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

by Lakota Grace

  “Could be. If he calls again when I'm more awake I'll try to find out.”

  “Case getting pretty cold at this point,” Shepherd admitted, “but keep working on it. I'm still thinking the answer is right out there with Ruby Mae's beaten biscuits. Family members are always the likeliest candidates in a murder case.”

  He jerked upright. “There. See that?”

  A young kid picking pockets, right under our noses. “Yours or mine?” I asked.

  He gestured magnanimously, and I piled out of the cruiser. By the time I rounded the corner, the boy had disappeared, and I jogged back to the car, breathing heavy.

  “Lost him,” I said, climbing into the car. “Kid’s fast.”

  “Maybe you just need a better perspective on the situation,” Shepherd commented. “I’ll visit his parents tonight when they get home from work. Find out why little Jimmy Hackett ain’t in school instead of out here giving us problems.” He cranked up the engine, checked his rear view mirror, and pulled into traffic.

  As we drove into the station parking lot, I said, “I'll be gone this afternoon. Looking for a new place to live.”

  “Apartment not suiting you?”

  “Too small. Might be getting a dog.”

  “One of Ethan's pups? Be good for you. Thinking of doing something like that myself. Quiet around my house without Fluffy there. I checked at the animal shelter. Maybe I'll be a foster mom.”

  “What? You don't quite fit the image of a stay-at-home mom.”

  He gave me the finger. “They're looking for somebody to help with the pregnant cats. Assist the birth of the kittens and then return the whole litter for adoption when they're old enough. Be something I can do short-term.”

  “Still looking ahead to retirement? What you going to do, Shepherd?”

  “Don’t know. I've worked all my life. It's worrisome,” he admitted. “I’ll figure something out. I can always compose crossword puzzles.” He gave me a wry smile. “Keep your cell phone close. We’ve had some Otis sightings in town, but nothing definite. Be careful.”

  “Agreed.”

  After lunch, Ben and Shepherd left to go motorcycle riding. I was glad to see them depart. It would take both their minds off Sheryl's departure.

  After they left, the Crime Lab technician called. “Sorry we didn't get back to you sooner on that murder weapon—we’ve been running some tests.”

  “Was it the battling board?”

  “That what it’s called? No fingerprints, it had been in the water too long. A dead end, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that red oak stick didn’t fit the indentation at all. But we took a plaster cast of the wound before we released the body…”

  “What do you think caused the death blow?”

  “Well, the weapon was oak, all right. We found some fibers in the wound. But white oak, not red. And weathered, like it had been out in the rain too many nights. Maybe a four-by-four.”

  The loose railing on the Nettle porch! It had been there right in front of me the whole time and I didn't see it.

  I gave a hasty thank you to the tech guy and hung up. I wanted a closer look at Ruby Mae’s porch, and I wanted it right now.

  The office phone rang again. I hesitated. The ringing stopped. Good, maybe they’d just leave a message. Then it started again as though somebody had an urgent call. I jerked up the receiver. “Peg Quincy, sheriff’s office.”

  “Took your sweet time, deputy.”

  I recognized the raspy, oily voice immediately. My midnight caller was back. “What you want, Otis?”

  A throaty chuckle. “Thought you recognized me. I know who killed Cal Nettle. You interested?”

  “Come in and let's talk.”

  “No, you come here. To the still. Come soon, or I’ll be gone and you’ll never know who did it.” He hung up.

  I dialed Shepherd’s cell, but no answer. He was probably swooping through one of those tight mountain curves out of cell phone coverage.

  Hindsight says I should have called for backup, waited for reinforcements. But this was my district now. I grabbed the keys and ran out the door. The light bar flashed blue fire as the SUV accelerated down the hill. Tavasci Marsh and Otis Stroud waited for me.

  Death in the Marsh

  31

  WHEN I REACHED the Nettle home place, the sun had gone behind Black Mountain, throwing dark shadows across the rough landscape. I halted in the drive, anticipating the rush of coonhounds, but the yard was silent. Opening the door of the SUV, I hailed the house. “Ethan, Ruby Mae, anyone home?”

