Cyanide Wells (7 page)

“She’s hiding?” he asked.

Quill rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank God. She came in loaded for bear.”

“Why?”

“Who knows, with Carly?”

“The truck got her to Santa Carla and back okay, didn’t it?”

“If it hadn’t, my friend, you wouldn’t be alive.”

Quill led him through another door, to a room where the production manager and chief of page makeup and their assistants congratulated him on joining the staff. Beyond their areas were a couple of desks, a bank of file cabinets, and a light table. A door labeled DARKROOM was set into the wall opposite them.

“Your bailiwick,” Quill said, with a flourish of his hand. “Your assistant, Joe Maynard, is currently in the inner sanctum, printing what he claims are perfectly egregious photographs he took at the Calvert’s Landing mayoral press conference this week.”

“Calvert’s Landing?”

“It’s the largest town on the coast. An Alaskan company wants to float gigantic, ugly plastic bags at the outlet of the Deer River to collect water to sell to southern California. Mayor’s all for the deal; he claims the water belongs to the state, not the municipality, so they can’t stop it. Which means he’s been paid off by the Alaskans. His constituency is concerned about environmental issues and visual pollution. The mayor’s effort to convert them to his point of view ended up in an unfortunate egg-throwing incident, which Joe captured on film.”

“Egregiously.”

“He tends to underestimate his talents. Anyway, I’ll leave you to await his emergence.”

Matt had hoped, now that the tour of the facilities was at its final destination, to ask Quill about Ardis Coleman. But when he invited him to sit down and chat till Maynard was done, the reporter said he had an appointment in fifteen minutes. Maybe they could have a beer after work? Matt suggested. Sure, Quill said, if they finished at the same time. Hours at the
Spectrum
were irregular at best.

Joe Maynard was built like a linebacker, with a shock of unruly brown hair, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and almost no neck. His hands were so large and clumsy-looking that Matt wondered how he could manipulate the settings on his camera. As they began trading histories in the cautious manner of men who know they must get along in order to work together, he found that Joe had indeed been a linebacker, at UCLA, where he’d earned a degree in fine arts.

“So what brought you to Cyanide Wells?”Matt asked.

“A chance to work at a paper in a place where I could also hunt and fish. After college I played a couple of seasons on special teams for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but I hated the weather back there. And I wasn’t really pro caliber, anyway. So I saved my money, came back to California, and worked for the
Long Beach Sentinel.
Then I heard about an opening here and applied. They’d just won the Pulitzer, and McGuire had an interesting reputation. Plus, I could live cheap.”

“How come McGuire didn’t promote you when the last guy left?”

“She tried to, but I turned her down. I don’t want to work full-time. I invested well before the dot-com bubble popped, took my profits, and put them into conservative holdings. And a year ago my wife presented me with twin boys. I want to be as much a part of their lives as I can.”

“Good for you.” Matt proceeded to give him the same abbreviated details of his made-up life that he’d told Carly McGuire, then said, “Now, let’s see how those shots of the egg-faced mayor have turned out.”

Maynard’s photographs were so good that Matt wondered what he might have accomplished had he had the desire to apply his talent. But talent alone, he knew, wasn’t enough to ensure success; success took drive and dedication, which his new assistant plainly lacked.

“So,” he said as they emerged from the darkroom, “you came to the paper before it won the Pulitzer?”

“Afterwards. That was one of the things that attracted me. I mean, how often do you get to work for a small country weekly that’s achieved the granddaddy of journalistic honors? The only other one that comes to mind is the
Point Reyes Light
, for their exposé of Synanon, and that was decades ago.”

“I understand the bulk of the
Spectrum
’s prize-winning articles were written by a reporter called Ardis Coleman. You know her?”

“I’ve met her.”

“What’s she like?”

“Quiet. Unassuming. Self-deprecating, actually. She once told me she didn’t do anything special, she was just handed a great story. But under the circumstances, I’d say her coverage was extraordinary.”

“What circumstances?”

“Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford, the murder victims, were good friends of Coleman’s, and she was the one who found their bodies. Yet she was able to separate herself from her emotions and write extremely balanced, well reasoned stories. I admire that kind of control.”

