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

by Lakota Grace

  Shepherd was in his office when I arrived, playing solitaire. Sheryl must have driven him up from Cottonwood because the SUV was still at the courthouse. I remembered that with a guilty start. I stopped by his office to explain, but he was ahead of me.

  “Heard you had a bit of excitement yesterday,” he said. “Congratulations on your first baby birthing.”

  “You deliver any?”

  “Half a dozen, over the years. But nothing like that first one. Welcome to a very elite club.”

  And then, cutting into my glow of achievement, the business side of Shepherd emerged. “What’d you learn in that time you spent with the family? We any closer to finding Cal Nettle's killer?”

  His comments stopped me short. A good reminder for me to keep my mind on death as well as life. I told him about the early morning call.

  “You got gun clearance from your counselor yet?” His tone was direct as he honed in on the dangerous reality of an unarmed law officer.

  I’d avoided returning to the counselor, I’d admit that. I'd used my last session to help Aurora, but that meant a delay in getting my own objectives met. “Another appointment this afternoon,” I promised.

  “Get it done. Now. If you can't back me up, I'll find somebody who can.”

  Shepherd had a steel core that I was beginning to appreciate. Push him so far and he morphed into an emotionless machine, all empathy banked. Maybe that’s what was needed to be a good sheriff’s deputy, but I hadn’t been able to achieve that Zen state yet. Still trying.

  The door burst open. Ben arrived, dressed in biking leathers, two helmets in hand. “Rory called me. Great job yesterday.” He high-five-ed me. “You ready to pick up the SUV?”

  What was Rory doing, spreading my news? I felt a momentary irritation and then reassured myself that it was the department grapevine working at full tilt.

  Shepherd reached behind him for his coat. “Take this, keep you warm.”

  I started to protest, but he dangled it in front of him, impatient. “Here.”

  So I bundled in his heavy padded coat, found a pair of gloves in the pocket, put them on, too. I was dressed for the ice storm yesterday, and it was already fifty degrees outside when we walked to the bike. Ben pounded the bulky helmet on my head and I adjusted the chin strap.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, my voice reverberating within the helmet’s echo chamber.

  He'd already mounted the bike, pushed up his face plate, and steadied the frame. “Watch that exhaust pipe,” he warned. “It'll burn your calf right through that pant leg.”

  I climbed on behind him and wriggled to adjust my weight.

  Ben must have sensed my inexperience, for he gave beginner instructions. “When I lean the cycle into the curves, you do, too. Pretend you're an extension of the bike.”

  “Come on, Ben, let’s get going. I’m sweating a river in this gear.”

  The Ducati had a poor excuse for a sissy bar, some six inches of laddered chrome behind me, but it was better than nothing. I gripped Ben's skinny waist, kicked the pegs down for my feet and we were off, bouncing onto the street.

  The bellow of the engine rebounded from the glass and metal storefronts as we roared down Main Street and through the zigzags toward Cottonwood. I leaned and swooped through the curves imitating the angle of Ben’s back. In the rush of road wind, curves blurred in front of us and the side of the road disappeared down into the steep drop-off to our right. I closed my eyes and hung on.

  This motorcycle experience was unique. Not just a hundred-eighty effect like a convertible, but a total three-sixty-degree sensation. Different from riding horses, too, with the roar and heat of the engine beneath me. The environment rushed in from all directions.

  But cold! The open air flattened my clothes to my body and jerked my helmeted head backward. The frozen wind seeped through my gloves and crept up my legs and under Shepherd's coat. How did Ben stand it, in front there, with no protection as the wind blasted against him? I leaned close, unashamedly absorbing his body heat.

  He slowed in Cottonwood. I closed my eyes again and identified where we were by smells: The hot grease odor of the burger joints, the diesel fuel in each service station, the seared-bleach aroma of the laundromat.

  Once out of town on the flat, Ben hit an open stretch without traffic. He gunned it, and the engine growled in response while the creosote and cactus whizzed by. The bike speed approached a hundred miles an hour. I experienced a rush I'd never felt before, a sensation of raw, addictive speed.

