Cyanide Wells

by Marcia Muller

  Definitely Natalie’s. It had purple trim, and she recognized a tear in one of the outside pockets. Her hands trembled as she opened it and looked inside.

  Pencils. Colored Magic Markers. Drawing pad. Packet of decorative stickers. Gym socks. Apple. Kit-Kat bar. Half an egg-salad sandwich.

  Carly had placed the sandwich Ard made on Thursday night, plus the apple and a small bag of potato chips, in the pack on Friday morning. She couldn’t positively identify the other items as Nat’s, but the little girl liked to draw and had a great fondness for Kit-Kat bars, which could be purchased in the school cafeteria. The backpack had also typically contained textbooks, various spare items of clothing, and a Palm Pilot that Ard had insisted on buying for Nat the previous Christmas, all of which would show—by bookplate, name label, or user—who their owner was.

  Carly looked up at Lindstrom. He winked, indicating that he’d been responsible for the disappearance of those things.

  And then, just as she was feeling relief, a male voice behind her said, “I’ll take that, Carly.”

  Deputy Shawn Stengel was, in Carly’s opinion, the biggest asshole in the sheriff’s department. Someone must have phoned the substation at Talbot’s Mills, and he’d rushed over here, intent on being first on the scene of what he thought could turn into a major case. Unfortunately, while Stengel was short on interpersonal skills, he wasn’t stupid; and he had three young children, so he knew how much stuff kids carried in their heavy backpacks. How long before he realized this one was suspiciously light and checked the well, where Lindstrom must’ve dumped the items that would identify it as Natalie’s?

  She glanced at Matt, but he seemed unconcerned.

  Stengel ran his hand over his neatly cropped blond hair. “I hope nobody moved the kid’s body.”

  Carly said, “There’s no one in the well.”

  “The call that came in said there was a dead kid down there.” “The men who spotted the backpack only thought it was a child.”

  “Where are they?”

  She looked around. With the arrival of the law, Timothy and Cappy had vanished. She told Stengel who they were, and that they lived at the Golden State.

  The deputy grimaced. “Somebody oughta torch that place, get rid of it and the vermin that stay there.”

  “Shawn, are you advocating that one of our citizens commit arson?”

  His jaw knotted. “You know damn well I’m not! And if you dare print anything of the kind, I’ll haul your ass in for obstructing an investigation.”

  The threat was too absurd to warrant a response.

  Stengel scowled down at the backpack. “Doesn’t surprise me that those two thought that was a kid. They’re both probably boiled.” He hefted the pack, shook his head. “Not much stuff in here, is there? My kids’re always toting at least half a ton of crap. I worry it’ll ruin their spines.”

  She said, “Maybe somebody got a new pack, thought it would be fun to toss the old one down the well.”

  Stengel squatted, went through the contents. “That doesn’t seem right. I can see them getting rid of a dried-up sandwich and socks with holes in them, but Kit-Kat bars and this other stuff? I don’t think so.”

  “So what do you think?”

  He straightened, looked self-importantly at the bystanders. “At the moment I’m not at liberty to say. Especially to a member of the press.”

  Carly closed her office door and leaned against it, expelling a long sigh. Matt went over to her desk and began unloading objects from the pockets of his jeans, shirt, and jacket.

  He said, “The books are wedged under a pile of debris at the bottom of the well, and I ripped out the bookplates. Everything else that could identify Natalie as the pack’s owner is here.”

  “Thank you, Matt.” She examined what lay there. Gym shorts and blouse, with labels. Bead necklace spelling out “Natalie.” Graded papers, art club membership card, soccer team uniform shirt with her name and number embroidered across the back. No Palm Pilot.

  Ard let her keep her favorite thing.

  Lindstrom leaned against the desk, arms folded, frowning. “I tell you, McGuire, I don’t feel comfortable hiding things from the authorities—even though Stengel’s an idiot.”

  “He’s not an idiot; he’s an asshole. There’s a difference.”

  “He didn’t seem too bright to me.”

