Wicked Eddies (4 page)

Mandy spotted Steve Hadley standing at the front of the room. He was chatting with the Chaffee County Sheriff and the Fire Chief of the Chaffee County Fire Protection District, both of whom she knew by sight. Mandy didn't recognize the older woman
with smartly coiffed gray hair, dressed in a stylish pant suit, who was standing with them.

The woman rapped her knuckles on the conference table to get people's attention. “Okay, let's get the meeting started so you can all go back to your important duties as quickly as possible. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Sandra Sechrest, Chair of the Chaffee County Visitor's Bureau. The purpose of this meeting is to brief all of you on the upcoming Rocky Mountain Cup fly-fishing tournament and make sure our emergency response plans are in place.”

The woman went on to introduce her cohorts standing with her at the front of the room and to lay out the schedule. The tournament events would start the next Monday with judge and volunteer training, followed by two days of practice fishing by the competitors and two days of competition. The whole shebang would culminate in an award ceremony Friday night at the Salida SteamPlant, an electrical power plant that had been converted into a performing arts and events center. After Sechrest finished, each of the emergency response chiefs described their plans to support the event and what they expected from their troops.

When Steve's turn came, he started off with a question, “What's one of the most deadly sports in the world?”

Mandy knew the answer, but stayed quiet. Someone yelled out, “whitewater rafting,” a good guess, but not good enough.

“It's fishing,” Steve said, nodding while surprised murmurs filled the room, “usually from the fatal combination of boats, alcohol, and people who don't know how to swim. Now, given that we have serious competitors participating in this event, I expect that alcohol won't play a large part until after the award ceremony.”

A few snorts and chuckles punctuated that remark.

“However,” Steve continued, “we still have boats on the float-fishing practice and competition days giving us the same problems whitewater rafting boats do—hitting underwater obstacles and pitching their occupants into the water. And most of these teams are unfamiliar with the upper Arkansas, its rapids, and its hazards. So, I'm increasing river ranger patrols on the river during the competition.

“And then there are wading fishermen on the shore fishing days.” Steve shook his head and tsked. “I hate waders. As the old-timers know, we usually have at least one fly-fisherman die each season, from either getting a foot trapped or tripping while standing in the river wearing waders. The fisherman falls in the river, the waders fill up with water, dragging the wearer underwater, and then he drowns.”

A solemn silence descended on the group. Mandy, and no doubt many others, was remembering the most recent drowning of a local fly-fisherman that spring, leaving a widow and two teenaged children.

“I want all of you river rangers to be on the alert,” Steve said, “for boaters not wearing their personal flotation devices and for standing fishermen wading in too deep. If you see a boater without a PFD, you give them a warning. If you see someone wearing waders without a belt, suggest they put on a belt immediately. Tell them it will stop most of the water from flowing into the waders if they fall and may very well save their life. If they're standing in moving water past their knees, you give them a warning.”

One of the river rangers raised a hand. “We're bound to get complaints.”

“Don't worry about complaints,” Steve replied. “I'll deal with them. We want folks going home from this competition with a memory of the big one that got away, not the big guy who passed away.”

Ouch
. Mandy cringed.
Had Steve rehearsed that line?

He handed some sheets of paper to the first ranger sitting at the conference table. “River rangers, each of you take one of these. They're the shift schedules for next week. Some of you will be working extra shifts to make sure we have adequate coverage along all of the competition beats—that's river sections for those of you unfamiliar with the lingo of fly-fishing competitions. Given the economic times, I thought some of you might appreciate the overtime.”

Mandy checked her schedule and saw she had an extra shift next
week. She could always use the additional money, so she didn't mind. Poor Lucky would be left in the yard alone an extra day, but she would make it up to him. And Rob was so busy coordinating rafting trips for RM Outdoor Adventures, he probably wouldn't even notice she was working overtime.

After answering a few questions, Steve gave a nod to Sandra Sechrest, who stepped forward. She cleared her throat, looking nervous for the first time. “We've already had one death of a competitor. Howie Abbott was killed sometime Sunday. He was registered to compete in the tournament.”

Mandy sat up straighter. This was news to her.

“Furthermore, Mr. Abbott was most likely cheating.” Sandra frowned. “His body was found at the Vallie Bridge campground, with his fishing gear nearby, and that campground is within one of the beats. No one competing in the tournament is supposed to access the competition river sections for six weeks prior to the start of the tournament.”

