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

  Table of Contents

  BLOOD IN TAVASCI MARSH

  Dedication

  Other Books by Lakota Grace

  Peg Meets the Ostrich 1

  Dead Body in the Swamp 2

  Underwater Recovery 3

  Death Notification 4

  Cal's Other Wife 5

  Beaten Biscuits 6

  Chapter 7

  Caught in the Bear Trap 8

  Emergency Room 9

  Encounter with a Wild Cat 10

  Planning the Funeral 11

  Fight with a SEAL 12

  Mistress meets Wife 13

  Mob Intervention 14

  Buffaloed by the Counselor 15

  Sally Ann the Snitch 16

  Explosion at the Still 17

  Darbie gets Protection 18

  Confession 19

  Pietra Leaves 20

  Two Dates Spell Trouble 21

  Halloween Dance 22

  Shepherd's Daughter 23

  Aurora Remembers 24

  Drawings tell a Tale 25

  A Failed Bribe 26

  Will Contest 27

  A New Life 28

  Threats 29

  Vunerable Jugular 30

  Death in the Marsh 31

  Yellow Barrier Tape 32

  Photos for Big Al 33

  Sneak Preview of FIRE IN BROKEN WATER

  OTHER PEGASUS QUINCY MYSTERIES

  Author Note to Readers

  BLOOD IN TAVASCI MARSH

  by Lakota Grace

  Version 1.0 – September, 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Lakota Grace

  Discover other titles by Lakota Grace at LakotaGrace.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  DEDICATION

  To the dog who captured my heart

  Other Books by Lakota Grace

  PEGASUS QUINCY MYSTERY SERIES

  Death in Copper Town

  Blood in Tavasci Marsh

  Fire in Broken Water

  Peril in Silver Nightshade

  Silence in West Fork

  Peg Meets the Ostrich

  1

  I WASN'T LOOKING FOR TROUBLE my first day back after mandatory leave for use of deadly force. I hadn't expected to kill a man in the line of duty either, which is what got me the leave.

  My name is Pegasus Quincy—Peg to my friends and enemies, of which I have a few in both camps. I'm a recent police academy graduate in this small mining-turned-tourist town. Once the third-largest city in Arizona during the copper boom, Mingus now boasted a population of four hundred good souls including two sheriff’s deputies: Shepherd Malone and the rookie, me.

  Although I didn’t feel so rookie now after the shooting of that psychotic man. I worked through it the best I could, day by day.

  Shepherd didn’t make it any easier, having assumed the role of chief boss-and-advice-giver the minute he transferred in to replace me during the mandatory leave. He’d been sending me regular phone calls and text messages, most of which I’d ignored.

  So that’s why this morning when the young man parked his restored Trans-Am in front of our office and walked in, I knew I had a choice. I could either hide behind the do-nothing assignments that my new partner had relegated me to, or I could deal with this guy’s problem.

  I dealt.

  “Have a seat,” I told the Trans-Am driver as he entered the front door. On closer inspection, I’d put his age at mid-20s, a little younger than me. “How can I help you?”

  He gave me a woeful smile and settled into a chair in front of my desk. “My name is Howard Nettle. I used to live in these parts until a few years ago.” His light brown hair needed a cut and his pale blue eyes peered at me earnestly.

  He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a business card. Turning it so that the name faced me, he presented it. “I'm the manager and co-owner of Big Al's Used Cars in Phoenix. You've heard of us?”

  Phoenix was about two hours’ drive and a world removed from our small mountain town. “Can't say as I have.”

  “I'm the guy that rides that ostrich onto the car lot and says, 'Hey, have we got a deal for you.' You know, the TV commercial?”

  I didn't watch television, but anybody who'd ride an ostrich deserved consideration. “Oh, that Howard Nettle. What brings you to Mingus?”

  “My father is missing—at least I think he is.”

  I got out my notebook and started writing. “And your father is?”

  “Calhoun Nettle, Cal for short. He lives over by Tavasci Marsh, outside of Clarkdale.”

  “And you think he’s missing because?”

  “I wrote a letter inviting him to go deer hunting with my stepson and me. But when Daddy didn't answer my letter, I drove up to check on him. I don't think he’s at the house.”

  Howard had reverted to the old Southern habit of referring to his father as Daddy. I could still catch a bit of twang in his voice. But his assumption that something was wrong made me pause. “Why didn't you just call him?”

  “It's complicated. The home phone blocks my calls. And when I drove out to the place, Momma ran me off with a shotgun.”

  He looked about ten years old, woebegone at being banished. But I’d heard this “ah shucks” line before. There was something more going on beneath the surface. “I’m not sure this is a police matter, Mr. Nettle, unless you feel there’s been foul play.”

  “Call me Howard.” Intertwining slender fingers, he leaned forward. “Look, here's the story. I moved down to Phoenix where I started work at the car dealership. One thing led to another, and I asked Pietra—she's Big Al's daughter—to marry me.”

  All kinds of family. I wondered if the ostrich was related. “Go on.”