  All too soon we reached the courthouse turn off. Ben downshifted through a series of gears and put on his turn signal. We pulled in the parking lot and he coasted to a halt next to the SUV. Putting down the kickstand, he dismounted first and then steadied the bike as I followed. I stomped my numbed feet and doffed my helmet, still feeling the vibration in my crotch.

  Ben grinned at me. “Like it?”

  The wind tears in my eyes dried as I beamed at him. All kinds of Zen experiences.

  I went into the courthouse to retrieve the jacket I’d left on the back of a spectator seat when all the excitement started yesterday. I paused at the doorway, reliving the birthing from the day before. I’d brought new life into the world, right here. Did doctors feel this heightened awareness of life when they walked into the delivery room the day after they’d assisted a birth?

  The room wasn’t empty. Rory stood there with my jacket in his hands. “They called the sheriff’s office in Prescott and said the jacket was here. Thought I’d retrieve it in case you forgot.”

  My euphoria crashed to earth at the possessive tone in his voice. There it was, another man trying to own me. “Why would I forget my own jacket?” I snapped. “And why did they call you, and not me?”

  “Yeah, sure. I just thought…”

  “Thanks,” I said, snatching the jacket out of his hands.

  Rory straightened as the words hung uneasily between us. “Hey, see you around, right?” He turned on his heel and left the room before I could say anything.

  An all-too-familiar sensation of being trapped descended on me as I returned to the parking lot. First Shepherd’s comments about how Rory felt, and now this interchange. Rory’s words and actions hemmed me into a relationship I wasn’t ready for. He was a friend, nothing more.

  I rolled down a window to smell the air on the drive back to Mingus, but the magic had disappeared like yesterday’s snow. Cradled in the steel cocoon of the SUV without the heart-thumping vibrations and the throaty roar of the motorcycle engine between my legs, I felt half alive, isolated from the world around me.

  The digital thermometer on the dash showed fifty-nine degrees and climbing as I approached Mingus. The roadside ditches contained rapidly shrinking puddles of melt, and only patches of snow remained in the hill shadows. The parched air sucked up the remaining damp, leaving behind possible fuel for late season fires. Feast or famine, our high desert partnership with water.

  I shook my feeling of loneliness and turned into HT’s driveway. It was near lunchtime, and I craved a connection to family. I found it, but not in the form I was expecting.

  Vunerable Jugular

  30

  ISABEL YELLED SOMETHING about tracking dirt into her kitchen and HT hollered in something in response. They were fighting.

  I waited for a break in the action and knocked.

  “Come in!” HT shouted.

  He sat at the kitchen table, unlacing his work boots. “Sorry, Isabel, I just never thought.”

  “That’s the problem. You never think before you come tromping through here with those boots.” Isabel’s dark eyes snapped with irritation. “I just cleaned this floor.”

  Clearly in the wrong, and ready for lunch, he tried to make amends. “It’s not that dirty. Here, look.” He swept an offending clod of dirt under his chair with one big hand.

  Was this what a committed relationship was all about, this bickering? If so, I was glad that Rory Stevens and I were not going there anytim
e soon. I grabbed the offending footwear and chunked them outside the door. I hated conflict, and I was hungry, too. Did I smell a tamale pie fresh out of the oven?

  “Peg!” Isabel rushed over to hug me. “What am I going to do with this grandfather of yours? Here, sit. I’ll fix you some lunch. You can stay, yes?”

  The argument over, HT and Isabel quietly bantered back and forth, including me in their conversation. Isabel set a place for me and heaped a portion of tamale pie on my plate. I poured ice tea for myself and the two of them, and she said grace before we began. I dipped a sopapilla in honey and swallowed the morsel, feeling the warmth of their love. The ice in my veins thawed just a little.

  Isabel touched my cheek. “After that baby yesterday—You doing okay?”

