praise for agatha award finalist beth groundwater Deadly Currents “A heart-racing debut with as many twists and turns and unexpected upsets as a ride through the rapids itself.”—Margaret Coel, author of The Silent Spirit “A thrilling journey . . . filled with river lore, vivid descriptions of the duties of the river rangers, and loving depictions of the varied characters.”—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine “An entertaining read . . . A classic and well-written murder mystery; you won’t be able to put it down.”—Colorado Country Life “Groundwater kicks off a new series that combines outdoor action with more than a modicum of old-fashioned detection.”—Kirkus Reviews “With a fresh locale . . . this is a promising new series.”—Library Journal “The amiable cast, along with Groundwater’s fascinating firsthand knowledge of rafting, makes this a series worth watching.”—Mystery Scene “Deadly Currents comes rushing at you from the first page like roiling whitewater, and culminates in a riveting climax that lives up to this book’s name. If you like outdoor adventure and gripping characters, this one’s a must-read.”—Sandi Ault, Mary Higgins Clark and WILLA Award Winning Author of the Wild Mystery Series “An exciting ride from the very first chapter, with a courageous heroine in a fascinating line of work.”—Nancy Pickard, author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning
A Real Basket Case An Agatha Award Finalist for Best First Novel “A Real Basket Case and its author are a welcome addition to the mystery genre.”—Crimespree Magazine “An enjoyable mystery… A Real Basket Case should not be missed.”— Romance Reviews Today, RomRevToday.com “A clever, charming debut novel. Quick-paced and well written with clear and comfortable prose, A Real Basket Case is a perfect afternoon read for cozy fans.”—SpinetinglerMag.com “A crackling good novel with the kind of twists and turns that make roller coaster rides so scary and so much fun!”—Margaret Coel, author of The Drowning Man “Groundwater brings new meaning to the term menopausal in this flawlessly crafted mystery. Her gutsy, power surging heroine keeps the pressure on until the final chapter.”—Kathy Brandt, author of Swimming with the Dead “Beth Groundwater has put together the perfect mixture of humor, thrills, and mystery. A terrific debut!”—Christine Goff, author of the Birdwatcher’s Mystery series
also by beth groundwater A Real Basket Case To Hell in a Handbasket Deadly Currents
BETH GROUNDWATER
WICKED EDDIES Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Wicked Eddies: An RM Outdoor Adventures Mystery © 2012 by Beth Groundwater. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2012 Book design by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover image © Radius Images/PunchStock.com Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Groundwater, Beth. Wicked eddies : a Rocky Mountain outdoor adventures mystery / Beth Groundwater. — 1st ed. p. cm. — (Rocky Mountain outdoor adventures mystery; 2) ISBN 978-0-7387-2163-7 (alk. paper) 1. White-water canoeing—Fiction. 2. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title. PS3607.R677W53 2012 813'.6—dc23 2011046859 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
To Neil, with love. I couldn’t choose a better paddling partner with whom to navigate the turbulent waters of the river of life.
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To paraphrase a deceased patriot, I regret that I have only one life to give to my fly-fishing. —robert traver
A shiny black raven shot a raucous caw toward the blue whitewater raft that nudged its nose into the Arkansas River bank. Disturbed, the bird flapped its wide wings and swooped to another large peachleaf willow farther downstream, where it scolded the two interlopers in the raft. Ignoring the Native American’s keeper of secrets, Mandy Tanner stowed her bow paddle and stepped out onto the muddy bank. She planted a sandaled foot against an exposed sandbar willow root to keep from slipping, then pulled on the bow line to beach the raft. The stern paddler, Steve Hadley, her boss and the chief river ranger of the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area, swept his paddle in the calm water of the eddy to give her an assist. 1
Mandy secured the bow line to a nearby wooden post sunk into the river’s shoreline at the Vallie Bridge campground for just that purpose. Then she stretched and drank in the sight of the collegiate range of the Colorado Rockies to the east. The fourteen-thousandfoot-plus peaks of Mt. Harvard, Mt. Oxford, Mt. Yale, Mt. Princeton, and Mt. Columbia knifed into the clear blue sky. Mandy reluctantly dragged her gaze down to the muddy earth and held the raft still for her boss. “This should be an easy clean-up,” Steve said while he clambered out of the raft. Since the campground was solely walk-in or boat-in access, it had only sixteen primitive tent campsites partly shaded by four large peachtree willows. Even the pit toilets were located at the day use area next to the road about a hundred yards away. Vallie Bridge was the least used of the six campgrounds maintained by the AHRA. “So you only assign yourself the easy ones?” Mandy flashed a teasing grin at Steve. Of course, as Steve’s partner on this end-of-the summer trash pickup excursion, she benefited from the light assignment, too. Usually she got the worst grunt work and shifts, this being her first season as a river ranger. That meant a lot of sweaty tree and brush removal and busy weekend river patrols dealing with clueless, and often inebriated, tourists. “Seniority has its privileges.” Steve unzipped his personal floatation device, shucked it, and tossed it into the raft. The short sleeves of his dark green ranger shirt exposed well-tanned and muscled arms.
