“Are you sure? She said you have a couple of black eyes and you may have had a concussion.”
“Oh she did?” I turned around and glared at Willie again. She grinned at me, then turned back to her laptop.
“I wish you’d consider another profession,” Mother went on.
“Less than thirty seconds,” I said.
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“It took you less than thirty seconds to make that point. That could be a new record.”
“You’re not funny.”
My dangerous profession was one of three things my mother constantly worried about. The other two were that I was doing drugs, and that I wouldn’t marry and give her grandchildren. I usually teased her about those things, but I was tired and not in the mood.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, changing the subject.
“We’re fine, dear. Your father’s enjoying some golfing. I’ll bet you can’t do that now, can you? I hear it’s dreadfully cold there.”
My parents had retired to Florida, and although at times I was glad they were far away so my mother couldn’t interfere in my day-to-day life, the truth was I missed them. They had come for a visit this past summer and met Willie for the first time, and it had gone really well. My mother got along splendidly with Willie, which was saying something for Willie, because my mother could be challenging. Sweet, but challenging.
“I know you guys don’t miss the cold,” I said.
“Yes, but we’re thinking of coming for Christmas.”
“Really? That would be great,” I said.
“We don’t see you enough, dear. And we’re so fond of Willie. Why don’t you marry her?”
I choked and coughed.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I croaked. “So when were you thinking of coming?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, not bringing up the ‘M’ word again.
We launched into travel plans and then she caught me up on what else they were doing. I spent some time chatting with my father and then I hung up.
“Nice conversation?” Willie asked, a little too much sugar in her tone.
“You two are conspiring against me.”
She rolled her eyes, and resumed her work. I watched her a moment, then reluctantly turned and walked down the hall to my office. I needed to call Cal and see if he’d found out anything about who owned U.S. International Realty. But my mind was on my mother’s question. Did I want to marry Willie? Mother had taken me completely off guard, but in truth, I had thought about it myself. I could see Willie and me marrying. She’d been living with me for a while now, and it seemed to be working for both of us. I was pretty sure this was the real deal. But we hadn’t talked about marriage. Maybe it was time we did.
Good Lord, I thought. Had my mother already talked to Willie about it? Is that why Mom had brought it up? If the two were in cahoots, I didn’t stand a chance, not that I was sure I wanted to.
I pushed those thoughts aside and dialed Cal.
“Ah Reed,” he said without any pleasantries. “I haven’t had a chance to do any more research on U.S. International Realty. This client has been on my case all day.”
“It’s okay,” I said, although I was disappointed and feeling the pressure to solve the case. “I’ve got some other things to look into. Can you check one thing?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Did Trevor Welch book a flight to Miami anytime in the last couple of weeks?”
“Hold on.” A pause and then he said, “Nope, nothing. You think he went to Florida?”
“I doubt it, but it was worth checking. I’ll let you get back to work then.”
I hung up and was staring at the walls when Willie came in.
“What’d your mother say?” she asked innocently.
I pursed my lips and gazed at her. “What are you two cooking up?”
“I’m not ‘cooking up’ anything,” she said, “just some Christmas plans.”
“Uh-huh,” I said skeptically.
“Look, Reed, your mother doesn’t need any encouragement from me to pester you about getting married. You know that, don’t you?”
And, of course, I did know that. I suppose there was no reason to feel any “conspiracy”. Willie was a catch, for sure, and she had no need to manipulate anyone into marrying her.
“Okay?” she asked.
I tried to stay mad, but she was so darn cute. “Okay,” I grinned.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday dawned sunny and much warmer, a balmy twenty degrees. At least that’s what the cheery weatherwoman said. Then she predicted a high of forty in Denver but ten degrees colder in the foothills. I wondered if she’d be a little less cheery if she had to spend the day outside a cabin in Bailey.
Willie had braved the cold and gone for an early jog. She’d prodded me to join her but I declined and stayed in bed, finally getting up when I heard her come back. I threw on sweats and plodded into my office as I heard her start the coffee.
