Wicked Eddies (13 page)

“If any of us knew about it, you mean.” Craig's lips twisted into a grimace of distaste. “He hid his perversion well. I never suspected a thing. I still can't believe he was so twisted and cruel. My own uncle. With my own sister, for Christ's sake!” He snatched up the glass and took a drink of water, spilling some down his T-shirt. He set the glass down hard on the table, sloshing out more, and swiped at his shirt.

Cynthia had settled back into her chair and sat twisting her fingers together. She glanced at Mandy, then nodded and took a deep breath. “Faith wasn't the only one, Craig.”

Craig's eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

Oh, no, here it comes.
Mandy clutched the arm of the sofa.

“He also raped me,” Cynthia said softly.

As if he'd been physically shoved in the chest, Craig fell back against the sofa cushion. His mouth dropped open. “What?”

“It was a long time ago, when I was about Faith's age.”

Cynthia choked out the whole sordid story, while Mittens
meowed and rubbed against her ankles and Craig stared at her in stunned silence. His hands clutched his bony knees and his glass of water remained untouched.

“I warned Faith about him.” She reached for a tissue to dab her eyes. “Told her to stay away from him, to never be alone with him. That Uncle Howie was a pervert.”

“Did you tell Faith what he did to you?”

Cynthia shook her head. “I couldn't. Every time I tried to say something to her about it, I started to shake and sweat.”

“Did she believe you when you told her Uncle Howie was a pervert?”

“I thought she did, but now I don't know. Maybe she didn't believe me. Maybe that's how he got to her. The memories are horrible, Craig. I didn't want to dredge them back up.” She scrubbed her palms on her jeans as if trying to wipe away the past. “You're the first person in the family I've told.”

Craig peered at Mandy. “What about you? Did she tell you?”

“Not until two days ago.”

He dropped his head into his palms, and his fingers clutched his hair. After a moment of silence, he looked up at Cynthia, his eyes shimmering. “Do you realize that if you'd told Faith what he did to you, she might be alive now?”

A tear trickled down Cynthia's cheek, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Silently, she nodded.

Mandy's own throat was constricted so tight she couldn't speak either.

Craig sat up straighter and his voice rose, “Or if you told me, or Uncle Lee, or Aunt Brenda? Then one of us could have acted, protected her.”

Cynthia's fingers pressed so hard on her lips that the tips went white. She nodded again.

Craig shot to his feet. “I hope you can live with that knowledge, Cynthia. I sure wouldn't be able to. I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror.” He was shouting now. “I'd hate the sight of my own lying face. In fact, right now I can't even look at you!”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him. His heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Mandy went to the window and watched him lurch onto his bike and pedal away, his legs pumping furiously. One foot slipped off a pedal and the bike wobbled, but Craig soon righted it and sped on.

She turned back to look at Cynthia who still sat in her chair, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

“Do, do you think,” Cynthia choked out, “he'll be okay on the bike?”

Mandy nodded. “He's controlling it all right. He should be able to get home. He only drank four beers, after all, and he's a big guy.”

She approached Cynthia, kneeled next to her chair, and put an arm around her friend's shoulders. “I'm sorry you had to listen to him say such awful things. I'm sure he didn't really mean them, that it was his grief and anger talking.”

Cynthia laid her head against Mandy's chest. “But everything he said was true. I killed her, Mandy. I killed Faith.”

Eleven

The two best times to fish is when it's rainin' and when it ain't.

—PATRICK F. MCMANUS

The next day, Tuesday,
Mandy dressed somberly for Howie
Abbott's funeral. When she donned the same mismatched black skirt and brown button-down shirt that she'd worn to another murder victim's funeral in June, her thoughts turned to the family of the man she'd pulled from the turbulent waters of the Numbers and who had died in her arms.

