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

by Lakota Grace

The lawyer placed her Coach briefcase on the table with care and snapped open the latches. She removed one legal pad and three sharpened pencils. She lined them up precisely on the table, closed the briefcase and set it with her purse on the floor. Every action broadcast that this was a Person to be Reckoned With.

  Darbie seemed uneasy, her eyes marred by dark smudges beneath them. The young woman was close to bringing a new life into the world, and yet here we talked about death. If Cal Nettle were looking down from above, what would he think about Darbie’s new role as a murder suspect? Too bad we couldn’t get his version of what happened. It would make our work a lot simpler.

  Myra whispered to her client and then looked down her reading glasses at Shepherd. “Coffee, black. And herbal tea for my client.”

  We sat in uneasy silence until Ben brought in the mugs and then left, shutting the door behind him.

  Myra sipped her coffee, found it to her liking, and lowered the mug. “Proceed,” she ordered.

  Shepherd set a micro-recorder on the table and clicked it on. “For the record, we are here for an informal interview with Darbie Granger. Also present in the room are Shepherd Malone and Peg Quincy from the sheriff's office and attorney for Miss Granger, Myra Banks. The date is—”

  Myra interrupted. “I'd like a copy of the tape when this interview is finished. And I expect that you can have it transcribed for the permanent records.”

  Shepherd’s jaw knotted. “So noted.” He finished the opening remarks and began the interview. First, he asked Darbie the basics, establishing her place of domicile, time in the area, and occupation. Then his questioning turned more personal. “Darbie, tell us about your relationship with the deceased, Calhoun Nettle.”

  “Don't answer that,” Myra interjected.

  Darbie clamped her lips together, her eyes wide.

  Shepherd began again. “Did Calhoun Nettle visit you at your trailer several times over the past several months?”

  Myra objected before Darbie could respond.

  Shepherd scowled. “Come on, Myra. This isn't a deposition. We're just trying to establish some timelines here.”

  “Sorry, Shep. Save it for the jury.”

  Their bickering reminded me of my parents. Enough. I leaned across the table. “Darbie, has Howard Nettle been visiting you, too?”

  She looked at me, surprised. “How'd you know that?”

  “He was seen driving down your road in his Trans Am.”

  “That stupid neighbor. I told her to mind her own business.”

  Myra touched Darbie’s arm. Darbie shut up.

  I sneaked in another question. “Was Howard Nettle your lover, Darbie?”

  “How could you think that? I loved Cal, not his son!”

  “Then why—”

  Myra stood up. “This interview is over. Darbie, it’s time to leave.”

  Darbie frowned at her attorney. “No, I want to answer her question.” She leaned forward to address me directly. “Howard was teaching me how to shoot.”

  “To shoot?” Shepherd was dubious.

  Darbie started to cry, hiccupping loudly. I shoved a box of tissues her direction. She pulled several and blew her nose, a satisfying honk. She pulled a new tissue from the box and patted at her eyes. Then she wadded all the tissues into a defensive wall in front of her.

  “I was terrified,” she said. “I tried to tell Cal about Otis, but he wouldn't listen to me. So I called Janny and she called Howard. He drove up from Phoenix and brought a revolver for my protection. We went down by the river to plink at tin cans. I got pretty good. Even learned how to clean the darned thing.”

  “You needed help because Otis was stalking you.” I wanted to clarify that fact on the recording.

  The tears flowed down Darbie’s cheeks. “I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to this baby. It's all I have left of Cal.” Her hand rested protectively on her stomach.

  She flashed those brilliant green eyes at me. “That Otis Stroud comes near me, I'll blow his head off, so help me I will. There, I said it, and I'm not sorry.”

  Myra grabbed for the recorder to erase the incriminating threat her client had just made, but Shepherd beat her to it. Holding the recorder away from the attorney’s grasp, he spoke into it. “This concludes the interview with Darbie Granger,” and clicked it off.

  He grinned widely. “I'll make sure you get a copy, Myra.”

  The attorney stuffed her three pencils and one legal pad back in her briefcase. “We're done here.” She stood and Darbie did, too, but not before taking one last slurp of her tea.

