Cyanide Wells (16 page)

Sam had been silent, her eyes remote, since she related what her father had told her, and Carly assumed her thoughts were far away, but now she spoke. “My mother used to do house-cleaning for Mr. Payne’s wife. She liked Mrs. Payne, but she said he was one mean son of a bitch. Mom could be pretty mean herself, but Mr. Payne actually scared her. Maybe he scared Ms. Coleman into running away.”

Carly looked at Matt. “Maybe it wasn’t you after all. Maybe Payne and Rawson were the ones watching her. To tell the truth, I felt like somebody was watching me tonight. Maybe one of them, or somebody they hired, really did break into the house.”

She closed her eyes, thinking back to Thursday night. At the dinner table, in front of Natalie, Ard had made her claims, and Carly had cut her off because she could see they were scaring the little girl. Later, in the living room, she and Ard had argued.

“Carly, we’ve got to talk about what’s going on.”

“No, we do not. And I never want you to mention it in front of Nat again. You frightened her.”

“If something’s going on, isn’t it good for her to be aware of it?”

“If the something’s real, yes. But I think you’re on edge and over-reacting.”

“It
is
real, I tell you—”

“I don’t want to discuss it!” “But I have a plan—” “I don’t want to discuss it. What part of that sentence don’t you understand?”

Ard’s face had crumpled at the harsh words, and she began to weep in her eerie, silent way. God, it was unnerving when she did that! Carly would do most anything to get her to stop. So she’d comforted her, and they’d gone up to bed early.

Why didn’t you listen to her, McGuire? Why didn’t you pick up on that single word—“plan”?

Because you stopped really listening to her years ago, when she came home with Natalie, offering excuses for the inexcusable.

“Carly?” Matt said.

She shook her head, returned to the present. “Sorry. I was trying to remember anything that would point to Payne and Rawson as the trigger for Ard’s disappearance. I’m too tired to think logically, I guess.”

“Me, too.” He yawned, glanced at Sam, and asked, “What say we pack it in and grab a few hours of sleep, kiddo?”

Sam looked at her watch. “We better. I’m due at the Chicken Shack at seven. Would you believe that people actually eat Cluck ’n Egg, hash browns, and milkshakes at that hour?”

After Matt and Sam left, Carly shut off the lights and went back up to bed, where she repeatedly shifted position and punched the pillows into ever more uncomfortable shapes. Gracie had disappeared, probably into Nat’s room, so she didn’t even have the cat for company. Finally she got up, thinking to make a fire to warm the chill dawn, but when she set some kindling on the grate, she saw there was an unusual amount of ash, as well as a scrap of paper caught between the grate and the rear wall. She fished it out with the tongs.

It was only a fragment, burned around the edges, bearing a single handwritten line:
mine and I got the right…

What? Whose? And what right?

The penmanship was crude and childlike, which went with the incorrect grammar. But that didn’t necessarily mean the writer was poorly educated; for a variety of reasons, many people had bad handwriting, and she herself, editor of a Pulitzer-winning newspaper, said “I got” upon occasion.

Perhaps this was part of a letter to Ard from Matt, asking her to reconcile. Something to the effect of “You’re mine and I got the right to be with you.” No. That wasn’t his style, and besides, she remembered his bold, well-developed handwriting from his job application.

She set the scrap on the table, curled up in her chair. So much information flooded her mind, and none of it meshed. She’d done some investigative reporting while with the L.A.
Times
, but she’d had a good deal of assistance on those stories, and none had posed such complex—or personal—questions.

Well, she’d just have to tackle them one by one.

Tackling.

It was a word that she’d heard often during the years she lived with her aunt Nancy. Nan’s method of dealing with the world—and she’d elevated it to an art form. No subtlety in her game plan; she merely advanced down whatever field of endeavor she currently was playing on, knocking over all those who opposed her. But like a good lineman, she earned respect from her opponents.

During the four years Carly lived in her aunt’s fashionable Sutton Place apartment while attending Columbia at Nan’s expense, she’d learned quite a bit about tackling.

