Cyanide Wells

by Marcia Muller

  Two men in workshirts and jeans sat at the near end of the bar, watching a soap opera on the big screen, where a couple were cuddling in bed—the woman with perfect makeup, the man with impeccably groomed hair. The woman exclaimed, “I’ve never experienced anything as wonderful as last night!”

  One of the watchers said to the screen, “Yeah, so where’d you and lover-boy spend it? The beauty parlor?”

  Carly spotted a red-haired woman who resembled the description Matt had given her of Janet Tremaine at the far end of the bar, sitting on one of the stools, a solitaire game spread before her. As she started toward her, the waitress looked up and smiled.

  “Ms. McGuire, why’re you here? Nobody’s shot up the place in maybe two weeks.”

  Carly slipped onto the stool next to her. The goddamn saddle seats were sized for men and hurt in all the wrong places. “You know who I am?” she asked.

  “Sure, everybody does. Newspaper editor, important person.”

  “The editor of the New York Times is important. I’m not. Business is light today, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Tremaine went back to her solitaire game.

  “Black ten on the red jack,” Carly said.

  “Huh?”

  “That’ll win it for you. Then I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “Nonsense, it’s not like you’re a cop on duty. I’m having an IPA.”

  Tremaine swept the cards into a pile. “Well, okay. Thanks.” She went behind the bar, drew drafts, and slid Carly’s over to her.

  Carly stood. “Let’s go sit in a booth.”

  Tremaine’s eyes grew wary.

  “Come on.” Carly walked toward the far side of the room. After telling the bartender she was taking a break, Tremaine followed.

  “What’s this about?” she asked as she sat down opposite Carly.

  “Mack Travis.”

  “Not you, too? A so-called army buddy of his was in here asking about him the other night. Was he one of your people?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I told him to lay off—”

  “Janet, don’t you think the cover-up’s gone on long enough?”

  “What cover-up?”

  “You know. It’s time you told the whole story.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Yes, there is, and you need to get it out in the open. Keeping secrets like that can damage a person.”

  “Secrets? What secrets?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t!” She glanced around the room, lowered her voice. “Really, I don’t.”

  “You told my employee that he didn’t know who and what he was dealing with. You know what that says to me? It says you’ve been silenced by powerful people. Who are they?”

  Tremaine’s shoulders slumped, and she leaned forward. “Listen, I’m scared.”

  “Well, I’m not. And I can help you.”

  Silence.

  “Tell me what you know, Janet.”

  “So you can publish it in your newspaper?”

  “No, so you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  “…Oh, hell. What’ve I got to lose? I’ll tell you.”

  Carly spun the truck’s tires as she left the Roadhouse parking lot, sending up a spray of gravel. She vented her anger by taking the switchbacks of Spyglass Trail at a dangerous speed. Behind her, Shawn Stengel struggled to keep up in his clumsy station wagon.

  Halfway down, somewhat calmer, she found a wide spot, pulled off, and waited for the deputy. Stengel was driving so fast that he almost missed seeing her. When he did, he slammed on the brakes, fishtailed to a stop, then put the car in reverse and backed onto the shoulder. As he got out and walked toward her, she called, “Hey, Shawn.”

  “Carly.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you stick out in that big boat?”

  “Anybody ever tell you it’s dangerous driving like that in a truck?”

  “So how come you’re following me?”

  “Grossman’s orders. What were you doing at the Road-house?”

  “I felt the need of a cold one.” Before he could speak, she held up her hand. “That’s one, Shawn, over more than an hour. My blood alcohol level’s legal.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But why the Roadhouse? I’ve never known you to go slumming.”

  “There’re lots of things you’ve never known me to do. Doesn’t mean I haven’t done them. You planning on following me around forever?”

  “Till Grossman lifts the surveillance.” The deputy leaned against the truck’s tailgate, arms folded across his chest. “Hell, Carly, you think I like spying on you? If you’d just tell Grossman what you know about the murder—”

  “You mean tell Grossman what he wants to hear.”

