Wicked Eddies (11 page)

Ira's eyes widened. After a long pause, words rushed out of his mouth, “Beer cans? Hell, I camp at Vallie Bridge all the time. There's good fishing there. Maybe I didn't pick up my trash carefully enough last time I was there.”

“When were you there last, Ira?”

With a shrug, Ira said, “I don't remember.”

Quintana stared at him, hard. “These beer cans also had Howie's fingerprints on them.”

“Howie and I have camped there together lots of times.” Ira crossed his arms.

“And, even more interesting is that not all of the beer in the cans had evaporated,” Quintana added, cocking his head to one side. “The lab techs told me they had been recently opened, on the weekend Howie was killed.”

Ira sputtered. “Well, they're damn wrong.”

It was Quintana's turn to cross his arms. “You lied to me, Ira. You were with Howie Abbott last weekend. And lying about it sure seems suspicious.”

“Howie Abbott and I were friends! Why would I kill my friend?”

“You've said the man can be kinda gruff at times.” Quintana leaned forward again, getting into Ira's face. “While you two were sharing a few beers, maybe you got into an argument. Then that argument got physical. Alcohol can do that to people.”

Ira sat back and waved his hands in front of him. “No, no, you're not pinning Howie's murder on me. I didn't do it.”

“For me to believe that, Ira, you've got to come clean and tell me the truth about last weekend. The whole truth.”

Lips pursed, Ira rubbed his forehead. “Dammit. I'll probably get thrown out of the tournament.”

“Better that than getting thrown into jail.”

“Shit. I've got no choice, do I?”

“Not if you don't want to be charged with murder.”

“Okay, okay, here's the story. Howie and I camped at Vallie Bridge together Saturday night. We fished downstream during the afternoon, then had dinner and drank a few beers together that night.”

Quintana lifted his pen from the paper where he'd been scrawling notes. “And?”

“Since only one family from out-of-town was camping there that night, Howie got the great idea to fish upstream, in the competition area, early the next morning.”

“Which is cheating.”

“Hell, yeah. I told him no way was I doing that, especially on a weekend, and we argued back and forth.” Ira looked at Quintana and held up his hands, palms out. “But no, it didn't get physical. I said I wanted nothing to do with his scheme and moved my sleeping bag to the next campsite. I crawled in, turned my back to him, and refused to say anything else.”

“Then what?”

“I heard him moving around a little, dousing the campfire. He kept mumbling things like, ‘You'll change your mind tomorrow, Ira. I know you will. Hell, no one will see us.' I covered my ears. Finally, he got in his sleeping bag and I fell asleep. When I woke up Sunday morning, he was still sawing wood, so I packed up my stuff and left.”

“You left? When?”

“It was around eight in the morning. I didn't want Howie to start up again and talk me into cheating with him. But, if word gets out that I was camping with him, no one will believe I wasn't cheating.” His jowls drooping with dejection, Ira rested his chin on his hand.

“You see anyone at the campground Sunday?”

“Just that family, but they were all asleep when I left.”

“How do you know they were from out-of-town? Did you talk to them?”

Ira shook his head. “Their van license plate was from Texas. We didn't really talk to them, just waved and said howdy.”

“Did you find out how long they were planning to stay at the campground? Get their names?”

“They said they were pulling out Sunday morning. We didn't exchange names.”

“Too bad,” Quintana said. “They could have corroborated your story. What did you do after you left the campground?”

“I went to visit my mother in Colorado Springs, like I told you.”

Quintana pulled a sheet out of his folder. “The visitor log shows
you didn't sign in until almost three. What were you doing between eight in the morning and three in the afternoon?”

“I didn't get much sleep Saturday night. I was too steamed over the argument with Howie and worried that I'd have to find a new partner for the tournament. So when I got home Sunday morning, I collapsed into bed. Slept 'til noon, cleaned up, and headed out to Colorado Springs. I stopped at a Safeway there to buy a sandwich for myself and some flowers for Mother before I saw her.”

“You use a credit card?”

“No, I paid cash.” Ira paused and looked at Quintana's impassive face. “I swear that's the whole truth. There's no way I'd kill Howie. Even though the man could piss me off at times, we were friends, fishing buddies for life.” His eyes filled and reddened. “His life was cut short, though.”

“What about Howie's ring?”

“His ring? What about it?”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“You mean the one he wore on his little finger? It was his Salida High School ring, class of '79, but it didn't fit on his ring finger anymore. Gold with a brown stone.”

