by Sherry Lewis
Enos motioned them to a spot on the path that was too far away for Fred to hear what they said. They all put on solemn faces and glanced occasionally—uneasily—over their shoulders at the lake.
After a long time Enos left his deputies to carry out his instructions—whatever they were—and rejoined Fred. “You’re white as a sheet. Want me to call Maggie?”
Fred shook his head. “I’m fine. Just do what you have to do to get Joan out of the water.”
Enos looked unconvinced, but he went back to the lake and left Fred alone. That was okay with Fred. The shock of finding her body had thrown him, but he hadn’t really known Joan well. She had associated with a different type of people, a flashier social group. Fred had always believed that she would have been happier living a simpler life—his kind of life—but her husband had other ideas.
Brandon Cavanaugh hadn’t fit in since the day he and Joan arrived in Cutler ten years earlier. He didn’t like Cutler, and Cutler didn’t like him. He’d stayed only because Joan insisted. His only interests were in money, power, and social position, and Fred was sure he’d married Joan to get them.
Fred heard a footstep on the dirt behind him and turned to see Doc Huggins approaching, his old face grim.
“Poor woman,” Doc said.
“You’ve seen her then?” Fred asked. At Doc’s solemn nod, he asked, “How long do you think she’s been dead?”
“Can’t really say. It’s hard to tell in these conditions. The water is cold enough to lower the body temperature pretty fast. I’d say she’s been in there at least a couple of hours, maybe longer.”
Enos climbed the bank behind Doc and planted his fists on his hips. “Want to take a guess at the cause of death Doc?”
“Not yet. Bring her on over to the office and let me run a few tests. I’ll lay you odds we end up taking her to the county boys. I don’t have the equipment they do.”
Enos repositioned his hat and glanced once more at the lake. “She probably drowned.”
“What about that bruise?” Fred asked again.
With a covert glance at Fred, Doc pulled Enos a few steps away. It didn’t matter whether they spoke in front of him or not. Fred knew Joan hadn’t died by drowning.
Suddenly weary, he longed to find a warm place with a comfortable chair and a steaming cup of hot coffee. If only he could find a way to ease the bitter ache in his hands and legs, he’d feel better.
The image of Joan’s body drifted through his mind again and for what must surely have been the hundredth time that morning, he battled nausea. Finding Joan’s body had turned him to putty. Thinking about her kept him that way.
No matter what Enos said, his gut told him that Joan’s death was no accident. Something terrible had happened at Spirit Lake. He was sure of it.
two
Sometime later Fred climbed into the passenger seat of Enos’s truck and took the weight off his tired legs. It felt so good to sit he didn’t even mind waiting while Enos gave the boys their last-minute instructions.
His watch said it was nearly ten o’clock, which explained why his stomach ached. He’d been out here for hours. At least he’d finally stopped being sick, but now his stomach was grumbling about missing breakfast.
The sun had climbed higher in the sky, but morning shadows still slanted across the road through the trees. With a sigh, he leaned his head against the seat back and let the air play across his face. He still felt weak and shaky, but other than that he’d almost recovered.
Enos pulled himself into the cab of the truck and exhaled heavily. He spent a couple of minutes shifting around behind the steering wheel, trying to get comfortable. “The last six months my biggest problem has been deciding where to have coffee in the morning or arguing with Doris Steadman about her barking dog,” he said. “Now this.”
Now this, as if the tragedy were nothing more than a pesky dog. Fred closed his eyes briefly before asking, “Who do you think did it?”
Enos reached out the window to adjust his side mirror. “Nobody did it.”
So he still couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. Fred didn’t know what to think about that. “What are you going to tell Brandon?”
“What is there to tell?” Enos demanded. “Doc can’t determine the cause of death yet, so all I know for sure is that Joan is dead. I’ll go tell her husband what I know.”