  Stengel shrugged. “He’s a good cop. If he senses he’s onto something, he probably is. It’s damned suspicious, Ms. Coleman disappearing at the same time her husband got killed.”

  “She didn’t disappear. She went out of town. Before Chase Lewis was murdered.”

  “And without telling you where she was going?”

  “That’s right.”

  He sighed. “So where’re we headed next?”

  “My house. You can wait out front all night if you like. I’ll even bring you a sandwich and some coffee.”

  “You know, I think I’ll take you up on that. And do me a favor? Take it easy the rest of the way down.”

  With Stengel close behind, she drove carefully toward the flatlands, thinking over what Janet Tremaine had told her.

  On the morning after Ronnie Talbot’s and Deke Rutherford’s murders, Janet was awakened by a banging on the door of her trailer, in a mobile home park outside of Talbot’s Mills. She opened it to Mack Travis. Mack was a mess: rumpled, babbling, shaky, and drunk. Afraid her mostly old and retired neighbors would report his visit to the park manager—there had been previous complaints about him—she quickly pulled him inside. He was unsteady on his feet, so she shoved him into the armchair in front of the TV and, at his request, brought him her bottle of Southern Comfort—a liquor he hated but which he sucked down as he began talking.

  Talking of bodies and blood. Of a gun and the smell of burnt powder. Of how Gar Payne and Milt Rawson would kill him. Of how he wished he were dead, too.

  Over and over he mumbled and whimpered and eventually cried. Finally he passed out in the chair, and Janet, unsure whether what he’d said was real or an alcoholic delusion, left him there to sleep it off while she went to her noon-to-eight shift at the Roadhouse. But as the day wore on, every patron who came in was talking of the murders of Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford.

  Janet was afraid to go home. Afraid to call the sheriff’s department, too, because she might be accused of harboring a killer. She solved her problem by remaining at the Roadhouse after her shift ended, drinking one shot of Southern Comfort after another, and finally spending the night on the cot in the employees’ lounge. When she returned to her trailer the next morning, Mack was gone; two days later he was arrested and confessed to the murders.

  The night after Mack hanged himself in his jail cell, Gar Payne appeared at Janet’s door. He knew, he said, that Mack had come there after killing Talbot and Rutherford, and wanted to know what he’d told her. Janet gave him an account of Mack’s drunken ravings. Then Payne asked if Mack had left anything with her. Papers, perhaps, in a manila envelope. Janet hadn’t seen any, but she offered to look and found the envelope stuffed between the chair’s side and seat cushion. Payne took them, saying something about Mack’s having been supposed to make a delivery for him. Then Janet made her first mistake.

  Was it a delivery to Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford? she asked.

  Payne turned steely eyes on her. Had Mack told her that? No, she just thought it might’ve been.

  Payne didn’t believe her. After a long pause he issued an ultimatum: She was to tell no one Mack had been there. She was to tell no one he had been there. And under no
circumstances was she to tell anyone about the envelope.

  And if she did?

  He’d see to it that she lost her job. He’d make sure she never got another in the county. She could do jail time for harboring Travis. Or maybe her neighbors would want to testify as to her loose morals. Women who sold themselves weren’t welcome in Soledad County.

  Tremaine had a temper. It flared at the accusation.

  Oh, no? she asked. Then what kind of women did he visit at Foxxy’s up in Oilville?

  Payne had a temper, too.

  Women like her disappeared all the time, he said. No one would miss her if she did.

  Just thinking about what Tremaine had told her made Carly’s blood race. She stomped on the accelerator, leaving Shawn Stengel far behind, then eased up and told herself to think logically rather than indulge in rage. The logical conclusion, of course, was that Payne and Rawson had been after the Talbot property for quite some time; they’d probably sent Mack Travis there to deliver an offer, but somehow things had gotten out of hand and he’d killed them. Then he’d killed himself in order to escape Payne and Rawson’s retaliation.