Quinn had said that their family cabin was located off of Old Stage Coach Road in Bailey. The Subaru had GPS, but the problem was I didn’t have an actual address for the cabin, so I got on the internet and looked up Bailey on Mapquest.
Willie strolled in with two cups of coffee and looked over my shoulder. “Is that where you’re headed today?”
“Yes, and thanks,” I said as I reached around and put my left arm around her waist. She handed me the cup and I and took a sip. “You make great coffee.”
“Thanks, hon, that’s sweet of you to say. You think Trevor’s hiding out at Quinn’s cabin?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“The ace detective goes barreling in after his suspect.”
“And the suspect has a shotgun and blows me away before I can get to the front door.”
“Good point. So what’s your plan?”
“Quinn said the place is isolated and there aren’t any other cabins around, so I think I’ll have to park back down the road and approach on foot. Then I’ll watch and see what happens.”
“Sounds incredibly…boring.” She then leaned in a little more closely. “I don’t work until three. Is there anything I can help with?”
I mulled that over as I stared at the monitor. “Maybe visit Doctor McKenzie? As a nurse, you might notice something I didn’t.”
She crinkled up her lips. “Well, I could go in and say I’m looking for a job. That might open up some conversation with the front desk person.”
“If you think so.”
“It can’t hurt.”
While she got ready, I went into the kitchen and fixed a PB&J and put it in a Ziploc bag. I put chips in another bag, got a couple of bottles of water and called it lunch.
“Okay, I’m off,” she announced when she joined me a few minutes later.
“Be careful,” I echoed her usual sentiments.
“Right back at you.” She gave me a lingering kiss. “Hm, I wonder about that beard.”
“It still hurts to shave,” I said.
She stepped back and eyed me critically. “It could work.”
“Maybe I’ll keep it like this, a few-days-old beard. Makes me look sexy, right?”
“But not like your noir heroes. They didn’t have stubble.”
“Oh, that’s cold.”
She laughed. “See you tonight after work.”
She left and I took a quick shower, dressed in warm clothes and boots, got my gloves and binoculars and stuffed them in a backpack, threw in my lunch, then got some heavy blankets and headed out the door.
***
Bailey is a small town located on Highway 285 about thirty miles southwest of Denver. Its main claim to fame is the Coney Island Colorado, a 1950s diner shaped like a giant hot dog with toppings. I’d been there a time or two, usually after a day in the mountains. The food was decent diner fare although a bit pricey, the service was sometimes slow, but a chance to eat lunch at that crazy building by a be
autiful river was reason enough to stop.
As I drove past the Coney Island, I wished I had something from there instead of my PB&J. But it wasn’t open and I didn’t have time to stop. So I stayed on 285 until I reached Old Stage Coach Road, the turnoff to get to Quinn’s family cabin. As the sun dipped behind some high white clouds, I turned left and drove south along Old Stage Coach. Quinn had told me to watch for an unmarked road that would take me to Payne Gulch Road, but I missed it and ended up back on 285. I backtracked and finally found my way, eventually finding Payne Gulch Road, which followed alongside Payne Creek.
I guess Payne was an important man, I thought. Or woman.
A couple of miles down the road, I slowed and watched for the landmark rock outcropping that Quinn had described. I almost concluded I’d messed up again and passed my turnoff when I spotted it. I crossed a small rickety bridge over Payne Creek and followed a dirt road that had a lot of packed snow on it. Tire tracks cut through the snow in spots where it was deeper. Tall pine trees towered over either side of a road that narrowed to one lane, and I felt increasingly cut off from civilization. Quinn had said that the cabin was isolated, and after driving half a mile down the road, I had to agree. What Quinn didn’t say was that I might need four-wheel-drive. The Subaru had all-wheel drive, but it wasn’t making much of a difference. The snow grew deeper and I worried that the Subaru might get stuck, so I finally pulled over in a spot where the road widened.