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Heat waves shimmered off the parched ground. Mandy followed Steve’s lead, removing her PFD and lifting her blonde ponytail off her damp neck. An early September Monday in Chaffee County, this one was showing signs of being a record-breaking scorcher. While Steve took a long pull on his water bottle, Mandy shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the Vallie Bridge campground. All of the tent sites looked deserted. With the annoyed raven now quiet, the only sound was the hot wind soughing through the nearby willow trees, bringing with it the scent of baking dry vegetation, and something else … Mandy wrinkled her nose. “Something smells rank.” Bent over the raft unlashing a dry bag of supplies, Steve stopped, sat back on his haunches, and sniffed. “Probably a dead animal.” He pulled a shovel out from under one of the raft’s inflated gunnels and tossed it by Mandy’s feet. “You can have the pleasure of burying it.” “Gee, thanks.” “Hey, I already pulled latrine duty.” Mandy nodded. Steve was right. He’d buried the dog and human waste they’d found at the last stop. Some people were truly animals. The two of them had worked their way down the river from the Rincon Campground, cleaning up ad-hoc, undeveloped campsites along the shores. All AHRA campers were supposed to carry out their trash, and campers outside of developed camping areas were required to use a portable toilet and fire pan. But not all of them followed the rules. Thus the need for periodic clean-ups along the river.
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Mandy helped Steve unload their supplies, including work gloves, heavy-duty trash bags, and their lunches stowed in waterproof containers. After pulling on her gloves and shouldering the shovel, she set off toward the dead animal odor. It seemed to be coming from the back of the campground. Steve headed upstream with a trash bag slung over his arm. Pausing at the first campsite, Mandy stuffed some slimy baked bean cans and an empty marshmallow bag in her green garbage bag. At the next site, she picked up cigarette butts and beer bottles crawling with ants. Why do those two types of trash always seem to go together? She shook off the disgusted thought and sniffed again. The smell of death was more distinct, overpowering the fresh fishy tang of river water. Mandy swiped sweat off her forehead, drank a swig from her water bottle, and took off again. Her river sandals crunched across sand, gravel, and sparse grass tufts. When she neared the willow tree in front of the fence separating the campground from private land, she saw a large lump on the ground. It lay in a depression on the far side of the tree, partially obscured by the wide, black-ridged trunk and some baby willows sprouting from the roots. The lump was dark and light blue, colors of cloth. A sleeping bag? With a person on top? Maybe someone was sleeping off a late night of drinking. Her suspicion was confirmed when she spied a couple of plastic six-pack rings by the nearest campfire ring. Mandy stooped to pick up the rings and stow them in her bag. The death smell was stronger now, coming in nauseating waves as the hot wind shook the willow’s limbs and rustled the leaves. She heard a low hum of 4
buzzing flies. One flew past her nose, startling her. She scanned the area, but couldn’t spot an animal carcass. That person on the sleeping bag must really be dead to the world if he can’t smell this. She hollered, “Hello? Ranger here. Sorry to disturb you.” Nothing. No movement from the bag. The hairs rose on the back of Mandy’s neck. Something was wrong here. She ducked under a low-hanging branch and stepped into the welcome shade. Her eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting while she rounded the trunk, approaching the sleeping bag from the foot. With her next step, observations flooded her senses. The person was large and lying on his back, wearing blue jeans and socks. A rotund stomach strained against a blue-checked shirt. A stick or something poked into the air near the head. The death stench grew overpowering. A dark stain spread out on the ground. Blood? Mandy’s heart thudded. Her ears buzzed along with the angry cloud of flies which, disturbed by her approach, rose. She looked down at the face, now no longer obscured by flies. A middle-aged man’s face, it was bloated and gray, distorted, the lips open in a silent scream. At the neck, an angry red gash crawled with maggots. Embedded in the gash was the blade of a small camping hatchet, the handle pointing straight at Mandy. She staggered back, dropped her shovel, tripped over a rock, thudded on her rump. Tearing her gaze from the horror, she turned her head and heaved up her breakfast.
