Wicked Eddies (10 page)

Rob put a hand over hers, stilling her fingers. “I know you're not used to the idea yet, but we can't afford to wait until you're a hundred percent comfortable with it to start the process. The agent will need some time to schedule the appraisal, draw up the papers, and arrange for whatever repairs are needed before you can put the house on the market. Let her start on that stuff, at least. Then when you're ready, the property will be ready.”

Mandy stuffed the card into her jeans pocket. “Okay, I'll call her.”

“She works on Saturdays.”

Mandy blew out a breath. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Excellent.” Rob stood and held out a hand. “Now, let's go to my place. I have plans for you,
mi querida
.”

Eight

Fishing is a delusion entirely surrounded by liars in old clothes.

—DON MARQUIS

Mandy woke in Rob's
arms Saturday, disoriented at first because she wasn't in her own bed. Sunlight streamed through the partially closed mini-blinds in Rob's bedroom window, striping the rumpled bedclothes. She smoothed her hand over the quilt that had been lovingly and painstakingly handmade by a generous aunt of his in Pueblo. Pieced in natural colors of orange, brown, and ivory, with accents of turquoise, the pattern was the Oso Grande or Big Bear. Rather than being scary, the large paw print design made her feel safe, comforted, and protected, much like being held by Rob made her feel.

She reveled a minute longer in his embrace, his soft exhales stroking her cheek, until she caught a glimpse of the alarm clock on his nightstand. Almost eight o'clock. Lucky would be pining for her, and if she wasn't mistaken, Rob had some mid-morning whitewater rafting trips to prepare for. She nudged him until he opened one sleepy eye.

“It's almost eight,” Mandy said. “Don't you have a few trips going out this morning?”

He groaned and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. The movement exposed his bare, muscular chest and the dark hairs running down his abdomen.

Mandy stifled an urge to trace her fingers down the sensual path the hairs defined and instead swung her legs out of the covers. “And I've got to get home and take care of Lucky.”

Before she could stand, he clasped her arm and gently drew her to him for a kiss. “Good morning.”

She smiled. “Good morning to you, too.” He released her and
she got up and started picking up her clothes from the floor where Rob had flung them last night after removing them piece by piece—with his teeth.

The memory sent a delicious tingle down her legs and almost sent her back into the bed, but they both had places to go, things to do. With another glance at the handsome hunk in the bed, who lay there watching her, she scurried into the bathroom.

When she emerged fully dressed, Rob had thrown on some jeans
and had the coffee pot perking. “Remember to call that real estate agent today.”

“Sure, okay.” She peeled a banana and refused to let the reminder
annoy her. “I want to talk to Quintana, too. See what Faith's autopsy report has to say.”

While Rob made toast, she pulled out the coffee pot to pour them both a cup then returned the pot to catch the rest of the coffee. He put out jam for himself and handed her the jar of peanut butter.

Mandy smiled at him while she slathered it on her toast. He knew one of her favorite breakfasts was sliced bananas and peanut butter on toast. Just as she knew he savored his mother's homemade jams. They were getting pretty comfortable with each other's likes and dislikes, she realized with a jolt. It was almost as if they could live together…

To get off that dangerous train of thought and to tease Rob, she stuck her finger in the peanut butter jar then put her finger in her mouth to slowly suck off the sweet treat.

He let out a low growl. “Woman, you are going to make me late to work.”

Mandy removed her finger and sat up primly to take a bite of toast. “Whoops, got some crumbs on my chest.” She swept her hand across the bare tops of her breasts rising above the low-cut slinky top she'd worn dancing the night before.

Rob's dark gaze followed her hand while Mandy trailed her fingers down her cleavage. When he glanced at her face, she gave him a sly smile.

He shifted in his chair and tugged at his jeans. “You are an evil temptress.” He tore his gaze from her breasts and looked out the window while slurping his coffee then taking a deep breath.

“I'm just giving you something to think about while you're on the river.” Mandy laughed lightly to change the mood and took another bite of her toast. “So what trips are going out this weekend?”

Showing his relief at being distracted, Rob quickly told her about the rafting trips scheduled for that day and Sunday while the two of them finished their breakfast. Sunday was nowhere near as busy as Saturday was going to be.