Everything Fred had read about murder cases like this one said the spouse was usually the guilty party. He squinted into morning sunlight reflecting off a clean spot on the windshield and tried to picture Brandon Cavanaugh as a murderer, Sadly, he had no trouble succeeding. “Do you think he did it?” he asked. “The husband’s usually the one, you know.”
Enos cut a sharp glance at him. “You’d better not go around pointing fingers at people. There’s nothing to say this is a murder.”
“But we both know it is.”
“I don’t know any such thing.” Enos held the ignition switch on too long and the truck scraped as the engine turned over. Tugging at the gearshift, he looked over his shoulder and backed up in a wide semicircle. “You need to stop that, Fred. I’m taking you to Maggie’s so she can keep an eye on you. The last thing I want is for you to have some kind of reaction to your excitement this morning.”
Fred didn’t need to be taken to Margaret’s house—or anywhere else for that matter. He scooted up in his seat a little and said the first thing that came to mind. “She’s not home.” It wasn’t true. Since Doc had started crying “heart trouble,” Margaret hadn’t taken three steps out her front door without making sure Fred knew where to find her, but Fred hoped Enos didn’t know that.
“Oh? Where is she? I’ll take you to her.”
“I’m not sure,” Fred said. “I think she and Webb went to Denver for the weekend.”
Enos pulled onto the road so fast, gravel spit out from the rear tires. He mumbled something under his breath and sent Fred an irritated look before turning his attention back to the mud-splattered windshield.
They sped up Grand County Road to where it connected with the highway. Enos made the turn, barely bothering to check for oncoming traffic. “If I take you home, I want you to promise me that you’ll rest. I don’t want you to do anything.”
Fred had no intention of sitting at home while Enos talked to Brandon Cavanaugh, but he tried to sound agreeable. “I won’t do any more than I have to.”
“That’s no promise.” Enos frowned at him. “I want you to lie down and take it easy.”
“Sure.”
With that, Enos’s face relaxed. The worry lines smoothed out and he took on a more youthful appearance.
Fred almost hated to spoil it. “Cold today, isn’t it?”
Enos nodded and murmured his agreement.
“Guess I’ll just build up the fire a bit before I lie down,” Fred said. “I got a little chill there in the lake this morning.” He waited a few seconds then stole a look at Enos to gauge his reaction.
Nothing.
“I wonder if I have enough firewood in the house. Well, no matter. If I don’t, I’ll just bring in enough for a day—maybe two.”
Enos shifted gears and settled in for the short drive back to Fred’s house. “I’ll bring in the firewood for you. You need your rest.”
Fred waved away his suggestion. “I’m all right. Almost back to normal now. Besides, I’ve got my pills and you need to get yourself up to the Cavanaugh’s. You can’t be carrying firewood when Brandon might not have any idea that his wife’s dead.” They rounded Kilburn’s hill, which meant the intersection with Highway 134 was just four miles ahead, which meant that Fred needed to lay it on a bit thicker. “I guess it would save you some time if I just rode on up to Cavanaugh’s with you.”
Lines of annoyance folded on Enos’s forehead. “I’m not taking you with me on official business, Fred. Especially not this.”
The intersection was approaching too quickly, Fred thought. Enos must be speeding. “Well, you’re probably ri
ght. Even if I just stayed in the truck, I guess it wouldn’t do to have me along.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“And I guess it would be best for me to go home and lie down. Quiet, that’s what I need. Somebody can just look in on me tomorrow.” He nodded solemnly. “Guess you don’t think you need to have me there—since I found her and all.”
Enos got a real tight look on his face. “No, I don’t think so.”
Fred forced a deep sigh and leaned his head back against the seat again. Enos spared him a worried glance that Fred pretended not to notice. Lifting his hand, he placed it on his chest. “Do you know Cavanaugh’s number off the top of your head? In case I need to reach you or something? No. Never mind. I’ll be all right. It’ll be much better for me to go home alone than to wait in the truck for you. . . .”
Enos took his eyes off the road for a second—just long enough for Fred to see that he looked nervous.
