Blue Smoke and Murder

by Elizabeth Lowell

  But as she said it, she looked past him to the pantry he hadn’t had time to search.

  Score followed her glance. “Oh, I think I will.”

  Without another look at her, he turned his back and strode toward the pantry.

  Modesty rushed to the counter and jerked open one of the drawers. She yanked out a wood-handled butcher knife that was as old as she was. The blade had been honed so many times that the steel was half its original width. And wicked sharp.

  “What the—” Score began.

  She lunged for him.

  Automatically he threw up his forearm to block the knife. When he felt the burn of steel on flesh, his temper roared. He hit the old lady so hard she flew one way and the knife went the other. She reeled, staggered, tripped over a kitchen chair, and fell. Her head hit the edge of the old iron cookstove. She landed in a boneless sprawl.

  She didn’t move.

  Swearing, Score looked at the red slash across his forearm. Blood was welling up, but not in spurts. A cut, that was all. Not even deep enough for stitches. Grappling with his temper, he looked at the old woman.

  She seemed smaller, like a bundle of rags instead of a person.

  He cursed steadily as he squatted beside her. He’d seen enough bodies to know what death looked like. A simple black-bag job on an old lady’s house had turned into murder.

  “What are you—stupid?” he snarled at her. “No way you were going to take me.”

  He eased his fingers underneath her head. She still had her glasses on, crookedly, but that no longer mattered. Her eyes were dim from more than cataracts. Beneath thinning white hair he felt a depression in her skull. She must have been dead a second after she hit, because there was no blood.

  “Crazy old bitch,” he said, standing up. “Why didn’t you listen?”

  With a final disgusted curse, he went to search the pantry.

  He didn’t find anything but canned goods and bags of rice and flour, sugar and beans. No trick shelves, no trapdoor, no false ceiling. Nothing but food.

  He searched the rest of the house.

  Nothing.

  He went to the back porch and looked over at the sagging barn forty feet beyond the kitchen. The wind swirled around him, plucking at his coveralls with hard, impatient fingers, then racing away to batter the old barn.

  He didn’t have time to search the old building. He’d let the wind take care of it.

  He picked up the can of fuel oil from the back porch and went back into the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time he’d dressed a crime scene to look like an everyday accident.

  If the paintings turned up, it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

  2

  ON THE COLORADO RIVER

  AUGUST 27

  8:00 A. M.

  Holy shit,” Lane Faroe said reverently.

  The lanky teenager looked at Jillian Breck, grinned, then realized what he’d just said.

  “Oops,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Jill smiled without looking away from the thunder and boil of a river narrowed to half its size by a bottleneck of basalt, a rock as hard as the water was determined to reach the sea. “That’s what I say to myself every time I see Lava Falls.”

  And every time it’s different.

  That’s why she loved it. The water flow from Lake Powell, two hundred miles upstream, changed from day to day. Rocks and boulders on the riverbank got undercut and tumbled into the current. Wherever they stuck, they piled waves in new ways, creating new currents, rips, holes, and eddies.

  Running the Colorado was always different, yet always the same. Dangerous.

  Exhilarating.

  “Looks like a big chocolate snake somebody stepped on,” Lane said.

  Jill nodded. “A mean one.”

  That was the other thing she loved about the river. It tested her. She was going to miss river running when she gave it up, but she knew the time was coming. Soon. She had a restlessness that even the wild river couldn’t cure.

  Maybe she would turn the old Breck homestead into a dude ranch. Bring back horses and buy more cattle, dig a trout pond, organize camera and painting and hunting safaris, feed people from kitchen gardens watered by the old windmill.

  Maybe she would keep on being a river bum, following the seasons down Western rivers, teaching kayaking and rafting and wilderness survival skills.

  And maybe I should concentrate on this river in front of me. Lava Falls changed with the last monsoon rain. I’ll need a slightly different approach.

