Cyanide Wells (23 page)

“Don’t forget the assorted scrapes and bruises.”

She glared at him.

“Lighten up, McGuire,” he told her. “And get ready—we’ve got a job to do.”

“You didn’t get a look at the van’s driver, and you can’t identify the make or model,” Detective Grossman said.

“It was dark, and the headlights blinded me.”

“Perhaps we could start from the beginning. What were you doing at the Talbot property?”

He closed his eyes, took a moment to frame his reply. “My employer, Ms. McGuire, phoned me and asked that I drive her there to retrieve her truck.”

“Why you and not her attorney? He drove her back to Cyanide Wells.”

“I assume because he charges by the hour. Besides, she’s been having difficulty with the truck—something wrong with the starter. I fixed it for her the other day, and she wanted me there in case it acted up again.” An easily verifiable explanation—the story of his getting his job because of his mechanic’s skills had made the rounds.

“So you drove her there. Then what?”

“The truck started right up. She drove off and…” Jesus, where was he going with this hastily improvised scenario?

“Mr. Crowe?”

“Could I have some water, please?”

Grossman picked up the cup on the nightstand, handed it to him. Matt thought furiously as he sipped through the straw.

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to follow her, but as I started to leave, I noticed another vehicle tucked away in the shadows. Ms. McGuire had told me the property is vacant and up for sale, so I decided to investigate. I guess I frightened the occupants, because the driver started the engine and peeled off. I didn’t get out of the way in time.”

Grossman frowned. “Previously you said you didn’t see the driver, but now you say occupants, plural.”

“I had the impression of two people. Teenagers, I suppose, parking in a place where they didn’t think they’d be interrupted.”

“Possibly.” Grossman paused, studying his fingernails. “There was an anonymous call about you to nine-one-one. Came from a pay phone at the entrance to the national forest. A woman. And someone covered you with a handwoven blanket.”

“So the doctor told me.”

“Do you have any recollection of them covering you?”

“No. I guess it was the people in the van.”

“That was our original assumption. But one of my men found the door of the house ajar; he entered to see if anyone was hiding inside, and found a matching blanket on the back of the sofa in the living room. Then he searched the premises. There were signs of recent occupancy.”

“Maybe the people in the van were using the house for a tryst?”

“If so, they had a key. There were no signs of forced entry. Is it possible that someone with access to a key had reason to lie in wait and run you down?”

“I don’t know who would have a key, detective. And I’ve only been in Soledad County ten days. I haven’t had time to offend anyone to that degree.”

“Are you sure of that…Mr. Lindstrom?”

Hearing his real name sent shock waves along his spine; he couldn’t think of a reply.

Grossman added, “When Detective Swift heard that John Crowe, the newspaper’s new photographer, had been injured in a hit-and-run, she contacted me and told me about her encounter with Matthew Lindstrom on the highway last weekend. One of the names had to be false, so we ran a check. The real John Crowe is running Matthew Lindstrom’s charter business in Port Regis, British Columbia, in Lindstrom’s absence.

“Matthew Lindstrom is not listed in this state’s criminal files, and the FBI has no record of him. He hasn’t committed a crime—that we know of. But a man doesn’t leave a profitable business and a community where he’s liked and respected to live elsewhere under an assumed name. Unless, of course, there is something that draws him to that community. Something that he wants to keep secret.”

Now, Grossman, who had been standing the whole time, pulled a chair uncomfortably close to Matt’s bed, sat, and placed his hand on the mattress. In a confidential tone he said, “I’m no world-beater, Mr. Lindstrom. I don’t make much money, have terrible luck with women, worse luck at poker, and even my dog doesn’t much like me. But I am a good cop, and to me that means being impartial until all the facts are in. You help me, and I guarantee I’ll do my best to help you out of whatever trouble currently has you by the short hairs.”

In the absence of a viable alternative Matt told Grossman his story—part of it, anyway. Gwen’s disappearance. The suspicion that had destroyed his life. The anonymous phone call. His decision to come to Cyanide Wells, photograph and confront her.