  “I'd lost touch with my folks at that point, so I didn't see any reason to ask them to the ceremony—they’re plain country folk, you understand—wouldn’t fit in. And we lost touch after that. It's been almost four years since I've been back here to the Verde Valley. I was hoping this visit might be a way to bridge that silence.”

  He’d made a choice, putting his new family before his old one, and reaped the consequences. I didn’t consider selling used cars as a high-status job, but maybe it was to him. I wasn’t the one to judge. I was from hill country, and I didn’t respect people like Howard who put status before family. But not talking to a son for four years seemed extreme, even for that slight. “And you want us to do what?”

  “Well, I thought maybe you could phone my sister Janny and find out what's going on. You're a woman and all. Maybe she'd talk to you.”

  I rolled my eyes at the “woman” comment. “Why don't you call your sister?”

  Howard Nettle looked unhappy. “Momma ordered Janny not to speak to me, and my sister won't cross that line.” He dug in his wallet, fished out a dirty slip of paper and handed it to me.

  The paper had been unfolded and refolded so many times it had turned soft and frayed along the creases. The faint lettering said “Janny” and gave an address and phone number in Cottonwood, a small town down the mountain from Mingus.

  I tried to return the scrap of paper, but Howard pushed my h
and away. “I've got to get back to Phoenix. Big Al wants me on the lot. Gotta sell those cars, you know?” He gave me a sorrowful look. “Please, will you help?”

  His request raised all sorts of red flags—why was he coming to a police station for an intervention he should handle himself? And why was I even considering a proposal that might overstep my authority?

  Yet his plea for understanding resonated. I had recent experience of working under someone like Howard’s overbearing father-in-law. Maybe that's why I agreed to call Howard’s sister even though it was outside the bounds of normal police activity. What could it hurt?

  Howard bumped into my partner on his way out of the station. As the door slammed, Shepherd inclined his head toward his office. “Quincy, when you’re free, in here.” It wasn't a suggestion.

  “What was that all about?” He gestured toward the door.

  “Man says his father is missing. Wants us to investigate.”

  “Did he file a complaint?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Well if he didn’t file the proper paperwork, we can’t help him.” His tone was dismissive.

  Shepherd had been transferred to this outpost of the Anasazi County sheriff’s office when I was on mandatory leave. Now instead of my being the sole cop here in Mingus, there were two of us. And Shepherd didn’t let me forget who was senior. His gruff voice and ramrod-straight back matched his rule book view on life.

  I sat in front of the desk that used to be my desk and moved a chunk of obsidian Shepherd had placed there. He shifted it back to its previous location.

  “First day back on the job,” he said, “and you think you can make all the decisions and break all the rules. Things like that get people shot. But I guess you know that.” He leaned back in the chair and interlaced fingers over a gut that strained his shirt buttons. “We need to understand each other. I wasn't there and I don't know what happened when you shot that man. But I've been on the force thirty years and I've never had to use my firearm.”

  How do you answer that one? After the shooting, I’d broken down a few times—always when no one was around. Then I settled into a brittle who-gives-a-damn attitude, ignoring the sleepless nights. It would pass.

  “I have a few months left until retirement and I want them to be peaceful ones.” Shepherd gave me a wintry smile. “I took this assignment as a favor to the sheriff. He wasn't too happy with the way things were going up here, and frankly, neither am I.”

  In my defense, they weren't here when that man was killed. I was.

  “You made an appointment to see the counselor yet?” he asked.

  I brushed an errant hair back into the long braid I wore down my back. “Not yet.” Counseling was mandatory before I could get my Glock back, but I didn’t want to go down that road. I was fine.

  “See that you do before the day is over.”

  I’m six feet tall with red hair. When I get upset, even a little irritated, heat starts to rise under my freckles like mercury in an old-fashioned thermometer. I turned my chair so Shepherd wouldn’t notice the steam.

  He wasn’t finished. “Since you haven't been cleared to use firearms yet, I want you on foot patrol. You know how to write parking tickets?”

  “I’ve done a few.” Not, I’m sure, as many as he had.

  “Why don’t you write a few more,” he ordered. “Don't forget to make that counselor's appointment.” He flipped open a crossword puzzle book and picked up a pencil.

  ***

  Late that afternoon I sat in my office and my mind returned to Howard Nettle. I reached in my back pocket for his sister's number and pulled out the counselor's card instead. I hoped she was gone and I could simply leave a message. That would satisfy Shepherd and put off the inevitable for a while longer. I needed my Glock back, but I wasn’t in a hurry to spill my guts to some stranger.

  Unfortunately, she answered on the first ring, with a voice low and cultured, a bit of British in the vowels. I pictured a dignified older lady with sterling gray hair, a stout figure, sensible shoes.

  I introduced myself and asked for an appointment. She didn’t seem impressed with my statement that I killed a man. She had an appointment the next day, in fact. I took it.

  I'd handled worse in my life than some Brit lady-doctor. I'd just agree with whatever she suggested, mouth a few mea culpas, and get on with my life. A weapon on my hip would contribute greatly to a positive state of mind. I felt naked without it.

