Cyanide Wells (20 page)
“And he trusted Ronald Talbot, a lumberman?”
“Definitely. Ronald Talbot was never a proponent of aggressive, destructive logging, or any logging of old-growth forests. He and my grandfather had worked for decades to promote responsible management of our natural resources. And Mr. Talbot was not interested in mining.”
“Why was that important? I thought the veins of ore in that area were played out long ago.”
Mrs. Carpenter looked at her watch, then poured more tea. “Oh, no, dear. There’s a rich vein of gold in that land, one that Wells Mining never discovered and Denver Precious Metals never searched for, since their focus was only on the slag heaps and low-grade veins at the Knob. My grandfather found out about it after he moved onto the property, and he decided it would never be mined—not by him, his descendants, or future owners. Mr. Talbot agreed, and that stipulation was made one of the terms of purchase.”
My God, that’s what Hayward and Rawson are after. That’s what Ard found out.
During a stop at the county hall of records to view the probated wills of the Talbots, Carly learned that while Ronald Senior had stipulated in his bequest to his son that the mineral rights to the Knob property were not to be sold, transferred, or otherwise exploited, Ronnie’s will contained no such provision. Had he ignored or forgotten his father’s agreement with Noah Estes? Had he even known about the gold under the new house he’d built there? And if he had known, would he have cared?
Ronnie had struck Carly as one who, because he’d always had enough money, didn’t give it much thought. And Deke had been so deep into his art that he was oblivious to their finances. The two had lived well, but not extravagantly, and she doubted that knowing they were literally sitting on a potential gold mine would have impressed either of them.
Thoughts of her friends occupied Carly on the drive back to Cyanide Wells. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen them alive. Their annual Fourth of July barbecue? No, it had been canceled the year they were killed—something to do with having to go out of town to attend to Deke’s seriously ill uncle. A dinner party? Perhaps, but there had been so many of them that they all blurred together. Their Memorial Day celebration had also been canceled, but she did remember Ronnie coming over for lunch on a Saturday early in May; Ard had fixed a crab salad, his favorite, but he had a hangover and didn’t eat much. Deke had begged off, saying he needed to finish a painting.
There was one other time, in July, when she’d seen Ronnie alone. He’d appeared at her office unexpectedly on a Wednesday afternoon, when Sev Quill had offered to deliver that week’s issue to the printer, leaving her at unaccustomed leisure. She and Ronnie went to Aram’s Cafe and sat at a table in the backyard garden, drinking wine and talking of small things.
Natalie’s getting so tall…Ard’s roses are wonderful this year, even if the wisteria was disappointing…The rhodos out at the preserve near Deer Harbor were terrific, too…We’ll have to go see them next year…I found a great recipe for Santa Maria barbecue…That would go well with my recipe for pinto beans…Last week’s issue looked good, especially the photo of the mayor that made him look bloated…
At one point Ronnie had held his glass up and squinted at the sunlight playing on the deep red of the merlot. “This is so nice,” he said. “I wish it could go on forever.”
Now she put on her glasses and reached for the notes Donna Vail had left on her desk. She’d asked the reporter to look up two of the items on Ard’s list: CR-92 and moratorium 10/00. Each had continued to elude her, but as a researcher she was easily discouraged; Donna, on the other hand, was tenacious when it came to digging up information. It seemed her efforts had paid off.
Carly—there are hundreds of things that these notations could mean, but the following are the only ones that apply locally.
CR-92: Soledad County Regulation 92, enacted November 11, 1997. Stipulates that new mining may be permitted on privately held property abutting the Eel River National Forest only if mining is currently being conducted on the adjacent 20 square acres within the forest itself. The regulation was designed to prevent blasting and dredging on privately held lands that would harm the ecosystem of the forest. A bill was introduced in the legislature in October 1999 that would have made the regulation invalid, but it was defeated.
Moratorium 10/25/00: moratorium imposed by the Clinton administration on new mining in the Eel River National Forest, to prevent further damage to the ecosystem. Cancelled by Bush administration, 3/20/02. Enviro groups have major concerns about this, as there is renewed interest in the Knob area from two large mining companies. And, of course, it would open up a hell of a lot of privately held acreage abutting it to mining as well.