I sighed dramatically because, if the odometer was correct, I still had another half mile to go before I reached the cabin. That was a pretty hefty hike in the snow. I’d hoped to get a lot closer before I had to walk. Oh well. I pulled on gloves, grabbed the backpack and the binoculars, and got out of the car. A frosty breeze blew across the road and I shivered.
“Thirty degrees, my ass,” I said to no one.
I zipped up my coat, slipped on the backpack and trudged down the road. It was deathly quiet and a sense of unease wafted over me. Then another gust of wind whipped up, whistling through the trees. Something cracked off to my left and I stopped and looked around. Nothing.
What if Welch was out here somewhere? Or Gus? But I hadn’t seen the SUV, or any other car, for that matter. But based on the tracks in the road, someone had driven on it in the past day or two.
After listening for a moment, I continued on. I was in decent shape, jogging a few times a week to keep in shape, that is, when I felt better and it wasn’t so bloody cold. But I still grew winded quickly. I stopped for a drink and moved on.
It was almost noon when I plodded up a long hill. I thought I heard something again, so I paused and heard only my ragged breathing. Then I was sure I smelled burning wood. I had to be close. I hurried on and as I crested the hill, the road leveled off. At the end of the road sat the Quinn cabin. I ducked into the trees, worried that I might be spotted, then slipped off the backpack and dug out the binoculars. I crouched down and positioned myself next to a large pine tree and studied the cabin.
It was just as Quinn had described, a typical log cabin that sat at an angle from the road, surrounded by pine trees and a grove of aspen, their leafless branches stretching upward eerily. The cabin had vaulted ceilings with a deck that spanned the entire front, and a large window that looked out over Payne Creek. The top of a stone chimney peeked up from the other side of the roof, but no smoke came from it. A blue Dodge pickup truck stood out front, covered with a dusting of snow. Since it wasn’t snowing now, I assumed it was from yesterday or overnight. Welch drove a pickup, so I figured he was there, and he hadn’t driven anywhere today.
I watched for five minutes, scanning the entire cabin and surrounding area. It was absolutely still, as if no one were around. But if Welch was there, wouldn’t he want a fire? I would’ve thought I’d see smoke rising from the chimney. I sniffed the air again, but didn’t get that wood-burning smell again. Maybe it had been my imagination.
After a few more minutes with no activity, I dug my sandwich out and slowly ate it, along with the chips. I washed it down with half a bottle of water, but still nothing happened at the cabin.
“It’s time to make your move,” I chided myself. I had to admit I was worried. What if Welch was inside, did have a gun and shot at me first and asked questions second? That would mean one dead detective out in the pretty white snow.
I scrutinized the road leading up to the cabin, finally deciding that if I stayed to the right, I could sneak through the trees and up to the cabin. With the way it was positioned, I’d be approaching from the side. The only time I would be vulnerable would be when I had to cross the road, but I’d have to risk it. If I made it that far, I thought I could sneak up onto the deck and look around. Easy, right? Then what was that nervous thud in my chest?
I returned the binoculars to the backpack and put it on, and then, marshalling all my courage, I crept out into the trees.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I moved through the trees with the stealth of a tiger. Then my foot fell through a snow drift and I flailed out an arm and caught a tree branch. The branch snapped and snow cascaded down on me. Okay, more the stealth of a hippo.
I brushed myself off and continued on. As I skulked through the trees, I kept a close eye on the cabin. Still quiet. More slogging through the snow, then I stopped. The cabin was just across the road. I took a moment and caught my breath as I studied the cabin. There was a window high up on the back side of the cabin, but I didn’t see any shadow that would indicate someone was looking outside. Same with a side window. Where was Welch? Was he watching the front door? Or had he left? That seemed unlikely. Maybe he was holed up inside, enjoying some warmth by the fire. If he was by a window watching for intruders and I just couldn’t see him, I was screwed.