And how had Gwen achieved such control? The picture that Maynard painted was not of the woman Matt had married.

“What’s Coleman like personally? She married? Have kids?”

Maynard smiled. “What, you thinking of asking her for a date?”

“I’m just curious about how a woman like that balances work and family, if she has any.”

Maynard seemed unconvinced of his reply. “Look,” he said, “she’s a good friend of McGuire’s. Why don’t you ask her?”

He’d have more success prying information out of the Great Sphinx. “I guess I’d better wait till she’s having a better day.”

“Good luck, buddy.”

Within fifteen minutes, a memo from McGuire was delivered to his desk by a young man with magenta-and-green hair and multiple body piercings, who identified himself as the office gofer. “Name’s Nile, like the river.”

“No last name?”

“Don’t need one. How many people’re called Nile? Besides, Nile Schultz sounds just plain stupid.” He gave him a little salute and walked away.

Matt picked up the memo and studied it. It was computer-generated, printed on the back of what looked to be copy for a story, which had a big black X through it. McGuire clearly didn’t waste paper—or type very well, either.

John, I called your former editor this a.m.and she gave you a glowing recommendation. I hope youcan live up to it. Here’s the schedule of your assignments fortoday. I want to meetwith you at 4:30 after you’ve completed them.11:30a--meet Vera Craig at the newKinkade gallery, MainSt.next to the Book nook. Vera will tell you what shots she needs.1:30p--Gundersons silver wedding anniversaryshoot, their home,111 Estes St. I assume youhave a map, if not purchase one.2:15p--Pooh’s Corner, next toAram’s, need shots of new line of anatomically correct dolls that are causing thecurrent flap. Avoid private parts, the parents are up in arms and we don’t want to further incitethem. Thanks, Carly.

It was now a little after ten; since his first assignment wasn’t until eleven-thirty, he had time to slip away and check out Gwen’s home more closely. Grabbing his camera bag, he left the office and drove off toward Drinkwater Road.

The expensive SUV sat in the paved area by the footbridge but in a different place than on the previous afternoon; probably Gwen had driven her little girl to school. Matt drove past, turned, and zoomed in on it, snapping a photo showing its license plate number. Then he drove to where he’d parked before and moved along the road, taking random shots to either side. A casual observer would probably have assumed he was documenting the regional plants and trees, but the true objects of his shots were Gwen’s mailbox, the footbridge, and the extent of her property. When he finished the roll, he drove back toward town and his first appointment, wondering whether he could persuade Vera Craig to have lunch with him. The arts editor seemed open and friendly, exactly the sort of person who might be willing to answer his questions about the paper’s prizewinning former reporter.

“Hell, honey,” Vera Craig said, “none of us see much of Ard these days.” She speared a lobster ravioli from the plate she and Matt were sharing at Mamma Mia’s, bit into it with her eyes closed, and made a sound of pure sensual delight.

Matt tasted one. It was good, but not enough to nearly induce an orgasm. “Why not?”

“I guess she’s just holed up at home, working on her book. It’s giving her trouble. At least that’s what Carly says.”

“You know her well?”

“Nobody knows Ard well, except for Carly, and sometimes I wonder about that. I’ve been acquainted with her since she came to town, and after fourteen or fifteen years, I still don’t know what makes her tick.”

“She worked for the paper right from the first?”

“Yeah, as a gofer, then general assignment reporter. Good one, willing to take on anything. She just got better and better, till Carly finally promoted her to roving-reporter status, meaning she basically covered any story in the county that she found controversial or interesting. Then came the murders.”

“I understand she was the one who found the bodies.”

Vera Craig’s face grew somber, and she set her fork tines on the edge of the plate. “Yeah. Bad for her in a couple of ways. Finding two men slaughtered in their bed was pretty horrific. And they weren’t strangers; they were her friends. But besides her grief she had to deal with community reaction.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cyanide Wells and the county as a whole are pretty conservative. You’ve got your rich people, mostly retirees; you’ve got your religious people, your young families, your working-class people, and your assholes who like to drink and shoot their guns and would consider a good evening’s fun burning a cross on somebody’s front lawn—or blowing away a couple of ‘faggots’ in their own bed. And, like anyplace else, you’ve got your gays who mainly keep a low profile. Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford didn’t, and Ronnie compounded the general dislike by selling off the mill. When it came out that Ard was their friend, the dislike was transferred to her.”