“Isn't that a float-fishing beat?” one of the firemen asked.

“Yes, but that doesn't matter,” Ms. Sechrest answered. “Scouting out from the shore where the fish tend to gather is still against the rules. Now, I know our prizes can't compete with the large sums offered in European tournaments, but a ten-thousand-dollar first prize is nothing to sneeze at. The temptation to cheat is there, and the whole point of the rules is to squelch that temptation.

“My hope is that Mr. Abbott's death is unrelated to the tournament, but the suspicion that he was cheating has already cast a pall on the event. We don't want these competitors, who are flying in from all over the world, to leave Chaffee County with a bad taste in their mouths.”

Well, well, well,
Mandy thought.
Did someone catch Howie cheating? Was that motive enough for murder? And what about the other camper who was with him? Was that person a competitor, too, and also cheating?

_____

She made a mental note to get a copy of the list of the competitors to give to Detective Quintana.

Three

The only time a fisherman tells the truth is when
he calls another fisherman a liar.

—AUTHOR UNKNOWN

After feeding and playing
with Lucky and heating up a can of chili for herself, Mandy arrived at the Vic well after eight on
Tuesday night. The historic tavern's heavy scroll-worked door was
propped open to let in the fresh night air. A light breeze coming
off the mountains to the west, a harbinger of an impending cool front, teased a few loose strands of Mandy's hair, tickling her cheeks.

The entertainment that night was warming up, and their reggae beat lifted her spirits when she stepped over the threshold. Once inside, the golden stamped-tin ceiling of the large barroom magnified the sound of both the music and chattering groups of people. Mandy worked her way to the long, polished wood bar.

She spotted Cynthia at the taps at the far end, pouring beer into pilsner glasses. Her bare arm flexed when she plugged the taps, twitching the green and red broad-tailed hummingbird tattooed on her bicep. With the back of her hand, Cynthia swiped at a lock of brunette hair that had come out of her French braid, then piled the glasses on a tray for a waitress standing at the ready.

Mandy shouted, “Cynthia!” and waved.

Cynthia flashed a thumbs-up and held up an empty beer glass.

Mandy returned the thumbs-up.

Cynthia retrieved a bottle of Mandy's favorite Fat Tire Ale from the cooler. After walking down the length of the bar with it, she plunked the glass in front of Mandy, and started pouring. “The usual for my best bud.”

“Thanks.” Mandy took a welcome sip, then feeling tongue-tied over what to say about Cynthia's uncle's death, she stalled with, “It's busy for a Tuesday.”

“I think it's the band. Brought some groupies with them.” Cynthia's trained eye scanned the bar. Seeing no one who required her immediate attention, she propped a foot up on a box behind the bar. “Ready?”

Mandy rolled her eyes, expecting another of the ritual blonde jokes Cynthia enjoyed teasing her with. Thankful for delay in talking about Howie Abbott and thinking Cynthia might need to work up to the topic, too, she smiled. “Fire away.”

Cynthia pointed to the stained glass display behind the bar—multi-colored parrots and toucans hiding in lush green jungle foliage. “Here's why we don't have a mirror behind our bar. Once there was this bar that had a magic mirror. If you told a lie it would suck you in.” She leaned on her elbows. “You with me so far?”

“I'm with you.” Mandy took a sip of beer.

“Well, one day a brunette came into the bar.” Cynthia patted her own hair for emphasis. “She walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world' and it sucked her in.” Cynthia slapped her hands together.

“The next day a redhead walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world' and it sucked her in.” Another clap.

“Then the next day a blonde came into the bar. She walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think …' and it sucked her in.” Cynthia slapped the bar, a grin splitting her face.

Mandy laughed. “Good one. Where do you dig these up?”

Cynthia waved her hand. “Oh, I've got a million of 'em. You blondes just keep giving the comics more material.” Her smile slowly died while she polished away at an imaginary spot on the bar.

Mandy realized Cynthia was just going through the motions. “I guess your aunt told you about your Uncle Howie.”

Avoiding her gaze, Cynthia scratched at a sticky spot on the bar. “Yeah, I heard.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss and I feel terrible about it. I'm the one who found him.”

Cynthia's head came up, concern in her eyes. “I didn't hear that. That must have been awful.”