  Again she stomped on the accelerator.

  God, I hate people like them! Mack Travis wasn’t much, but they shouldn’t’ve used him the way they did. Janet’s not much—in their eyes—but she shouldn’t have had to live in fear of them for three years.

  Payne and Rawson have got to be stopped. And I’m the woman to do it.

  After she made Shawn the promised sandwich and delivered it to his car along with a thermos of coffee, she checked her phone messages. Calls from the office—plaintive voices begging for direction—and one from Matt. It was close to five, so newspaper business took precedence. After she’d finished with her employees, she replayed Matt’s message. He’d handled Grossman well, but she knew the detective would want her to verify his story. How long before Ned came knocking on her door?

  She dialed the hospital in Santa Carla, found that Matt had been discharged late that afternoon. No answer at Sam’s house. Damn! Where was he? Had Grossman put a deputy on him, also?

  Six-seventeen now. It wouldn’t be dusk till around eight-thirty, and until then her movements would be restricted. She paced the kitchen floor, considered having a glass of wine, decided against it. A clear head was a necessity tonight. Stamina, too, so she made a sandwich and ate it standing at the counter. It tasted like cardboard, but in her present state anything would. Finally she went to her office and ran some Internet searches that turned up nothing of interest.

  At eight-fifteen she went to her bedroom and changed into black jeans and a black sweater. Thick socks, a knit hat, and hiking boots completed her ensemble. From the crisper in the refrigerator she took one of the point-and-shoot flash cameras that she and Ard kept there—Ard’s contention being that film lasted longer if kept cold. She put it, a small bottle of water, and a flashlight into her daypack.

  In her dark living room she looked out the window. Stengel’s station wagon was still parked beside her truck. She turned on a table lamp and the TV, moved conspicuously about the room for a few minutes, then drew the curtains. Slipped down the hall to the dining room, where French doors opened onto the backyard. She opened one and listened.

  Night sounds. Rustling in the brush, the cries of birds, a dog barking, a car passing on the road. From somewhere nearby came the smell of a barbecue. It was so quiet, she could hear the rush and babble of the creek.

  After a careful look around she stepped outside, set the lock on the door, and shut it behind her. Ran across the backyard to the shelter of an aspen grove.

  Seven miles as the crow flies.

  Deke had told her that the night of the big storm, when he appeared on snowshoes with candles and emergency rations. But he had known the crow’s route. In her ignorance of the off-road terrain she might have to walk considerably farther.

  You can do it. You have to do it.

  She set out through the grove.

  The houses here were on large tracts, spaced far apart, creating little light pollution. The night was dark, the moon a mere crescent. Carly took out her flashlight and aimed its beam at the ground, walking swiftly but carefully. When she came out of the trees and into the open meadow, she sighted on the towering mass of the Knob and headed toward it. Crickets fell silent as she passed, then again took up their chorus.

  After about ten minutes she entered forest land. The trees were mainly pines, and their resinous smell filled her nostrils. She zigzagged through them, hands sticky where she touched their branches, and eventually realized she’d lost her bearings.

  Sheer madness to think I’d find my way. I could be walking around in circles till morning.

  She dug her cell phone from her pack and punched in Sam D’Angelo’s number. No answer. Next she tried the newspaper on the odd chance Matt might have gone there, but only reached the machine.

  Well, what would I have said to him, anyway? “I’m lost in the woods; come and rescue me?”

  She put the phone away and resumed walking. After a while the trees thinned and she found herself in a clearing. Craning her neck, she located the Knob—dead ahead and closer than before. She wasn’t lost after all.