  Today she felt like an adrenaline ride, something for the tall, good-looking teenager to remember. Lava Falls would provide it. A hundred feet below her cliff overlook, rapids coiled and boomed and frothed. Whirlpools and back eddies hid behind the shoulders of huge rocks along the bank. The roar was constant, insistent, almost numbing.

  The right side, she thought, nodding to herself. Plenty of room today. Head for that big boulder sticking out from the bank like a house, let the power of the river turn the raft, dig in hard with the right oar, and shoot across to the other bank.

  Lane looked sideways at the river guide who was rowing him and his father Joe Faroe down the Colorado. Lane figured Jill was older than he was by at least a decade, but it didn’t stop him from noticing how hot she was. She had the lean, smooth body of a gymnast, but she had hips and boobs, too. Since everybody wore sunscreen and not much else in the summer heat, he’d had plenty of time to enjoy the scenery around camp.

  The problem with being a tall sixteen was that a lot of the women who looked really hot to him thought he was too young, and girls his age wanted older men.

  Sometimes life just basically sucked.

  But the view was great.

  Jill turned and started back down the steep, ragged trail that had been worn dusty by river guides coming to check out one of the most dangerous rapids on a river famous for its risk. The Colorado claimed some lives each year, mostly the drunk or careless, but sometimes the dead were simply unlucky.

  When Jill and Lane walked back down to the waiting rafts, Joe Faroe cocked an eyebrow at his son. “Are we walking or riding?”

  “You can always walk around,” Jill said before Lane answered. “The trail’s about four miles. We’ll wait for you downstream.”

  “I’m riding,” Lane said to his dad. “I’m just wondering if a girl has enough strength to handle that water.”

  Faroe shook his head. Lane had an excellent brain, but he still had some things to learn about women. Jill had hiked the teenager into the ground at least twice on this trip, but he always came back with the guy-girl needle. He hadn’t noticed how the other guides—female and male—deferred to Jill’s judgment and skill.

  “If it will make you feel better,” Jill said innocently, “I’ll let your daddy row. He’s good and strong.”

  “No thanks,” Faroe said. “I’ll leave Lava Falls to the experts.”

  Lane grumbled. “Why him? You only let me row when the river is flat and the wind is against us.”

  Jill winked at Faroe. “What I lack in strength I make up for in smarts.”

  Faroe laughed and gave his son a one-armed hug. “She’s got you there. She knows more about leverage than an unarmed combat teacher. And that’s what running the river is about, leverage and smarts.”

  Combat, too, of a sort. But not the sort Faroe was used to. On the river he was happy to have someone else looking out for danger. That’s what a vacation was all about—not having to figure out how to kill someone before he killed you.

  “Huh,” Lane said, but smiled at Jill. “You ever dump in Lava Falls?”

  “Twice,” she said, fingering the leather cord around her neck. It held a serrated folding knife with a hook on the tip. If she went over and got caught on something below the water, the blade was sharp enough to cut through the tough woven nylon flotation harness with a single stroke. She’d never had to use the knife. She hoped she never would. “You don’t fight the water, you just float
with it. That’s why everyone wears the harness you’re always complaining about.”

  “It’s too narrow across the shoulders.”

  “Your dad’s is worse, but you don’t hear him complaining.”

  Faroe smiled. The float harness was more comfortable than body armor, but he wasn’t going to point that out.

  “Mom would have enjoyed this,” Lane said, watching the river with eyes that were just like his father’s.

  “Not nearly nine months pregnant, she wouldn’t,” Faroe said dryly. “She was real clear on that. Wanted us to do the male bonding thing while she did the female gestating thing.”

  “Hope she waits to have it until we get home.”

  “She’s not due for almost a month.”

  “She’s huge.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” Faroe said.

  They were the last raft in their party to take on Lava Falls. While the other rafts entered the current with whoops and shouts, Lane and Faroe followed Jill to their own small craft. They sat on the inflated gunwale and swished their feet in the water, making sure their gritty sandals were well rinsed before swinging their legs aboard. Then both passengers went to work on the straps securing their individual float harness.