  At her gentleness, unexpected tears blurred my vision. I wished I could share my great new experiences with my mother, and that would not happen, ever again. I squeezed Isabel’s hand, accepting her concern.

  “I’m fine. Glad to be here.” I was. At the same time, I worried about emotions too close to the surface. That wasn’t safe, especially for a cop.

  ***

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON I arrived at Dr. Westcott's office for my counseling appointment. The bench outside her office door was vacant and I sat down to contemplate my sins, of which there were many. None that I planned to share with her. I breathed in and out, trying to practice Shepherd’s Zen.

  Dr. Westcott opened the door and broke into my reverie. “Peg, welcome. I'm ready for you.”

  Her office looked just the way it had last week, only larger because Janny and Aurora’s energy wasn’t there. I took a seat on the couch instead of my usual hard chair to show the therapist how calm I was.

  Dr. Westcott smiled. “How is little Aurora doing?”

  “Better. Talking a little, drawing. Some of the scary memories are coming back, but she's able to share them now, thanks to you.”

  “Glad to hear it. Be sure to ask Janny to bring her back in if she feels it could help. I left a message, but she hasn't returned it.”

  Not surprising, knowing Janny. She had the same distrust for authority that I had. Funny that I became a cop with all that bottled up inside me.

  It was time to get down to business. I looked directly at Dr. Westcott. “How does this go? Want me to talk about my problems?”

  “You have problems?”

  I backtracked rapidly. “No, no problems, I'm fine. No flashbacks, no nightmares. I'm completely recovered.”

  “Is that so?” She examined me closely.

  Was I telling the truth? Maybe shading it a little. But the recent events had overshadowed the death that I had caused. It seemed to have happened to someone else, a long time ago. “I'd do it again, if I had to. That's my job, what I was trained for.”

  Choosing to perch on this too-soft couch was a mistake. I jammed a pillow behind me, wiggling uneasily. I looked at the clock. Only thirty more minutes to go. I could do this thing.

  She went for the jugular. “Is this the right job for you, Peg?”

  What a strange question. Of course, it was. Or was it? I took a risk and shared what I held locked inside me. “Sometimes I'm confused. I see the law and it's supposed to be black or white, good guys or criminals. But a lot of people straddle that line, and sometimes step over. Dishonest cops, good bad-guys.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Dishonest cops? I’m sure there are a few.” Cyrus Marsh, the deputy I’d replaced in Mingus might fit that category.

  I thought a bit more. “Bad guys that I like? Yes, some.” Nigglieri in Phoenix might fit that category. I didn’t like him, exactly, but respected the man’s implacable strength. “It's not always as easy as the training manuals tell you.”

  “No, it's not,” Dr. Westcott agreed and went on to her next question. “What would you do, if you had to deal with a similar crisis situation in the future?”

  In a deadly weapon confrontation, there was only one possible response. “Neutralize the guilty, protect the innocent.”

  “What if you can't tell the difference between the two?”

  “Then maybe it's time for me to step down and take up needlework.” I made a joke of it, but leaving the force was something I thought about late at night. Maybe other cops did, too. Maybe Shepherd did.

  “Perhaps that doubt makes you human,” the therapist suggested.

  What did she want me to say? That I regretted what happened? A blush started at my collarbone and rose. My breath came and went in short jerks.

  “Slow, Peg. Breathe. Let it happen.”

  Let what happen? I was fine, just fine. And then suddenly I wasn’t.

  I started to sob. And then howl. The tears dribbled down my cheeks and off my chin. Suddenly the tissue box was there in my hand and I grabbed a couple, stabbed at my offending eyes. And then started wailing again, my whole body shaking with the effort.

  Ten minutes later, it was over. My breathing evened out and the room spun back into view. I felt lighter, as though a heavy pack had been lifted from aching shoulders.

  Dr. Westcott reached behind her for a paper on her desk. She scribbled her signature at the bottom and handed it to me. “Give this to your commanding officer. You're cleared for regular duty.”