  She angled to the south, across the clearing, with renewed vigor. Plunged into underbrush where dead blackberry vines ripped at her clothing, and came out on a dirt road. Quickly she conjured up her mental map of the area: Drinkwater Creek, Spyglass Trail, the Knob, the Talbot house. This, then, would be the unpaved end of the trail. If she followed it to the right, it would lead her to its intersection with Highway 26, which passed through the national forest. Turn right, and within fifteen minutes or so she’d be at her destination.

  She hadn’t been hiking much lately, and her calf and thigh muscles ached. The boots, which weren’t thoroughly broken in, pinched her toes. She ignored her discomfort and kept going. Then the growl of an engine came out of the distance. She stopped, listening to get a sense of its direction. Hazy headlights appeared behind her.

  Grossman. He went to the house, found me gone, is looking for me.

  The detective looking for her in this particular place made no sense, but still she ducked down and scrambled into the ditch by the roadside. It was muddy, and her boots sank deep into the muck. Moments later the vehicle passed at high speed; she raised her head, trying to glimpse it, but it was already around the bend.

  Going where? Nothing out here for miles but the national forest. And Ronnie and Deke’s house…

  Ten minutes later she stood in the shelter of a stand of pines, looking at the house. No light showed. She ran across the road and angled toward it. The driveway and front parking area were clearly visible now, and vacant. The vehicle that had passed her was probably heading through the national forest toward the intersection of Highway 26 with Interstate 5 at Redding. Still, she studied the house for a few minutes more before she went over and let herself inside.

  In the entry she shone the flashlight’s beam around. She listened, heard only the sound of a tree branch tapping on the front window. After removing her hiking boots she climbed to the second story and went to the master bedroom. Took out her point-and-shoot, and—

  “I’ll do that,” Lindstrom’s voice said.

  She whirled. His face was pale against the darkness.

  “Jesus! You scared me!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t want to show myself till I was sure it was you.”

  “Where’ve you been since you got discharged from the hospital? I’ve called a couple of times.”

  “Sam and I had dinner in Santa Carla. After we got back to Talbot’s Mills, she went to her shift at the Chicken Shack and I drove here. Pulled my Jeep around back and came inside. Was setting up to take pictures when I heard you arrive.”

  Carly sat on the bed, took off her cap, and let her tangled hair fall to her shoulders. Her eyes had now acclimated to the darkness, and she looked around, taking in the room’s shadowy outlines. When her gaze rested
on the nightstand beside her, she frowned, then shone her flash on it.

  “What?” Matt asked.

  “That’s it. I saw something there.”

  “When? The other day?”

  “No. The morning after the murders. That was the only other time I’ve been in this room. But why can’t I remember? Dammit!”

  “Don’t force it. It’ll come eventually.”

  “Eventually isn’t good enough.” She closed her eyes, began employing a technique a Denver hypnotherapist whom she’d interviewed for a feature article had explained to her.

  Go back to that morning. You’re outside Ronnie and Deke’s house. What’s the weather like?

  Warm. It’ll get hot later.

  What do you smell?

  Ard’s vomit. Dry grass and eucalyptus. Cape jasmine from the blue urns by the front door.

  What do you hear?

  Ard—she’s crying. Bluejays screeching in the oak tree. A crow cawing.

  Look at the house. What do you see?

  Door’s open.

  “Carly?”

  “Not now!”

  Go inside the house. What’s the first thing you notice?

  It’s cooler in here. But the temperature rises as I climb the stairs.

  Go to the master bedroom. What do you see there?

  I don’t want to—

  Look!

  Ronnie and Deke are on the bed. Their heads…There’s blood on the sheets, on the headboard…I can’t do this anymore.

  Yes, you can. Look at the nightstand.

  Okay. The nightstand. There’s nothing on it, not even much blood.

  Look more closely.

  Well, some blood. But it’s in a pattern. There’re circles and a rectangle, clear and polished wood. Three small circles and a bigger one. And the rectangle’s about the size of a paperback book.

  She opened her eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe what?” Matt asked.

  “Come on.” She stood. “It’s getting late and there’s somebody I need to talk with.”