Rats. He wasn't going to let me distract him. I wasn't about to give up, though. "Do you actually expect me to try all these revolvers?" My hand swept in an expansive gesture toward the table.
"Pistols. My revolvers are home on the wall."
"Whatever."
"My suggestion is you handle each one, and see which one feels best."
"You're joking. How could a gun feel good?"
"One of these will fit your hand better than the others. Stop stalling, Doyle."
I spied a distinct gleam of laughter in his eyes, but ignored it and let out a dramatic sigh of resignation instead. "All right, all right, all right," I said, feigning surrender. I'd only begun to aggravate. I selected the largest pistol of the lot and gingerly lifted it off the table, then very nearly dropped it. It was surprisingly heavy.
"Careful," he said.
"They're not loaded, are they?" I looked at him in genuine horror and quickly replaced the gun.
"Don't worry. None of them are loaded. Didn't like that one, huh?"
"Only Dirty Harry could love a gun like that. Definitely not me." I lifted the next, slightly smaller than the other one, but still heavy.
"That's a .45."
"Age?"
"Caliber."
"Will there be a quiz?"
"No, but we'll be here till nightfall, unless you quit stalling."
I didn't reply. It wouldn't work anyway, so I lifted the third, replaced it, then picked up the fourth and last pistol. Surprisingly, it wasn't heavy. The metal felt cool against my palm.
"That's a .38," Chekov said.
I was about to respond, when a man's loud voice startled me.
"Howdy, folks. Great day, isn't it?"
"Yessir. Indeed, it is." Chekov grinned.
I spun around, without thinking, the pistol still in my hand. A plump, older man dressed in hunter orange was unloading an armful of rifles on the neighboring table, just twenty feet away. He looked up, spotted me aiming at him, and blanched. Then he hit the ground, face-first. Actually, belly-first.
Chekov reached over and guided my arm downward, then addressed the cowering hunter. "Don't worry, sir. It's not loaded. We're doing some basic training here. We apologize." To me, he said, "Range Rule Number One, Doyle. Do not threaten the other marksmen. Tends to make them surly."
I fought back a smile, with little success, convinced I'd found the perfect way to thwart Chekov's plans. Just act outrageous. Not a problem. With the things I'd gotten into lately, outrageous would be a piece of cake.
"How does that one feel?" he said.
"Okay, I guess. Better than the others."
"Good. Now, this is what you're going to do—"
The loud sound of rifle fire sounded close by. I yelped and spun around. This time, Chekov grabbed the gun from my hand before I could frighten the chubby hunter next door. He was taking deadly aim at the bulls-eye in the distance.
"Is that next?" I said.
"Yep." Chekov opened a box of bullets and began to fill a cartridge. "You'll notice I've moved your target closer. You' re using a handgun, not a rifle. Besides, you'd be confronting someone within close range, so we'll concentrate on that."
The image that brought to mind was an unpleasant reminder of why I was here. "So I just have to hit the target a few times, then I can go home. Is that it, Chekov?"
He grinned. "Yeah, Doyle. That's all there is to it. Hit within the target circle five times, and you can go. Now, stand over here." He pointed to the other side of the table next to him.
"How far away is the target?" I asked as I approached.
"About twenty-five feet. Do you have any other shoes in your car? Sneakers by any chance?"
"In my office. But I can always run back and get them."
"Nice try. Just be sure to sink those heels in the sand when you take your stance."
"Like Dirty Harry?"
"Picture anyone you like, Doyle. Now, this is what I want you to do." He stood facing the target, lifted both arms, and aimed. "You'll square off, feet apart, balancing your weight, shoulders facing the target. Then holding the gun with both hands, you'll sight down the barrel toward the target, then squeeze the trigger slowly." Turning to me, he said, "Now hold out your hand, palm-up."
I complied. He shoved in the cartridge, then placed the gun in my hand and gently wrapped my fingers around it.
"Keep your finger away from the trigger for now. Just hold it securely but lightly. Not in a death grip. Relax."