To get the sudden sour taste out of her mouth, Mandy took a drink of her beer. “It's part of my job. Eventually I'll have to get used to it. But that's nothing compared to what your family must be going through. Detective Quintana wanted me to pass on his condolences, too.” She put a hand over Cynthia's, stilling her fingers. “And if there's anything I can do, just—”

Cynthia pulled her hand away and shoved the bar rag into her back jeans pocket. “There's nothing you need to do. Frankly, I won't be shedding any tears over good ole Uncle Howie.” Her lips pursed as if she'd bitten into an unripe persimmon.

This wasn't the reaction Mandy had expected at all. “What's the story?”

“Nothing to tell. It's just … he and I weren't very close. I never saw much of him after I grew up, didn't have any need to, so I won't miss him that much.” Cynthia shrugged, but it seemed forced. “I'm more worried about my cousin, Faith. She's been missing for almost three days now, and fifteen's awful young to be on your own.”

“The cops are looking for her. Detective Quintana even gave me a flier to pass around at the ranger station. If she's anywhere in the county, I'm sure we'll find her.”

“Thanks. I put some fliers up in the bar, too.” She pointed to one near the front door. “I'm glad so many people are looking for her. I hope she's just playing hooky with a friend, and they're both having too much fun to realize how worried their families are.” Cynthia chewed on her lower lip.

“About your uncle, though—”

“I don't want to talk about him anymore.”

Before Mandy could reply, a waitress called Cynthia's name and waved an order slip in the air. Cynthia pushed off from the bar and stood. “Gotta go. Kendra and the rest of the gang are already back in the pool room.”

Mandy stared at her friend's retreating back. What was the problem between Cynthia and her uncle?

_____

Taking her beer with her, Mandy walked past the band on their tiny stage, covering the ear facing their loud instruments, and into the Vic's pool room. She spotted Gonzo in a Wave Sport kayaks T-shirt and baggy black jeans. Next to him sat Kendra in a shimmery jade green spaghetti-strap top that set off her black skin. On her left was Dougie with a faded Denver Broncos hat slung backward on his curly rag mop. All three rafting guides had worked for her uncle and now worked for the merged company run by Rob.

They were clustered around a table under the large wall-mounted shark, an incongruous item in a mountain valley bar. Still, it was somehow appropriate because the upper Arkansas River rapids could be man eaters. A couple of Mandy's fellow river rangers made up the rest of the gang. Since river rangers, like Mandy, were usually former rafting guides, the ties between the two groups ran deep.

Kendra saw Mandy and gave a whistle and come-hither wave. She and Dougie had a pitcher of beer and a couple of glasses in front of them. Gonzo was slurping a soda. When he finished, he glanced at the pitcher and licked his lips. He looked glum while Mandy settled into a chair that was vacated by a ranger who got up with his teammate to shoot pool.

After greeting the others, Mandy asked Gonzo, “What's up?”

“Newt told me Detective Quintana asked him to come into the station for an interview tomorrow. He's nervous about it.”

Mandy took a sip of her beer, hoping she wasn't adding to the considerable temptation her alcoholic friend was being exposed to. “Does he have anything to be nervous about?”

“You mean, did he kill Howie Abbott? No way! He's just afraid the cops won't believe him because of his past history.”

“What past history?” Dougie asked, rocking his chair back on its hind legs.

“Drugs.” Gonzo took another drink of his soda. “That's how I met Newt, at an AA meeting. He's abused both dope and booze, so he can attend.”

“Bummer,” Mandy replied. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, there're more of us than you might think,” Gonzo said. “Newt's had a tough time holding down a job over the past couple of years. He's basically homeless—camps out in the summer, and when it gets cold, he goes couch surfing or sleeps at a homeless shelter.”

“How's he get enough money to live on?” Kendra asked.

“He collects aluminum cans. Gets twenty cents a pound for them at Safeway.” Gonzo glanced at Mandy. “That's what he was doing at Vallie Bridge. He's really an okay dude once you get to know him. Problem is, he has priors, mostly for possession.”

Mandy leaned forward. “Detective Quintana doesn't strike me as the kind of man who will be influenced by someone's history. He pretty much sticks to the facts of the case.”

“I hope so.” Gonzo quickly downed the rest of his soda and stood. “I've gotta take a leak. I keep chain-drinking all these Dr. P's because I can't have what I really want.”

At Mandy's stricken look, he added, “Don't look so worried. If the temptation gets to be too much, I'll just leave.” He walked toward the restrooms.