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_____ Sitting with her back against a willow tree and her knees drawn up before her, Mandy stared out over the water, hoping to release the grisly image burned on her retinas. She tried to force her thoughts to flow with the calming movement of the water sparkling in the sunlight. The river’s story was that life goes on, regardless. Death, however, still stalked her mind. Footsteps approached and someone cleared his throat beside her. She looked up. Steve leaned down to rest a hand on her shoulder, his brow furrowed. “Feeling better?” Mandy nodded, even though it wasn’t true. He squatted and joined her in contemplating the river. The last hour flashed through her synapses. After her stomach had stopped contracting, she’d hollered Steve’s name over and over while she scrambled away on all fours, putting distance between herself and the dead man. When Steve came running, she’d warned him before he saw the body, so he could steel himself. Then he radioed headquarters, which dispatched calls to the fire department for an ambulance, the county coroner, and the Chaffee County Sheriff ’s Office. Mandy and Steve had waited for the caravan to drive, with lights flashing, across the County Road 45 bridge to the day use area parking lot, then up the hundred-yard gravel walking path to the campground. The vehicle occupants got out, to a cacophony of slamming doors, and pulled out a stretcher and forensic equipment.
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Detective Victor Quintana had quickly gone to work, directing evidence collection and telling Mandy and Steve to stay put. By now, it was well past lunchtime, but Mandy hadn’t the stomach to eat the PBJ sandwich baking in the World War II relic waterproof ammo box that served as her lunchbox. She’d noticed Steve hadn’t touched his lunch either. Quintana crunched up and lowered his stocky, middle-aged frame onto a downed log across from Mandy and Steve. Sweat circles bloomed under the armpits of his dark blue uniform. He swiped a handkerchief across his swarthy brow, then stowed it in his pants pocket. Stroking his black mustache, he peered at her. “Second death in your first season. Might be a record, Mandy.” “At least this one was already dead when I found him.” Mandy winced. “Sorry, that came out bad.” “I know what you mean,” Quintana said with a nod. He took out a pen and his trusty notebook and opened it to a blank page. “Walk me through the discovery, starting with getting out of the raft.” He waved his hand toward their raft, still bobbing next to the river bank. Mandy pointed out where she’d walked and gave as many details as she could remember. From her past experience with a prior murder case, she knew he needed them. Quintana stayed silent and took notes during her narrative. She ended, red-faced, with, “Sorry about the puke.” Quintana pshawed. “Doesn’t smell any worse than the body. We’re used to it at violent death scenes. Usually from the first responder, who hasn’t had a chance to prepare himself—or herself.”
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He pointed at the work gloves lying beside her. “You keep those on the whole time?” “Yes,” Mandy replied. “Until I got here.” “What about you?” he asked Steve. “Same thing.” Steve slapped the gloves stashed in one of his cargo shorts pockets. “So neither one of you touched the body or anything near the campsite?” “Right,” they answered in unison. “Good, don’t need to worry about prints from you two, then. That your trash bag, Mandy?” Quintana pointed to the heavy-duty black trash bag next to where she’d thrown up. “Yes, and that shovel next to it.” “What about that bag?” Quintana pointed to another trash bag, dark green and smaller, that sat farther away. “No, that’s not ours.” Mandy stood and craned her neck to get a better look at it. It was open and some of the contents were spilled out. So that’s where the beer cans had ended up. She sat back down. “Why would he pick up his beer cans and not the plastic rings?” Quintana shrugged. “Could be he was only interested in recycling the cans. Could be he wasn’t the one who collected the cans.” “You think the killer collected them?” Steve asked. “Maybe. Maybe someone else.” Quintana pointed his chin at a technician, who was carefully transferring a flowered garden glove from the ground next to the bag of cans into an evidence bag. “We’ll see if any prints are on that glove or the cans and if they match the victim or not. We haven’t found any direct evidence he had company at the campsite—yet.”
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He looked at Steve. “I’ll need the reservation form, if there is one.” Steve raised a skeptical brow. “If there is one, I’ll get it to you.” Mandy knew folks often used the AHRA campsites, especially Vallie Bridge, without making a reservation or paying. They played the odds, waiting to see if a ranger checked before coming up with a story about forgetting to pay and forking over the dough. She had an idea. “I picked up some trash at a couple of the other campsites that may have been recent, especially those slimy bean cans. You should check if there are reservation forms for any of the other campsites. They may have seen something.” Quintana winked at her. “You beat me to it, Mandy. I was about to ask Steve for any other forms for reservations here this weekend. Now you’re thinking like a cop.” Mandy felt her cheeks warming and glanced away. She noticed another technician collecting and cataloging a fly-fishing rod, waders, tackle box, a small cooler, and other gear. So the man had been a fly fisherman. The fly fishermen she knew were mostly gentle souls, the peaceful time on the river bleeding anger and angst out of their systems. Who would have wanted to kill him so violently, with so much rage? She shuddered. Quintana raised a questioning brow, but she feigned nonchalance, took a sip of water from her water bottle, and focused her attention back on the river. A ripple broke the surface, and a fin flashed. A splashy rise. The fish were feeding, probably on a late summer caddis fly hatch. The insects rose from the water in busy spirals.
