The Zen Man (12 page)

“The report,” she said, setting down her cup, “didn’t tell me enough. Or, to be more exact, told me squat except cause of death by stabbing.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Indicators of a different cause.”

I frowned. “You think Deborah was dead
before
she was stabbed?”

She nodded.

“From what?”

She shook her head. “Some means that wasn’t readily apparent. Poisoned? Maybe. Strangled? Unlikely. There’d be marks. Blunt trauma to the head? If the object had been heavy enough, and used with great force, but I doubt it. Those get messy, lots of blood.” She leaned forward, dropped her voice, “I think someone at that retreat set you up.”

“No kidding. And I have until January thirteenth to figure out who that might have been.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’m going to make a call to the Jeffco coroner, discuss my professional concerns.”

“He won’t be happy you had access to evidence from his jurisdiction without his knowledge.”

“I’ll make up a compelling story how it accidentally fell my way.” She took another sip.

“Why are you—I mean, after the way we ended, why do this for me?”

“I’ve been at hundreds of death scenes,” she said matter-of-factly, “found evidence to put away dozens of murderers, so I know when the facts don’t add up. Maybe I couldn’t forgive you for a long time over the jackass stunts you pulled while we were together, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you punished for the rest of your life for a crime you didn’t commit.” She checked her watch. “I need to pick up my little girl.” She downed another sip, started to get up, changed her mind.

“You look good. Meant to say that when I first sat down, but…didn’t want to seem, well, you know.”

Like you were flirting? “Been clean and sober five years.”

“Didn’t know it’d been five.” Her eyes clouded with a faraway gaze.

I guessed or maybe hoped that faraway place was what we’d been before I cleaned up my act. For all my stupid animal tricks, sometimes I was a good guy. I loved to bring her flowers, baby her after a hard day at work, drive her to Nederland or Manitou Springs for weekend getaways.

“Gotta go, I reckon,” she said, suddenly all business again.

So much for memory lane.

As she walked away, I called out, “Hey!”

Pausing, she looked over her shoulder at me.

Now that I had her attention, I didn’t know what it was I wanted. Reassurance? Mercy? In a perverse way, I wished she’d gotten gut-deep real with me, blamed me for our shattered past, called me names, hell, tossed hot coffee on me. Oh, sure, she’d said it’d taken her years to forgive me, but that line had been tossed off as though she’d been discussing the ups and downs of the stock market. I wanted more. An acknowledgement, maybe closure, for two people who’d shared a deep, if fleeting, intimacy.

I shrugged. “Never mind.”

She touched a finger to her lips, pressed it onto the air, then turned and left.

The reverse side also has a reverse side.
—Japanese Proverb

L
aura woke up with a start.

She stared into the darkness, groggily trying to assimilate the jolt of sound that had yanked her out of sleep.

Mavis.

Barking.

Silence.

She strained to listen, heard the distant hissing and pinging of the old heating system. Her lip twitched as she took in the shadows of the room, dark bulky shapes cast in a muddy red from the sift of moonlight through the red gingham drapes. She checked the foot of the bed where Mavis sometimes slept, but saw no lumpy form on the cream-colored duvet.

She wasn’t a high woo-woo type, but her inner radar picked up on something not being right. It just felt
strange
. She reached for Rick, felt only the cool rumpled sheets where he normally lay.

“Rick?”

“Over here.”

Squinting into the gloom, she spied a dark shape in the corner, between the dresser and window.

“What’re you doing?” She glanced at the clock on her night stand. “It’s after one.”

“Mavis was barking at something.”

“Where is she?”

“On my chair. By the time I got downstairs, she’d stopped barking, so whatever’d been bothering her was gone.”

She looked through the opening in the drapes. “Is it snowing?”

“Started a bit ago.

“Maybe she was barking at the falling snow.”

“What a wuss.”

“Caught her barking at falling leaves a few weeks ago.”

“I rest my case.”

Rick crossed back to the bed, which creaked softly as he sat on the mattress next to her. “Some security dog. Next she’ll be barking at dust mites.”