Inching his way up in the seat, Fred made sure he didn’t look directly at the younger man. “I guess I could always call Jessica if I need to. She’s home, isn’t she?”
Enos licked his lips and shook his head. “Committee meeting in Granby. What about Maggie’s kids? Aren’t they home? Can’t Sarah drive by now?”
“Sure. Sarah can drive, but I don’t think they’re home. No, I’m sure Margaret said they were taking the kids with them.” Fred slowly rubbed his chest.
The truck lost speed. After a long silence Enos asked, “If I took you with me, you’d stay in the truck?”
Fred didn’t even let his lips so much as twitch. “Of course.”
“After that we’ll take you to Doc’s and have him look you over.”
Fred had been looked over by Doc enough times in the past six months to last him the rest of his life, but he wasn’t going to argue about that—at least not now. He pointed through the windshield at the intersection that was now just a few feet ahead. “Turn left up there.”
Enos shifted his eyes from the road again and Fred saw the question there. He looked away and Enos, apparently satisfied, turned left onto the highway.
After nearly fifteen minutes Enos turned off on the gravel trail that wound through the trees toward Cavanaugh’s house. Pebbles popped under the tires as they meandered through a thick stand of lodgepole pine. The house stood well back from the highway, hidden by the forest and Fred thought the drive would take forever.
At last, they pulled up in front of the house. It was elegant in its simplicity. Too large for Fred’s taste, but splendidly built. It seemed to grow out of the mountain. A full brace of windows ran three stories high along the entire face of the house and mirrored the forest, the lake, and the sky, giving the illusion that the house had been placed against the granite outcropping by Mother Nature herself.
Fred thought back to when the Cavanaughs first purchased the property and talked about building. Many of Cutler’s residents had been worried that they would erect something inappropriate, something large and modern, built of brick or covered with aluminum siding. Members of the Cutler City Council had scurried about for weeks trying to pass zoning restrictions. At the eleventh hour, Joan Cavanaugh had arrived unannounced at a late-night meeting, blueprints under her arm and a sketch of the house in hand. Her gracious style and easygoing manner had broken the tension and earned her a place in the hearts of many Cutler residents.
Now she was dead and Fred wanted to know why.
The gravel path finally widened into a parking area large enough for several cars. Brandon Cavanaugh’s silver BMW sat close to the house. Joan’s Chevy 4x4 was nowhere to be seen. Fred hadn’t seen it at the lake either, but he hadn’t expected it to be there. Now he wondered where it was.
Enos pulled in next to the BMW. Reaching above his head, he flipped quickly through a stack of envelopes tucked into his sun visor, his face solemn.
Fred stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “Looking for something?”
Enos shook his head and pushed open the door. “Wait here,” he ordered as he climbed out of the truck.
“You sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
With a glare, Enos jammed his hat farther down on his forehead. “No I don’t.”
“All right then.” Fred shrugged and rolled down his window so he could catch a breeze. “But if you need me . . .” Enos made a rude noise, which Fred chose to ignore. The man was nearly fifty years old and still acted like a kid at times. “I was just offering.”
“Thanks,” Enos said, but grudging sarcasm filled his voice. “Honk the horn if you get to feeling bad.” He stuffed his shirttail back into his pants, readjusted his hat—again—and nudged his sunglasses up on the bridge of his nose. If he took any longer getting himself inside, Brandon would come outside to see what he needed.
Fred pulled down the sun visor on his side of the truck to block the sun, and gave Enos some encouragement. “Well . . . go on.”
“Stay here,” Enos warned again and finally started walking.
Well of course Fred would stay here. He’d promised, hadn’t he? Sort of. Just because a fellow showed a little concern he got treated like a criminal. He’d never once said he wanted to go inside had he? Although . . . maybe if he could hear how Brandon reacted to the news it would help him feel better. Goodness knows, he didn’t want to suspect Brandon of murdering his own wife.
