Cyanide Wells (8 page)

“You like messing with people’s heads.”

“If it serves a purpose. That’s what a good newspaper should do: Challenge the readership’s opinions; make them think. I’ll need these by tomorrow at one. Nice first day on the job, John.”

“Thanks, I enjoyed it. The people I talked with really like and respect the paper. Of course, not every town of this size can boast of a Pulitzer-winning publication.”

“True.” She handed the sheets back to him and stood.

“I’ve read the series, and I liked it a lot, particularly the stories written by Ardis Coleman.”

“Ard’s a terrific writer. We’ll never see the likes of her again.”

“She quit to write a book on the murders?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You still see her?”

McGuire had been gathering papers and putting them in her briefcase, but now her hands stilled. “Look, John, we’d better get one thing straight right off the bat. This is a small paper, and a small community. When you live at close quarters with your coworkers and fellow citizens, you’ve got to draw boundaries. The one I insist on is the separation of one’s professional and personal life.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. The only reason I asked about Ms. Coleman is that I’d like to meet her, talk with her about the articles.”

“That’s not possible. Ard’s at a difficult place in her work right now, and she doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Maybe later, when the book’s finished?”

“Maybe, if you haven’t moved on by then.”

“Why would I move on?”

She busied herself with the papers again, avoiding his eyes. “You moved on after eighteen years with your former paper.”

“Eighteen years is a long time.”

“You’re what—thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Well, in my experience, that’s an age when men tend to get antsy. Move from woman to woman, job to job, place to place. Right now you could be at the beginning of a long journey.”

As he worked on the leaky faucet in Sam’s small bathroom early that evening—didn’t the woman know that washers eventually wore out?—Matt thought about McGuire’s comments. She’d sensed his restlessness but interpreted it in conventional terms—and wrongly. His was a condition born of a desire to wrap up old business rather than to seek out the new. And the long journey he’d undertaken was not geographical, but one that would take him deep inside himself to confront things that now were only shadowy and unsettling. The prospect of that confrontation made him turn such a vigorous hand to tightening the pipes under the sink that one joint began to spit water.

Just what he needed. Sam had no plumbing supplies on hand, and although he’d noticed an Ace Hardware in one of the strip malls near the freeway interchange, he hadn’t planned to spend all his evening performing handyman’s duties. He went to the kitchen, rummaged in the drawer where Sam kept her tools, and found a roll of duct tape. In his opinion, duct tape was one of the greatest inventions of the past century, a quick fix for everything; he’d used it for such diverse purposes as temporarily repairing a camera and hemming a pair of jeans. After he taped the pipe joint, he left a warning note for Sam, who was working till ten, and set out for Drinkwater Creek.

Gwen’s house was wrapped in shadow when he arrived, its lighted windows a pale glow through the surrounding trees. He freed the Nikon from its bag, reattached the telephoto, adjusted the settings. It wasn’t till he looked up that he noticed there were two vehicles in the paved area by the footbridge: Gwen’s luxury SUV and a red Ford Ranger with a Save the Redwoods sticker on its rear bumper. Carly McGuire’s truck.

Paranoia seized him. His explanation for his interest in Ardis Coleman hadn’t rung true to McGuire, and she’d come here to discuss him with her friend. Somehow Gwen would figure out who he was, and…

Don’t get ahead of yourself. McGuire’s probably here for a perfectly normal visit.

He turned off the switch on the truck’s dome light, slipped out, and ran lightly across the pavement. The footbridge was easily visible from the house, so he walked downstream until he found a narrow place where he could cross on stepping-stones. After scrambling up the opposite bank, he stopped to get his bearings. The house was on a forty-five-degree angle to his right, screened by a windbreak of eucalyptus. He moved toward them and stood in their shelter, sighting on one of the lighted windows with the telephoto.

Kitchen: granite tiles, wood cabinets, lots of stainless steel. Table with remains of a meal for three set in a cozy nook.

He moved to the next window. Living room: hearth with fire burning, white cat sleeping on the area rug in front of it, black leather furniture. Gwen sat at the end of the sofa, her feet propped on a coffee table, her head bowed as she went over some papers, probably manuscript pages. A half-full wineglass sat on the table beside her; she reached for it and sipped, looking up at the window. Involuntarily Matt stepped back, even though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him. She set the glass down, turned her head, and spoke to someone outside his range of vision. Appeared to be waiting for an answer.