  A blue jay screeched on the hill and a raven high in a yellow pine cawed in response. I touched the Glock for reassurance and jogged past the barn down the quarter mile to the whiskey still, squelching through puddles of pungent marsh water.

  Otis waited for me, squatting on his haunches by the reassembled whiskey still machinery. He rose as I drew near. “Out of breath, deputy? Want a drink?” He saluted me with the jug in his hand.

  “Don't do anything drastic, Otis. Just want to talk, that's all.”

  “I'm here. Talk.” He took a drink and dropped the jug to the ground.

  I leaned against a juniper snag to slow my breathing. My hand touched the holster at my side. Hearing a sound, I glanced behind me. It was the opening that Otis needed.

  “Throw that gun over here.”

  I looked back to see two barrels of a sawed-off shotgun pointed my direction. Would Otis use it? I calculated my draw time. He'd probably beat me, and his look said he wouldn’t hesitate.

  I lay my Glock on the ground.

  “Now kick it over here.”

  I did, scanning the marshlands behind him for any chance of assistance. Saw none. Might as well ride it through to see what happened.

  Otis picked up the Glock and stuffed it in his waistband. Then he pulled some zip ties from his pocket.

  “Turn around, deputy, and get on your knees. Let's do this proper.” He bound my arms behind me, yanked them tight. “Now you know how it feels, being tied like a steer.” He gestured derisively. “Swamp's right there. Swim if you want to, won't stop you.”

  Stubbornly, I didn't quit, couldn't quit. I needed answers. “How’d you know my name when you called?” I asked. “That took me back some.”

  Otis leaned against the still and chuckled. “Your office personnel files.”

  He took in my puzzled expression and explained. “The guy you took over from there in Mingus?”

  “Cyrus Marsh.”

  “I delivered a payoff of hooch to him every Saturday after midnight. He gave me a key to the office so he didn’t have to wait up. You could say I’ve been visiting after hours. Followed your whole investigation on Cal Nettle, step by step. By the way, your note taking could use some improvement. Doesn’t match up to Shepherd’s.”

  Otis was loquacious, but not drunk enough on the white lightning to lose focus. Still, if I found a way to deflect his attention, there might still be a chance.

  My fingers grew numb against the flex ties, but my mind moved with increasing speed. What had Shepherd said about the first accident, something about Lucas and Darbie? Maybe the still explosion and Cal Nettle’s death fit together, somehow. This man would know.

  “Otis, you called me out here to talk. So start at the beginning. What happened at the fire when Lucas died? Why weren’t you there watching the whiskey still that night?”

  “Long time ago. Doesn’t fit here.”

  “Lucas steal your girl?” I taunted him. “That why you abandoned him?”

  “Didn’t abandon anyone. Lucas’s own damn fault he got killed.” His eyes focused on me. “Not so fast, deputy. I want a guarantee of safe passage out of here. Tired of running.”

  “Done.” I was lying, but worth the try. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “What the hell. You’re not leaving here anyway.” He squatted down beside me, fixed me with that malevolent stare. “All right, it was me. I fixed tho
se valves so they’d blow. Just wanted to back Lucas off a bit, teach him a lesson. If he'd been watching the machinery instead of payin’ attention to that damn brat, he would’ve noticed the pressure was rising.”

  “Why’d Lucas need a lesson? Darbie Granger prefer him over you?”

  “You shut up! Darbie wasn’t for the likes of him. She was mine. Lucas didn't listen. He never listened.”

  I remembered the neighbor of Darbie and his story about the Wolverine. Otis considered Darbie his. He’d been crazy-obsessed over those brilliant green eyes.

  “You kill Cal Nettle, too?” I asked. “Be good reason to: He took your truck, he got Darbie pregnant.”

  Otis’s eyes wavered. “Don't know if you'll believe me, but here's the truth. The kids did it.”

  “The kids?”

  “Howard, Janny, Ethan—three of 'em together. Saw them dumping Cal in the swamp, right over there.”

  “You liar!” Ethan exploded from the path behind me.