  Myra exited the building, her nose quivering at some offensive smell. Darbie followed close behind like an obedient duckling. But we had her statement.

  Shepherd laughed, the first time I had seen the man in a happy mood since his foot got caught in the bear trap. “That'll be a tale for the next department meeting,” he said. “Myra Banks meets her match in Peg Quincy. Good work, getting that suspect to talk.”

  Ben arrived to clear the cups. “That your new girlfriend, Shepherd? She seems to have taken a shine to you.”

  Shepherd’s laugh choked in mid-chuckle. “I’d tote popsicles to penguins before I’d so much as treat Myra Banks to a glass of stale creek water.”

  I poked his arm. “Heard those cold-weather birds like the orange kind best. Better stock up.”

  Shepherd reddened. “Can’t be wasting time here. Work to do.” He left the room.

  Ben and I looked at each other and hooted. The moment broke the tension of the past weeks. It took us back to how it had been before Shepherd Malone arrived, before the murder of Cal Nettle.

  I followed Ben into our small kitchen and ran soapy water over the mugs and spoons.

  “But that’s not all,” Ben said, rinsing and stacking silverware in the drainer. “Guess who's paying Darbie's legal fees.”

  “Well, I know for sure it’s not Ruby Mae. Those two ladies do not get along.” I drained the sink water and dried my hands, still mulling it over. “Janny is broke and Ethan is busy with his dogs…”

  “So, that just leaves Howard Nettle.” Ben was triumphant about his discovery.

  “And you got this information how? You better not be hacking into any computers.” Ben had nearly died the last time he did that, meddling in the affairs of town elders.

  “No, didn’t have to. My new girlfriend works in the attorney's file room, told me all about it.”

  A new girlfriend. That was welcome news. Ben had been miserable when his old flame, Vanessa Heaton, and her family left town.

  But his statement opened up some interesting complications to the case. It seemed that Howard might be stepping into his father’s role of Darbie’s protector. How long had that been going on? Howard didn’t appear to be one for patricide. On the other hand, most murders were committed by someone close to the victim. I drifted into my partner’s office to discuss this new development.

  Shepherd agreed with my conclusions. “We need to get Mr. Howard Nettle's take on this.”

  “On it.” And this time I meant it. Speed was essential if I were to question Howard before Myra Banks tainted his testimony.

  I liked Howard, but could I trust him? Janny had declared Howard was terrified of guns. Now, Darbie claimed Howard was giving her shooting lessons. They didn’t seem to be describing the same man.

  This Nettle clan could draw a nugget of half-truths into a fine wire that looped around itself until you lost the end of it. Reminded me of some of my relatives back in the hill country. Reminded me of me, too, now that I thought about it.

  Time to visit Howard, my cousin three times removed, and get his version of the story. The true version, whatever that might be. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number.

  Pietra Leaves

  20

  THE WEATHER TURNED COLDER with a wind kicking up as I drove down the hill to meet with Howard Nettle. He had rented a cabin at Dead Horse Ranch State Park, close to Tavasci Marsh. Maybe he needed some pea
ce and quiet after Pietra and the Nettle family problems.

  The one-room log cabins at the park were arranged in a semi-circle, each cabin named for a wild creature. Howard’s cabin sign read “Fox,” and he sat waiting for me in a retro metal lawn chair out front.

  I pulled over a second chair, which rocked on its S-bar supports as I settled into it. “How you doing after the funeral, Howard?”

  He rubbed at a furrow between his eyes. “Still have regrets about those last days. I never got to talk to my dad, never got to the bottom of why he asked me to leave in the first place. Now I never will.”

  Beyond Howard, the open door revealed a small room paneled in knotty pine. Howard's sleeping bag was spread on top of a green vinyl mattress, his belongings scattered across the floor.

  “The cabin's primitive,” he admitted, noticing my gaze. “I could do without those two a.m. trips to the central bathrooms. But it’s cheap.”

  “Where's Pietra?”