"Easy for you to say. This thing is loaded."
"Open your other hand, palm-up, and rest your gun hand in it. Just set your hand there and let your other hand hold on." When I did as he directed, he said, "Good, now face off and imitate what I did."
I considered being disobedient, but decided against it for some reason. Maybe the challenge was beginning to work on me, against my will. I took a stance, felt my heels sink into the sand, and made sure I was facing the target. Then I raised my arms. Sighting down the barrel toward the bulls-eye, I decided this was going to be too easy. All it took was five inside the circle. Okay, five it is. I pressed my finger against the trigger and fired.
The noise surprised me. So did the kick of the gun in my hand. I sighted down the barrel again, then fired off five more shots in rapid succession. I'd counted six bullets in that cartridge. I brought the gun back, barrel pointed up, and blew at the imaginary smoke. Just like in the movies. Harry would be proud. I grinned at Chekov. "Satisfied?"
"I will be when you hit the target."
"What?" The clatter of metal against metal caught my attention, and I turned—gun down this time. The chubby hunter, arms filled with rifles, was scurrying away to the far end of the range, orange shirttail flapping. A trail of shotgun shells marked his obviously panicked retreat. "Is he afraid of competition?" I joked.
"He's afraid of more than that, Doyle. Are you ready to get serious, now?"
"What are you talking about? I was serious. I sighted, took aim, and fired. Just like you said. Why don't you check the target?"
"You didn't hit the target. All you did was scare the wildlife. Every prairie dog in Larimer County just headed for Wyoming."
I scowled. "Don't be such a smart ass. Check the target."
"Twenty bucks says you didn't come anywhere near it."
"You're on. Check it."
He grinned and reached to take the gun from my hand, even though it was empty, then headed toward the target.
"What's the matter? Afraid I'll reload while you're out there?" I called while I watched him remove the paper bulls-eye from the target frame and return. He presented it to me with a flourish. It was immaculate. Untouched. I stared at it. Obviously, I had miscalculated.
"Okay, Doyle, are you ready to get to work now?" He shoved the refilled cartridge back into the pistol and offered it to me.
Chekov stood there, not looking the slightest bit annoyed. The soul of patience. I eyed the angle of the sun. True, it was still shining brightly above the foothills, but I knew how quickly it could disappear behind those peaks. Chekov's prediction of nightfall wasn't that far away. And I'd promised my clients I'd be at their house tonight with a completed Notice to Correct in my hand.
Well, damn. I guess I'd actually have to apply myself. I reached for the pistol. "Okay, tell me what I did wrong."
To my surprise Chekov said, "You didn't do anything wrong. You just did it too fast. You didn't allow yourself time to aim properly. Do everything again, but slowly this time. I'm going to be working at the next target. Tell me when you're empty, and I'll reload for you." He picked up the rifle and a long box of bullets, and headed toward the same table the chubby hunter had just evacuated.
"Any other wildlife I need worry about? Rabbits? Raccoons?"
"The rabbits are cowering in their holes. Now, get to work before they die of heart failure."
"Anything else? Hawks, owls—"
"The hawks saw you coming, Doyle. They're in Boulder by now. Stop stalli
ng and start shooting," he said as he took aim and fired.
The rifle's loud retort made me jump. His target was so far away, it might as well be in Boulder. I glanced back at mine. Checking the angle of the sun, I squared off, took my stance, and took aim. As I sighted down the barrel toward the bulls-eye, I wondered if the pizza guy would deliver out here.
Chapter 19
I couldn't tell if the sound of the phone ringing or the irritating buzz of the alarm clock woke me first. Whichever it was, it was unwelcome. I jerked out of my exhausted slumber and crawled out of bed. My answering machine had come on, so I stumbled toward the alarm clock and gave it a vicious shove, then reached for the phone before I collapsed back into bed. How could it be after 8:00? I never oversleep.
"This is Kate," I mumbled into the phone.
"Don't tell me I woke you?" Marilyn's voice was filled with concern. "Are you all right, Kate? Jeannie just told me what happened the other night. I simply cannot believe you walked in on another body!"