Like that family, the dark underbelly of the family of Howie Abbott and Faith Ellis was being exposed to the light. Unfortunately, this time her best friend was involved. If Cynthia's terrible secret was exposed to all, Mandy was sure her friend would be devastated. And the wounds would go much deeper than robbing Cynthia of her sense of humor—and the blonde jokes that Mandy had to admit she missed.

Mandy slipped on a pair of brown sandals—at least they weren't
her river-running Tevas—and started searching for her umbrella. The day had dawned gloomy and gray, befitting a funeral, and by the time Mandy had gotten dressed, it had started drizzling. She knew she used to have an umbrella, but after ten minutes of fruitless digging she hadn't found it. And Lucky was no help, sticking his nose in the piles she was shoving around, pulling out random articles of clothing and shoes, and begging Mandy to play tug-of-war with them.

Finally she gave up the hunt, stood, shrugged on her AHRA splash jacket and pulled up the hood. At least she'd be dry from the waist up. She went in the living room to find her car keys, wishing she didn't have to attend Howie Abbott's funeral. But, she assumed Cynthia would attend, and she wanted to be there to support her friend. Also, Mandy was curious who else would show up. Howie's murderer was likely to be one of the attendees.

Lastly, she was the one who'd found Howie's body, so it seemed fitting to be present when he was laid to rest. Then maybe the nightmare images of the gash in his neck, the hatchet, the flies, and the congealed blood that had plagued Mandy's nights would also be laid to rest.

With an involuntary shudder, she thought,
I sure hope so.

Lucky flopped down on the floor and watched her with sad eyes, his head between his paws, his mood echoing Mandy's
gloomy one.
Though Mandy had let him out to do his business in the yard
earlier, he was unhappy because he was stuck inside now and his mistress didn't want to play.

At the front door, she turned back to give him a pat on the head and scratch his ears. “Sorry we can't go out and play, fella.” But she couldn't bring herself to put on a happy face for the dog.

She drove her Subaru along wet streets to church central, the corner of 4
th
and D streets and the nucleus of Salida's church population. The Episcopal and Catholic churches were one block away. Clustered at this intersection stood the First Christian Church, the First United Methodist Church, and the First Baptist Church where Howie Abbott's funeral was scheduled to be held.

Mud-spattered cars and pickup trucks already filled the small parking lot of the church and lined the streets for a block in each direction. Mandy parked a block and a half up D Street. Before she got out of the car, her cell phone rang.

It was Steve. “I'm glad I caught you before you went into the service. I wanted to ask you yesterday to convey my sympathies and those of the whole ranger staff to the Ellis family.”

“Sure,” Mandy said, “and I'm sorry I didn't get back to you before you left.”

“When I saw your closed door, I figured you were in a hot and heavy conversation with Quintana. Anything you can share with me?”

“Not now.”
And maybe never.

“I understand.” Steve's tone, however, conveyed disappointment. “Let me know if you need anything, though, resources or my help, to close this case. I've been getting a lot of calls about it.”

“I will. Thanks.” While Mandy pocketed her cell phone, she thought,
so Quintana isn't the only one being pressured.

She got out of her car and walked back to the church. The rain
had washed its pearly white brick walls until they shone under
the gray clouds, almost as if they were lit from within. The steep wood-shingled roof with its tall square steeple cleaved the sky.

A car drove by, splashing her legs with muddy water.
Great, just great.
If she hadn't already looked bedraggled, she sure did now. She tucked a damp tendril of hair back under her hood as she'd chosen to not tie up her hair in a ponytail as usual. With a sigh she hunched her shoulders against the rain.

Just outside the church, Mandy spied Detective Quintana in his
knee-length official sheriff's office raincoat and plastic-covered hat.
He was standing with Sandra Sechrest, the Chaffee County Visitor's Bureau Chair. The woman was perfectly attired in a black skirted suit and short pumps, with not a hair out of place. She stood under a large black golf umbrella, seemingly unperturbed by the wet drops splashing on the pavement around her. Quintana watched folks stream into the church while he gave a nod every now and then to Sandra's chatter.