  Howard was close behind him. “Peg, are you all right? Ethan and I saw your SUV, but not you. Figured you might be out here.”

  “Stay back,” I warned. “Otis is serious about that shotgun.”

  “That’s right, boys. Have two weapons, in fact, thanks to Ms. Quincy, here.” Otis waved the shotgun in a purposeful arc. “This ain’t your fight.”

  “We didn't kill Daddy,” Ethan protested. “It was an accident. That’s what you told me, Otis. Daddy was drinking, tripped over my dog Reckless, and hit his head on the porch rail.”

  “Sure he did,” Otis mocked him. “And here’s the rest of the story. I sat there, watched him bleed. Pushed that little Elvis pillow against his face to be sure he wasn’t coming back. The man was after Darbie, taking my truck to do his courting. Couldn’t have that, now could I?” He dropped the shotgun and drew my gun. Weaving back and forth on unsteady legs, he tried to keep us all covered.

  “You let Daddy die!” Ethan screamed, darting for the man.

  I scrambled to my feet, arms still caught behind me. The situation was about to explode—I had to stop it if I could.

  But Howard pushed Ethan to one side. “No, brother, this one’s mine.” He grabbed at Otis, his face contorted with rage. “You’re not going to hurt Darbie anymore!”

  His shoulder slammed Otis in the chest, and the man grunted. They staggered backward toward the marsh, locked in a tight embrace. Otis broke free and jabbed the heel of his hand into Howard’s face. There was a sickening thud of bone against flesh.

  Howard clawed back at his uncle’s eyes. Otis screamed and retreated, his heel sinking into the mud. He brought up the pistol to hit Howard and the two men struggled for possession of it. A shot rang out and Otis spun backward. He landed face down in the shallow water of the swamp.

  I took a step toward them and tripped. My forehead hit a rock, hard, as I landed. Ethan planted a foot in the middle of my back, pinning me to the earth.

  There was muffled splashing, and then the voice above me said, “Leave be, Howard. He’s gone.”

  I lost consciousness.

  Yellow Barrier Tape

  32

  WHEN I AWOKE, my hands were free, but I was alone. Alone, except for the body of Otis Stroud, floating face down in the dank water near the bank.

  I staggered into the murk and pulled Otis to shore. Then I turned him over and tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. How long does it take a man to drown? Four minutes? I’d been out for that, and more.

  Would he have lived if someone had turned him so that he could breathe, as I had done for Shepherd when he caught his leg in the bear trap? I would never know. Otis Stroud was dead.

  I called the sheriff’s department for assistance. Once more, I stood watch over a dead body in Tavasci Marsh. My head ached and I was shivering uncontrollably when the first officers arrived on the scene.

  The yellow barrier tape marked Tavasci Marsh, garish against the fall hues of the cat tails and swamp reeds. After the coroner pronounced the death, they loaded what remained of Otis Stroud onto a stretcher board and started the hike down the path to the house. Further inquiry would follow. It always did.

  I left the forensic team gathering evidence and walked back toward the Nettle homestead. The silence of the marsh enveloped me. A red-winged blackbird called and a frog splashed in the water as I traced the uneven path out of the marshy land. My legs were shaky and my throat tight. I stumbled and slowed to steady myself.

  Shepherd waited at the edge of the marsh. “Nasty bump on your forehead, Peg.” He touched my arm briefly. “You need a visit to the emergency room?”

  I shook my head.

  “Let me give you a ride home, then.”

  He helped me into the SUV and Ben followed behind us on his Ducati. Shepherd took the curves and hollows of the dirt road at a slow pace, but I felt each jarring bump of the wheels as they hit the ruts. I closed my eyes to stem tears that this new death in the swamp released.

  Shepherd’s low voice recounted his version of the story. “Ethan came staggering back to the house just as we all arrived. He said he found Otis holding you at gunpoint, that he struggled with Otis and the gun went off. It seems pretty cut and dried. Ethan’ll probably get manslaughter, if that…”

  His droning words formed a comfortable buzz as I leaned my aching head back against the headrest. I’d been vague in my initial statement to the investigating officer, laying the blame on my head wound. Before I signed my official statement, I needed to talk to Ethan Nettle in person.

