by Lakota Grace
He looked my way as I entered. “Join the fun.”
I stepped over the barrier, and squatted, then changed my mind and sat on the floor like Aurora. A Family Liaison Officer needed some flexibility. The pups rushed toward me, tumbling and falling in a joyous, jerky procession. They glowed deep red in the sunlight through the open door, still stocky-bodied but big-pawed with the promise of future growth.
“How old, now?” I asked Ethan.
“Going on eight weeks. At ten I'll begin some basic obedience and scent training.”
Their faces were wrinkly, with loose skin yet to fill out, giving them the appearance of old men with droopy eyes. Baby tails whipsawed from side to side, and young bodies wavered like toddlers just learning to walk.
“Sold them yet?”
“Most are promised. One or two still available. You in the market?”
A puppy in my apartment with its steep stairs and small back yard? I shook my head regretfully. “No place to housebreak one.”
“Need to speak to you outside,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. “Aurora, you watch the puppies for us, okay, kiddo?”
She cuddled one of the pups and smiled up at him. “Okay,” she said, her voice still rough.
“That-a-girl.” He gave her a thumbs-up.
We both stepped over the fencing into the yard. I brushed dust and puppy slobber from my pants. The late fall sun spattered the tree branches with shafts of light. We moved to the porch where I sat on the top step.
“What's up, Ethan?”
“Janny told you about the two wills?”
I nodded. “What was your father thinking? Surely he knew that would cause problems.”
“He didn’t consider he’d die so soon.” Ethan squinted up at the milky sky signaling the end of Indian summer. “He promised one thing to Momma,” he said, “and another to Darbie. Probably figured he tear up one will, just didn't know which one yet.”
“Your folks fought that day he left…”
“I heard china breaking, Momma screaming at him. Set the hounds to baying something awful.” Ethan picked up a stick and drew in the dust, lines crossing one another like jack straws.
“Think he was getting ready to leave for good?”
“He was close, only staying on because of the property sale. But Momma's the jealous sort, even though they'd stopped sleeping in the same bed. Claimed it was his snoring. Sometimes, I'd find him out in the barn sleeping in the back of that old truck.”
“Ethan, I could use some help here. You think your mother might have killed your father?”
He shuddered. “Think she would have liked to at times, he aggravated her so. But I'm figuring somebody else got to him first.”
“You thinking that somebody might be Otis?”
“I can't talk about him. Momma forbids it.” Ethan swallowed hard.
It was difficult to understand this man-boy. He was so good with animals and little kids, so awkward with adults. If the home place were sold, how would he fare in a town, even one as small as Cottonwood or Mingus?
“What about your younger brother Howard?” I asked. “Might there have been conflict left over from when he was banished?”
“Stupid. Why'd he run like that when Lucas, when my big brother...” Ethan struggled to find the right words. “Howard should of stood up to Daddy once and for all.”
“Does Howard have it in him to kill your father?”
“Daddy ragged on him terrible, called him a sissy and worse. And that was when Daddy was sober. Drunk, you stayed out of his way, you didn't want to get hurt. But now Howard’s running with that bad crowd in Phoenix. Could be he’s learned a street lesson or two down there, maybe how to get rid of somebody in a hurry.”
That could be. I wondered about the other sibling. “Janny?”
“She blamed Daddy for the damage to Aurora's hand. Said the baby would be fine if he'd been there to help instead of out drinking in the marsh.” Ethan rubbed a hand over his jaw. “She had years after the accident to kill him, though. Didn't.”
Ethan seemed ready to talk and I pushed a little further. “What about Darbie Granger, your father’s other wife?”
“She's pretty. Needed a man, found one. Found two, if you count Howard and Daddy both.”
“Would she have murdered your father?”
He latched onto that suggestion. “Maybe it was Darbie, if my daddy was leaving her. She looks mild-mannered, but underneath is one stubborn-willed woman. She could do it, I reckon.”