Still pretty, Gwennie, even after fourteen years. You’ve taken good care of yourself. Of course, with money, that’s easy.

He began to snap photographs.

Gwen said something else, set down the papers, and curled her legs beneath her. She was wearing a long blue robe, and she pulled its hem over her bare feet—a gesture he remembered.

Now Carly McGuire came into view, moving around the sofa and setting a glass of wine on the coffee table before she sat. Gwen spoke again, and Carly shrugged, her mouth set. Gwen frowned, said something else to Carly. Even though he couldn’t hear her words, Matt remembered that look and the tone that accompanied it. McGuire closed her eyes, shook her head.

God, it was like witnessing a scene from his marriage: Gwen angry, himself on the defensive.

Gwen’s lips tightened, and she looked away from Carly. Matt could now see her face-on, and this, too, was familiar. For a moment her mouth remained in a firm line, but then it began to crumble at the corners; her teeth nipped at her lower lip as her eyes filled. She squeezed them shut, and the tears overflowed, coursing down her cheeks as she remained perfectly still. She was, he knew, making no sound. Her silent weeping had always unnerved him, made him want to flee.

Apparently it had the same effect on McGuire. As Matt moved the lens to her face, he saw panic. But just as his own panic had quickly dissolved, so did Carly’s. She closed the space between them and took Gwen into her arms.

How many times had he done just that? He watched, fascinated, as a part of his first life was reenacted before the powerful lens of his camera.

Carly stroked Gwen’s hair. Her lips murmured words that had belonged to him in years past:
“It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. It will be all right.”

Gwen’s face was pressed into Carly’s shoulder. Soon she would raise her head and ask in a little girl’s voice,
“Do you mean that? Do you really mean it?”

And Carly, like Matt, would be forced to lie:
“Yes, of course I do.”

As he watched the scene through his lens, a chill touched Matt’s shoulders, took hold of his spine. He was years in the past, comforting his wife. He was here in the present, a voyeur. He was about to step into a future he wasn’t sure he cared to visit…

Gwen raised her head, asked her question. Carly gave her response. Gwen’s face became suffused with hope.

Then, forcefully, the women’s lips met and held.

And with a jolt, Matt realized the nature of the relationship between them.

Friday, May 10, 2002

H
e was halfway to Santa Carla, the county seat, driving blindly while trying to absorb what he’d learned about Gwen and Carly McGuire, when the Jeep ran out of gas. He coasted onto the shoulder, set the brake, and leaned forward, his arms resting on top of the steering wheel. The dashboard clock showed it was twelve-seventeen in the morning, and he hadn’t seen another car for at least ten minutes.

Briefly he debated leaving the Jeep and walking south to find a service station, but decided against it. Some miles back the highway had narrowed to two sharply curving lanes, dangerous to walk along in the darkness. Besides, stations were practically nonexistent between towns, and the last sign he’d noticed said he was thirty-five miles from the county seat. Instead he set out an emergency flare, shut off the Jeep’s headlights, and settled in to wait for a Good Samaritan.

His thoughts kept turning to Gwen, picturing the look of hope on her face before she and Carly kissed. So his former wife had formed an intimate relationship with another woman after leaving him. A long-term, stable one from the looks of it. There was a child. Gwen’s? Carly’s? Natural? Adopted? Who had fathered her?

Had Gwen been involved with women before and during his marriage to her? He knew about the men she’d been with earlier, and up to now had felt reasonably certain she’d remained faithful to him until she disappeared. Surely he’d have known had it been otherwise. Or would he? The possibility of his wife having a lesbian affair is not the first to occur to a man, even when his marriage begins to deteriorate.

Did the trouble that had arisen so quickly in the marriage stem from Gwen’s confusion about her sexual orientation? From her inability to discuss it with him? From her guilt over an affair?

How long after she left Saugatuck had she met Carly? Where and how? Did Carly know that Gwen’s former husband had been suspected of murdering her? Gwen had known, according to his anonymous caller, now identified as Mayor Garson Payne.