“That must’ve changed when the paper won the Pulitzer.”

“It changed when people started reading her stories. They were so powerful, they made the readers understand—or at least think about—the problems of gays who live in this type of environment.”

“So now she’s writing a book.”

“Has been for over two years. It’s contracted for and is due to be turned in pretty soon, but like I said, she’s having problems with it.”

“It can’t be easy, dealing with that kind of material.”

“I guess not.” Craig picked up her fork and attacked the ravioli with renewed vigor. “But enough about Ard. Tell me about yourself, honey. What brought you to our little village, anyway?”

Lying, Matt reflected as he packed up his gear and said goodbye to the proprietor of Pooh’s Corner, could be an exhausting business. Today he’d given various versions of the life and times of John Crowe to at least five people. He was glad that his final encounter would be with Carly McGuire, Severin Quill having canceled their tentative plans for drinks—he had to go someplace called Signal Port on a story. McGuire, Matt assumed, knew everything about him that she wanted to know, and would be more interested in his work than his personal history.

He had roughly an hour and a half before their meeting, so he headed back to the darkroom to develop his films. The contact sheets showed he hadn’t lost his eye, although there were certain technical skills that weren’t as sharp as they’d once been. He particularly liked the last batch of photos: the inanely smiling girl and boy dolls that were causing such controversy among local parents. Innocence, if not downright stupidity, radiated from their faces, and the private parts—which he’d shot for his own amusement—were no more threatening and much less realistic than those that the children of Cyanide Wells surely witnessed while playing the time-honored game of “doctor.”

Four-thirty on the dot. Armed with his contact sheets, Matt went to McGuire’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and before he could knock, he heard Carly’s raised voice.

“Don’t you threaten me, Gar!”

“That was a mere statement of fact, not a threat.” The man’s voice was deep and full-bodied—and vaguely familiar.

“Facts, I’m afraid, are open to personal interpretation.”

“Perhaps, but you should realize that there are complex issues at work here, which you can’t possibly begin to understand.”

“Complex issues. Which I can’t understand. I don’t think so.”

“You’re not infallible, Carly. If you don’t believe me, look to your own life.”

There was a silence, and then McGuire spoke, her voice low and dangerous. “Get the fuck out of my office, Gar.”

“You’re being unreasonable—”

With a shock, Matt remembered where he’d heard that voice.

“Out. Now!”

The door opened, grazing Matt’s shoulder. The man who pushed through was tall and lean, with a thick mane of gray hair. The cut of his suit, and his even hothouse tan, spoke of money; an old, jagged scar on his right cheek and the iciness of his eyes were at odds with his gentlemanly appearance. His gaze barely registered Matt’s presence as he strode from the building.

McGuire came to the door, her face pale, mouth rigid. She started when she saw Matt. “I suppose you heard that,” she said.

“I heard you telling him”—he jerked his thumb at the door—“to get the fuck out of your office. Good for you. I don’t like the look of him.”

“What’s to like?”

“Who is he?”

“Our mayor, the esteemed Garson Payne. An asshole who, in four years, hopes to be our district’s representative to the state legislature.”

At least now Matt had a name for the man who had made the anonymous call to him in Port Regis. But why would an elected official do such a thing? And how had he found him?

He tried to ask more questions about Payne; McGuire declined to discuss him further. Instead she invited Matt into her office and went over the contact sheets intently, staring at them through her half-glasses, circling the shots she wanted him to print. When she came to the doll series, she said, “Oh, my God!
This
is what all the commotion’s about?”

“Maybe you’d like to run one of them as your arty shot of the week?”

She grinned. “I’ve half a mind to. No, instead I think I’ll run one with Sev’s article. He said the same things you’ve captured here. This one.” She circled it. “And also this, where their faces look like they’re flirting with each other. The smug mommies and daddies of this county can use a shaking up.”