We really need to do a series on this, Carly. And we really need to designate someone as a reporter on environmental issues. I’m volunteering. This is scary stuff, and I don’t know how we’ve missed it.
Donna
I know how we missed it. I’ve been so busy dealing with my personal problems that I’ve failed to pay attention to the larger issues.
Payne and Rawson started the serious pressure on Ard in March, right after the moratorium was canceled. Did Ard know or suspect their reason?
And if she did, why didn’t she tell me?
“Excuse me, Carly.”
Deputy Shawn Stengel filled up the doorway of her office. The armpits of his brown uniform shirt were sweat-stained, and there was a streak of dirt across his shiny forehead. Not the immaculate image he liked to project.
“Yes, what is it?” She shuffled some papers on the desk, trying to look as if he were interrupting her at an important task.
“I wonder if you’d take a ride over to the substation with me. There’s something I’d like you to see.”
“I’m busy, Shawn. Can’t you just describe it?”
“This won’t take long; I’ll bring you right back.”
Foreboding settled on her as she got to her feet.
She stood by the table in the interview room at the substation, staring down at Natalie’s backpack.
“You dragged me over here to look at this?”
“You recognize it?”
“Of course, from the other day at the well.”
“Not from before?”
“What’s this about?”
“It belongs to Ms. Coleman’s daughter, Natalie. We took it to the school, asked the kids if they knew whose it was. Three of her friends recognized it from this.” He fingered the tear in the outside zipper compartment. “They remembered she was upset when it happened, while she was crawling under a barb-wire fence to take a shortcut.”
Damn.
“You sure you don’t recognize it?”
“I don’t know. I guess it could be Nat’s. I don’t pay all that much attention to her stuff. Something’s in fashion, she’s got it; then it’s out of fashion, and she gets rid of it. Kids…”
“I hear you.” Stengel propped a hip on the table and folded his arms across his barrel chest. “The teacher says Natalie hasn’t been to school this week, and when I stopped by the house, nobody was home.”
“She and Ard…went out of town.”
“During the school year?”
“It’s an educational trip.”
Stengel looked skeptical but didn’t ask where they’d gone. “One other thing, Carly.” He reached for a paper sack he’d carried in from his cruiser and placed it on the table next to the pack. “When I couldn’t reach Ms. Coleman, I decided to search the well where the backpack was found. There were some textbooks buried under the rubble at the bottom. No name in them, but I noticed something in this math workbook.” He flipped its pages and held it out.
A heart with an arrow through it.
Natalie loves Duane.
Well, now we know the kid’s straight.
An absurd thought to pop into her mind at a time like this. She fought off the urge to laugh, knowing she’d sound hysterical. “I don’t understand why those things were buried.”
“Me, either. You going to be talking with Ms. Coleman?”
“Eventually.”
“Will you ask her to ask Natalie about the pack?”
“Of course. I’m as curious as you are.”
“Another thing: the fellow who dragged this up from the well. You know him?”
“Yes, he’s an employee at the paper. John Crowe, my staff photographer. Why?”
“I’d like to talk with him. You have his address?”
“I can give it to you when you take me back to the office. Is that all, Shawn?”
“For now.” He stood. “One thing occurred to me—that this is a prank Natalie’s friends have pulled. You know, steal the pack, throw it down the well.”
“That’s probably what happened.”
“What doesn’t fit, though, is, I asked the kids what kind of stuff Natalie kept in the pack. They mentioned a Palm Pilot. Why wasn’t it there?”
“She was using it when they took the pack? One of them stole it? I don’t have a clue.”
“And why didn’t she report the missing pack to her teacher? Or her mother?”
“Maybe she did.”
“Not the teacher, anyway. I asked.”
“Well, she could have told Ardis. I haven’t been paying much attention to what goes on with Nat lately—work pressures, you know.”
Stengel nodded in understanding. “Well, I’ll run you back now. Let me know when you talk with Ms. Coleman.”