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Another man walked up, tall and rangy with a pock-marked face and a serious expression. Quintana made the introductions. “Mandy, this is Paul Unger, the county coroner. Paul, Mandy Tanner was first on the scene. You and Steve know each other already, right?” “Right. Hi, Steve.” Unger shifted his clipboard to his other hand so he could shake Mandy’s. “Nice to meet you, Mandy. Sorry it couldn’t have been under better circumstances.” He focused on Quintana. “You wanted an estimated time of death. Given the insect activity, I’d say sometime yesterday, probably afternoon. The pathologist might be able to narrow that down some after we get the body to the lab in Pueblo.” Quintana gazed at the river. “So the guy probably set up camp sometime Saturday, drank some beers, and ate some hot dogs.” “How do you know that?” Mandy asked. “We found mustard and bags for buns and hot dogs in the cooler,” Quintana replied. Mandy remembered the plastic rings. “You think he drank two whole six-packs?” “Over the space of two days, he could have, or maybe he had company.” Quintana looked at Unger. “I’ll need a stomach content analysis and blood alcohol level.” “Sure thing.” The coroner made a note on his clipboard. “Anyway,” Quintana continued, “the guy slept here Saturday night, probably ate the Hostess cupcakes, whose wrappers are also in the cooler, for breakfast. Then he fished Sunday morning, releasing any he caught, because there’s none in the cooler.” “Most fly fishers practice catch-and-release on the river,” Steve said. “If they’re fishing for food, they go to one of the lakes.” 10
Paul cocked his head. “Why’s that?” “In the river, the fish tend to hang out in certain spots, and the anglers get to know those spots. If you take a fish from a spot, you can ruin someone else’s fun.” “Back to our fisherman,” Quintana interjected. “After lunch— probably the rest of the hot dogs—he lay down for a nap, which is when someone axed him. You agree with that scenario, Paul?” Unger nodded. Quintana smoothed his mustache again. “Any idea what the residue on his face is?” Mandy gave them both a questioning look. “You probably didn’t notice,” Paul said, “but something was sprayed on the man’s face. Something slimy. It’s obviously not bug repellant, because the flies aren’t deterred.” “Sunscreen?” Steve offered. Unger shrugged. “We’ll do a chemical analysis on it.” “And we’ll look for a spray can,” Quintana said. One of the techs at the crime scene, a woman, called for Unger, and he left. Mandy admired the woman’s fortitude, which was obviously better than hers. “Okay.” Quintana clicked his pen. “Now I want to hear Steve’s story. Then we’ll go over both of them again.” Mandy sighed. At this rate, they’d be at this campground all day, being grilled by both the detective and the broiling hot sun. _____ Late that afternoon, after Quintana had released them, Mandy and Steve paddled their raft down to their take-out point on the Arkansas River and returned to the ranger district headquarters 11
in Salida. From there, Mandy drove her dusty, blue, nine-year-old Subaru wagon to the rafting outfitter business now jointly owned by her boyfriend, Rob Juarez, and herself. Her beloved Uncle Bill had died in June, leaving his near-failing rafting business to her. Given the sorry state of his operation, Rob and her accountant brother, David, had convinced Mandy to merge with Rob’s rafting businesses. All of her uncle’s stock—rafts, paddles, wetsuits, lifejackets, vehicles, and more—had been moved to Rob’s larger business location. He’d hired on Uncle Bill’s rafting guides and transferred the trip reservations to his schedule, notifying customers of the change. David had combined the books of the two businesses, Rob continued as manager, and she kept her job as a seasonal river ranger and helped out when she could. Mandy had been surprised at how easy the merger was—easy for everyone but her, that is. She still drove to her uncle’s old house about once a week. She’d walk through the empty rooms and vacant equipment yard, yearning for a sense of his presence. She deeply missed being able to lay her troubles at his gouty feet, and gain comfort and unconditional love along with the down-toearth advice only he could give her. Mandy parked in the gravel lot and got out to look at the large, freshly painted sign across the top of the building that read “RM Outdoor Adventures.” The initials stood for both of their names as well as for the Rocky Mountains. Rob had insisted on choosing a new name for the business, one that reflected their joint ownership. Mandy had balked at first at the cost of creating a new logo, revising Rob’s website and letterhead, and mailing out notices to the customers and suppliers for the two businesses. But, looking 12