  “Drove back to Phoenix. Doesn't like 'the sticks.' That’s what she calls the Verde Valley.” His mouth turned down. “Probably not news to you that we're having marriage problems.”

  “Hope things work out.” I touched his hand. “Death sometimes brings out the worst in people.”

  “Especially people like my wife.” His expression was sad.

  Overhead a tall mesquite scraped branches against the metal cabin roof, and the wind scattered yellow cottonwood leaves onto the pavement in front of us.

  “You know that we talked to Darbie,” I said.

  Howard nodded. “She called me as soon as she got rid of Myra. My hiring of that attorney may not have been such a great idea.”

  “Expensive, anyway. You got that kind of money?”

  Howard raised his palms skyward and we shared a look of recognition. Myra Banks could turn out to be more of a roadblock than a protection.

  Some boys played a game of kickball in the cul-de-sac in front of us, screaming and shouting. Howard frowned. “They just moved into the cabin next door. Can hardly hear myself think. Want to take a walk?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Howard pulled the cabin door closed and set the lock. We hiked down the main camp drive and then turned left on Flycatcher Road. The route climbed a hill and then dead-ended at a small parking lot. There, hundreds of gold and orange butterflies covered a patch of blooming rabbit bush.

  “That’s like a paradise to me.” Howard pointed. “What do you see there?”

  “Monarch butterflies?”

  “Good eye. Actually, those are a close cousin called Queens. But see the Buckeyes, with those mock eyes on the wings, and over there, a Painted Lady.”

  Then he pointed to a cluster of butterflies with wings of a brown-and-orange mosaic and identified them as Variegated Fritillaries.

  “You a butterfly person?” I asked.

  “A lepidopterist? Wanted to be when I was a kid,” Howard said, “but my daddy said a real man didn’t study bugs, so I took a business major instead. Look where it got me, riding ostriches. I should have stayed with the butterflies.” His tone was bitter.

  “It's not too late.”

  “Yeah, I’m free as a bird, now that Daddy’s not here.” His eyes held a haunted look. “…Except for Pietra and her father.”

  It appeared that even his father’s death brought no sense of freedom to Howard. On the other hand, perhaps he didn’t seek it, either. Maybe Howard was one of those people who needed the chains of limitation to feel safe.

  We walked toward the far side of Tavasci Marsh with the Tuzigoot Indian Ruins silhouetted on the hilltop opposite. A small plane rose steeply from the Cottonwood airport, its motor whine rising as it banked against the swift winds aloft. If the airport had not been so close, Cal Nettle’s body may not have been discovered for a long time.

  Perhaps that’s what his murderer intended. And yet, here on the other side of the marsh, quiet reigned. Only a kestrel observed us from a cottonwood snag and shrieked as we entered a tamarisk bosque near the marsh.

  Howard broke off a stem of desert marigold and twisted it in his fingers. “This was my hangout when I was a kid. Maybe that’s why I wanted to stay at the campgrounds. The closest I could get to Tavasci Marsh.”

  “Bring back memories?”

  “Lucas and Ethan had this special bond,” Howard explained. “They did everything together and didn't want me tagging along. So I'd disappear into this marsh for hours at a time. I found peace here.”

  But it seemed there was little peace for any of the Nettle family since the father’s death. “What’s your connection with Darbie Granger?” I asked.

  It sounded abrupt, even to my ears, but Howard was still in the past. “We went to high school together. I always had a crush on her. Never had the nerve to ask her out. Wanted to, but hell, I knew with Lucas sweet on her, I didn’t have a chance.”

  I pressed the issue. “And now you do?” With his marriage on the rocks, maybe he dreamed of reigniting an old flame. Others had tried that remedy. Sometimes it even worked.

  Howard had the grace to look embarrassed but didn’t respond, so I pushed to define the present relationship. “Your sister Janny says you’re scared of guns, but here you are helping Darbie.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “A lot has changed since I left home. Janny never understood me. None of them did.”

  “That might be,” I said. At the same time, it seemed that members of this Nettle clan spent a lot of time and energy keeping their thoughts secret. “So how are you different now?”

