoned one of my dogs, after. Like to cost me a fortune in vet bills. Worth it, every penny, love those guys. But if he'd do that to a dog...”

  “How'd you know it was him?”

  “Day after it happened he was out here again. I accused him of it. He just looked at me with these soulless eyes. I’ve only seen that expression once before in my life.”

  “Another man?”

  “No, a carcajou, a wolverine, you call them down here in the States.” He settled his baseball cap more firmly on his balding head. “You’d never know it by how I look now, but in my younger days, I was a bush pilot up in the Yukon. Found one of those creatures in an abandoned trap up there. Absolutely fearless—one of them can take down a full-grown grizzly bear. Stared up at me with these black eyes, daring me to do something.”

  He finished his beer. Popped the top on another one and offered it my direction. I shook my head and he took a long drink himself.

  “Learned my lesson, keep my dogs in while he's around. But I worry for Darbie.”

  “You think he might hurt her?”

  “Could.” He looked reflective. “Wolverine's a solitary creature. But one thing about them...”

  “Yeah?”

  “They don't allow other males in their territory. I've seen a wolverine tear a trap apart just to kill a rival male. That's the kind of man's been stalking Darbie Granger.”

  “You see him around again, you call me?” I gave him one of my cards.

  “You can count on it.” He stood, looked into the distance. “Beautiful here, beats that Canada snow all to heck and back. Wish I could stay here forever.”

  Thin bands of purple clouds intensified a deepening orange sky. Indeed, no prettier place on earth than the Verde Valley—except when murder was involved.

  Darbie’s trailer appeared vacant when I drove by. It couldn’t be easy, being pregnant, living here on her own, now that her protector was dead. I shook my head and focused on more immediate matters: That burger I’d been thinking about all afternoon.

  Confession

  19

  THE DEPARTMENT SUV pulled into the drive-through order lane at FastBurger like a horse heading to the feed trough. I passed on the Halloween pumpkin shake in a special ghost cup, although I was tempted. Instead, I ordered a hamburger with all the trimmings to go, onion rings, a Diet Coke on the side.

  I parked in the short-term slot beyond the drive-through reserved for drivers-in-a-hurry, like me. One napkin tucked under my chin, a few more wedged under my thigh, and I was ready. My fingers dug an onion ring out of the container as an appetizer. Then I took an enormous bite of the burger, wiping away the juice that spilled down my chin with the side of my hand. The grilled meat, the juicy tomato, and crisp lettuce were a satisfying greasy mouthful. I chased it with a gulp of soda, the liquid searing the back of my throat.

  Three bites later I was done. Pure heaven. I tossed the wrappers on the floor and pulled out into the street.

  An unwise motorist passed me, moving too fast. I blipped the lights and pulled him over. By the time I’d written a warning and chastised him for exceeding the speed limit, the sun had disappeared behind Black Mountain. I was late—too late—and I was Shepherd’s ride home.

  When I reached the Mingus station, he was standing at the front door, ready to rumble. He yanked open the SUV door. “Where you been? Smells like an onion factory in here.” He balled the fast-food wrappers and tossed them in the back. “Least you could’ve brought me one,” he grumbled.

  I shrugged, unrepentant. “Next time.”

  I drove down the hill to Cottonwood, the SUV swaying through the curves. In front of the Dollar Store groups of teens congregated on the curb. They smoked cigarettes their parents probably didn’t know about, telling stories their folks would be horrified to hear. I thought about the two teenage parents who lived on Darbie’s road. Had their future lives been determined in a setting like this?

  When Shepherd heard of the conversations I’d had with Darbie’s neighbors, he decided it was time to have a formal visit with Darbie. While I drove, he called her on his cell to set up a meeting.

  At his house, I helped carry in a box of files. Fluffy greeted me with an arched back and a hiss. She’d de-friended me in a matter of days. It had to be tho
se chlorophyll treats.

  ***

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER Darbie Granger came to our office, accompanied by her attorney, Myra Banks. I’d seen Myra in court, and she looked even more formidable up close. Shepherd’s mouth twisted as though he’d swallowed a lump of sour persimmon when they walked in. We met in the foyer: Shepherd and me facing Myra and Darbie. A stand-off.

  Myra was in her late forties, short permed hair, wearing a spring-green suit that shouted money. Lawyering must be profitable.

  She ignored me standing there and zoned in on Shepherd. “Irving Malone, heard they had shipped you up here. How have you been?”

  “Fine,” Shepherd grunted.

  “No lasting effects from the divorce?’ She patted his stomach. “Seem to have put on some weight there.”

  The curiously intimate gesture surprised me. Some back history Shepherd hadn’t seen fit to share with me?

  Shepherd retreated beyond her reach. “Let’s get started. Know you bill by the minute.”

  “Are you still holding a grudge? Too bad that divorce was so expensive for you. Maybe you needed a better attorney.”

  Time for a distraction. I offered my hand to her. “Peg Quincy. Nice to meet you.”

  She appraised me with sharp eyes “I heard what happened at that shooting. Are you off probation yet? If the department is harassing you, call me. I think you’ve got grounds for a suit.” With a practiced motion, she slipped a card out of her suit pocket and into my hand.

  If Myra stirred up trouble on my behalf, the resulting bill would keep me in servitude until I retired. No, thanks, I’d handle my own battles, no matter what the price.

  I introduced Darbie to my partner. Then we all trooped into our conference room. It wasn’t fancy, just a government-surplus meeting table and six battered chairs, but it served the purpose.

  Myra chose the head of the table and motioned Darbie to sit beside her on one long side. I sat opposite Darbie, where I could maintain good eye contact. That left Shepherd to deal with Myra down the length of the table.