up now at the sign and feeling pride well up in her chest, she was glad they had. She walked up the steps to the wide wooden porch of the building Rob had repaired and painted himself when he bought it a few years back. She stepped aside to let a laughing, chattering group of tourists pass by on their way out. Obviously pleased with their rafting trip, they were passing photos around and commenting on them, barely aware they had almost mowed her down. Smiling, Mandy pushed through the swinging saloon doors that gave the place a Western feel, along with the kitschy rusted ranch tools and horse tack Rob had hung on the walls. He kept a battered and stained ten-gallon hat in his office, too, to don when he greeted customers. Standing behind the counter that ran along one side of the room, Gonzo Gordon pocketed his tip and waved at her. “Howdy, Mandy.” With his bushy blonde Rastafarian dreadlocks, sunburned face, baggy faded red shorts, and holey T-shirt, Gonzo epitomized the no-worries rafting guide. Though his voice was hearty, his eyes were still guarded. It had taken Mandy almost firing him to get him to finally start attending AA meetings for his drinking problem, and that still embarrassed him. But, he had stayed dry for the last couple of months, so Mandy had agreed with Rob to give Gonzo another chance. She approached Gonzo and shook his hand. “Good run today?” She poked her thumb over her shoulder. “The customers looked happy.” He slapped his shorts pocket. “And they tipped well, too, so I’m happy.” 13
“I’m sure you earned it. You’re the best.” Mandy knew Gonzo would need lots of assurances that she trusted him and valued his work before their friendship would be completely healed, but she was determined to do her part. “Where’s Rob?” “Out back, stowing some gear.” Gonzo peered at her. “You don’t look so good. Bad day?” Before Mandy could reply, Rob walked in the back door, running a hand through his wavy black hair. When he spotted her, a grin split his face. “¡Mi querida!” Though well-muscled, he could move fast. He caught Mandy in an embrace, lifted her off her feet, and whirled her in a circle, making her ponytail fly out behind her as she released a giggle. He set her down, leaned over, and planted a big smacker on her lips. Mandy already felt a hundred percent better. She smiled up at him and ran her hands over the standing wave tattoos that danced when Rob flexed his biceps. “That’s the first time you’ve lifted me since you were shot in the shoulder.” Mandy still shuddered over the memory of how scared she’d been when Rob was shot in June, wondering if he would survive. Rob rolled his shoulders. “Still twinges some. I don’t have full mobility yet, but the physical therapist says I’m making good progress. She said today that I could start lifting heavier things than a bag of groceries, so I thought I’d begin with you.” He gave her another sloppy kiss. Even though they’d been dating almost five months, she still wasn’t a hundred percent comfortable with his public displays of affection. “Good thing the customers have left.” “Aw, who cares?” He searched her face and the smile left his lips. He took a step back. “What’s wrong?” 14
“Are my emotions written all over my face? Gonzo just finished asking if I had a bad day.” Mandy released her hold on Rob and hugged herself. “Yes, I’ve had a very bad day. I discovered a dead fisherman at the Vallie Bridge campground this morning.” Gonzo let out a low, long whistle. “In the river?” Mandy shook her head. “At a campsite. He’d been dead awhile and there were flies—” She stopped. “Let’s just say it was gross. I lost my breakfast.” “Natural causes?” Rob asked. “No, it was definitely murder. Quintana and his gang worked over the scene pretty thoroughly and kept Steve and me there the rest of the day, asking us questions over and over.” Gonzo came out from behind the counter. “They find any clues?” “Maybe,” Mandy replied. “Besides Steve’s trash bag and mine, they found another one that had beer cans in it.” Gonzo sucked in a breath. “Anything else?” “Yeah, a woman’s gardening glove, which was odd. They’re going to check the glove and cans for fingerprints.” “Bummer.” Furrowing his brows, Gonzo pulled on one of his dreadlocks. Mandy put a hand on his arm. “What? What is it?” “I don’t know if I should tell you.” Gonzo gave her a worried glance then looked down, finding something very interesting all of a sudden on the bottom of one of his Teva sandals. Mandy’s grip tightened on Gonzo’s arm. “If you know something, you should tell me—or the police. Otherwise you could be charged with aiding and abetting the killer.”