I got the sense he'd rather have it be Darbie than Ruby Mae or Janny or even Otis. In his eyes, Darbie wasn't family. Still, that didn't make her a killer.
“You forgot one,” he said, looking at me with eyes of a most innocent blue.
“I did, that. Did you kill your father, Ethan Nettle?”
“No, ma'am, I did not.” He paused. “Of course, us Nettles have a habit of lying when it suits us. Which do you think I am, Ms. Quincy, truth or lie?”
I scanned his face, pondering the question.
Then Reckless bounded around the house, breaking the moment. He planted his front paws on my chest leaving muddy prints on my fresh uniform shirt.
“Reckless, down!” Ethan grabbed at his collar, rubbing the dog’s ears to mollify his words. Then he looked up at me. “I need to ask you something, law woman.”
“I'm listening.”
“I got the pups spoken for, and Momma needs the older hounds here. But I worry about Reckless. He likes you. If I had to go away somewhere for a spell, would you take care of him?”
“Go away? Where?”
“Never mind. Would you?”
Not satisfied with my nod, he repeated his request. “Promise me. Swear it.”
“I promise,” I said. At least it would be only temporary, and the dog was housebroken. I hoped, though, that I'd never have to keep that vow.
I’d become unwisely tangled with this Nettle clan, way too close to be impartial. Ethan knew more of the story than he revealed. Would he decide to tell me before it was too late?
A Failed Bribe
26
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I wrote parking tickets as an excuse to get out of the office. I’d rather do that than patrol for moving violations. I didn't believe in speed traps—figured tourists could read speed limit signs the same as the rest of us. Although sometimes they chose not to, putting the little kids who were walking home from school at risk.
My cell phone vibrated against my thigh, and I pulled it out of my pocket. I was still getting used to my new smart phone. It was a memory hog, especially when I forgot to charge it. I scowled. Only two bars of battery left this afternoon.
The call was from Rory Stevens. “Want to go out and celebrate? Scores just posted. I made the promotion to detective.”
“Great news.” I was pleased for him. He'd told me the test was a hard one. “What time?”
“Pick you up about six-thirty. We can do wine flights at Grapes.”
It was nearly five. Time enough to write one more parking ticket and then quit for the day. I walked down the street looking for a likely target.
A fancy black Lincoln parked in a handicapped slot. No handicapped plates. No temporary wheelchair tag hung on the rear view mirror. I opened my ticket pad and started to write the citation.
“Hello officer,” a man behind me said. “Glad I caught you before you started, don't want to waste your time.”
I turned and he flashed a professionally-whitened smile at me. Expensive suit, sapphire pinky ring, coiffed silver hair—A politician? “Do you have a permit to park in a handicapped space, sir?”
“Just parked a moment to locate a hotel room.”
“Find one?”
“Would you believe they're all full?”
I kept writing.
“I can make this simpler for both of us,” he said. “Let’s shake on it.”
At the tone of his voice, I looked up.
He extended his hand, a fifty folded
between thumb and forefinger. “Chalk it up as a misunderstanding. I'm new to your fine city.”
Not a politician, then. Just a really dumb Joe-Citizen.
“Know what the fine is for attempted bribery in this state?” I tore off the ticket and handed it to him with a smile. He grabbed the paper, his face contorted. The fifty disappeared into his pocket.
As I walked off, the Lincoln jammed into gear and fished-tailed into the street. Good thing there wasn’t a semi coming the other direction. We had some of those big rigs drive through town, but they followed the laws of our fair metropolis, didn't park in handicapped spots.
***
IT WAS ALMOST five-thirty when I opened the studio apartment door and pounded up the stairs to change. The challenge of living in a studio was limited closet space. Or maybe not such a problem—I didn't have much of a wardrobe.
Rory had already seen my green first-date blouse, and Wonder Woman had made too much of an impression at the dance to reappear. Maybe the pink dress? No, too feminine for a second date, or was this the third?