  “You’d be surprised. Even though he was the deputy who coined the term ‘the faggot murders,’ he worked damned hard on the case. In fact, he brought in the lead on Mack Travis.”

  “I’ve heard that some people don’t think Travis killed your friends.”

  She sat down on her desk chair. “Isn’t that always the way when there’s no trial or resolution? But to be fair, Ard didn’t think so, either. When she started working on her book, she told me she hoped her research would shed light on what really happened.”

  “And you—what do you think?”

  “I think Ard and the others who believe in the killer-whogot-away theory have been taking the Mystery Channel much too seriously.”

  “Well, to get back to what I was saying, I don’t like withholding information from the cops.”

  “Even after what the cops did to you when Ard—Gwen—disappeared?”

  “Even after that. Lying to a Wyoming deputy was what got me into trouble in the first place.”

  “No, Gwen’s actions were what got you into trouble.”

  “I don’t care to debate the point. And since when have you taken to calling her Gwen?”

  “Since when have you taken to calling her Ardis?”

  “…I guess we’re each trying to reconcile who she was with us with who she was with the other. Calling her by the name she used at the time we’re talking about helps. But frankly, it’s not an easy job, and it’s giving me a headache.”

  His words made her aware of a dull throb above her eyebrows. “Me, too. Let’s get out of here.”

  “And go where?”

  “Someplace that will cure our headaches and allow us to speak in total privacy.”

  “This is beautiful,” Matt said in slightly winded voice.

  “Isn’t it?” Carly sat down on the outcropping on the western side of the Knob, feet dangling over the precipitous drop. “More than a hundred and eighty degrees visibility from here. The first time I climbed up, I thought I could see all of California.”

  “How’d you ever find the trail?”

  “Ronnie Talbot showed it to Ard and me. Not too many people know about it. Ronnie did a lot of hiking and exploring here in the forest.”

  “You must do a lot, too. You’re less winded than I am, and I lead a very active life. Don’t tell me Ardis hiked with you.”

  “Only the one time.” She realized she sounded curt, as she tended to when anyone strayed too close, however innocently, to the aspects of her life she chose to keep private. Such as the discord at home that drove her to solitary hiking.

  In a gentler voice she added, “Ard’s thing is gardening. It doesn’t seem like much exercise, but when you’re hauling around huge bags of fertilizer and peat moss…Anyway, she keeps in shape that way, and I hike. Newspapering’s a pretty sedentary occupation.”

  “Gardening. She always loved it.” He came over and sat beside her. “Point out some landmarks to me. Except for being able to see the Pacific out there, I’m disoriented.”

  Glad he’d settled on a neutral topic, she swept her hand to the south. “The coastal ridge, the valley between it, and these foothills run down through Mendocino County. We’re not talking very high elevations on the ridge—maybe eleven hundred to fifteen hundred feet. But look around to the east, and you’ll see peaks in the national forest of up to seven thousand feet. And to the northwest”—she moved her hand again—“that’s the King Range, below Eureka and Humboldt Bay. People who don’t know the state always think of California as Los Angeles or San Francisco or urban sprawl. They have no idea of the vast wilderness and agricultural and ranch lands. Ther
e’s endless territory to explore.”

  “You love it here, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you a native?”

  “No. I grew up in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio—Ellenberg. Studied journalism at Columbia, worked for a time as a reporter on the Denver Post, then on the Los Angeles Times. At the point when L.A. started to wear on me, my aunt died and left me a lot of money; I’d heard about this small-town weekly that was up for sale, and thought, Why not? So here I am.”

  “Quite a history. Never had any desire to return to Ellenburg, Ohio?”

  “About as much as you have to return to Saugatuck, Minnesota. You and I, Lindstrom, are brother and sister under the skin.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You left Saugatuck because everybody thought you were a murderer. I left Ellenburg because everybody knew I was a lesbian.”

  The corner of Matt’s mouth twitched, and for a moment he didn’t speak. Then he asked, “You want to tell me about it?”

  “No. Not now.”

  “Why?”