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Gonzo pulled his arm away from her. “No way would Newt kill someone.” One of Rob’s eyebrows rose. “Newt?” “Cripes, now I’ve done it.” Gonzo shook his head. Mandy planted her hands on her hips. “Spill it, Gonzo.” He sighed. “My good buddy Newt Nowak told me Saturday that he was going to do one of his recycling collection runs yesterday, from Rincon to Cotopaxi.” His voice trailed off. “And?” Gonzo glanced up. “And he’s got this pair of large old lady gardening gloves that he wears when he goes. I’ve teased him about them, but he says he found them in the rag bin at Goodwill and they work just fine.” “Flowered?” Mandy asked. Gonzo frowned and nodded. “Flowered.” _____ While Rob and Gonzo went out in the yard to finish hosing down and stowing the gear from the recent rafting trip, Mandy tried to call Quintana at his office. When he didn’t answer, she left a message that she had something important to tell him. Then she helped the men finish up. After confirming their pool-playing get-together with the gang the next night at the Vic—the Victoria Tavern—a dour-faced Gonzo left. Rob leaned back, resting his elbows on the counter, and cocked his head at Mandy. “You going to tell Quintana about Newt?” “I have to. I’ll stop by his office tomorrow morning.” She noticed that on the counter next to Rob rested not only the trip
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schedule book, but also the ledger. “Let’s change the subject.” She pointed her chin at the ledger. “You’ve been going over the books?” Rob tossed a glance over his shoulder at the books. “Yeah. I want to talk to you about that. You know, we’ve discussed expanding the business, adding adventure travel trips, so we could provide work for our best guides all year-round. I think we should start with climbing trips this fall and ice-climbing this winter. I’ve been pricing out the equipment and guide training, and we can almost swing it.” “Almost?” Rob nodded and gave her a thoughtful look. “A few thousand more would do the trick.” “Where would we get the money?” “There’s a way we could get that and more.” He pushed off the counter, came to her, and put his arms around her. “If you’re ready.” Mandy had no idea where he was headed with this. “Ready to do what?” “Ready to sell your uncle’s place.” A hot rush of panic poured over Mandy, flushing her skin and turning her knees to rubber. She sagged against Rob, but he held her firm. “S-s-sell?” she stammered. Rob led her to one of the waiting benches lining the wall, set her down, and clasped her hands. “I know you have a lot of attachment to Bill’s place, but it’s been sitting empty for a couple of months now. You’re not going to live there; you’ve got your own place. And we don’t need it for RM Outdoor Adventures.” He paused, as if evaluating her reaction. When she didn’t respond, he said, “We could sure use the cash from the sale, though. 17
You know that making those unexpected repairs to your uncle’s bus ate into our reserves quite a bit.” Mandy finally regained use of her tongue. “Yeah, sorry about that. All his equipment was on its last legs. You’re probably sorry you ever suggested the merger by now.” She gave him a rueful smile.” He squeezed her hands. “Never, mi querida. I like being your partner.” That was a loaded statement. “Not all of the money from the sale needs to go into the business,” Rob continued. “You could use some of it to fix up your place. You could invest some of it, start a retirement account or whatever. It would give you financial security.” He paused, letting his words sink in. Being a self-made man, financial security was very important to Rob. His advice was sound, but Mandy shook her head. “I’m not ready, Rob.” He cupped her chin in one hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Bill’s not there anymore, Mandy.” But I wish he was. Mandy leaned her face against Rob’s roughened palm. She inhaled his familiar scent of soap, leather, and the grassy outdoors. “Still, I need more time.” His eyes were sad, understanding, but his teeth gnawed his lip in frustration. He stood up and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “Okay, take some time, but not too much. If RM Outdoor Adventures is going to survive long-term, it needs to expand—and soon. Your brother agrees.” “I’ll think about it, Rob. Really, I will.”
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“Okay, that’s all I’m asking.” He checked his watch. “I’m due at Mama’s house soon. Can you lock up?” “Sure.” He gave her a quick kiss, then walked out the back door toward the equipment yard where his truck was parked. Mandy knotted her fingers together in her lap. What should I do, Uncle Bill?
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two
If fishing is like religion, then fly-fishing is high church. —tom brokaw
A wet lick on Mandy’s face awakened her the next morning. She rubbed her damp cheek against the shoulder of her lamb-print sleep shirt. “Cut it out, Lucky.” Her golden retriever was unrepentant. When Mandy peeked, the dog’s tail was violently swishing back and forth, carrying his whole back end with it. He stared intently at her, mouth open in a wide grin and panting in anticipation of some morning play time. She gave up pretending to be mad at him and reached a hand out of the covers to scratch his ears. The radio alarm clicked on. “How do you do that, dog?” Lucky’s timing was impeccable. He usually rose from his dog pillow at the foot of Mandy’s bed just before the alarm went off.
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She stretched and her hand hit the empty pillow next to her. Rob hadn’t come to her place last night because he’d had his regular Monday dinner in Pueblo with his mama and whoever else showed up from his large, extended Hispanic family. He had taken Mandy with him a few times. She had enjoyed meeting some of the clan, though she still had trouble keeping all of their names straight. From the welcome she’d received, Mandy knew Rob’s devoutly Catholic mama approved of her, though not of Rob sleeping with her before marriage. Mandy got out of bed. Frowning, she wondered if Rob’s mama had pressured him again last night about proposing. “I wouldn’t be surprised, given the hints she kept dropping last time I was there,” she said out loud. Lucky tilted his head and lifted his ears as if trying to figure out what she was talking about. Mandy laughed. “You know, the lady who gave me a large beef bone for you last time. She’s already got you on her side, and you haven’t even met her.” Lucky nosed her again with impatience. Morning sunlight was already streaming through the window, and he had business to conduct outside. Mandy went through her morning routine—letting Lucky out in the fenced-in yard and feeding him, watering the marigolds she’d planted alongside her concrete patio—in between spoonfuls of raisin bran and milk. She tied her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and donned her off-the-water ranger uniform consisting of black jeans and a black shirt with the AHRA logo. During it all, she mulled over Rob’s suggestion to sell her uncle’s place. It made a lot of sense, and her head agreed with him. 21
Her heart, however, was another matter. On the drive to the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office, she popped in one of Pink’s CDs. She turned the female pop rocker’s music up loud so she wouldn’t have to think anymore about selling Uncle Bill’s home. She parked in front of the old blonde-brick Chaffee County Administration Building on Crestone Avenue that housed the whole county government. After entering the building, she climbed up the wide, worn stairs to the third floor where the detectives’ offices were located. She tapped on the frosted glass door of Detective Quintana’s office and entered after his “Come in” invitation. He rose from his gray metal desk under the window to clear a stack of case files off the guest chair placed within easy reach next to his own chair. After pushing the guest chair back a few inches, he waved for her to sit down. “What’s the ‘something important’ you need to tell me, Mandy?” “I’ve got some information on the fisherman case.” She told him about Gonzo’s friend, Newt Nowak. Being the first responder, Mandy was a member of the investigative team for this case, and she had a vested interest in getting it solved. She and Quintana would need to keep in touch until it was closed, so she could include whatever he found out in her incident report. Besides, the AHRA rangers and the Chaffee County Sheriff ’s deputies were good buddies. They trained together, invited each other to summer barbecues, and jointly investigated serious crimes that occurred within the park boundaries. Quintana wrote down Newt’s name. “I’ll be sure to question him. Thanks for the lead.” “Did you find out who the fisherman was?” Mandy asked.