“She must’ve seen me somewhere,” he concluded, “and was afraid I’d come here to harm her, because she’s taken her little girl out of town. Even Carly McGuire doesn’t know where they’ve gone.”

“And did you intend to harm her?”

“Emotionally, maybe. But not physically.”

“Strange, you and the other husband appearing at around the same time.”

“I guess one of us was to be backup, in case the other didn’t show.”

“And you’ve got no idea who your caller was?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Care to share your thoughts with me?”

“Not yet.”

“Fair enough. When you came here, did you know Ardis Coleman had married again?”

“No.”

“Or that she was living in a lesbian relationship?”

“No.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“I have a flare gun aboard my charter boat.”

“No handguns? Rifles? Shotguns?”

“No. I don’t care for firearms.”

“Have you ever been to Westport?”

“No.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Carly McGuire: Did she know who you were when she hired you?”

“No.”

“Does she know now?”

“Yes.”

“How’d she find out?”

“Detective Swift mentioned rescuing me on the highway to Severin Quill, the police reporter. He told Carly.”

“And what was Carly’s reaction?”

“I’m lucky to still be alive.”

Grossman smiled thinly. “Obviously the two of you have gotten past that, since she’s paying your hospital bill.” He got to his feet. “Okay, Mr. Lindstrom, I’ll get back to you.”

After the door closed behind the detective, Matt expelled his breath in a long sigh. Then he reached for the phone on the nightstand, called Carly’s number, and left a detailed message about the talk with Grossman on her machine. Finally he phoned Sam at the Chicken Shack.

“John!” she exclaimed. “I went to the hospital, but you were sedated and they wouldn’t let me see you. How are—”

“The doctor says they’ll release me this afternoon. Can you pick me up? There’s something I need to do.”

Carly McGuire

Thursday, May 16, 2002

I
n the time it took to drive from the hospital in Santa Carla to Cyanide Wells, Carly formulated a plan. Not the best of plans, perhaps, but one that would make her feel she was doing something, plus keep her mind off what Ard had done to Matt.

When she’d been admitted to his hospital room the first time—a privilege extended to her because she was his employer and paying his bill—he’d seemed diminished, more a hurt boy than a man. His groggy confusion and the scrapes and bruises that covered his face and arms wrenched at her, and she regretted every caustic word she’d spoken to him over the past week and a half. But today she’d witnessed the return of his steadiness and strength—his quiet determination, too, as he’d insisted that the two of them would see this matter through to its conclusion. Alone she might not have attempted that, but Matt was a person she could lean on. She’d come to respect this man who had been far too good for Ardis.

Just as I was far too good for her.

Giving mental voice to the concept failed to surprise her, as it might have yesterday or the day before. For years she’d been accustomed to making excuses for Ard’s actions and failings, had taken her back and forgiven her. But when Matt had said, “Ardis was driving the van that hit me,” the past fourteen years’ worth of abuse from her partner had become inexcusable, unforgiveable. And she’d allowed herself to see the relationship for exactly what it was.

Just like that. In an instant. Truth.

As she drove through town and headed east toward the Knob, she noticed an old brown station wagon following at a discreet distance and smiled wryly. Deputy Shawn Stengel’s family car. He couldn’t have maintained surveillance on her in his cruiser, but did he really think she hadn’t seen him toting his brood around in that oversized machine? Either Shawn wasn’t as smart as she’d thought, or he underestimated her powers of observation.

She drove past her own turnoff at Drinkwater Road and, after three quarters of a mile, signaled left onto Spyglass Trail. The two-lane blacktop snaked north into the hills, between rocky outcroppings where stubborn vegetation clung, passed through a grove of aspen, then hooked in a series of switchbacks to the west. After a mile or so, the Spyglass Roadhouse appeared.

Its central portion resembled a log cabin with a peaked roof, and jutting off it were long rough-board wings, windowless with flat roofs. On one of them sat an enormous satellite TV dish. A few cars were in the unpaved parking lot, but now, at two in the afternoon, the place had a lifeless look. Carly pulled up near the entrance and went inside, momentarily blinded by the darkness.