  And I had to find out where Howard had gone. I might have a concussion, but there was no doubt in my mind I’d had two rescuers tonight in Tavasci Marsh, not one.

  ***

  MY PARTNER SUGGESTED I take a day off to recuperate, and I spent most of it in bed at HT’s house. Isabel fussed over me and I let her. It had been a while since I’d had any true mothering.

  That evening, Shepherd dropped by to check on me. I was basking in the last of the afternoon sun on the porch. I had bundled against the cold, and rocked in the old swing as I tried to comprehend what had happened out there at Tavasci Marsh.

  Shepherd dropped into the porch swing beside me. He awkwardly adjusted the afghan I had pulled around my shoulders. “Figured you might need an update on the town,” he said.

  Not likely. I got an hourly report from Isabel, who mainlined the town grapevine. Just this morning she reported that Ruby Mae turned the coonhounds loose on the paparazzi and threatened to use her shotgun if they didn’t get off her land.

  But partners needed to be humored. “What’s the latest?”

  “You hear that with the forensics on the porch rail, Myra Banks will likely get the death of Cal Nettle deemed an accident? Everybody knew he was a heavy drinker, no question about that. ‘Course the kids shouldn’t have dumped his body in the swamp, but they panicked. Understandable.” Shepherd nodded with satisfaction. He liked tidy endings.

  Who was paying Myra? I didn’t ask but had a good idea.

  As though that ended the matter, Shepherd’s conversation shifted to the mundane happenings at the station, Ben’s problems at school, the traffic bust he made on Ash Street. Conspicuously absent were questions about the death of Otis Stroud, and the whereabouts of the other Nettle brother, Howard.

  “When you coming back?” he asked. “Station’s quiet without you.”

  Closest he’d ever come to admitting he needed me there.

  “Soon.”

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY I arranged to visit Ethan Nettle in the county jail where he was being held pending arraignment in the death of Otis Stroud. The sheriff’s office was hounding me for my official statement and I needed to talk to him first. It was time to straighten matters between us.

  Ethan faced me through the scarred Plexiglas of the visiting room communication window. He picked up his phone and I picked up mine.

  “How you doing, law woman?” He looked tired, strained, in his prison orange.

  “Okay. And y
ou Ethan?”

  He shrugged. “Been better. Miss the dogs.”

  “Family in to see you?”

  He brightened. “Janny brought Aurora. Little kid showed me some of her drawings. Rainbows, trees, houses.”

  Normal seven-year-old drawings. Something good coming out of this then. “Maybe that shrink stuff works,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe. Janny says Aurora’s scheduled for surgery next month. Doc’s putting it on credit. The check’s in the mail.” He forced a laugh at his feeble joke.

  He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the barrier. His voice echoed hollow in the prison phone. “Can I trust you? We’re family, like.”

  I hesitated a minute. “Depends on what you tell me, Ethan. I’m listening.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He started awkwardly. “It’s like this. I’ll never amount to anything, I know that. What does it matter whether I have a prison record or not? Be out soon, anyway, according to Myra.”

  I could see where this was heading. “What about Howard?”

  He cut me off. “My brother has a shot of making something of himself. Might even be a big legislator someday. Jail record would be the end of all that.”

  “But…”

  “Family’s got to stick together. Otis’s death was an accident, that’s all.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “Ethan, you sure you want to do this?”

  In the dim light of the prison conference room, his blue eyes stared through at me. “It’s my life, Peg. Let me live it as I choose.”

  After I left Ethan, I drove out to the campgrounds at Dead Horse Ranch State Park. The Fox cabin was vacant, the door banging in the wind.

  Was Howard a coward, then, letting his brother serve the sentence for his own misdeed? I comforted myself thinking that all actions have consequences. Choosing to return to Big Al’s world might be Howard’s own prison sentence, one that could last a lifetime.

  Photos for Big Al

  33

  AFTER SEVERAL SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, I gave my statement in the case, confirming the fight between Ethan and Otis was self-defense. I chose not to mention Howard’s presence.