Dougie caught Mandy's attention. “He's my designated driver, so I have a vested interest in making sure he keeps his vow. He's really doing pretty well for someone who's been dry just a couple of months.”

Kendra nodded. “We're proud of him.”

“Me, too” Mandy replied. “I know it's his journey to take. I just wish I could schlep his bags for him or something.” Wanting to change the subject, she asked, “Either of you ever meet Newt?”

Dougie shook his head.

“I ran into him and Gonzo a couple of weeks ago in line at Mama D's counter,” Kendra said, “and Gonzo introduced us. We shot the breeze for a bit, but I was getting take-out, so I booked.”

“How'd he strike you?” Mandy asked.

“Seemed okay to me.” Kendra shrugged. “Not as goofy as Gonzo. Grungy, probably from picking up cans that morning. Maybe a little jumpy. Kept telling Gonzo he had to get going.”

One of the river rangers at the pool table shouted, “Hey, Kendra, Mandy, these guys are looking for a team to play eight-ball against. Want to take them on?” He pointed to the table next to him, where two sunburned, middle-aged men stood with cues at the ready.

The ranger winked at Mandy. He'd seen Kendra and her play many times, and play well, so she was sure some kind of side bet had been made. The strangers were probably thinking they could beat two women.

Kendra shouted, “Sure, why not? We'll whoop their sorry asses.”
She stood and signaled for Mandy to join her while she sashayed over to the table.

After they shook hands and introduced themselves, Mandy learned
the two men were fly fishermen from Denver. They were
visiting Chaffee County to practice for and participate in the
tournament. While she chalked her cue, she decided to find out what they knew about Howie Abbott, if anything.

“Have you two ever competed in fly-fishing before?”

“Sure, lots of times,” Fred, the tall one, replied.

“Do you know any of the other competitors in this tournament?”

“Most of the Colorado teams at least,” Bob, the one with a bit of a paunch, said. “Some of the international teams are new to us.” He removed the triangular rack from the balls and gestured for one of the women to shoot first.

Kendra took her place at the foot of the table and lined up behind the cue ball. Her break shot hit the balls with a loud crack, and the solid blue two ball dropped in a pocket. When the balls came to rest, though, the positions of the striped balls seemed better to Mandy's eye.

“Stripes?” Kendra asked Mandy.

Mandy nodded.

“You're giving us a head start?” Bob asked, surprise widening his eyes.

Mandy flashed a smile at him. “Not for long.”

“And this isn't a call-shot game, is it?” Kendra asked the guys.

Fred laughed. “No way. You gals will need all the lucky shots you can get.”

Kendra winked over her shoulder at Mandy.

While Kendra planned her next shot, Mandy asked the guys, “You two ever meet Howie Abbott?”

With a snort, Bob said, “That cheater? Sure. No wonder someone killed him.”

Kendra easily sunk the red striped eleven ball in a corner pocket.

Mandy stepped back to let Kendra pass in front of her. “How did Howie cheat?”

“Well, you know he was scouting beats ahead of time if he was at Vallie Bridge. The section from Salida to Rincon was marked off limits.”

“Also,” Fred added, “Howie's been seen doing the ‘San Juan Shuffle' in the past.”

“What's that?”

“When you're standing in the stream and start kicking up the rocks to release the nymphs and excite the fish into a feeding frenzy.”

Kendra's next shot pocketed the fourteen ball.

This ‘San Juan Shuffle' was a new concept for Mandy. “That's against the rules?”

“Usually, and it's certainly frowned on when it isn't explicitly in the rules,” Fred replied. “No fly-fisherman worth his weight in trout is going to admit he needs the help.”

“So if Howie was seen doing it, what happened?”

The nine ball went whizzing by on its way into another corner pocket.

“When the judge called him on it,” Fred said, with a worried glance at the corner pocket, “Howie came up with some lame story about getting his foot caught on a rock and losing his balance. So, the judge let him off with a warning to watch his footing in the future.”

“Same way he came up with a story about having bait scent on him,” Bob added.

Kendra put a hand on her hip. “You mean he stank? You're not allowed to stink?”

Bob laughed. “No, a judge found a tube of trout gel in Howie's tackle box. A little smear of that on your fly makes it smell better to the trout. Howie's story was that he took it away from a friend he was fishing with before the competition and forgot it was in his tackle box. Since the seal wasn't broken, the judge had to believe him, but he confiscated the gel. If he hadn't, I bet Howie would have used it.”