Two men in workshirts and jeans sat at the near end of the bar, watching a soap opera on the big screen, where a couple were cuddling in bed—the woman with perfect makeup, the man with impeccably groomed hair. The woman exclaimed, “I’ve never experienced anything as wonderful as last night!”

One of the watchers said to the screen, “Yeah, so where’d you and lover-boy spend it? The beauty parlor?”

Carly spotted a red-haired woman who resembled the description Matt had given her of Janet Tremaine at the far end of the bar, sitting on one of the stools, a solitaire game spread before her. As she started toward her, the waitress looked up and smiled.

“Ms. McGuire, why’re you here? Nobody’s shot up the place in maybe two weeks.”

Carly slipped onto the stool next to her. The goddamn saddle seats were sized for men and hurt in all the wrong places. “You know who I am?” she asked.

“Sure, everybody does. Newspaper editor, important person.”

“The editor of the
New York Times
is important. I’m not. Business is light today, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tremaine went back to her solitaire game.

“Black ten on the red jack,” Carly said.

“Huh?”

“That’ll win it for you. Then I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Nonsense, it’s not like you’re a cop on duty. I’m having an IPA.”

Tremaine swept the cards into a pile. “Well, okay. Thanks.” She went behind the bar, drew drafts, and slid Carly’s over to her.

Carly stood. “Let’s go sit in a booth.”

Tremaine’s eyes grew wary.

“Come on.” Carly walked toward the far side of the room. After telling the bartender she was taking a break, Tremaine followed.

“What’s this about?” she asked as she sat down opposite Carly.

“Mack Travis.”

“Not you, too? A so-called army buddy of his was in here asking about him the other night. Was he one of your people?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I
told
him to lay off—”

“Janet, don’t you think the cover-up’s gone on long enough?”

“What cover-up?”

“You know. It’s time you told the whole story.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Yes, there is, and you need to get it out in the open. Keeping secrets like that can damage a person.”

“Secrets? What secrets?”

“You know.”

“I don’t!” She glanced around the room, lowered her voice. “Really, I don’t.”

“You told my employee that he didn’t know who and what he was dealing with. You know what that says to me? It says you’ve been silenced by powerful people. Who are they?”

Tremaine’s shoulders slumped, and she leaned forward. “Listen, I’m scared.”

“Well, I’m not. And I can help you.”

Silence.

“Tell me what you know, Janet.”

“So you can publish it in your newspaper?”

“No, so you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“…Oh, hell. What’ve I got to lose? I’ll tell you.”

Carly spun the truck’s tires as she left the Roadhouse parking lot, sending up a spray of gravel. She vented her anger by taking the switchbacks of Spyglass Trail at a dangerous speed. Behind her, Shawn Stengel struggled to keep up in his clumsy station wagon.

Halfway down, somewhat calmer, she found a wide spot, pulled off, and waited for the deputy. Stengel was driving so fast that he almost missed seeing her. When he did, he slammed on the brakes, fishtailed to a stop, then put the car in reverse and backed onto the shoulder. As he got out and walked toward her, she called, “Hey, Shawn.”

“Carly.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you stick out in that big boat?”

“Anybody ever tell you it’s dangerous driving like that in a truck?”

“So how come you’re following me?”

“Grossman’s orders. What were you doing at the Road-house?”

“I felt the need of a cold one.” Before he could speak, she held up her hand. “That’s
one
, Shawn, over more than an hour. My blood alcohol level’s legal.”

“I don’t doubt that. But why the Roadhouse? I’ve never known you to go slumming.”

“There’re lots of things you’ve never known me to do. Doesn’t mean I haven’t done them. You planning on following me around forever?”

“Till Grossman lifts the surveillance.” The deputy leaned against the truck’s tailgate, arms folded across his chest. “Hell, Carly, you think I like spying on you? If you’d just tell Grossman what you know about the murder—”

“You mean tell Grossman what he wants to hear.”

Stengel shrugged. “He’s a good cop. If he senses he’s onto something, he probably is. It’s damned suspicious, Ms. Coleman disappearing at the same time her husband got killed.”

“She didn’t disappear. She went out of town. Before Chase Lewis was murdered.”

“And without telling you where she was going?”