  Because for all our common suffering, I don’t know you that well. May never know you that well.

  “This isn’t the right time. I brought you here so we could both clear our heads and have the privacy to talk about some things I found in Ard’s notes.”

  She pulled from her daypack the legal pad on which she’d highlighted certain entries. “When Natalie was small, she had an odd conversational style. We’d be driving along in the car, for instance, and she’d be talking about something that had happened to her in school. Then all of a sudden she’d interrupt herself and exclaim, ‘Oh, look—horses!’ And next thing, without breaking stride, she’d go right back to whatever she’d been saying before. Some of Ard’s notes remind me of that.”

  “Read them to me.”

  She flipped to the first of the pages she’d marked. “ ‘Ronnie Talbot had made the decision to sell the mill a year before the deal was Meryl Travis finalized…’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “Exactly my reaction. The name Meryl Travis is circled.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The mother of Mack Travis, the man who confessed to the killings and hanged himself in his jail cell.”

  “Odd. What else?”

  “ ‘Members of both the gay and straight communities came to the support of the friends of the victims as Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford were laid to rest, but then the Andy D’Angelo process of fragmentation began.’ ”

  “D’Angelo? That’s my landlady’s last name. Her father…”

  “Killed himself recently. That’s Andy. How’d you meet the daughter?”

  “In a bar in Talbot’s Mills. But it wasn’t the way you think. She’s a nice woman.”

  “Did I say anything, Lindstrom?”

  “No.”

  “I flat-out hate people telling me what I do or don’t think.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I mean, how can anybody assume—”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, hell, I’m—”

  “Sorry.”

  “We sound like a bad comedy routine.”

  “Maybe we should work on it, take it on the road. So is Andy D’Angelo’s name circled?”

  “Yes. And there’s another reference of the same kind. ‘Guns are common in this county, but the sheriff’s department ballistics expert maintains the markings on the fatal bullets are distinctive and Rawson or Payne the missing weapon has never been found.’ ”

  “Rawson or Payne—the developers of the Meadows.”

  “Right.”

  Lindstrom’s blue eyes grew intense; they locked on hers and held. “Is she naming them as the killers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are these references some kind of code?”

  “I doubt it. Ard’s mind doesn’t work that way. She runs out of patience with crossword puzzles or rebuses. She hates mystery novels because she can never figure out their solutions. Natalie loves to do jigsaws, spreads them out on the dining room table, but Ard doesn’t have the vision to fit the pieces together.”

  “Then what do these things represent?”

  “Possibly reminders to herself to check something out.”

  “She’d break in the middle of a sentence to note them?”

  “Given how distracted she’s been lately, it wouldn’t surprise me. Here’s something else I found on the last page of this pad.” Carly flipped to her marker. “It’s a list: Wells Mining. They owned the Knob mine in its heyday—the eighteen-sixties. Denver Precious Metals. That’s the firm that bought it around the turn of the twentieth century and used a cyanide-based process to extract the remaining gold from the waste dumps and low-grade ore. They donated the land to the national parks system in the nineteen fifties. Neither company had anything to do with Ronnie or Deke. The next item is CR ninety-two. I have no idea what that is. And then there’s Moratorium ten-slash-zero-zero. Again, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just a name—Noah Estes. And a date—nineteen seventy-four. Estes is a fairly common name in this county; the manager of the mine under Denver Precious Metals was John Estes, and he and his wife had a number of descendants. I don’t recall a Noah, however.”

  Lindstrom nodded but remained silent. A breeze started up out of the northwest, blowing about the branches of the newly leafed aspen trees in a declivity below. Carly studied the play of light and shadow on them. She loved this time of year, when spring crept up into the foothills; its arrival always invigorated her, gave hope. But this year she felt sluggish and despondent—had felt that way even before Ard pulled her latest disappearing act.

  Matt said, “Andy D’Angelo—did he have any connection to you, Ardis, or your friends?”

  “I wasn’t aware the man existed till he committed suicide.”

  “As owner of the mill, could Ronnie Talbot have known him?”