  “Ready?” Jill asked.

  They answered with a thumbs-up.

  Lane had the front of the raft, Faroe the back. Jill sat on the hard rowing bench in the center, facing forward, oars poised above the water. The rapids ahead was clearing of other rafters. She watched the river intently, correcting the angle of the raft as she entered the current. The approach to Lava Falls was crucial.

  Do it right and get an adrenaline ride.

  Do it wrong and suck rocks.

  The current picked up, shoving the raft off to one side. She dipped her left oar and stroked once, correcting the line. The front of the raft started to buck gently as it picked up the first of the waves. She glanced quickly at her passengers, giving a last check to life vests. Sometimes Lane was careless about his. He resented the confinement.

  The roar of the coming cataract was like a jet taking off.

  “You buckled up, Lane?” she shouted.

  He turned toward her, showing that he had pulled two of the three straps tight across his chest. The loose end of the third strap dangled free, eighteen inches of woven fabric ending with a tough plastic buckle.

  “Fix it,” she shouted, nodding toward the trailing strap.

  He looked down, saw the problem, and took one hand off the safety grip to tuck the buckle up out of the way. The strap was stiff, and stubborn, which was how it had worked free in the first place.

  The front of the raft plunged into the first hole in the water, then pitched up in the air like a rearing horse. Cold water sprayed Lane as the raft sideslipped. He gave a rebel yell of delight.

  Grinning, Jill worked the oars, port ahead, starboard reverse, snapping the raft back into the correct line. The shift in direction and momentum caught Lane off balance. He slammed forward, bounced off the round, slick flotation tube, and was mostly airborne when the second swell caught the raft.

  He shot over the side and into the roaring cataract.

  Faroe leaned out and grabbed, but Lane’s dark hair was snatched away from his grasp by the boiling current. The slick raft was faster than the leg-dragging swimmer.

  “Float with it!” Jill shouted to Lane. “Don’t fight it!”

  She marked the spot where she’d seen him go in, then leaned hard on both oars, abandoning the carnival ride for a back eddy on the right-hand shore. The raft shot forward, angled off the current, and slowed as she caught the eddy behind a big bolder. She pinned the raft’s nose against the back of the boulder and stared at the cataract upstream of them.

  “There!” Faroe said, pointing.

  Lane’s red life vest winked against the frothing water. He lifted his hand and waved.

  Jill let out a long breath.

  The river sucked him under again for another whitewashing.

  Faroe kicked off his sandals, ready to go over the side of the raft after his son.

  “No.” Jill’s command was sharp. “He’s doing fine. I don’t want two of you in there.”

  Lane bobbed back to the surface on an upwelling wave. He was moving swiftly with the current, bobbing merrily past them. Jill knew without looking that the other rafts would be standing by at the end of the rapids to pick him up.

  Suddenly Lane stopped like a bronc snubbed off on a corral post. The current kept going, which dragged him down below the water. He struggled back to the surface for a breath before water dragged him under again.

  And kept him there.

  That damn loose strap!

  But all Jill said aloud was “Take the oars.”

  She was in the river before Faroe could object.

  Even as she hit the water, she knew she had to get rid of her life vest. It would push her quickly down the rapids and past Lane before she could help him. As the current caught her, she unsnapped catches and let the river whip the vest away. Treading water, she gauged the wild current, the jutting boulders, the holes that could suck people down and drown them. She slanted her body and swam hard at an angle so that the rapids would carry her to the place downstream where Lane had disappeared.

  Lane flailed to the surface again, grabbing at air, getting water along with it, choking, disappearing again.

  Jill rolled onto her back and slipped the cord holding the knife over her head, gripping the knife tightly in her right hand. She’d get only one chance to grab Lane. If she missed, the river would push her past him like a rocket.

  She would probably survive.

  Lane wouldn’t.

