Wicked Eddies (8 page)

Mandy gave him a smile. “Yes, it does. Let's go.”

She hopped out of the truck and started unlashing the catarafts from the trailer. Since it was likely they would need two boats to deal with the strainer, they'd taken two of the single-person craft that river rangers usually used for river patrols. Each one had an oaring seat clamped onto a metal frame suspended between two bright blue inflatable pontoons. Mandy and Lance stowed their lunches and the tools for cutting branches in dry bags in the equipment cages bolted behind the seats.

After they'd parked the truck away from the ramp and locked it and pushed their rafts into the river, Mandy took a deep breath and let the music of the gurgling water start working its magic. A large black rook let out a loud caw and flapped its wings overhead. A trout splashed near one of her oars, and a bright yellow butterfly fluttered among cattails along the bank sawing against each other in the slight breeze. When the sun warmed her back, she pushed up the sleeves of the splash jacket under her PFD and dipped her oars in the water again.

Yes, trouble had occurred in Mandy's human community of Salida, especially for Cynthia's extended family, with the death of two members—her uncle Howie Abbott and his niece Faith Ellis. Mandy knew firsthand how wrenching even one death in the family could be. But all was right with the world of nature, at least today here on the Arkansas River, and it made her feel glad to be outdoors and alive to enjoy it.

Lance whooped when they rode their two rafts over a class III riffle, and Mandy flashed him a smile.

“You know,” he yelled over the rush of the water, “I've never understood why the commercial outfits don't run this section more often.”

“It is beautiful,” Mandy shouted back. “But let's keep the secret.”

Soon, they reached Frog Rock Rapid and tied up upstream. They hiked down and studied the strainer. A couple of huge cottonwood limbs with lots of interlocking smaller branches were wedged between two large rocks. There was no way to get to the bundle from the shore, or to eddy out a raft near it. They decided to tie Lance's raft to a nearby cottonwood, let it drift down to the spot with Lance inside, then cinch up the line so the raft stayed there.

After that was accomplished, Lance leaned out of the raft and alternated using a hand saw and a pair of large clippers to cut the branches into sections. Mandy stayed on the shore and threw him ropes, when needed, to tie off and drag larger sections to shore. There she chopped or sawed the sections up into smaller pieces that would float down the river without getting tangled. All the while, she kept an eye on Lance and her throw bag within reach, because she was his downstream rescue backup if he ended up in the river.

They worked companionably, Lance being an easy-going and methodical guy, for a couple of hours until he shouted, “Done,” and tossed the last section into the river. “Glad I didn't need the chain saw. I hate trying to control it in a bobbing raft.”

Mandy made quick work of chopping that last section up, then stood and stretched her aching back. She shouted, “I'm done, too,” and swiped sweat off her forehead.

“Meet you at the next eddy for lunch,” Lance shouted back while he untied the line from his raft and oared his cataraft out into the current. He whooped while his raft bounced down the tongue of standing waves below Frog Rock.

Mandy hiked back upriver with her equipment and ropes. She retrieved the line that had been tied to Lance's raft, and stowed everything in dry bags in her equipment basket. After pushing her cataraft off from shore, she ran the now-cleared rapid with a “Whoop!” of her own.

She soon spied Lance waving to her from a quiet pool down
river and spun her cataraft into the eddy next to his. He had already
tied off his raft to a tree on shore and secured hers to his.

He popped the cap on a bottle of Gatorade and held it up. “Here's to a job well done.”

Mandy tapped her water bottle against his Gatorade and drank deep, then sank her teeth into her peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich. “You know,” she said after swallowing, “nothing tastes as good as a smushed PBJ sandwich as long as it's eaten on the river when you're starving after a morning of hard work.”

Lance laughed and held up his sandwich. “Except maybe a salami on rye in the same circumstances.” He gave her a wink while he took a big bite and hummed while chewing.

While they were eating, a fly fisherman in waders came sloshing upstream alongside the opposite bank. He returned their wave, then went back to swishing his fly line overhead and casting it into eddy pools behind rocks lining the shore—favorite hang-out spots for river trout. He soon snagged a trout. He high-sticked his rod to hook the fish and bring it closer to him, then reeled in some line. As the trout flopped nearby, he reached behind him for the net stuck into his belt.

That's when something went wrong. He lost his footing, possibly because of a jerk from the good-sized trout, and fell forward with a splash into the main current. The current swept him downstream.