"Believe it," I said between yawns.
"Kate, are you really okay? I called Jeannie when I couldn't get you yesterday. She said you were resting. Why didn't you answer the phone? I was worried about you. Is there something you're not telling me?"
Yes, there was, but I knew if I told Marilyn everything that happened to me these past two days, then it would be all over town. I had to distract her.
"Sorry, I had the answering machine on. Besides, I only rested in the morning. I went back into the office in the afternoon. Then I spent two grueling hours in the foothills, shooting at paper targets. Ronnie and Bill both ganged up on me and insisted I take lessons. It was excruciating."
"Actually, I agree with both of them. You've had some scary experiences lately."
"Listen, Marilyn, you have to promise me you will resist the urge to spread the word about my finding the body. I already swore Amanda to secrecy, and you have to promise too. Bill kept my name out of the papers. I don't want my friends blowing my cover, okay?"
"I promise, Kate. I won't tell a soul. I just wish you'd be careful." She took a deep breath and started in.
I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed. If I was going to listen to someone else scold me, I had to have some coffee. I pulled on a tee-shirt and headed for the kitchen, while Marilyn continued her cautionary litany.
"You can stop fussing, Marilyn," I finally said when I could get a word in edgewise. "I am following orders. Ronnie left me no choice. I've signed up for martial arts instruction, and I just had my first weapons class, so ease up, okay?" I didn't stop to measure the coffee, simply dumped it into the canister. Extra strength. That way maybe my eyes would stay open.
"Were you over at that range on Taft Hill?"
"Yep. Out there in the middle of the foothills."
"You weren't out there alone, were you?" I could hear the shiver in her voice.
"No. Ronnie insisted Jake Chekov do the instruction. Apparently, he's trained several real estate agents in town. He wouldn't tell me their names, though." Pouring the water into the coffee maker, I flipped the switch and leaned on the counter. I was going to hover right over the pot until it was ready.
"Oh, really?" Marilyn's voice traveled up its little musical scale in a tune I knew well.
"Don't even go there, Marilyn," I warned.
"So it was just you and Jake Chekov out there alone?"
"Well, there was another marksman practicing for a while, but I frightened him away."
"Why? Did you shoot him?"
"No, but he thought I would. Of course, I can't imagine where he'd get that idea. Chekov had enough guns to take over a small town."
"So, what happened?"
"What do you mean, what happened? I practiced shooting at that stupid bulls-eye until I finally got five in the circle. Then he kept moving the target farther away, so I could do it again. Brother! It was after five when I left. Then I had to write up a notice for my buyers, get signatures, and deliver it to the other real estate agent. Boy, was I glad to get home." The enticing aroma of coffee wafted toward my nostrils. Any minute now, I'd be human again.
"Now that you've had some time alone, what do you think of this Chekov?"
In her own way, Marilyn was as incorrigible as I was. You had to respect that. "Oh, he's your average Marine Corps Drill Sergeant. Nothing special."
"Strict, huh?"
"And tricky. I tried every tactic I could to get out of it, from basic in-your-face aggravation to gross incompetence. Nothing worked."
"That must have annoyed you terribly."
"As a matter of fact, it did." I snatched a clean mug from the cabinet and quickly poured a dark stream into the cup, even though the coffee maker was still brewing. Water hitting the hot plate hissed into steam.
"Will you be having more classes?"
"Unfortunately, yes. But enough about that." I deliberately switched subjects. "You spoke with Amanda today? How did she sound?"
Marilyn paused. "Actually, Kate, she didn't sound good at all. Her voice was so soft I kept asking her to speak up. That's not like Amanda. I'm worried about her."
"So am I, Marilyn. And for other reasons. I called her right after the murder. And she doesn't have an alibi. Once again, she was at home alone."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes," I said, then took a long drink of coffee. I felt the clouds lift from my eyes at last. There was hope. "I'm worried, Marilyn. I really am. Everyone in town thinks she did it, and she has no witnesses to confirm her whereabouts for either night. Not good."