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Quintana leaned back in his office chair, making it creak. “Howie Abbott. You know his niece, I think. Cynthia?” “Yeah, yeah I do.” Mandy nibbled on her lip. How was her best friend going to take the news about her murdered uncle? “Does she know?” “I informed his closest relative, his sister Brenda Ellis, and her family yesterday. They may have called Cynthia after I left their house. It was not a good scene.” A memory of the grief that had totally incapacitated Mandy after her Uncle Bill’s death washed over her, rendering her momentarily speechless. She blinked back threatening tears and clenched her hands. As if sensing her need for a moment to compose herself, Quintana gazed at an email displayed on his computer monitor before giving her an appraising glance. “Do you know the Ellis family?” Mandy shook her head. “Cynthia told me when her aunt’s family moved back to Salida in the spring, but I only met Brenda’s husband, Lee, briefly, at an Arkansas River Outfitter Association function in May. They’ve been living in New Mexico the past few years.” Quintana nodded. “They never got used to it, Brenda said, and they moved back to the Arkansas River Valley to be near family, her brother Howie and niece Cynthia. It was Cynthia’s father who was related to Howie and Brenda, right?” “Cynthia’s dad was the oldest, Howie was in the middle, and Brenda was the youngest.” “And now she’s the only one left. As I recall, Cynthia’s dad passed away awhile ago.”
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“Yes, of lung cancer three years ago. Cynthia went back east for the funeral.” Mandy remembered trying to cheer up her friend back then and wondered how badly this second loss would affect her. “Cynthia’s parents were living in Connecticut. Her mom stayed there after the funeral, said she’d put down roots. Cynthia and her mom aren’t close.” “Well, apparently Brenda and Howie were close. She seemed pretty broken up by the news. Plus, this bad news was a second blow to them. Brenda’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Faith, ran away from home sometime Saturday night, and they haven’t seen or heard from her since.” “Bummer. Was she unhappy about the move?” “Seemed to be. Brenda said the girl became sullen and uncommunicative a few weeks after they moved here.” Quintana extracted a thin case folder on his desk out from under the thick one with Howie Abbott’s name on it. The thin folder was labeled with Faith Ellis’s name. “Since Faith had been gone almost forty-eight hours by yesterday, I said I’d open a missing person’s case file.” He pulled out a sheet of paper containing the photo of a teenage girl sitting on a large boulder with the sunlit choppy water of the Arkansas River behind it. “Maybe you can distribute this among the rangers and ask them to keep an eye out for her.” “Sure.” Mandy took the photo. The girl was petite and thin but had a shapely figure. Her long, straight brown hair was swept back over one shoulder. A large mole under her left eye somehow added to her beauty instead of detracting from it. “Did Howie have a family of his own?” Quintana folded his arms awkwardly over all the equipment on his uniform belt. “No, Brenda said he was somewhat of a loner, 24
and had a temper on him. No woman seemed to tolerate him for long.” “Think one of them was mad enough to hatchet him?” “I kind of doubt it. Brenda said he hadn’t dated anyone steadily for a couple of years. But, I’ll sniff around for old girlfriends, of course.” Quintana leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Here’s something interesting. You remember Unger saying Howie had something slimy on his face?” Mandy nodded. Where is this going? “Well, once Paul gets a bee in his bonnet, he goes after it until he’s satisfied with the answer. He had the lab test the substance right away. Guess what it was.” “Probably not something as mundane as sunscreen or bug repellant, but I don’t know what else it could have been. Was it some kind of food he didn’t wash off after eating?” “Nope, it was all over his face.” Quintana waited, stroking his mustache and obviously relishing his secret. Mandy shrugged. “I give up.” “It was pepper spray.” A wide grin split the detective’s face. “Pepper spray? Why pepper spray?” “Curious, isn’t it? And what’s more, Paul says it was sprayed on after Howie was hatcheted. Droplets overlaid the wound’s initial blood flow, and Paul found some inside Howie’s mouth and on the handle of the hatchet.” “That’s really odd. You think the killer did it?” Quintana cocked his head. “Let’s see if you reach the same conclusion I did. Why would the killer squirt Howie Abbott with pepper spray after swinging a hatchet into his neck?”