Yelling, “Don't stand up,” Mandy untied her cataraft line from Lance's and shoved off with her oars. She pushed hard on her oars to catch up with the fisherman.

The man had flopped over on his back with his feet pointed downstream, the best position for self-rescue in whitewater. He paddled with one arm, trying to steer himself toward the river bank. Since he held on tightly to his expensive-looking fly rod with the other arm, though, he wasn't making much progress.

Mandy came up alongside him and shouted, “Grab hold!”

He rolled and threw his free arm over the nearest pontoon.

Mandy steered her now sluggish cataraft toward shore. She soon felt Lance's cataraft behind her, nudging against her raft to help propel the fisherman into the shallows.

When they reached a large shallow eddy next to shore, the man let go. He pushed himself off the bottom to stand on a calf-deep cobble bar. After grabbing hold of a bush overhanging the river bank, he took a few deep breaths.

Mandy oared into the bank and grabbed a bush to keep her cataraft in the eddy.

Lance pushed off and ferried across the river, where Mandy spied the man's net bobbing in a small whirlpool near the other bank.

Studying the fisherman, Mandy saw that he was middle-aged, but not overweight. Though he was breathing hard, his face was a healthy color, neither red nor ashen. But just to be sure, she asked, “You okay?”

“Yep,” he answered. “Thanks, love. I thought I was a goner for sure.”

The man's accent was foreign, maybe British, so Mandy asked, “You're not from around here, are you?”

He shook his head, scattering drops from his wet, sandy-colored hair. “Flew in with me mates from Sydney three days ago for the tournament. They're sleeping off too many pints last night, but I had to get out on the river.” He held up the fly rod still gripped tightly in his hand, then did a double-take. “Blimey, the fish is still on the line!”

He efficiently reeled in some more line and grabbed the fish with his hand, since his net had floated away. He gently cradled the brown trout while sliding the hook out of its mouth. Then he eased it back into the water so it could swim away with an angry flick of its tail. “He was a beaut, wasn't he? Biggest brown I hooked today.”

“That was a nice one,” Mandy said, “and you look like you
know what you're doing.”

“Except for that dumb move back there,” he replied, while he secured his line to his rod. “Should have planted my feet better. Sorry to trouble you. Name's Tim, by the way.” He held out his hand.

Mandy reached over and shook it. “Mandy Tanner. I'm a river ranger, so plucking people out of the river is what I do for a living. You know, it's lucky we were here when you slipped.” She saw Lance was ferrying his way back across the stream, then she turned back to Tim. “Can I make a suggestion? Go back to your motel and wake up one of your buddies to fish with you for the rest of the day. It's not a good idea to be on the river alone like this.”

Lance drew his cataraft up next to hers and tossed Tim's net to him. “What Mandy says is damn straight. There's some wicked eddies downstream that can pull you right under. We can give you a ride on one of our rafts down to where you left your vehicle. You probably want to dry off anyway.”

Tim looked down at his soaked shirt and gave a rueful smile. “I think the river gods are agreeing with you.”

At Mandy's suggestion, he clambered onto the back of her raft and took an awkward seat on the equipment box. While she pushed off from the bank, Mandy asked him about his tournament experiences to get him talking. It was also a subtle way to check for shivering and hypothermia.

He rattled off a list of tournaments in his native Australia, Europe, and the U.S., then said, “Hey, I heard one of the locals who was going to compete got knocked off a few days ago. Someone axed him, supposedly.”

“Yeah, I was the one who found his body,” Mandy admitted.

Tim let out a long, low whistle. “I'm sure that was a pisser. From what the blokes were saying in the bar last night, though, the fellow won't be missed much.”

“Oh? What were they saying?”

“There were some rumors he was a cheater, but no one seemed to have solid proof. Some of the Yank teams were saying ‘good riddance.' And one bugger was even drinking to the man's death, saying now that his chief competition was gone, he had a good chance of winning. He doesn't know what he's up against, though.” He thumped his chest. “We Aussies are gonna give that braggart a run for his money.”

This was an interesting tidbit. Mandy glanced at Tim over her shoulder. “Did you get the name of the guy who was bragging?”

“Jesse Lopez, I think. Sort of a grizzled, squatty guy. Got the impression he was one of the old-timers hereabout.”

Mandy had a vague impression that she'd heard the name before, but she couldn't conjure up a visual of Jesse Lopez. Maybe Rob or Detective Quintana knew the man. Regardless, she'd need to give Quintana this information. Before she could ask Tim anything else, he pointed to a small put-in off State Route 306 that she recognized.