“How about if I fix you dinner tomorrow night?” Mandy asked, while she put her cup in the sink. “I haven't cooked for you in awhile.”

Rob grinned as he stood to refill his coffee cup. “Is my little wildcat becoming domesticated?”

She gave him a kiss and slapped him on the butt before she walked out. “No way, José!”

_____

After Mandy took Lucky for a long run and showered, she called Quintana to see if he was in his office and had the autopsy report. He said it was coming off the printer as they spoke, and if she came over they could read it together. Itching to know what the coroner had concluded, she hopped into her blue Subaru and zipped over to the sheriff's office. Soon, they were both pouring over the pages while sipping weak coffee from Styrofoam cups. Mandy knew the bitter brew was made from the cheapest tub of ground coffee the administrative assistant had been able to find.

“Estimated time of death is Saturday evening,” Quintana said. “So Faith Ellis couldn't have killed her uncle, who was axed on Sunday afternoon.”

Mandy set aside her coffee while making a face. She'd given it a chance, and it had failed miserably. “But could he have killed her?”

“Maybe.”

The report was inconclusive on the manner of death. Faith had suffered a blow to the back of the head, enough to render her unconscious, but not enough to kill her. However, the forensic pathologist couldn't determine if the blow came after her body was in the river, from hitting something like a rock or a submerged tree branch, or if it came before. His official opinion of cause was drowning. She was alive and still breathing when she went into the water, because she had sucked water and river debris into her lungs. But he couldn't say whether the manner of death was accidental, suicide, or homicide.

Quintana leaned back in his chair and smoothed his mustache. “Faith could have fallen, or she could have jumped in the river herself. Her family told me she had been pretty despondent lately. And you said Cynthia told you Faith had been depressed.”

“But how did she get into Brown's Canyon?”

“She could have caught a ride from almost anyone driving north out of Salida on 285. And whoever that was could have dropped her off at Ruby Mountain, Fisherman's Bridge, or Johnson Village. I've assigned a couple of patrol officers to ask around at those locations, to see if anyone saw her or gave her a ride. At least we know that she didn't ride her bike up there because it's still in the garage.”

Quintana paused. “Did you read the rape kit results?” When Mandy shook her head, he found the page and handed it to her.

While she read the report, a wave of sorrow washed over Mandy.
That poor girl.
The physical evidence showed that she had been raped and lost her virginity no more than a few hours before she died. The forensic pathologist found semen inside her, too, protected from the river's waters by the tight seal of the vaginal sphincter. The swab had been sent to CBI for DNA analysis.

Mandy looked at Quintana. “So Faith wasn't having an ongoing relationship with her uncle or some young guy, because she had just lost her virginity.”

“Not necessarily,” Quintana said. “Sexual stimulation can take many forms. But the rape kit results also show she wasn't a willing participant in this encounter.”

“Does this make you think someone raped her and knocked her unconscious, then threw her in the river?”

“Or an alternate scenario is that she threw herself in the river after she was violated, possibly by someone she trusted.”

“Someone she trusted? You mean her uncle.”

“That's precisely who I mean. I'm going to call CBI to suggest they compare Howie Abbott's DNA with that semen sample before they try matching it to anyone else in their databases.”

While Quintana made the call, Mandy sat in stunned silence, her mind racing over the implications. When he hung up, she said, “So if Howie Abbott raped his niece and someone found out, someone who cared about Faith—”

“That someone could have been the one who killed Howie Abbott,” he added. “But until I know there's a match, I can't make that conclusion and question Faith's family. Her rapist could have been someone else, maybe someone who gave her a ride out of Salida.”

Mandy sat back, the damning report heavy in her hands. “This is awful. When do you think we'll know?”

“Not until Monday or Tuesday at the earliest. The lab techs don't work on weekends like we do.” Quintana reached over and took the pages from Mandy, tapped them together with his pages and slid the whole report into his growing Faith Ellis file. “I did get some news, though.”

“What's that?”

“Ira Porter's fingerprints matched some of those lifted off the beer cans at Howie Abbott's campsite.”