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Mandy flinched at the violent scene Quintana’s words invoked. “Because he was deranged or really, really mad at Howie?” “Maybe. What other reason can you come up with?” She closed her eyes and tried to envision the attack. She put herself in the role of the killer, wielding the hatchet, hearing Howie scream and stepping back to pull out the spray can…. Her eyes flew open. “You think the killer was afraid that if the hatchet didn’t do the trick, Howie might come after him?” Quintana slapped the arm of his chair. “Bingo. So what does that say about the killer?” Mandy pondered this for a moment. “That he—or she—may be smaller, older, or weaker than Howie, not confident of defending himself or herself against the man, even though Howie’s life was pouring out of his neck.” “And that not only did the killer bring a hatchet to the scene, he brought pepper spray, so this probably was a premeditated act.” “I’m not so sure,” Mandy replied after a moment’s thought. “Some women always carry pepper spray in their purses. And it can be used against bears, so both the spray and the hatchet might have already been at the campsite. The killer could have made a lastminute decision and discovered everything he or she needed right there. Did you find any evidence yet about who else was there?” “No, but we do know someone else was at that campsite. We matched Howie Abbott’s fingerprints to some of those on the beer cans that were in the trash bag, but we found other prints that don’t match his. Neither Howie nor his friend reserved or paid for the campsite, though, so we don’t know yet who was drinking with him.” “Could you match the prints to the CBI database?” Mandy knew the Automated Fingerprint Identification System maintained by the 26
Colorado Bureau of Investigation wasn’t complete by any means, but sometimes they got lucky. “Not yet,” Quintana answered. “But we haven’t finished pulling all of the prints off all the evidence. And, it takes time to do the comparison analysis.” “What about campers at other campsites?” “Steve only found one reservation for last weekend at Vallie Bridge.” Quintana peered at her. “You guys need to police your campgrounds better.” Mandy rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. We know we’re losing revenue like crazy, but it takes money to make money. Right now we can’t afford to pay for extra ranger shifts to do campground checks. And the word is getting out that campers can get away with not paying.” “I sympathize. We’ve got the same problem with parking violations in Salida. Anyway, I assigned a patrol officer to interview the family who made that one reservation. Hopefully they saw something—or someone.” “So, nothing yet.” Mandy sighed and stood. She tapped the photo of the missing girl that she held. “I’m going in to do the paperwork on the body discovery. I’ll copy and post this photo while I’m at headquarters. We’ve also got some big meeting this afternoon about the fly-fishing tournament next week. You involved in any way?” Quintana shook his head. “Too busy trying to catch a killer to catch flies—or fish, for that matter.” He stood. “Thanks for the tip about Newt Nowak. We’ll keep in touch. You going to see Cynthia soon?” “Tonight.” 27
“Please give her my condolences about her uncle.” While Mandy walked back to her car, she rehearsed what she could say to Cynthia about her uncle’s death, but everything came out lame. Even though Mandy had been to hell and back after her own beloved uncle’s death and could relate, Cynthia had never mentioned her uncle and how close she was to him. So, Mandy had no idea how upset her friend might be upon hearing about his death— by the hand of a hatchet and pepper-spray wielding assailant. What a way to go! An involuntary shudder shook Mandy’s spine. _____ Mandy slipped through the conference room doorway at the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area headquarters building a few minutes after two. Juggling a much-needed mug of coffee and a notepad and pen, she searched for an empty chair. All the chairs around the long oval table were taken, as were most along the two side walls and the back wall in the crowded room. Spotting an open seat along the far wall under the window, she shuffled sideways past knees and conference table chair backs, nodding to familiar faces, until she could plop her butt in the empty chair. A fireman she’d gone through whitewater rescue training with that spring winked at her. “Welcome to the sardine can.” “Let’s just hope it doesn’t start to smell like one,” Mandy replied. She took a sip of her coffee and wished she’d thought to make it an iced coffee. With all these bodies, the room would heat up soon. The room was crammed with rangers, firemen, ambulance crew, sheriff ’s deputies, and anyone else involved with emergency
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rescue situations in the Arkansas River Valley who wasn’t currently out on assignment. 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 flyfishing 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?”
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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 floatfishing 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 with30
out 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
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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. 32