“My rental car's over there.”

While she ferried him over, she asked him where he was staying, so she could tell Quintana. “Maybe I'll see you at the tournament,” she said when she dropped him off. “I'll be patrolling during it. Good luck.”

He shook her hand. “Thanks, lovie, and thanks again for the rescue. I owe you a beer.”

Mandy laughed. “It's all part of the job, but if I see you at Victoria's Tavern, I may take you up on that.”

Tim gave her a thumb's up and sloshed his way out of the water up to the shore.

Lance brought his cataraft up next to hers. “We better get a move on if we're going to make it through Brown's Canyon and back to headquarters by the end of the day.”

Mandy glanced at her waterproof watch. “If we have to do any more rescues, we may need to radio for someone to pick us up.”

“Then let's hope we have a clean run down with no more
rescues,” Lance replied. “You've had more than your fair share of incidents lately.”

“And more than my fair share of bodies, with no explanation for who killed them or in Faith Ellis's case, if she'd even been killed.” Mandy shoved her oars through the water.
I've got to talk to Cynthia!

Seven

Remember, a dead fish can float downstream,
but it takes a live one to swim upstream.

—W. C. FIELDS

Mandy and Lance arrived
at the boat ramp in Salida around five-thirty. By the time they stowed the catarafts and she drove him back to the put-in to fetch the truck, it was well past dinner time and her stomach was growling.

Lucky was miffed at her when she got home, barking at her through the fence. After she came through the gate, Lucky nosed his almost-empty water dish as if to say, “See how you abandoned me?” Feeling suitably guilty, Mandy gave him fresh water and fed him, tossing a biscuit on top to appease him.

She went inside and opened her fridge to see what her own dining options were. Half a jar of salsa sat on the top shelf, left over from the breakfast fixings Rob had brought by, and she remembered she had some frozen burritos. She took two out of the freezer and stuck them in the microwave to defrost. Then she went outside to toss a tennis ball to Lucky, taking her cell phone with her.

She tried Detective Quintana at his office first, hoping he might
be working late on the case. He answered on the second ring. While Lucky dropped an increasingly slobbery ball in her hand to toss again and again, she told Quintana about her conversation with Cynthia. She felt uneasy about revealing Cynthia's statements that Faith was taking some sort of risk and wasn't safe, and that Cynthia felt some guilt about not helping enough. But she told him everything nonetheless, expressing her concern about Cynthia's fragility.

After Quintana promised that he would step lightly when requestioning Cynthia, Mandy filled him in on Aussie Tim's revelation about Jesse Lopez drinking to Howie Abbott's death.

“Jesse Lopez,” Quintana repeated. “Yeah, since he was on the list
of Rocky Mountain Cup competitors, I've already gathered some information on him. He's a local and owns a gas station out on Highway 50, does some fly-fishing guiding on weekends. I already knew him somewhat. He wrestled in high school, as I did, graduated a year before me. He was real competitive back then, hated to lose, and had a temper on him. Would storm out of the gym if he was eliminated in a meet.”

“Is he still that way?” Mandy asked. She thought Rob might know Jesse, too, since both were Hispanic business owners in town.

“I don't socialize with him, but I'm thinking probably yes. He's a fierce competitor in fly-fishing tournaments now. In fact, I remember now that he complained a few years back when Howie beat him out of a first-place purse. Even talked to the Sheriff's Office, but we had no reason to pursue it. He insinuated Howie hadn't earned the prize legitimately.”

Mandy heard a scratching sound, as of a splintered pencil on paper.

“I'm making a note to bring Jesse in for an in-depth interview,” Quintana said. “Did you find out where this Aussie was staying in case I want to follow-up?”

Mandy gave him the name of the motel.

“Thanks for the information. Also, I talked to Ira Porter. He says the last time he saw Howie was the Wednesday afternoon before he was killed, when they fished together. And supposedly he's got an alibi for Sunday afternoon. We're checking it out.”

“What was his alibi?”

“That he was visiting his mother in an assisted-living facility in Colorado Springs that day. He said she's got dementia. So even if she vouches for him, she's not a reliable witness. I just got off the phone with the place. I asked for a copy of the visitor log for Sunday and also if I could interview their staff.” Quintana cleared his throat. “Now, I've got some news that may help you with understanding Cynthia's reaction to her cousin's death.”

