Cyanide Wells (22 page)

“Married?”

Rhoda nodded. “Apparently they were still married when he died.”

She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. This news made Ard’s betrayal of her complete.

“You didn’t know?” Rhoda asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, there’s no record of a divorce, either in California or Nevada. And another interesting thing: There’s no record of Natalie’s birth, at least not to Ardis. But Chase Lewis did father a child, by a woman named Marisa Wilson, in July of ’ninety-two. And the child was called Natalie.”

“My God.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. After a moment she asked, “This Marisa Wilson—where is she now?”

“She died of a drug overdose in San Diego eight years ago.”

“Did Ardis adopt Natalie?”

“There’s no record of it.”

“So she has no legal right to her?”

“We’d like to question her about that—among other things.”

Meaning Chase Lewis’s murder.

Rhoda went on, “I understand you told Deputy Stengel that Ardis has taken Natalie out of town on an educational trip.”

Carly ignored Rhoda’s words and asked, “If it turns out that Ardis has no legal right to Natalie, what’ll become of her?”

“She’ll be made a ward of the court and placed in a foster home while Social Services searches for blood relatives. If there aren’t any, or they don’t want her, she’ll be put up for adoption.”

“An older mixed-race child? She’s not a very likely candidate. Why would they take her from a perfectly viable home, one where she’s loved and cared for?”

“The decision as to the viability of that home would be up to the individual judge. But to get back to the original subject: Do you know where we can reach Ardis?”

Make up something to buy time. Camping in Yosemite, maybe.

No, you’ve lied enough, McGuire. Don’t put yourself at further risk. They think Ard—or maybe even you—killed Chase Lewis.

She said, “I want to speak to my attorney.”

Matthew Lindstrom

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

M
att leaned across the Jeep’s passenger seat and opened the door for Carly as she stepped from her attorney’s car in the alley behind the
Spectrum
’s offices. She slumped in the seat, slammed the door, and stared straight ahead.

“You okay?” he asked.

A shrug.

“Talk to me, Carly.”

She sighed, and then the words came—haltingly at first, but soon tumbling out so fast that it was difficult for him to understand her; several times he had to ask her to speak more slowly. When she got to the part about Rhoda Swift telling her Ardis had married Chase Lewis and later taken his child, her voice broke.

Quickly he said, “I know about that. Doesn’t matter how I found out. Go on.”

“They suspect either Ard or me of killing Lewis. After my attorney got there, they asked if I owned a gun, had been to the motel in Westhaven prior to the time I showed up there on Monday. Kept pressuring me to tell them where Ard is. Wanted to know if there was trouble in the relationship. That’s when my attorney cut off the interview. They’ve got no evidence, so they can’t hold me, but I’m sure they’ll continue the surveillance. A car followed us from Santa Carla, and it’s probably parked at the end of the alley.”

“How long d’you suppose they’ve been watching you?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Drive me to the house by the Knob to get my truck.”

“No problem.” He reached for the ignition.

She stayed his hand with her fingertips. “There’s more. When I was there this afternoon, I went to the master bedroom, and I had an impression—one of those half-memories that won’t quite come to the surface. Something related to what I saw the morning after the murders. I think it’s important, and I need to get at it.”

“Carly, under the circumstances I don’t think it’s wise for you to go back to that house.”

“I don’t, either. But you could. Do you have your camera with you?”

“My camera? Why…?”

“Good. After I drive away, take it and photograph the master bedroom from a lot of different angles. Maybe when I study the prints they’ll trigger—”

“No.”

“The deputies aren’t interested in you. They’ll follow me.”

“No, Carly. I’m not breaking and entering.”

“I have a key to the house. And you have my permission.”

“The key was given to you by Ronnie Talbot?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead, and Ardis is executor of the estate.”

“So?”

“Then only she or the real estate agent, acting on her instructions, can give me permission.”

“Since when’re you a lawyer?”