Darn! I was turning into my cousin Suzy. By the time she had dressed and undressed six times, her waiting date had fallen asleep on the living room couch. I wasn't that bad yet, and anyway I didn't have six date outfits. Rory would have to settle for the white silk shirt and black pants. Cool, sophisticated, who was I kidding?
I swiped again at the puppy smudges on my uniform, undressed, and tossed it in the dry-cleaning pile. Perhaps those professionals could work their usual magic on the red earth stains.
When the water was hot, I showered, dressed, and was brushing the braid-waves out of my hair when Rory knocked downstairs. I stuck my feet into compromise, mid-heel slingbacks, grabbed a turquoise pashmina shawl, and waltzed down to greet him. I could get used to this.
He held a corsage box in his hand, and he must have seen my face fall. “No,” he said, “not a wrist corsage. This is different.” He placed the box in my hands.
I opened it to find a small spray of plumeria on a hair comb, tiny white blossoms with soft apricot centers. I buried my nose to catch their sweet airy fragrance. Then I freed them from their green shredded-paper nest, put the box on the entry table and turned to the hall mirror.
“May I?” Rory's skillful fingers pulled back my hair and placed the comb over my left ear. Then he kissed the ear for good measure. “Plumeria for new beginnings.”
“From Hawaii?”
“From my grandmother down in Florida. She owns a nursery. Says hi.”
Now he was talking to family. I liked it, and I didn't like it. I'd rushed headlong into my one attempt at marriage, and it bombed. Keep-it-physical was my new motto with guys. I wanted this relationship with Rory to last. Maybe I was wrong, but marriage signaled the opposite for me. I refused to go down that twisty path anytime soon.
Rory led me to the Hummer and opened the passenger door. When he got in on his side, I asked, “Borrowing cars from your roommate again?”
He mumbled something I didn't catch as he started the car and drove down the street. A black cat streaked in front of the Hummer, and he braked sharply. “Halloween reject,” he joked. “Hope you're not superstitious.”
Friday the Thirteenth, black cats, even lucky socks—I’d known cops that believed in them all. Worst I'd ever met was a fellow student in the Police Academy who swore not to shower until he passed Physical Quals. He failed three times. By then he smelled so bad we started avoiding him in the lunchroom. Finally, we couldn't stand it and threw him in a shower. Left him to drip dry on a towel hook. He passed the Quals next day.
Rory pulled up in front of the restaurant. I opened my own door before he could walk around. I didn't want to advertise to the whole town I was out on a date, but perhaps they knew anyway.
The hostess smiled at Rory when we approached her stand. “We've reserved your special place, sir.” She led us to the same booth we'd had on our first date.
Rory made a sweeping gesture. “Lady's choice. Which side you want?”
We were celebrating his accomplishments. I gifted him the street-front view and sat with my back to the door. I trusted him to be watchful, but the switch in positions still made me uneasy.
Rory grabbed the wine list away from me and signaled the waitress. “Bring us something extraordinary.”
Soon she returned with a wine stand filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. Crooked between her fingers were two flutes. “Sir?” She set the flutes on the table, then handed Rory a towel and the champagne bottle.
“Let's see if I can do this properly.” He removed the wire muselet from the cork and set it on the table. Then he put the towel over the cork and wiggled it back and forth. It released with a hiss of air. “I like flying corks,” he said, “but not in a crowded place. Might hurt somebody.”
He handed the bottle to the server, who poured champagne into each flute and set them in front of us.
“To your promotion,” I said, lifting one.
“To your beauty,” he responded, lifting the other and touching mine.
The speakers overhead played the sound track from Momma Mia while I studied the bubbles rising from the base of the flute. The evening was off to a wonderful start.
“Rory...” I began.
A hand clasped my shoulder and I jumped.
“Sorry. Saw you and had to come say hello.”
I twisted to see Ben standing behind me. Next to him, resplendent in an off-the-shoulder magenta blouse and matching skirt was Sheryl Malone.
“Join you?” Ben nudged me over on the booth seat and Sheryl scooted in next to Rory.