“I'd appreciate anything you can tell me. Cynthia's comments were confusing and she's taking Faith's death really hard. I'd like to find some way to help her.”

“This is confidential, so you've got to keep what I'm going to tell you to yourself.”

Wondering and dreading what was coming, Mandy said, “Of course.” She held onto the ball Lucky had just returned to her, waiting for the news.

“We sent Faith's body to the Pueblo County Coroner's Office. As a matter of procedure, their forensic lab took samples of skin and hair. The technician thought the hair looked familiar and compared it under the microscope to the ones we recovered from Howie Abbott's sleeping bag. They were an exact match.”

Mandy dropped the tennis ball. “What? Had she borrowed her uncle's sleeping bag recently?”

“I talked to her family again today and asked them that question. They said no, that Faith had never used Howie's sleeping bag. She would have no reason to, having one of her own. So then I had to pursue another line of questioning, which didn't go over well. That maybe Faith had shared her uncle's sleeping bag Saturday night when she went missing.”

A shudder coursed through Mandy. “Oh, ick. You think Faith's uncle was sleeping with her?”

Quintana sighed. “I've come across cases of incest before, unfortunately. If she was with her uncle when someone killed him, they may have killed her, too, and for some reason dumped her body in the river upstream.”

Mandy ignored Lucky's nudges against her hand. “But why dump her body and not his?”

“She's lighter, a lot more portable,” Quintana said. “And the killer may not have killed her right away. He may have assaulted her first. That's why I asked the coroner to use a rape kit when he did the autopsy this afternoon.”

“Oh my God.” Mandy plopped down on her butt in the middle of the yard. “And if he finds semen, it could be either her uncle's or the killer's or both.”

“Correct.”

“What did Faith's parents say to all this?”

“I didn't tell them my whole theory. No need to mention the possibility of assault by the killer if there wasn't one—or if she wasn't murdered. There's still the possibility her death was accidental or a suicide and totally unrelated to Howie's.

“However, I did ask them about the relationship between Faith and her uncle. Her parents and her brother all claimed not to know of anything odd or off-kilter between them, said it seemed to be a normal uncle-niece relationship. In fact, her father got pretty hot under the collar about the questions I was asking. I would expect denials, of course, even if they knew, but from their body language, they all seemed sincere.”

When Lucky put his head in Mandy's lap, butting against her chest to get her to throw the ball, she covered the cell phone and whispered a fierce “No!” at the dog. Then she said to Quintana, “Could Faith have killed her uncle? Maybe if he was abusing her, she'd finally had enough and snapped.”

“I considered that, but it would have taken someone fairly strong to wield that hatchet, a man or a large woman. Faith was a little thing. But we're looking into the possibility.”

Lucky lay down with his head between his paws and whined at her. Mandy reached over and absently scratched behind his ears while she digested these revelations. Could the risky behavior that Cynthia mentioned last night have been an incestuous relationship between Faith and her uncle? Did Cynthia know about it?

“You're awfully quiet,” Quintana said.

“Sorry, this is a lot to take in. You know, when Cynthia said Faith was taking a risk, one thing that came to mind was that Faith was using drugs. Did they find anything in her system?”

“No alcohol. The other toxicology tests will take awhile. Her body had been in the water quite awhile, but they should still be able to tell if she was abusing drugs.” He paused. “Would you be willing to do something for me?”

“What do you need?”

“After you talk to Cynthia, let me know her reaction. You can tell her about the hairs matching. I want to find out if she knew anything about Faith and Howie. Maybe she had warned Faith to avoid her uncle. The risk she mentioned may have been that Faith was sleeping with her uncle and trying to keep it secret from her family. If Cynthia knows that we know about the hairs, she may open up some more to you. The chances of that are certainly higher than if I talked to her.”

Mandy's hand stilled. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable snitching on my friend.”

“The only people you'd be snitching on are both already dead.”

_____

When Mandy went back inside the kitchen with Lucky, she found lukewarm burritos waiting for her in the microwave. She zapped them for another minute, smothered them with salsa, and wolfed them down. Not a great tasting meal, but one that filled the gaping hole in her stomach. While she was washing her plate, her phone rang. It was Cynthia.

“Mandy, I hate to ask this of you, but my aunt and her family want to talk to you.”

“Why me?”

“Well, um, because I told them you were the one who found both Uncle Howie and Faith.”

“Damn it, Cynthia, I don't want to describe their bodies to grieving relatives. Not only would I feel really awkward about it, I don't think it would be helpful.”