“Was he still wearing it Sunday morning?”

Ira scratched his head. “I don't know. I didn't go near his sleeping bag, because I didn't want to wake him. He was wearing it Saturday night, though. He twirls it when he's agitated, and I remember him doing that. Why all these questions about his ring?”

Quintana ignored the question and tapped his pen a few times on the folder while reviewing his notes. “Okay, let's go over the story again. Construct a timeline.”

Ira's eyebrows lifted. “You don't believe me?”

“Should I?”

“Fuck yeah!”

“I didn't say I didn't believe you. I just said I wanted to construct a timeline.”

While the two of them rehashed Ira's story, Mandy looked over her own notes. She knew Quintana would make Ira repeat his tale at least twice to try to catch him in any slip-ups or inconsistencies. If the man had lied once, he could very well be lying again, changing his story to match the fingerprint evidence.

But he had teared up both during this interview and when she had talked to him on the river about Howie. Could he really manufacture grief so easily?

If Ira was telling the truth, that meant Howie Abbott was left alone from the time when the Texas family left the campground Sunday morning until he was killed that afternoon. Quintana probably would never find the family, and even if he did, they probably didn't see anything suspicious. If they had, wouldn't they have contacted someone?

Unless they killed Howie. A family with kids ax-murdering a stranger? Nah. Mandy would lay odds that whoever killed Howie Abbott knew him.

But who else besides Ira knew where Howie was on Sunday and wanted him dead?

Nine

Fly fishing is like sex, everyone thinks there is more than there is,

and that everyone is getting more than their share.

—HENRY KANEMOTO

By the time Mandy
got home after discussing Ira Porter's interview with Detective Quintana, the late afternoon sun's rays were slanting across her small yard and Lucky's outside water bowl was empty. Mandy refilled it and let the retriever inside to bounce around her, snuffling dog toys against her feet, while she sorted her laundry and threw a load in the washer. The two of them shared a hasty meal, kibbles for him and macaroni and cheese out of a box cooked with defrosted peas for her. She managed to clean up right before Bridget Murphy appeared on her front stoop and rang the doorbell.

The woman was kind enough—or astute enough—to put up with Lucky's obligatory crotch sniff, then reached down to scratch the dog's ears, sealing her friendship with Lucky for life. She stood and looked around. “Do you have a table where we can sit and spread out some papers?”

“In the kitchen.” Mandy led the way. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Just a glass of water would be nice.” Bridget dug a file out of her portfolio case and fanned out some pages on the table.

Once Mandy sat down with two glasses of water, Bridget started right in. “Your uncle's home is in pretty good shape. Needs a termite inspection and a thorough cleaning, but I can arrange both of those. If you want to sell it fast, I suggest we just list it as is. Were you planning to convey the furnishings that are left there?”

Convey?
“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, I mean that they'll be sold along with the house.”

Mandy's brother had come up from Colorado Springs a few weeks after her uncle died, and they'd cleared out all of her uncle's personal items—clothing, toiletries, papers, foodstuffs, and so on. They each took home a few possessions to remember him by, and Mandy had sold some furniture really cheap to a few rafting guides fixing up a group rental home.

Before that, she and Rob had moved all of the rafts and outfitter equipment and supplies to Rob's place of business. But the two men had presumed she would want to finish the clearing out process, since she had the most sentimental attachment to the house. Without them pushing her on, she'd left the rest of the furniture alone, comforted by sitting in the same easy chairs she was used to whenever she visited the empty house.

“I don't know,” Mandy said. “I don't have room for it all here.”

Bridget looked around Mandy's small cottage. “I can see that. But maybe a few things? A couple of nice prints are hanging in the living room, for example.”

“I really don't have time to go through everything and decide right now,” Mandy said with dismay.

“I understand.” Bridget patted her hand. “I tell you what. We can say that most of the furnishings will convey in the listing, minus a few items. I'll make up an inventory and bring you a copy, and you can put a checkmark by those things you want to keep. Easy peasy. I even have a guy who moves things for me, if you'd like me to arrange for him to bring the stuff you want to keep over here or to a storage unit.”

This woman has all the answers.
Mandy sighed. “I guess that'll work.”

“Great!” Bridget pushed three property sale listings in front of Mandy. “I took the liberty of calling an appraiser. He'll do a quickie for us on Monday. In the meantime, I found these three comparables, given location and square footage. I suggest we list your uncle's property for the same price as the lowest one here. If the appraisal comes in significantly different from that, we can adjust accordingly.”