I’d delayed long enough, so I finally ran across the road and ducked behind the truck. Good. No shouts from the cabin and no guns firing. I glanced down and noticed a set of tire tracks next to the truck. Someone had parked there recently. My palms grew sweaty. Who else had been here? Gus? I waited a minute and then made a mad dash for the deck stairs. I paused again and crouched down. Powdered snow covered the steps, and boot prints led up and down. And judging by the size of the prints, the boots belonged to someone with big feet.
An uneasy feeling washed over me. Was I running into an ambush?
I pushed my anxiety back, raised up and peered onto the deck. To the left of the stairs sat a long picnic table and benches; to the right sliding glass doors led inside. Heavy curtains covered them. An idea popped into my head. I reached down, scooped up some snow and formed a snowball. Then I tossed it at the sliding doors. The snowball hit with a loud thunk and rattled the glass. I ducked down and waited. Nothing. I made another snowball and hit the door again. No reaction.
Maybe Welch had gone for a hike. Or maybe he was waiting until I exposed my position. I wasn’t fond of carrying my Glock because, as TV detective Jim Rockford had logically explained, “I don’t want to shoot anyone”, but the present situation was making me rethink that. I felt helpless to defend myself. I searched around for a weapon, finally spotting a long tree branch in a pile of firewood under the deck. I retrieved it, and holding it like a baseball bat, I tiptoed up the steps and across the deck to the sliding doors. Another pause, and then I grasped the door handle and pulled. The door slid back. Unlocked…huh. I stepped back. The curtains swayed in a slight breeze, but no one called out. I bent down, pushed the curtains aside with the branch and slipped inside.
I had entered a big open room. To the right was a kitchen and dining area, to the left a great room with vaulted ceilings and a huge stone fireplace with red embers glowing in it. A couch and loveseat sat across from the fireplace, but there was no other furniture. No TV, computer or other electronic equipment. That qualified for rustic in this day and age. But it was warm and dry. Even so, I left my gloves on so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
My ears strained to hear anything, but all was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I t
hen stole through the kitchen and spied a staircase, so I moved quietly toward it, careful because I couldn’t see if anyone was at the top. I peeked up but saw nothing, so I held the branch in front of me, wishing it were a gun, and headed up. A couple of times the stairs creaked and I halted, but when no one attacked me, I continued on. I reached the top of the stairs, stood on the landing and looked around.
Down a short hallway was the loft that overlooked the great room. A couple of chairs sat positioned near a railing. Even from my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I gazed out through floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched across the front of the house and looked out over snow-covered trees. It was a beautiful sight.
To my right was an open door and I could see a toilet. I poked my head in but the bathroom was empty, with the shower curtain pulled back. Directly across the hall was a closed door. I put my ear to the door and listened. No noise, so I pressed myself against the wall next to the door, took a deep breath and opened it.
No one jumped out, but by now I hadn’t really expected it. I stepped into the gloom and looked around. Squeezed into the room was a dresser behind the door, and on the wall opposite a twin bed sitting under a window that had the shade drawn. Welch was lying on the bed, partially covered by heavy blankets, and it didn’t take an ace detective to know he was dead.
***
My heart thudded in my chest as I walked over to the bed. Welch was on his back, leaning slightly toward his right side, his open eyes staring at the ceiling. His face was contorted in a mixture of pain and anger. A pillow lay at a rakish angle near his head, one corner of it propped on his shoulder, as if it had been thrown there after he died. I surmised it had been used to smother him. His arms lay on top of the covers, but the sheets and blankets were strewn about his lower body, the rumpled mess probably due to his kicking his feet as he struggled against his assailant.
He was wearing a T-shirt, so I took off a glove and touched his arm. It was cool but rigor mortis had not set in. Conclusion: he hadn’t been dead for very long. I opened the window shade. The view looked out the side of the cabin. I blinked at the sudden light and let my eyes adjust. Then I bent down and studied the body. I’m no forensic expert but I didn’t see any particular trauma around his face or neck. If not for the expression on his face and the disarray of the bed sheets and pillow, I would’ve concluded that he’d died in his sleep. A faint odor of sweat, along with other bodily odors, hit my nostrils.
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