After Mandy greeted the two, Sandra pulled Mandy under her umbrella. “Come share this with me, dear. You look like a drowned rat.”

Mandy felt like one, too­—a very unfashionable and gawky rat compared to the well-groomed sleek mouse next to her. “I'm a little surprised to see you here. I thought you might be out observing the first practice day of the tournament.”

“Oh, I'll be at the check-in point this afternoon,” Sandra replied. “I've lined up a reporter and photographer from the
Chaffee County Times
to interview some of the teams coming in off the river, especially the foreign teams. I think their reactions to our lovely river and our beautiful town will make for good reading, don't you?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“I'm going to make sure the reporter sends the article and photos to the teams' hometown newspapers. It will be great publicity for the whole valley. And I'll make a statement about how we're a great tourism destination not only for rafting and fishing, but for all sorts of activities, from hot springs soaking to antiquing, bird watching to rock climbing, and more.”

She smiled and patted Mandy's arm. “Sorry, I'm getting carried away with my little speech already. I just wish Howie Abbott's murder wasn't crowding the tournament news off the front page and casting a dark pall on our fair valley. Any progress, Detective? Making an arrest soon?” She looked hopefully at Quintana.

He shook his head. “It's still a very active investigation, but we haven't reached the point where we can arrest someone yet.”

Sandra pursed her lips. “Too bad.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I should go in. Do you two want to join me?”

“I need to ask Detective Quintana something.” Mandy stepped out from under the umbrella. “Thanks for sharing your umbrella with me, though.”

“Oh, well…then I'll see you inside.” Looking a little put out, Sandra turned and minced toward the steps leading up to the church's front door.

After Sandra left, Mandy turned to Quintana. “More pressure, huh?”

“Yep. She and many of our other civic-minded citizens would prefer that people's first impression of Chaffee County be for its superb fishing, instead of a macabre murder case.”

“And I heard another complaint. I stopped by Cynthia's place last night and Craig Ellis was there, bitching about being fingerprinted. Do you really think one of the Ellises killed Howie Abbott?”

Quintana pulled her onto the wet lawn of the church, out of earshot of those splashing by on the sidewalk and gingerly making their way up the slippery steps. “I questioned each of them individually about where they were and what they were doing the Sunday afternoon Howie was killed. Brenda said she was home alone doing chores and cooking dinner.”

“So there's no one to vouch for her.”

“Right, except when I questioned Lee and Craig, they said when
they got home there were vacuum tracks on the rug, the bathroom towels had been laundered, and a roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings was in the oven. So, her story adds up.”

“Where were Lee and Craig?”

Quintana smoothed his damp mustache. “Now there's the story
that's a little fishy, in more ways than one. They said they were out on the Arkansas, fishing with a friend.”

Mandy furrowed her brow. “So the friend can vouch for them. Why's that fishy?”

“Because the friend is the exact same fisherman who was reported missing by his wife—Arnold Crawford.”

Mandy snapped her fingers. “Right, he disappeared Wednesday evening from Ruby Mountain. We were searching for his body when we found Faith's. What a coincidence.”

“Yeah, his story is well-known because his wife is asking everyone and their cousin if they've seen him.” Quintana shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It's a damned convenient story that the two Ellis men were supposedly fishing with him when Howie Abbott was killed. Until or unless he shows up, their alibi is pretty weak. And it makes me wonder what happened to Arnold.”

“Do you think he could be dead, too?” Mandy shivered. “God, I hope not. You know, we never did find any evidence of his body, clothing or otherwise, when we searched the river for him.”

“And nobody else seems to have any idea where he is, or if he's even alive.”

“Maybe Lee and Craig just chose him as an alibi precisely because he's missing. Because otherwise they had no alibi at all.”

Quintana shrugged then nodded toward the church door. “It's almost time for the service to start. Shall we go in?”