If I ever talk with her again…
Salt Point Estates, Western Soledad County
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
M
att had spent the morning taking photographs for next week’s issue—an overturned truck at the Talbot’s Mills off-ramp, and the town’s most senior citizen—and then spent the rest of the day trying to track down Gar Payne. The trail led from the Meadows to the office Payne shared with Milt Rawson in Cyanide Wells, to a tract of land his secretary said he was checking out on the ridge, and finally to a new seaside housing development some twelve miles north of Calvert’s Landing.
As he followed the sinuous curves of a secondary road from the ridgeline to the coast highway, he felt the temperature drop in steady increments. The afternoon was brilliantly clear, and through the redwoods he caught glimpses of the placid water. Cabins were tucked under the trees at the ends of dirt driveways; satellite TV dishes stood in clearings; dead cars, old tires, and cast-off appliances lurked under low-hanging branches. A poor section of a relatively poor county, where existence was hand-to-mouth and people wasted minimal effort on beautifying their surroundings.
At the coast road, all that changed. A wood-and-stone hotel hugged the clifftop, its grounds landscaped in purple-blossomed ice plant and twisted cypress trees, its parking lot filled with expensive vehicles. Redwood Cove Inn, obviously a popular place. He turned north past a Victorian bed-and-breakfast, a gallery, a tricked-up country store. A few miles farther, and he spotted the split-rail fence that marked the boundary of Payne and Rawson’s newest development.
For the first mile and a half the land was wild and overgrown; a weathered barn stood as a monument to the tract’s days as a working ranch. He turned in at the main entrance toward the lodge and restaurant, where he’d been told he could find Payne; both buildings were in the earliest stages of construction. An earthmover stood idle beside a double-wide trailer, and only one vehicle, Payne’s Jag, was parked there. Matt pulled up beside it, got out of the Jeep, and knocked on the trailer’s door.
“Around here,” Payne’s voice called.
He skirted the trailer, through knee-high weeds to the side that faced the sea. Payne was seated in a green plastic chair, a can of beer in hand. When he saw Matt, his mouth drew down in displeasure.
“What the hell’re you doing here?”
“Looking to have a talk with you.”
“We talked enough at Carly’s on Sunday.”
“I don’t think so.”
Payne looked at his watch. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get off my property.”
“Or you’ll…?”
“Get the goddamned sheriff on your ass.” He patted a cell phone clipped to his belt.
“Aren’t you interested in what I have to say? I would be, if I were you.” Perversely he parroted the words Payne had used in the anonymous phone call that had lured him to Soledad County.
“Okay, so say it, and get off my land.”
“Fair enough. Carly McGuire asked me to deliver a message.”
“Oh?” A glimmering of interest now.
“She doesn’t appreciate you pressuring her partner to sell you the Talbot property. Or that you called Matt Lindstrom, Ardis’s former husband, and told him where she is.”
Payne was caught off guard. “Shit, how’d she find out about that? Lindstrom never showed.”
“Yes, he did. He came to their house a few days after you called him. What exactly did you hope to accomplish?”
“I figured if he went public with who Ardis was, she’d be discredited. Then the bank would take over the administration of the Talbot estate, and I could deal with someone rational.”
“Or maybe you hoped Lindstrom was a violent man who would do what they said he did to her all those years ago.”
Payne sipped beer and looked at the sea, but a tic at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
Matt asked, “How’d you find out about Lindstrom?”
“By accident. One of those true-life TV shows when I was in the Midwest visiting relatives. You know—‘This woman disappeared. Do you know where she is now?’ I recognized Ardis right off. Lindstrom was harder to find, but even people who want to get lost permanently leave traces that a good private detective can follow.”
Especially since he hadn’t really tried to get lost. He’d simply walked away.
Payne asked, “So where’s Lindstrom now?”
“Home, I suppose. They got things straightened out, and then he left. He didn’t appreciate what you did, either.”
“Wait a minute—how’d he know I was the one who called him?”
“Ardis and Carly suspected you because of your interest in the Talbot property. So they arranged for him to listen to your voice, and he made a positive identification. Not smart, Payne. If Carly decides to publish an account of your shenanigans, it might make people think twice about contributing to your campaign fund. And if Mack Travis and Andy D’Angelo weren’t both dead, they’d be in a position to scuttle all your political aspirations.”