Business dinners for the rich and occasionally famous, during which Nan overran their objections to investing in lucrative but risky schemes. Elaborate parties designed to separate the elite from large amounts of cash for her favorite charities and political candidates. Long discussions on quiet evenings, when Carly learned that the way most people thought the world operated and the way it actually did were polar opposites. Abrasive arguments between Nan and her many lovers, which she heard through the walls; none of them, even the most powerful, was strong enough to oppose her. Nan tackled constantly: her clients, her friends, her men, Carly herself. And Alan…

On the night that he died during the ice storm, Alan had been in the city visiting Nan—as was Carly, on vacation between her old job in Denver and her new one in Los Angeles. At a dinner party at the apartment, Nan had announced Alan’s appointment to a full partnership in her investment firm. Although visibly stunned, he reacted graciously in the company of the guests, but later that evening, in the privacy of Nan’s study, he turned the position down, berating her for announcing it without consulting him. He had the life he wanted up-state: his family, friends, good work, respect within his small community. Nan railed at him, saying he owed it to her to help carry on the firm while Carly tackled the big issues through her journalistic career. Finally Alan departed in a rage that had surely affected his judgment and led to a fatal mistake while driving.

Even in the depths of her grief, Carly couldn’t completely blame Nan for Alan’s death. But the circumstances under which he died made her question her aunt’s desire to take control of everything and everyone. The move to L.A. proved positive, putting the necessary distance between them, and it wasn’t until a year later, when Nan died of colon cancer, that Carly realized why she’d been so insistent with Alan: She’d known she had limited time left, and was afraid her firm—her own piece of immortality—would die with her unless she positioned her nephew to take over. As, of course, it had. In her will, Nan had stated that she was leaving Carly the bulk of her estate so she might “have the enjoyment in her adult life that was denied her in her childhood.”

Remembering, Carly laughed, the sound loud and bitter in the empty house.

Enjoyment, Nan? Look at your little protégé now. Against her best efforts she’s turned into you. She bullies her employees, buries herself in her work, ignores her friends, gives short shrift to a little girl who needs her attention. But worst of all, she can’t forgive the woman she loves for a mistake she made ten years ago.

I’m you, Nan.

God help me.

A shower and a full carafe of coffee jump-started her day. Nothing to eat—her nervous stomach wouldn’t permit it. She tried not to think of the leisurely weekend breakfasts she, Ard, and Nat had enjoyed. If she were to accomplish anything, she’d have to banish her memories. And tackle.

First, a call to Donna Vail, her foremost staff researcher. For a while before coming to the paper, Donna had worked for Good Connections, a service that put people in touch with those they were looking for: birth parents, adoptees, lost relatives, old loves, school classmates. As a result she had access to various databases the firm had developed. If anybody could identify Noah Estes and pinpoint his current whereabouts, Donna was the one.

“Carly!” Her employee’s voice was warm. “I was just thinking about you guys. We’re having a salmon roast over on the beach near Castle Rock this afternoon, and we’d love it if you could join us.”

“I—we’d love to, but I’m backed up on work. I’m having trouble with a story idea I want to assign to Sev, and I thought you might be able to help me, but if you’re having a party…”

“A potluck, and Dan’s in charge of the salmon. All I have to do is show up. What d’you need?”

“An identification, but all I have is a name—Noah Estes. There’re a lot of Esteses in the county, but the phone book doesn’t list a Noah.”

“So this would be a local guy?”

“I think so.”

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll get back to you.”

Twenty minutes dragged by like hours. Carly considered making more coffee but decided her nerves were bad enough as it was. When the phone finally rang, she snatched it up and heard Vera Craig’s voice.

“Honey, you never called me back. Is everything okay?”

“I…yes, everything’s fine.”

“You sound kinda edgy.”

“I’m expecting a call and—”

“Working on Sunday again? I’m gonna have to talk to you about that. It isn’t good for your relationship or for Natalie.”

“Vera, I’ve got to keep the line open.” She pressed the disconnect button.

Two minutes later the phone rang again. Donna.

“Okay,” she said, “I ran two searches through International Locator. First, a national name sweep. The database contains info on eighty-five to ninety percent of people in the country. There’re two Noah Esteses, one in Vermont, the other in Alabama.”