  “I doubt it. He never took an active role in its management.”

  “Well, why don’t I talk with Sam D’Angelo? See if she knows of a connection.”

  “Good idea. In the meantime, I’ll check on the items on Ard’s list.”

  He stood. “You coming?”

  “Not yet.” They’d driven there separately. “I want to stay for a while.”

  “I’ll call you later, then, after my talk with Sam.”

  After Matt’s footfalls faded on the other side of the Knob, she moved to a more sheltered spot and propped her back against the smooth rock wall. Tried to empty herself of thoughts and emotions—a bastardized Zen technique that she’d developed after attending a couple of weekend retreats. It worked about forty percent of the time, but not today. Finally she abandoned it and fell back on the mantra often quoted by her brother, Alan, during their troubled teenage years: “Everything ends. Everything ends.”

  The mantra had helped both of them survive their parents’ deteriorating marriage and their increasingly disturbed mother’s unreasonable restrictions and unfounded accusations. (“I saw you with that Watkins kid. You’ve been smoking, haven’t you?” “I caught you smiling at that boy on the street. You’ve been messing around, haven’t you? You tramp!”) It got them through long periods of punishment for the most minor of transgressions. (“You didn’t make your bed right. No TV for thirty days.” “You fed the cat five minutes late. No desserts this month.”) And it helped them endure the long, chilly silences that were somehow more disturbing than the spates of verbal abuse.

  Today the mantra didn’t work at all. Instead it reminded her that, for Alan, everything had indeed ended: twenty years ago on an icy country road in upstate New York, when he’d been trying to outrun a storm to get home to his wife and baby son. A year later his wife had died of breast cancer, and the son had been spirited away by his maternal grandparents, who didn’t want him exposed to the “evil influences” of the family their daughter had married into.

  The foremost of the evil influences th
ey cited being his lesbian aunt.

  My brother, my best friend, the only family member besides Aunt Nan who accepted me for who I am—lost to me forever. My sister-in-law, also my friend, who understood the pain I’d been through—also lost. My nephew—I didn’t know him, will never know him.

  And now what if Ard and Nat are lost, too?

  Old grief welled up, choking her; fresh grief made her eyes sting. She stood, hefted her pack, began climbing down the steep trail. She’d go home, get on the computer, tackle the problem.

  But then, when she was in her truck, another old grief made her turn in the opposite direction.

  The redwood-and-glass house stood in the shadow of pines and live oaks; the rose garden that Ard had helped Deke plant showed robust new foliage. Carly got out of her truck and breathed in the mentholated scent of the eucalyptus that lined the long driveway. Everything here was well tended, courtesy of the Talbot estate, of which Ardis was executor; in the years since the residents had been murdered, no one, not even the most pragmatic of potential buyers, had made an offer on the property.

  She still had a spare key to the house on her ring; she and Ard and Ronnie and Deke had traded plant-watering and pet-caring duties during the times they traveled. She fingered the key, studying the windows whose closed blinds had blocked out the stares of the curious in the days after the killings. She hadn’t been back here since Ard’s frantic summons, and she found she couldn’t get past the memories of her partner lying on the lawn next to a pool of vomit, her friends lying dead in their bloodstained bedroom, the impersonal bustle of the officials’ activity. She would have given anything to envision Ronnie coming through the front door to envelop her in a welcoming hug, Deke following close behind to offer a glass of excellent cabernet. But while she knew such moments had occurred many times, it was as if they had happened in a film she’d seen and half forgotten. Here, in this peaceful place, she could only feel pain and the remnants of horror.

  Still, she felt drawn to the house.

  Don’t do it, McGuire. It’s not healthy.

  She went up the walk, slid the key into the lock, opened the door.

  The tiled hallway whose big window overlooked the swimming pool at the opposite side of the house was cool and shadowy. The living plants that Deke had cultivated under the skylights had been replaced by silk imitations, but otherwise nothing was significantly altered. She moved along, glancing into the living room, the library, the den, the exercise room, the dining room, the kitchen…