The familiar testiness in her voice relieved rather than annoyed him; at least some measure of the old Carly remained. “I was prelaw in college and have done extensive reading in the field.”

“Well, aren’t you the renaissance man!”

Now she
was
pissing him off. “Look, I know you’re upset, but—”

“Okay, sorry. Maybe I’d be handling the situation better if it only involved Ard and me. At this point I’d probably have no trouble saying fuck it and cooperating fully with the sheriff’s department. But it also involves Nat.”

“No matter what, Ardis would never hurt her.”

“She’s not the one I’m worried about. It’s the sheriff’s department.” She twisted to face him, her back against the door. “In spite of people like Rho Swift and Ned Grossman, it’s one of the worst in the state. The county doesn’t have enough money to attract many good people, and there’s still a stigma attached to the department.”

“What kind of stigma?”

“You remember I said Rho Swift cracked an old case a few years back? It was a mass murder that had gone unsolved for thirteen years. Eight people, two of them children, shot to death in an isolated canyon south of Signal Port. The department mishandled it, but you can scarcely blame them; they’d simply never encountered a crime of that magnitude. By the time the feds stepped in, much of the evidence had been lost or tainted, so they weren’t able to solve it, either. In the aftermath, a lot of the departmental personnel moved to other jurisdictions or got out of law enforcement entirely. The rest just became more and more demoralized.”

“But you said the case was solved.”

“Yes, but it takes more than a few years to build up a good department. It’s getting better, but recently there have been some disturbing incidents.”

“Such as?”

Carly sat up straighter, ran her fingers through her hair. “An overzealous pursuit of a speeding tourist in an SUV by a new deputy—it rolled, and the driver, his wife, and two young children were killed. A hostage situation during which an estranged husband and his five-year-old daughter were fatally shot by deputies who wouldn’t wait for trained negotiators to be brought in. Another fatal shooting, this time of a ten-year-old boy whose father was using him as a decoy while stealing at a convenience store.”

“Jesus.”

“What I’m saying, Lindstrom, is that our deputies are not well enough trained to evaluate a situation and protect the innocents who are involved in it. Too often they shoot first and make excuses afterwards. If for some reason Ard and Nat are still in the county…”

“Okay, I understand. But I don’t see the connection between what you half remembered in the Talbot house and the current situation.”

“I just have a feeling there is one. Call it woman’s intuition, if you will, but it’s very strong.”

Carly’s expression was close to pleading; asking for this favor must be costing her a great deal. And what would it cost him to do as she asked?

Taking photographs in an empty house wasn’t like knocking over a liquor store.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

After the truck’s taillights disappeared down the long eucalyptus-lined driveway, Matt waited, fingering the key Carly had slipped from her ring and pressed into his hand. He was sure they’d been followed here, having glimpsed a pair of headlights in the distance behind them, and a car moving slowly past after they’d turned in. Now he wanted to make sure it tailed Carly back home. After an interval of no more than thirty seconds it drove by again, more swiftly—a nondescript dark sedan. Soon the sound of its engine faded into the distance.

Matt continued to wait, listening in case another car arrived. There was no logical reason for the sheriff’s department to maintain a surveillance on him; they must not yet know he was Ardis’s former husband, since they hadn’t mentioned him during their interview with Carly. But he decided to play it safe anyway.

Rustlings in the underbrush. Tree branches soughing. A distant howl: coyote. The wind picked up, warm, bringing with it a familiar scent. He breathed in deeply, felt a tug of emotion. Gardenias…

A formal affair at the faculty club in Saugatuck, in honor of some visiting dignitary whose name and field he’d long since forgotten. Near the end of the spring semester, a warm, balmy night. Men ill at ease in dinner jackets, many of them rented; women in long dresses, purchased at great strain to the academic family’s budget. He and Gwen in their first public appearance as a couple, she in dark blue silk, his gardenia corsage on her wrist. An appearance of professor and student made possible by the diamond ring on her left hand.