“Aunt Brenda wants this, and so do I, Mandy. You did say you'd do whatever I needed to help me through this.”

Mandy sighed. “Yes, I said it and I meant it. Okay, I'll meet you at your place, and we can drive over together.” Mandy hung up and looked down at Lucky. “Sorry, fella. I've got to leave you alone again.”

Lucky snorted and padded off as if he understood her words.

Mandy called Quintana back to make sure it was okay for her to visit Faith's family. He told her that as long as she didn't divulge anything about the investigation and reported back to him with her impressions, it was fine. In fact, he encouraged it. Then she picked up Cynthia and followed her directions to the Ellis home on the outskirts of Salida. During the drive, Mandy tried to bring up her questions about Faith again, but Cynthia stone-walled her.

“Faith's troubles were private,” Cynthia said.

“I hate to tell you this, Cynthia, but Faith's hair was found in Howie Abbott's sleeping bag.”

Cynthia sucked in a breath, then she quickly recovered. “The whole family shares camping gear. That doesn't mean anything.”

“Did you know about something going on between Faith and her uncle?”

Cynthia clamped her lips shut. “I told you. Faith was depressed and I was trying to help her.”

“But you said Faith may have taken a risk. If whatever Faith was doing is related to her death, if it caused someone, like her uncle, to kill her, then the police need to know.”

“But you don't. If the autopsy shows she was killed, I'll talk to the police.” Cynthia turned her head to stare out the passenger window, signaling the conversation was over.

The Ellis home was situated on the lower flanks of Methodist Mountain south of Route 50, in an older neighborhood. The two-story half-brick, half-tan-siding home squatted among stands of gnarled pinion pine and juniper. It had no yard to speak of, except a small fenced-in flower garden in the front. The fence most likely was erected to protect the flowers from being eaten by mule deer. Late summer mums and impatiens bloomed among the fading petunias and dried stalks of iris.

A faded red extended-cab pickup truck with the logo of Lee Ellis's small rafting company on the door panel sat in the driveway. He'd bought the company from the struggling owner just prior to the family's move to Salida. Mandy vaguely remembered when her uncle introduced her to Lee at a gathering of the Arkansas River Outfitter Association members in May. Maybe Rob had had a chance to get to know the man better over the summer. While she crunched up the gravel path to the front door with Cynthia, Mandy made a mental note to ask Rob about Lee as well as Jesse.

Cynthia rang the bell. An older woman with light brown hair streaked with gray and wearing a checked flannel shirt over faded jeans opened the door and gave Cynthia a hug. While Cynthia made introductions, Mandy had a chance to study Brenda Ellis. The woman's features bore a slight family resemblance to Cynthia's and were an older, more flaccid version of her daughter's. Her eyes were reddened and her face puffy and strained as if she'd been crying recently. Rightfully so, Mandy thought, since Brenda had lost both her brother and her daughter in the past few days.

Brenda ushered them into the house and introduced Mandy to her husband. Lee was a tall, rangy John Wayne look-alike with a full head of gray hair and large hands that engulfed Mandy's when they shook.

“We've met,” Lee said.

“Yes, last summer,” Mandy replied. “When I came to an AROA meeting with Uncle Bill.”

Lee nodded. “He impressed me when I met him. Folks around here really seemed to look up to him.”

“Thanks.” Mandy still missed her uncle every day, but it was good to hear how well he was respected in the commercial rafting community.

“And this is my son, Craig,” Brenda said with a guiding hand on Mandy's arm.

Mandy shook hands with a younger version of Lee, who looked to be in his early twenties. “Nice to meet you,” she said, then immediately regretted it, because the circumstances were anything but nice.

The Ellis family didn't seem to notice, though, as everyone settled into the overstuffed living room furniture. Lee and Brenda sat in matching La-Z-Boy chairs that were obviously their de facto reserved seats. On the end table next to Brenda's lay a stack of women's magazines and a box of tissues. A basket on the floor in front of the table was stuffed with a knitting project, something in blue and gray yarn. The end table next to Lee's chair held a fly-tying kit, a can of Bud, and the TV remote.

Mandy felt squashed between Craig and Cynthia, both stiff as boards, on the sofa. In the awkward silence that followed the greeting and seating ritual, she blurted out, “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

Tears welled up in Brenda's eyes, and she reached for a tissue.

Lee covered her other hand with his. “This has been real hard on Brenda. To lose a brother and then a daughter so soon after is more than one woman should have to bear.”