He settled deeper into the seat and tried to relax. Phoebe would have hated this house, he thought. Too much glass. Too many windows. And the kids—what did you do with kids in a house like that? There’d be fingerprints everywhere.
A curtain twitched slightly on the second story. Not the natural sort of movement you’d associate with an open window and a breeze, but more like someone watching and wanting to stay out of sight. But who would want to watch him sitting out here in this old truck?
He lowered his eyes and pretended to rest, but he could still see Enos crossing the gravel lot and climbing three steps to the front door. Enos glanced back over his shoulder, checking on Fred to make sure he was behaving before pounding on the front door. The sound of his fist on the wood reverberated in the air. He knocked a second time, and then a third before walking a few steps from the door to look through one of the windows. Fred supposed he was nervous. If Joan was dead, who knew what they’d find here. If it hadn’t been for that twitching curtain on the second floor, Fred might have felt the same way. But he was positive they were being watched.
At last, the front door swung open and the low rumble of voices carried in the still air. After a moment, Enos removed his hat and stepped inside. The door closed behind him with an audible click.
Even with the peaceful forest sounds surrounding him, Fred couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of being watched. He let a few minutes pass and then opened the truck’s door. He checked the second story window, but the curtain didn’t move. Whether or not he was being watched, now was the time to make his move.
After hopping out of the truck, he shifted from foot to foot urgently, just in case he had an audience. He hesitated for effect, then walked quickly toward the front door, hoping he looked anxious enough to be convincing.
He only had to wait a moment before a tall, dark-haired man in his late twenties opened the door. Tony Striker, Brandon’s cousin, smiled uncertainly. Tony had moved to Cutler with Brandon and Joan, and though Fred didn’t know him well, Fred liked Tony a bit better than he liked Brandon.
“Mr. Vickery? This is a surprise.”
“Tony.” Fred tried to look nervous and uncomfortable—even desperate. “I wonder if I could use your facilities. I’m waiting for the sheriff,” he explained and jerked his head toward Enos’s truck.
Tony glanced over Fred’s shoulder with a little frown, but he pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Sure. There’s a bathroom down here. First door on your right.”
Fred murmured his thanks and walked through the massive foyer, past the stairway that curved up to the second floor. He wanted to hear the c
onversation between Enos and Brandon so he could hear Brandon’s reaction to the news that Joan was dead. But to do that, he’d have to figure out where they were. He assumed they were on the first floor somewhere. Surely they hadn’t gone upstairs. But he saw now that it wasn’t going to be easy to find them.
As soon as he thought that, he passed an open doorway leading to a room on his left and picked up the muffled sound of subdued voices. Certain he was doing the right thing, he bit back a smile as he hurried on and hoped he managed to look preoccupied with his own needs.
When he reached the bathroom, he looked back at the front door. Tony stood there, arms crossed high on his chest. He hadn’t moved since he let Fred inside, and he didn’t look as if he intended to move anytime soon. Fred had hoped he wouldn’t actually have to use the facilities, but with Tony on guard, there didn’t seem to be any way around it. He gave Tony a reassuring nod and, surprisingly, the man left his post.
Not willing to take chances, Fred went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Since he was there, he used the toilet and washed his hands. Leaving the water running, he pulled open the medicine cabinet above the sink. Phoebe had always said that you could tell a lot about a person from the contents of his medicine cabinet. That might be true if you knew what you were looking for. But this particular medicine cabinet was empty and the room obviously nothing more than a guest bathroom.
He shut off the water and put his ear to the door for a moment before he unlocked it and quietly pulled it open. Carefully, he eased into the still-unoccupied hallway.
So far, so good. He looked around, amazed as always at the size of the house. The entry hall was easily as big as Fred’s own living room and kitchen combined, large enough for several groupings of chairs and tables on either side. Evidence of the party they’d had last night remained scattered about. Full ashtrays lay on the tables, and several tall fluted glasses with varying levels of liquid had been abandoned in unlikely places.