And now to the big question: Would the current situation alter his feelings toward Gwen? His plans? Should it? He’d waited such a long time for…

Headlights flashed around the curve in front of him. The vehicle slowed, its driver spotting the flare. It U-turned and pulled onto the shoulder, beams blinding in the rearview and side mirrors. Matt stepped out of the Jeep.

A woman walked toward him, moving in a deliberate but cautious manner, as a cop does when approaching a stopped vehicle. When she came closer, he saw she had closely cropped black hair and a pretty, fine-boned face; she wore a dark suit and had her right hand thrust inside her shoulder bag, as if it might contain a gun.

“Need some help?” she asked in a guarded but friendly tone.

“I’m out of gas. Can you give me a lift to the nearest service station?”

“Sure can, but I’ll have to ask to see your license and registration first. Detective Rhoda Swift, Soledad County Sheriff’s Department.” She flashed her identification at him.

He got the rental papers from the Jeep, removed his license from his wallet.

The detective examined them in the headlights’ glare. “British Columbia, huh? Nice country up there. What brings you to Soledad County, Mr. Lindstrom?”

“I’ve taken a job here, as a photographer for the
Spectrum.
” As soon as he spoke the words, he realized he’d made a bad mistake. John Crowe, not Matt Lindstrom, had taken the job.

“Good publication. How’s Carly these days?”

“Prickly as ever, but fine.”

Rhoda Swift smiled faintly and said, “Well, Mr. Lindstrom, let’s get going before the sun comes up. I was headed north for Green Valley Road, but I can just as easily take Old Schoolhouse out of Santa Carla.”

“I don’t want to make you go out of your way—”

“Insuring the public’s safety is what we’re here for. Green Valley’s a better road, but Old Schoolhouse is more direct to where I’m going. I’ll deliver you to the service station there, and they’ll give you a lift back.”

Matt barely had time to get his seat belt fastened before Rhoda Swift accelerated onto the highway, clearing the Jeep’s bumper by scant inches. He glanced at her, and she grinned wickedly—a good, fast driver who took pleasure in showing off for her passenger.

There was a police radio mounted beneath the dash, its mutterings indistinguishable to him. Swift turned down its volume, and he was about to ask her about her job when she reached for the mike, keyed it, and said, “Yeah, Valerie, what’ve you got for me?”

A pause, then a sigh. “I’ve told him my cell doesn’t work on this side of the ridge…Okay, patch him through to me.” She rolled her eyes at Matt. “Men! Yes, Guy…I told you—Oh, never mind…The meeting ran longer than I thought it would, but I’m on my way. Just have to deliver a motorist in distress to a service station first…Don’t worry, I’ll be careful…Yes,
dear.
”

As she hung up the mike, Rhoda Swift laughed softly.

“Overprotective husband?” Matt asked.

“Overprotective gentleman friend. He’s a New Yorker, spends part of the year at his vacation home near Deer Harbor. When he’s in Manhattan, he thinks nothing of wandering the streets at two in the morning, but should I be driving one of our rural byways at night, his mind conjures up all sorts of peril.”

“Men like to think we’re fierce protectors even when we’re not, I guess. Where’s Deer Harbor?”

“On the coast, north of Signal Port.”

“One of our reporters was covering a story in Signal Port today.”

“That would be the Dawson case. Hugh Dawson, owner of the Sea Stacks Motel. Miserable cuss, and last night his wife finally decided she’d had enough of his abuse and shot him. I’ve just come from a meeting with the D.A. in Santa Carla; we’re in agreement that it was justifiable homicide.”

For the remainder of the trip into town Matt chatted with Rhoda Swift about the county, learning more about the coastal area, which, by virtue of being cut off by the ridgeline, seemed a world unto itself. When she dropped him at the Chevron station at Old Schoolhouse Road, she said, “Welcome to Soledad County, Mr. Lindstrom. Take my advice, and fill up often from now on.”

“I will. And thanks for the lift.”

Her big eyes clouded. “No problem. A couple of years ago I didn’t give a stranded motorist a lift, and I very much regret it. I try to make up for it every time I can.”

The encounter with the sheriff’s detective had calmed Matt. After the Chevron station attendant returned him, with a supply of gas, to the Jeep, he drove to a small motel near the county courthouse in Santa Carla and took a room. As soon as the government offices opened the next morning, he was there and, with the help of a kindly clerk, began researching the public records.