There was a long pause from Marilyn this time. "Kate, this is scaring me. What can we do? What can Amanda do?"
"All she can do now is to be extremely cooperative with the police and answer all their questions truthfully. That's all she can do. As for us, there's not much we can do." I took another swallow of the rich, deep brew, and listened to Marilyn voice her concern.
Meanwhile, a recently-awakened lobe of my brain refused to accept what it had just heard. Surely there was some way to uncover this clever killer's identity. There must be a clue somewhere. Cheryl Krane had learned something that got her killed. What was it?
I inhaled the rich coffee aroma and drank deeply while Marilyn drew a second wind. It was too late to question Cheryl. And Stanley was a basket case. Who else might know something? Different faces danced through my mind as the caffeine gradually ignited my brain's sleeping cells. Finally one face came and stayed. I drained my cup, eased Marilyn off the phone, and headed for the shower. Meddling or not, forbidden or not, I was determined to find something that could help my friend.
* * *
It would be hard to find a more beautiful early fall morning, I thought, as I drove the curving road leading to Fort Collins Country Club. The aspens that dotted the foothills were always the first to claim the gold. Cool nights and brilliantly sunny days had done their work.
The massive Cottonwood trees were next. Those lining the lake to my left had turned glorious shades of yellow veined with green, their leaves reflecting off the lake's glassy surface. Then the maples would turn blood red or burgundy, mixed with green. Orange was found elsewhere—low-lying scrub bushes that hugged rocks and steep crevices burst into flame and burnt umber.
For those of us who'd grown up in the East, where hardwood forests surround even the most modest neighborhood, fall was a riot of color. A much showier display. Every color in autumn's palette was splashed with abandon. It was different in the West. We could enjoy all the same colors. We just had to look for them in different places.
Sharon Bassett's housekeeper had said Sharon usually stayed for lunch after her Wednesday morning tennis match. What better time, I thought, to catch her relaxed. Maybe she'd be willing to answer some questions. I hoped her luncheon with Cheryl had yielded some useful information. It definitely had appeared to be an intense conversation between the two of them. Maybe Cheryl had shared a confidence with Sharon—from one jilted lover to another. That idea didn't sound too pla
usible, even to me, but it was all I had. If I could just start Sharon talking, maybe something useful would come out.
I wheeled my Explorer into the parking area and drove near the front, then parked and walked the lovely, sloping path to the graceful white-columned entrance. Nodding to one of the staff, I headed toward the side where the patios were located. If Sharon was relaxing after the match, it would be there.
Sure enough, I spied her at a table with friends, a red-and white-striped umbrella shading them from the sun. Sharon's summer-perfect tan was still intact and showed nicely against her short, white tennis dress. She was seated with two sleek blondes I vaguely recalled from my former life. Once again, I cursed my poor memory for names, hoping Sharon would handle introductions.
Fixing a bright smile on my face, I approached the threesome. "Hi there, Sharon," I greeted her. "Your housekeeper said I would find you here."
Sharon turned to me with a look of surprise. "Hello, Kate." She gestured to her friends. "You know Mary Flynn and Chris Honeycutt, don't you?"
Bless you, Sharon. "Oh, yes, but it's been ages," I said and grinned at the two women. Both nodded and murmured politely. I could tell they didn't have the foggiest recollection of who I was. Amazing how quickly divorce sweeps you right off the social radar screen. That was okay with me. I'd never liked being scrutinized anyway.
"My goodness, Kate, it must be something important for you to drive all the way to the north of town to find me." Sharon smiled her trademark enigmatic smile.
"Yes, it is," I said, readying the lie on my tongue. It was terrible how good I'd gotten at lying. "It's a legal matter that involves a client and, well, I promised her I'd find the best attorney for her to speak with. And I couldn't think of a better person to ask than you, Sharon. I hope you don't mind. I won't take more than a minute or two." I cocked my head slightly and fixed her with my most sincere wide-eyed innocent look.
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