  “In a way, my helping Darbie was a pay-it-forward for running away when the still exploded.”

  “Say more.”

  “Well, somebody had to stick up for her when Daddy refused to keep her safe.”

  “A somebody like you.”

  “Yeah, like me.” Howard’s mouth twisted as he rationalized his present-day actions. “Maybe Daddy didn’t want to hear what she said about Otis. That whiskey still was all-important to him. And even now, Otis is the one that keeps it running.

  “That still.” Howard kicked up a cloud of grasshoppers that spread out in a fan ahead of us as we hiked the trail. “It’s killed all of us in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I'd always been afraid of fire,” he explained. “When I looked back from the truck cab and saw that fireball of explosion, all I could think about was that load of pure alcohol sitting right behind me. I bolted out of there, intending to park the truck in a safe zone. But then I just kept going. I’ve been running ever since.”

  He paused before a four-wing salt bush, its blooms golden in the fall sunlight, and crushed a few in his fingers. “I've thought about that moment a thousand times, wishing I could change it. I was the coward that caused my own brother's death.”

  “Nothing you could do at that point,” I said, but it seemed he couldn't hear me, intent on fulfilling the family’s need for a person they could blame for the tragedy.

  We reached the edge of the marsh, and the air turned dank and humid, with standing pools of water on either side of the path. Desert cicadas gave way to crickets. Golden butterflies winked in and out of the sun like tossed coins in the tall marsh reeds. Sulphurs, Howard called them.

  The trail reached a dead end, and Howard said, “Used to be an observation platform up ahead, under water now because of the beaver activity. Otis used to blow the beaver dams clear to smithereens with sticks of dynamite, the lodges, too. Then he’d laugh. I'll never forget that laugh of his.”

  “Did he kill your father, Howard?”

  “Otis? Nah, why would he? The old man was his meal ticket with that whiskey still. Easy money.”

  “Did you?”

  That question gave him pause. “In my mind, I wished Daddy gone, a dozen times over. He’d turned mean and bitter when he drank. But he was still my father.” He ground his boot heel into the mud. “You find out who did it? I'll pound the first nail in his coffin.”

  We w
alked out of the marshland, then, back to the high desert campgrounds. The breeze evaporated the sweat off my arms when we reached the top of the hill. I left Howard at his cabin and drove back to Mingus.

  Did he tell me the truth, that he had no part in his father's death? Hard to know with this family. They clung together like scared children. And even after all these years in exile, Howard was part of that tribe.

  Secrets can bind a family together as tightly as love can.

  Two Dates Spell Trouble

  21

  THAT AFTERNOON AT THE STATION, my phone rang. “This is Billy Gerald,” a baritone voice said.

  “Who?”

  “Reverend Billy. We met at Calhoun Nettle's funeral.”

  Ah, that was right. Tall, handsome, three kids. Which meant a mixed bag. Sometimes family ties were complicated. I hadn’t thought of the man since the burial service so his next words were unexpected.

  “I'm wondering if you have a date for the Halloween Night Dance in Mingus. If not, would you go with me?”

  I hesitated. I’ve never had a good experience at formal dances—from junior high on I remember standing by the refreshment table pretending to have a good time, while the cute, short cheerleader types danced every dance.

  On the other hand, I had sympathy for the man. Reentering the dating game had to be tough after his wife’s death. Maybe that's why I ignored the tiny voice in the back of my mind that said this would be a really bad idea.

  Maybe this dance would be different.

  We scheduled a time for Billy to pick me up. I'd have to scramble for a costume. No hobo or Hulk this time around.

  Two minutes later, I had another phone call. “This is Rory Stevens. I was wondering what you're doing Saturday night.”

  A year with a dearth of male companionship and now two offers in the same hour. I stopped Rory before he went any further. “’Fraid I’m tied up. Reverend Billy asked me to the Halloween Dance here in Mingus.”

  “And you accepted.” Rory made it a statement of fact. “Okay, I should have asked sooner. On to Plan B. If you go, and if I'm there, will you dance with me?”

  I liked that. A good loser, not giving up. I said I would and clicked off, thinking it all settled.