  The call to Janny Nettle, Howard’s sister, was easier because I slipped back into professional mode where I knew all the answers. She seemed hesitant to talk about her brother over the phone, but agreed to meet me after her shift ended that afternoon at the Dollar Store in Clarkdale.

  The Verde Valley was populated with small towns. Mingus, on the mountain, had been the mining community. Clarkdale, at the base of the range, had housed the smelter for the copper. It in turn merged into Cottonwood, where farmers produced the beef and produce to feed both. The last still had a great farmers market in the summer.

  In the good old days, I would have driven an official vehicle to meet Janny Nettle. But I’d totaled the town’s sole squad car chasing the man I had killed. During my mandatory leave, Shepherd appropriated the replacement SUV.

  I walked down the steep hill to my grandfather’s house to borrow his pickup truck. He wasn’t home, but the keys were right there under the floorboard. Half the town knew that. He didn’t lock his house, either. This was Mingus, he said. We don’t lock things up here. Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t.

  ***

  The discount store edged one of the roundabouts punctuating the road from Clarkdale to Cottonwood. More than a dozen traffic circles had been built around the valley before the city fathers listened to the voice of moderation. The circles did prevent head-ons and T-bone accidents, for which I was grateful. But local drivers cursed the tourists who negotiated the roundabouts at a crawl, stopping at every traffic entrance.

  I pulled into an open parking spot with a Ready Ice machine to the left, a soda machine and a video rental box to the right. Video streaming had sounded the death knell of the video stores in the valley, and we were left with this poor imitation of a movie rental opportunity. A poster on the store window advertised cheap cigarettes. It was next to one for a gallon of milk, both apparently life essentials in the eyes of the establishment.

  Janny Nettle gave me a wave when I entered the Dollar Store, probably recognizing me because of the uniform. She looked to be older than Howard, maybe in her early thirties with a feminine version of his snub nose. She smiled at one customer, complimented another’s finds, and checked out a third with efficient ease. I wandered around until she finished with her customers.

  I roamed the aisles looking for bargains. It shouldn’t be called a “dollar” store, though. For every $1 sign, I saw lots of $2 and $3 placards.

  When I turned the corner, a little girl about seven blocked the aisle while deciding on a purchase. Her brown hair hung down in tangles, and she carried one hand in the pocket of her overlong jumper. She finally settled for a glittering princess tiara and marched up to the front, prize in hand. I followed her.

  Janny gave her a big hug. “Find something you liked, honey?” The little girl nodded and clutched her tiara to her chest after Janny checked it through. Then Janny turned to me and held out her hand. “Sorry. One of our clerks didn't show, and I had to work a second shift.”

  She gave her little girl a pat. “Aurora, meet Officer Quincy.” Aurora retreated behind her mother’s back and peeked out at me. Janny had a harried look on her face. “I hate to ask you this, Officer, but might you give us a ride home? My car’s got a flat. I hitched a ride to work, but now I need to get Aurora home.”

  I had empathy. I was driving my grandfather’s borrowed wheels, myself. “Not a problem.”

  “Thanks! Give me a minute to check out. Watch Aurora for me, will you?”

  Whether it was small-town trust or the fact
that I was wearing a uniform, the little girl accepted her mother’s direction and followed me out of the store. She planted her tiny body next to my big frame on the curb. Then she awkwardly unwrapped the tiara and jammed it firmly on her head. The fingers that had been hidden in her pocket were deformed and a puckered scar ran down her right forearm.

  She'd brought a notebook and pencil with her, and drew with her left hand, quick sketches of the people coming in and out of the store, capturing the action with line gestures.

  Janny joined us a few minutes later and we climbed into the pickup for the short drive to her apartment. Janny fumbled in her purse and pulled out an inhaler. She breathed in deeply, then capped the inhaler and returned it to her purse. She leaned back against the bench seat and closed her eyes.

  When we pulled into the apartment parking lot, I reached over and touched her shoulder. “We're here.”

  She yawned and opened her eyes. “Must have drifted off. My apartment’s on the second floor.” She gathered her things and lifted Aurora out of the truck.

  The rundown apartment complex contained four units up and four down. A symphony of old Kenmores clunked away in a vacant laundry room in front of us, the door wide open. Trusting tenants. I lost more than one good bra to laundry room gremlins.

  When we approached the steps, a skinny gray-haired woman wearing a pink CSI-Las Vegas sweatshirt waved from a bench. She had the sunken cheeks of a meth addict, a sad reality of small-town life. With a lack of the drug enforcement resources of a big city, we fought with drug addiction and meth labs on a too-regular basis. The woman’s smile lacked a few teeth, but her eyes were bright as she peered at us.

  “Pay her no mind,” Janny said. “That’s just the resident snoop.”

  Every apartment complex had one. Those folks with too much time on their hands who used it to pry into lives more interesting than their own.

  Once in the apartment, Janny brushed a jumble of unfolded clothes off the small couch so I could sit while she took the little girl into the other room to get her ready for bed. The apartment was maybe two hundred feet square, if that.