While Mandy squished through the grass and preceded him up the steps, she wondered if Quintana thought Arnold Crawford was dead from accidental drowning, or if he thought the missing fisherman also had been murdered.
And by whom?

After taking her seat, Mandy dug in her purse for a tissue and
scrubbed at the muddy spots on her legs. While doing so, she looked around, noting the attendees in the pews. Beside her, Quintana was also surveying the crowd. Brenda sat stiff-backed up front, in a position of honor as the dead man's sister. Notably absent were her husband and son, and Cynthia. Mandy leaned over to ask Quintana if he'd seen them.

His reply was, “Nope. Interesting, huh?”

Mandy would have assumed that as Faith's mother, Brenda would be the most upset of the four at what Howie had done to her daughter. But maybe she felt that as his sister, she had to attend the funeral anyway. Then Mandy had an awful thought. Heaven forbid, what if the woman knew about her brother's sick proclivities, knew that he'd abused Cynthia, maybe even knew he was doing the same to her daughter? Maybe she tacitly accepted his actions or turned a blind eye precisely because they were related.

She whispered to Quintana again. “Do you think Brenda knew about her brother's—you know—behavior?”

“She said she didn't in our interview yesterday, very forcefully so, but—” Quintana gave another meaningful shrug. “Craig and Lee claimed to not know about it either.”

“Well, Craig knows now, because Cynthia told him last night.
He stormed out of her place, shouting that it was her fault Faith died, because she didn't tell the family about Howie's abuse before.”

Quintana raised an eyebrow. “That family seems to be ripping apart at the seams.”

Before Mandy could reply, the service started. She glanced at her program, curious whether Brenda would eulogize her brother, but only the minister was listed as a speaker. After an opening prayer and a haunting solo by a member of the church choir, the minister stood at the podium.

His speech was fairly generic. He droned on about how Howie Abbott would be missed by his friends and family, gave a list of the man's contributions to the local community, such as they were, and finished with benign platitudes. Howie was now enjoying the company of friends and family in heaven who had passed before him, since he had accepted Jesus as his savior as a member of the Baptist faith.

Mandy squelched a derisive snort. Surely the minister didn't even know Howie Abbott—and what he'd done. The man raped and abused his two nieces, and maybe others. How could he be welcomed into heaven, even with his faith, assuming he truly felt it? She hoped Howie Abbott was suffering in a special purgatory for sexual predators. She just couldn't maintain a spirit of Christian forgiveness when her best friend still suffered the effects of his monstrous behavior.

During the sermon, Mandy studied Brenda Ellis. How was she reacting to the minister's words? But the woman maintained her erect posture, never turning, so all Mandy could see was the back of her head. After the final hymn, the congregation remained seated while Brenda was escorted out by one of the ushers.

When the woman passed her row, Mandy could see that she was stone-faced and dry-eyed. Her gaze was focused straight ahead,
as if she was avoiding having to look at any of the other mourners. Mandy likened the woman's stiff pose to a thin pane of delicate glass. One good poke, and she'd shatter into a million pieces. And if Mandy had to put a label on the emotion she saw on Brenda's face, she would have named it ice-cold anger, not grief.

When the mourners filed out of the sanctuary, they were directed by an usher downstairs to a meeting room, where the well-dressed, silver-haired ladies of the women's auxiliary were serving punch and cookies.
While walking through the serving line, Quintana said to Mandy out of the corner of his mouth, “Keep your eyes and ears sharp. Let me know if you see or hear anything interesting.”

Mandy nodded, then noted that he positioned himself close to where Brenda sat on a large easy chair, accepting murmured condolences from well-wishers who shuffled by. After collecting a glass of punch, Mandy circulated through the room. She didn't hear much of interest, however. The conversations were either awkward attempts to remember something nice about Howie Abbott or innocuous statements about the rain and its effect on the fly-fishing tournament practice sessions.