Bridget sat back and took a discreet sip of water while Mandy looked over the listings.

The words blurred while Mandy tried to make sense of what she was reading, but all she could pay attention to was a tearful, childish voice in her head saying over and over again, “It's Uncle Bill's home. It's Uncle Bill's home.” Then Rob's voice, full of reason and practicality, “It's just a building. Bill would want you to have the money, to build a successful business.” She rubbed her aching head.

Bridget put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is hard, honey. I've worked with a lot of clients who've had to sell the homes of their lost loved ones. I can tell you that putting off the decision just prolongs the agony. If you need to sell, you need to sell, and it's best to get it over with quickly.”

With a last pat on Mandy's shoulder, Bridget removed her hand
and slid a contract on top of the listings. “I'll do whatever I can to make this easy for you. Here's my listing contract.”

Bridget's voice droned on while she explained each of the contract provisions until Mandy was ready to scream. When Lucky put his head in her lap, she saw a chance to escape. “Excuse me. I have to let Lucky outside. I'll just be a minute.”

She almost ran for the back door and followed Lucky into the yard. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the first few stars were winking on as cobalt blue twilight gave way to inky darkness. She took a deep breath of the cool air, filling her lungs. Looking up at the North Star and the big dipper, she sent up a silent plea to Uncle Bill, asking for a sign.

What should I do?

No reply came, other than a neighbor clattering some trash cans
to the curb, then moments later, the garage door closing. Lucky nudged her hand, and Mandy absently scratched his head. Then she had a thought. If she set the price of Uncle Bill's house to match the highest comparable instead of the lowest, maybe no one would make an offer for awhile, or if they did, it would be lower than the sale price, and they'd have to negotiate. Then she would be able to get used to the idea of selling it, and to visit the house a few more times.

Mandy gave a light slap to Lucky's rump. “C'mon, fella. Let's go inside.”

She walked back into the kitchen and saw Bridget patiently waiting for her, hands in her lap.

“Okay,” Mandy said, “Where do I sign?”

_____

Mandy finally finished her laundry after midnight Saturday night, then crawled between the sheets while Lucky curled up on his pillow beside the bed. In what seemed like minutes, she was awakened by the doorbell, followed shortly by Lucky racing to the front door to bark at the visitor.

What the heck?
She looked at the clock. After two a.m.

“Mandy, wake up!” Cynthia hollered through the front door. “And Lucky, shut up. It's me.”

Groggy and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Mandy padded in her bare feet to the door and let Cynthia in. “What're you doing here so late?”

“I just got off work.” Cynthia was wild-eyed, pacing and gesturing frantically. “I was thinking about Faith the whole time I was tending bar. I knew that if I didn't talk to you, I'd never get to sleep.”

Mandy sat on the sofa and drew her chilly feet up under her. “So you woke me up instead.”

Cynthia plopped down beside her. “I'm really, really sorry, but I know Faith's autopsy was done yesterday. I called Aunt Brenda from the bar, and she said Detective Quintana hasn't told them the result yet.”

She clutched Mandy's arm. “I figured you and he were in cahoots, so he probably told you. I've got to know what they found out.”

“I shouldn't say anything until Detective Quintana releases the report to the family.”

“I won't tell a soul, I swear. Not even Aunt Brenda. But not knowing is tormenting me, Mandy. I can't wait any longer.”

Mandy covered Cynthia's fingers and gently peeled them off her already bruised arm. She held Cynthia's trembling hand. “Why are you so anxious to know?”

“Remember when I told you I warned Faith about something, to be careful?” Cynthia bit her lip while Mandy nodded. “It wasn't something I warned her about. It was someone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh God, I don't want to tell you. I haven't told anyone why I warned Faith, not even her.” Cynthia's eyes filled with tears. She hunched her shoulders, pulled her hand from Mandy's and tightly clutched her hands in her lap. “Maybe if I had, she'd be alive now.”

A sick premonition crept into Mandy's gut. “I hope you aren't blaming yourself for Faith's death.”

“That's exactly what I'm feeling!” A tear ran down Cynthia's cheek. “And that's why I need to know if that scum did to her what he did to me!”

“What scum? What did he do to you?”

“Uncle Howie. He raped me when I was fifteen, made me think it was all my fault, that I seduced him, that I was wicked and evil.
He said if I told my parents, they'd send me away to juvenile
detention, where the guards and the other inmates would finish the job.”