“So his story that the last time he saw Howie was when they fished together last Wednesday afternoon is a lie.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The beer could have been Ira's to begin with, and Howie ended up with it somehow. That's something to explore with Ira. I asked him to come in for questioning this afternoon, saying I wanted to follow-up on the last session. He agreed. I'd like you to observe, compare what he says today with what he told you on the river. Can you do it?”

The laundry she was going to do on her day off would have to wait, as would cleaning her bathroom. Oh well, if she closed her eyes while she showered, she wouldn't see the soap scum. “Sure.”

Quintana checked his watch. “He'll be here at one. That should give you time to grab some lunch.”

Instead, Mandy used the time to stock up on groceries, putting together a menu for the dinner she was going to fix for Rob from what she found on sale—ground bison for burgers, mushrooms and steak sauce, toasted onion buns, salad fixings, and brownie mix. She munched on an apple and a cheese stick while driving home and called that lunch.

After she put away the food, she spied the real estate agent's card in her purse, Ms. Bridget Murphy. She almost didn't call, but she knew Rob would ask if she had. She picked up the phone and dialed.

The agent listened while Mandy described the property then said, “I can take a look at it this afternoon, see what needs to be done.”

“I've got business at the sheriff's office this afternoon. In fact, I've got to go there now. Maybe Tuesday? That's my next day off.”

“I could get the key from you and look at the property by myself,” Bridget replied. “Then we can talk later this evening. How about if I meet you in the parking lot of the county government building in ten minutes?”

“Uh, sure, I guess.”

“Great. See you soon.” She hung up.

Mandy stared at the handset.
Boy, the woman is in a hurry.
Come to think of it, if she wasn't out showing properties to clients on a Saturday afternoon or hosting an open house, she must really be desperate for listings.

When Mandy returned to the sheriff's office, a middle-aged brunette wearing a crisp white shirt and a gray pantsuit stepped out of a late-model tan sedan. “Mandy Tanner?”

“Yes,” Mandy replied while walking toward her.

The woman shook Mandy's hand. “I'm Bridget Murphy. We just talked on the phone. Do you have the key to your uncle's property?”

Mandy fingered the key on her keyring. “I'd really rather go with you.”

“Oh honey, you can trust me,” Bridget said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I wouldn't be a real estate agent for long in this town if I messed with people's stuff. I won't touch a thing, I'll lock the place up tight when I'm done, and I'll return the key to you tonight. Seven okay?”

“Um, I guess.” Mandy gave Bridget the address, pulled the key off the ring, and placed it in the woman's outstretched hand.

“See you at seven.” Bridget turned on her heel and strode to her car.

Mandy had the distinct impression that she was being railroaded.

_____

By one o'clock, Mandy was ensconced behind the one-way mirror looking into the interview room in the sheriff's office. She had a pad of paper, a sharp pencil, and another cup of the raunchy coffee. She needed some caffeine to keep her alert after being up late the night before, and bad coffee was still better than tea.

The door opened to the interview room, and Quintana showed Ira Porter to the seat facing the mirror. Ira looked nervous, glancing around and wiping his hands on his pants before sitting down.

Detective Quintana sat and tapped his fingers on a thick case file, probably Howie Abbott's. While Ira squirmed in his chair, Quintana opened the folder, took out a paper with some typing on it, closed the folder again, and leaned back in his chair. He clicked his pen a few times and smoothed his mustache while studying the paper.

Ira squirmed again. “Well? Will you get on with it already?”

Quintana looked up, a placid expression on his face. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He returned the paper to the file and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, crowding Ira's space.

“Can you tell me if Howie borrowed beer from you in the past few weeks or if you bought any together, divvied up a case, maybe?”

After a moment's thought, Ira shook his head. “Can't remember doing anything like that. We usually just take turns buying.”

“So, tell me again about the last time you saw Howie Abbott.”

Ira exhaled. “Why do we need to go over this again? It was the Wednesday afternoon before he was killed. We fished the upper Arkansas together, wading upstream from Granite.”

“You sure you didn't see him after that? Maybe to share a few beers?”

“I'm sure.”

“Here's the deal, Ira. The lab has matched your fingerprints with some that were found on the beer cans at his campsite at Vallie Bridge. Care to explain how that happened?”