Unsettling rumors about Matt Lindstrom and Gwen Standish had circulated through the tightly knit college community for months, so his colleagues’ reactions were more relieved than surprised when he presented her as his wife-to-be. Better to marry, even unsuitably, than to burn in academic hell. The chairman of his department told her how lovely she looked and how fortunate Matt was; the president of the college took her hands and held them longer than was proper, saying she’d make a fine faculty wife.

As the party was winding down, they walked across the wide lawn to the lakeshore, where other couples stood admiring the play of the Japanese lanterns on the water. “That wasn’t so bad,” Gwen, who had been dreading the evening, said. “Not bad at all,” Matt, who had been looking forward to showing her off, replied. “They loved you,” he added. “
I
love you.” As he kissed her, she put her hand on the back of his neck, the gardenias brushing his cheek, their scent becoming one that would forever take him back to that night…

His face was wet. He put a hand to his eyes. Crying, for all the lost nights and lost days. For the woman he’d only imagined Gwen was.

Angrily he brushed the tears away and got out of the Jeep, turning on its headlights so he could navigate without stumbling, grabbing his camera bag. He was furious that he could still allow Gwen’s memory to wound him, and fury made him careless. When a car’s engine roared to life nearby, he froze, looking around.

Headlights bore down on him from the rear of the property, where Carly had said the stables, studio, and garage stood.Boxy vehicle, a van gathering speed. He threw himself to the side, sprawled down. As he tried to pull himself up, scramble out of the way, he saw Gwen behind the wheel, mouth set in a grim line, face pale in the wash of his own headlights.

She wrenched the wheel—too late. Their gazes were still locked when the van smashed into his lunging body…

A hand touched his forehead, light and cool.

He tried to open his eyes. Couldn’t.

Couldn’t move, either.

Footsteps hurried away.

Pain. His chest, his hip, his arm.

Something draped over him. Warm.

Sleep…

Motion. Flashing light in his eyes.

“Get him stabilized.”

“What the hell happened here?”

“Who called it in?”

“Medevac chopper’s on its way.”

Pricking in his arm.

Darkness…

“Matt?”

Carly’s voice.

He opened his eyes. Winced and shut them. His head hurt like hell.

“Matt?”

“Don’t shout.” The words came out a croak.

“I’m not. Here, let me give you some water.”

When he opened his eyes this time, he saw her face. Strained, tired. She looked almost as bad as he felt. She raised his head, made him sip through a straw, but most of the water dribbled into his beard and onto his chest. She took the cup away, swiped at him. “Is that better?”

“Some. Feel smithereened.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“Don’t care. How I feel.”

“You’ll mend. Nothing serious was broken in the accident.”

“Accident?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Now.” He tried to grab her arm, but it hurt too much to raise his hand.

“Later. You need your rest.”

Thursday, May 16, 2002
Santa Carla, California

S
he
did this to you? That bitch! I’d like to—”

“Carly, stop.”

“I will not stop! This is the absolute last straw!”

“Keep your voice down.”

She compressed her lips, glancing back at the door to his hospital room and frowning.

He said, “She didn’t know it was me. When she realized who I was, she tried to turn the van away, but it was too late. She covered me with a blanket, called for help.”

“And cut and ran again, accepting no responsibility. Left you lying there. You could’ve been dying, for all she knew.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“And where was Nat while Ard was running you down? Did she see the whole thing happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the hell does Ard think she’s doing, skulking around the Talbot place like some demented ghost?”

“Carly, please stop. The pain medication finally kicked in, and you’re making my head hurt all over again.”

“This pain medication—it doesn’t make you woozy?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because Ned Grossman’s out in the hall, waiting to speak with you. I think you should tell him the whole story.”

“That I was struck by an unknown driver.”

“It’s too late to play these games.”

“This is not a game.” He grasped her arm. “There is unfinished business here. Our business, yours and mine. I want us to be the ones who conclude it.”

“If the doc hadn’t told me differently, I’d say you sustained brain damage along with the cracked ribs, concussion, and sprained ankle.”