Horror-stricken, all Mandy could say was, “Oh, Cynthia, no.” She tried to put a hand on Cynthia's shoulder, but her friend flinched.

Cynthia balled herself up tighter, drawing her knees up to her chest, as if trying to protect herself from attack. “He forced me to do all sorts of perverted things with him, in exchange for him keeping my secret. Finally I ran away from home when I was sixteen. I wound up in a youth shelter in Santa Fe. They let me stay and finish my GED even though I refused to tell them where I was from.”

“But when I met you, you were here. How'd you make your way back?”

“My dad found me just before I turned eighteen, using a private investigator. He came down and brought me home. By then I'd toughened up, taken some self-defense classes, and got some counseling at the center. I called Uncle Howie after we got back and told him that if he ever touched me again, he'd be a dead man.”

Mandy's eyes teared up, too, as she imagined the hardships a younger Cynthia had had to bear. “I don't know where you found the courage to do that. What did he say?”

Cynthia harrumphed. “He just laughed at me, said, ‘Listen to the big girl now.' Then he lit into me, said he wasn't afraid of me, and threatened all kinds of grief if I ever told anyone what we'd been doing. He said he had no interest in me anymore anyway, that he'd already found someone else.”

“Oh my God, not Faith!”

“No, she was just five years old then, hadn't matured yet to the age Uncle Howie liked his victims.” Cynthia made a face. “Either he'd found some other teenage girl, or someone his own age, or he was lying to me.”

“And you never told your folks or the police?”

Cynthia shook her head and dropped her feet to the floor. “I was too scared, embarrassed, even felt guilty. And I didn't want to think about what he did to me. I pushed it all way, way back in my psyche. I knew intellectually that none of it was my fault, that Uncle Howie was the predator. But emotionally, it was a lot harder to deal with.”

As Mandy tried to imagine what she would have done if it had been her, a cold chill streaked down her spine. The ghastly memories. How would she deal with those? “You must have wanted to bury those memories.”

“Yeah, I wanted to put it behind me, forget it all. I had started waiting tables, and after a few years, I decided I'd rather tend bar, that I'd earn more money that way. So, I went to bartending school in Denver, and came back here to work at the Vic, where I met all these great people. Salt of the earth, especially the river guides—and you. I'm so glad you're my friend.”

Seeing Cynthia's body loosen up as good memories took the place of bad, Mandy hugged her. “And I'm glad, too. You're the best friend I could possibly have.”

She pulled back a little to gaze at her friend's tear-streaked face. “But then you did dig up those memories. What made you decide to warn Faith? Because she turned fifteen?”

“No, it was more than that. Even though I tried to avoid Uncle Howie, we wound up attending some of the same family functions. Once Faith grew up and filled out and her family moved back here, I caught him eyeing her.”

“Oh, no.”

Cynthia nodded. “Oh, no, is right. I would watch him from the other side of the room. Back in June, I pulled Faith aside, told her to watch out for Uncle Howie, that he was a pervert and she should never be alone with him.”

“Did she listen to you?”

“I don't know. Problem was, I'm not sure she believed me, since I didn't, I couldn't, tell her how I knew he was a pervert.” Cynthia looked at Mandy with tears shimmering in her eyes. “You see? If Howie got to her, if he raped her, maybe even killed her, then I failed. I failed Faith, and Aunt Brenda and Uncle Lee, and Craig and even myself. That's why I've got to know. I'm all knotted up inside.”

Mandy couldn't prolong Cynthia's misery, but she wasn't sure she could alleviate it either. “All right, I'll tell you what I know. But you can't tell anyone that I told you anything about the autopsy.”

“I swear I won't. Please, please…”

“You aren't going to like the result. The pathologist said Faith died Saturday evening, but he couldn't determine if her death was accidental, suicide, or murder. All he could say was that she drowned, that she was alive when she went in the river because she had water in her lungs. She had a blow to her head that might have knocked her unconscious, but he couldn't say whether that happened before or after she went in the river.”

“So she died before Howie did.”

“But we don't know if he killed her.” Mandy paused.

Cynthia peered at her. “You know something else, something you're not telling me.”

Mandy grimaced. “I can only tell you if you promise you won't have any contact with Faith's family until after Detective Quintana gives them the results.”

“I promise.” Cynthia had her arms wrapped around herself now, squeezing so tightly that Mandy imagined it must hurt.