“Sheryl,” Ben said, “this is Rory Stevens from the Prescott sheriff's department. And you know Peg.”
Sheryl nodded at me and turned in the booth to give Rory a megawatt smile.
“Heard you leased the Hummer,” Ben said. “How you like it?”
Rory’s gaze avoided mine, and he rubbed the back of his neck.
I sat up straighter. He'd leased it? He told me it was his roommate's.
Sheryl chimed in. “A Hummer? That wide-track red beauty out front?”
Rory beamed at her attention. “Actually the color is called atomic orange.”
“And you customized it.” She semaphored admiration through long eyelashes.
If Rory’d been a flamingo, he'd be preening atomic-orange feathers.
Sheryl stuck out her little finger and sampled Rory's champagne. He moved it out of her reach. Then she put her arm through his in a companionable fashion.
Next to me, Ben's knee started jigging.
Sheryl snuggled closer to Rory, her lavender-tipped hair brushing his cheek. “Take me for a ride sometime?” she purred.
Ben made odd noises in his throat.
Rory leaned slightly away from Sheryl, tugging his top shirt button as though it had become too tight. Perhaps wanting to break free from this treacherous sand, he changed topics and dug himself in deeper. “Ben,” he said, “great pair costumes at the dance.”
Sheryl removed her arm from Rory's and glowered. “What costumes? What dance?”
“The Halloween Dance,” Rory said helpfully.
Sheryl’s eyes skewered Ben. “Why wasn't I invited?”
“Because you weren't here yet. Thanks, Rory.” Ben jumped to his feet and grabbed Sheryl's arm. “Our table's ready.”
Sheryl departed in a shimmer of magenta. A red-faced Ben flung a payback comment before he followed her. “Peg, ask him about the call to the fiancée.”
In the silence that followed, I let it all sink in. The Reverend Billy's fiancée had found out about his taking me to the dance because someone called her. I was getting a good idea who that somebody might be.
Rory avoided my eyes, circling his champagne flute in a puddle of moisture on the tabletop.
The waitress paused beside us. “Are we ready to order yet, or do we need more time?”
The stormy silence hung between us.
“Right. I’ll come ba
ck,” she said, and left.
Rory still wouldn't meet my eyes.
“Would this fiancée be named Agnes? And would her affianced be the Reverend Billy?” I kept my voice level with effort. “You got something to tell me, Rory Stevens?”
“It's not what you think.”
“What am I thinking? Enlighten me, since you know so much.”
“Billy was engaged. I thought Shepherd told you.”
“And why would he? Shepherd is my friend, unlike some other people.” My voice raised and heads turned. I lowered my tone and hissed through clenched teeth, “Who told you to stick your nose in my business, anyway?”
“Let me explain.”
“You're real good at that. You and your precious Plan B. Do you know how awful I felt?” My stomach clenched in a knot. “People laughed at me.”
“That's not true, I...”
“Did you laugh? Did you have a grand time with your little joke?” I brushed fierce tears out of my eyes, and my cheek muscles tightened.
“I didn't set you up, Peg. That guy's a jerk. I thought you had more sense than that.”
“So now you’re calling me stupid, too.”
“I tried to help. How about saying, thank you? I didn't hear you say thank you.”
“I didn't need to be rescued like some stray dog—And what about that Hummer? That wasn't your roommate's car at all. You lied to me.”
He gripped the table edge. “What I drive is my business, not yours. And I didn't lie to you.”
“Just didn't bother to tell me the whole truth. You're worse than Billy.”
He jerked to his feet, and a champagne flute crashed to the floor. “I've heard enough.”
“Good, because I'm leaving! I can find my own way home.”
We stood glaring at each other. With head held high, I grabbed my purse and shawl. I marched through the restaurant and out into the night.
Rory didn't follow me.
My righteous anger kept me warm as I stomped down the first block, but by the time I reached my apartment, I was cooler. Not cool enough to forgive Rory Stevens, though. That would take longer.