  She looked at me with searching eyes. “You did good work, today, Pegasus. But when the time comes that those questions need re-examining, call me. You’ve got my number.” Again she gave that musical giggle. It was so out of place with a professional demeanor, but so much a part of who she was, totally unselfconscious and at peace with herself. In the career I’d chosen, I couldn’t afford to be that free. Maybe that was a good thing.

  I left clutching the precious paper. I drove to the sheriff's department in Camp Verde to retrieve my Glock. Get Shepherd off my back, do the job I was paid to do. My mind settled back into a comfortable law enforcement mode as I planned my next actions.

  But Dr. Westcott's question echoed in my mind: “What if you can't tell the difference between the innocent and the guilty?” Was I doing that with the Nettle clan, turning a blind eye to a killer that still roamed free?

  ***

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed quietly. The air got warmer and drier, but the forest service proscribed burns clouded our blue skies. Howard was still camping at Dead Horse Ranch State Park, but I imagined he’d be going back to Phoenix soon. Couldn’t keep Pietra waiting forever. Darbie and baby were doing fine in the hospital—The doctors kept mother and child a few extra days because of the circumstances of birth.

  Shepherd went back to working his crossword puzzles and I pounded the streets giving out traffic tickets and catching speeders. At least my old friend Glock was strapped nice and heavy at my waist. But always, the unsolved murder of Cal Nettle haunted over us.

  Then one morning I arrived at the station to find both Ben and Shepherd wearing glum faces. “What happened? Your favorite football team lose?” I asked.

  As one, they replied, “Sheryl left last night.”

  “And she took Fluffy,” Shepherd added. “Going back to live with her mom. Says it's too boring out here.”

  I patted Shepherd’s arm. “You'll survive. Be glad you had the economy tour and not the round-the-world extended cruise.”

  I turned to Ben. “And there's always Ashley.”

  He brightened considerably.

  “Shepherd, Sheryl’s growing into an independent woman, like you want her to be. Keep your door open—she'll be back.”

  “Probably so,” he admitted. He pulled out his keys. “Need to do a patrol of the shopping district this morning. Want to ride along?”

  Whereas I did foot patrol, Shepherd always chose the vehicle. He claimed it gave him a perspective on the town from the higher viewpoint. I said he was getting old, didn’t like to climb the hills with his bad leg. Maybe both of us were right.

  He cruised slowly down Main Street, made the turn onto Hull, then the sharp hairpin going the other direction, his eyes
watchful. Finally, he pulled into a parking space in front of the First National Bank. I waited for him to open the door, but he just sat there. “Situation I want to check out,” he said. “Wait a bit.”

  Fine with me. I settled back in my seat, watching the town opening up for business. Moms and dads shivering in their late summer wear, adjusting to our mountain heights. Little kids racing ahead in T-shirts and shorts, ignoring the morning cold.

  “Got some local news for you.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Nettle family’s copy of Cal’s Last Will and Testament has been withdrawn. Darbie's version has been admitted to probate. Ruby Mae’s the executor.”

  Maybe that was the unspoken agreement I had witnessed at the hospital. In a way, it healed the chasm between the two families. “Smart move. Ruby Mae can sell the property on her own terms, make sure the price is right for the kids. Don't know as her and Darbie will ever be friends, but they've got that common bond of Cal's new daughter. Ruby Mae won't let go of that.”

  A car raced up the street, about ten miles over the speed limit. It would be gone before we could pull out, and Shepherd let it pass. “Cal knew he was dying. Wonder if he hoped that healing between the two women would happen?”

  “Could be,” I said, “but I doubt he knew the baby would be born in the judge's chamber. And Cal didn't have to die like he did.”

  Shepherd didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move on, so I reviewed the progress, such as it was, in the murder investigation. “I could visit the snitch Sally Ann again, but since Janny moved back home, not much is new there. I've re-interviewed all of Darbie's neighbors, but they didn't see or hear anything other than visits by Howard and Cal, and of course, Otis snooping around.”

  “Think he was your mystery caller the other night?”