“Does the database give addresses and phone numbers?”

“It does, but I don’t think you’ll be needing those particular ones. My second search was a national death sweep. Eight Noah Esteses turned up, and one sounds like the guy you’re looking for. Social Security number was issued in California. Born March sixth, eighteen eighty-three. Died November thirtieth, nineteen eighty-one. Zip code for the place he died is Santa Carla’s.”

“That’s probably my man.”

“You need anything else?”

“Your potluck…”

“It’s hours before we have to leave. Here’s a thought: Why don’t you and Ard and Nat join us at the beach? See if you can’t entice that sexy John Crowe to come along, too; I’ve got a single girlfriend I’d like him to meet. If you come, I’ll give you the skinny on Noah Estes then.”

“…Ard and Nat are away this weekend. And, like I said, I’m swamped with work.”

“Well, if you change your mind we’ll be at Schooner Cove. Meantime, I’ll get going on this.”

Carly thanked Donna and ended the call. There was no way she could face a crowd of the Vails’ friends today, many of whom she knew well, and who would be sure to ask after Ard and Nat. But what was she going to do for the rest of the day? Normally on weekends her time was filled with activities, but today stretched endlessly before her.

She could visit Meryl Travis and attempt to draw her out about Mack’s “deliveries.” She could track down Janet Tremaine and question her. She could return Sev Quill’s call and enlist his help. She could run upstairs and pull the covers over her head and scream…

No, McGuire. Tackle.

The doorbell rang. Lindstrom, probably, back to rehash what they’d talked about in the early morning hours. She moved along the hall, grateful that she’d no longer be alone. Opened the door and stared up at Garson Payne.

Payne loomed over her, eyes stony. The scar on his right cheek—a souvenir of a hunting accident, he claimed—stood out in relief against his tan, as it always did when he was angry. He said, “You didn’t return my call, Carly.”

“I didn’t see any reason to.”

He tried to move into the house, but she blocked him, her hip against the doorjamb.

“Inhospitable this morning, aren’t we?”

“My home is not open to you—now or ever.”

“Perhaps you’ll reconsider when you hear what I have to say.”

“Then say it and leave.”

“Very well. Milt Rawson and I have come up with some very disturbing information about Ardis. Old but damaging information. If you’ll allow me to come inside and discuss it with the two of you, I believe it will persuade her to be more reasonable in the matter of the Talbot property.”

In spite of the morning sun washing over her, Carly felt a chill. It could only be one thing. How had they found out?

“Neither Ardis nor I have anything to discuss with you.”

Someone was crossing the footbridge. Payne’s bulk blocked her view.

He said, “Milt and I realize that you and your partner have no reason to like us, but our offer is a good one.”

The footsteps slowed at the end of the bridge. Then they resumed, their sound muted as if their owner had moved off the path and onto the grass.

Carly said, “And since Ardis has rejected your offer numerous times, you’ve now decided to resort to blackmail.”

“That’s a nasty accusation, Carly.”

“And you have a nasty way of doing business.”

“Let’s not trade insults. If we can sit down and discuss the situation rationally—”

Lindstrom’s voice said, “Yes, let’s do that.”

Payne whirled, scowling. “Who the hell are you?”

“A friend of the family. Why are you harassing Ms. McGuire on such a lovely Sunday morning?”

“I was not harassing—”

“Was he?” Matt asked her.

“Yes, he was.”

“Seems to me he’d be better off in church.”

Payne said, “This doesn’t concern you, whoever you are.”

“He’s my new staff photographer, John Crowe,” Carly said. “And a good shot—both with a camera and a forty-five.”

The mayor took a step backward. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Depends on your point of view. I find it hilarious.”

“Then we’ll continue this discussion later, when you’re in a more serious mood.” He turned and set off at a measured pace.

Matt watched him, eyes narrowed. “Was that about the Talbot property again?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this I overheard about blackmail?”

Oh, God. Now
is
the time to go upstairs, pull the covers over my head, and scream.

“Carly?”

“I’m okay.”