  With the current boiling wildly around her, she hooked the teenager underneath one arm as she was swept by. She dragged him up and yelled, “Breathe, then dead man’s float!”

  He took a gasping breath, hesitated, then went limp, facedown in the river. The current stretched his body out in the water, showing Jill where he was anchored against the torrent. She clung to Lane with her legs like a lover, inching down his torso until her right arm found the strap. She thumbed the blade open, felt it lock in place, and slashed across the strap.

  They shot to the surface together. Lane flipped over onto his back, gasping and coughing. Jill kept her grip on him, letting his life vest keep both of them afloat. Suddenly she scissor-kicked hard, again and then again. Soon they were sliding into the back eddy where Joe was working the oars to keep the raft in place. Slick river rocks came up to meet their dangling feet.

  Jill released Lane, watched him gain his feet, and felt a relief that made her lightheaded.

  He looked down at the severed end of the strap dangling from his vest. Then he looked at the four-inch cut in his swim trunks. The nylon mesh of the built-in athletic supporter showed through the gash.

  “Your—knife?” he asked, still panting and coughing.

  Breathing hard, Jill nodded. She’d let go of the knife the instant Lane was free. Bouncing around in the rapids with a lethal blade wasn’t smart.

  “Sharp—sucker,” Lane said. “Glad it—wasn’t any—longer.”

  Jill threw back her head and laughed. Then she hugged him hard. He hugged her the same way.

  Faroe watched and wished Lane was old enough for Jill. She was one of the good ones. Smart, quick, cool under pressure, strong in the best sense of the word. She reminded him in some ways of Mary, St. Kilda Consulting’s long-gun expert.

  He steadied the raft while Lane and Jill levered themselves aboard. Lane sprawled in the bow, coughing occasionally, but breathing just fine.

  Before Jill took up the oars again, Faroe said simply, “Thank you.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Just trying to cut down on the paperwork. We hate losing clients.”

  Faroe smiled back. “My boss is the same way. Where’s your waterproof ditty bag?”

  Jill blinked at the change of subject. “Um, under my seat.”

  He unfastened
the waterproof belly pack around his waist, searched for a few seconds, and pulled out a laminated business card. “Put this in it.”

  Automatically she took the card, glanced at it. A telephone number and a few words: st. kilda consulting, joe faroe. She looked at him, puzzled.

  “If you ever have a problem that worries you—any problem—call that number,” Faroe said.

  “Problem?”

  “Stalkers, a pissed-off boyfriend, something that frightens you, no one to talk to, no money for bills. Anything, Jill. Any time. Call that number, ask for me. You’ll get help immediately.”

  “Well, thank you, but…”

  Faroe smiled at her confused look. “I know, you have everything under control. I used to feel the same way. Then I found out how many wicked curves life can throw. Keep the card with you always, and hope you never need it.”

  3

  HOLLYWOOD

  LATE AFTERNOON

  SEPTEMBER 3

  Zachary Balfour tried not to look bored, which he was.

  Or irritated.

  Which he definitely was.

  Nothing chapped him quite as much as a client who wanted to wear a “bodyguard” as an accessory when what she really needed was a muzzle and a rabies shot.

  Not that he had any particular fondness for dodging bullets. He supposed he should be grateful this job could have been phoned in. But he wasn’t thankful to be doing no-brain work at combat rates.

  Seven days with DeeDee Breitling made a bullet look good.

  You owe me for this one, Faroe. Little Ms. D-cup and dirt-for-brains might be the beloved niece of a D.C. official St. Kilda Consulting wants to please, but she’s wasting my time. The only stalker she has is in her dreams.

  She needs me like a snake needs stilts.

  The D.C. official knew it. The client had just wanted to have a tall, dark, and safe escort for her niece while DeeDee did Hollywood.

  At least the gig would pay for a few weeks of roaming the West, looking for collectible old cars forgotten in even older barns or wrecking yards. That search was both Zach’s passion and a way to keep food on the table, some of the time. The rest of the time he took contracts with St. Kilda.