She fumbled for his hand, interwove her fingers with his. “I don’t know…maybe there was something out there. When I woke up, I had an eerie feeling, like I was picking up on bad vibes.”

“You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Should we call 911?”

“Coulda been a fox.”

“Or a person.”

He made a thoughtful sound. “No, we don’t call. For the same reason I didn’t let them know it was me calling about Santa today. The Jeffco sheriffs are only keen about prosecuting me for murder, not saving me from things that go bump in the night.”

“Maybe there are footprints in the snow?”

“Even if I dashed outside right now and took a picture of an imprint, there’s something like one point eight million people in the Denver metro area. I can’t go door to door comparing footprints found in the snow.”

She lay back down, stared out the window at the swirling flakes. “We’re too isolated up here. Maybe we should ask Garrett and Ziggy to stay in one of the cabins.”

He emitted a low, amused laugh, then grew quiet. “Actually, that’s a cool idea. Living that close to work they might even get their project done.”

She lifted his hand and kissed it, the skin warm and moist against her lips. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting not to care about that damn rock design. With the murder case, fear of you taking the rap for the killer, strange goings-on outside in the middle of the night…” She pulled his arm around her, snuggled closer against his warmth. “I’m so afraid of you being found guilty and put behind bars—”

“Shh, don’t think about that.”

“Can’t stop thinking about it. I try to stay focused, but sometimes I imagine the worst…”

“We’re investigating who else might have killed Wicked. We have a lawyer who’s talking to the right people, building a defense. I had a call today from a…contact, a deputy coroner, who’s digging into the case as well. All the gears are aligned and engaged. This thing’s working like a machine, baby.”

“Thank you, Tony Robbins, but we’re living in a way less than perfect world. I might be stuck without you in this bed and breakfast, nobody wanting to stay here because of what happened, facing bankruptcy. Shit, I sound selfish.”

She looked out the windows at the moonlight through the falling snow. A bird screeched, then silence. She never could figure out why birds hung around during the winter—bitch of a life surviving the winter storms and freezing temperatures. Maybe they weren’t smart enough to fly south, or maybe their wings weren’t strong enough for such a lengthy flight.

Or maybe they stayed put because it was the only home they had.

“I wouldn’t want to live here without you.”

“If it comes to that…you can always sell the place, buy something downtown.”

She laughed sadly. “Don’t think it’ll matter where I put down roots, home is people, not walls. What’s scaring me is…how will we feel after a few years have passed? Maybe you’ll feel sorry for me, or I’ve given up on you, or both, and then one day we realize we’re over. It’ll be too late for dreams I said I never wanted, and…oh, shit, Rick, I love you…”

She buried her head in the crook of his neck and cried softly while he cradled her against his body, gently rubbing her back, murmuring assurances she didn’t believe.

“He is able who thinks he is able.”
—Buddha

W
oke up the next morning with a sense of déjà vu as I listened to the distant sound of Mavis barking.

Blinked open one eye at the digital clock on the far dresser. Nine-fifteen. Shifted my gaze to the opening between the bedroom drapes. The sky was a startling blue; the sun sparkled. From the inside looking out, it could be a summer day.

Laura, curled up against my backside, stirred. “It’s daylight,” she muttered groggily. “What’s Mavis barking at now?”

“I’ll go check.”

I slid out of bed, stumbled to the window. Outside, the ground was covered with a white carpet as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the craggy foothills were frosted with snow. An idyllic picture, like one of those glossy Colorado postcards next to the cash register at a gas station.

I spied what was irking Mavis.

A person bundled in a coat, a knit cap stuffed over their head, trudged through the powder along the cement walkway. As our mail was dropped in a box at the edge of the parking lot, couldn’t be the mailman. This dude was built like a linebacker. He towered over a bird feeder I’d hung a good five feet high in a conifer, making him well over six foot.

The bed springs squeaked. “Who is it?”

“Some guy.”

I watched as he worked his way through the snow—must’ve dumped at least eight inches last night—to the wooden cabinet next to the Cottonwood pool. He opened a cabinet door, tugged out a black plastic bag.

“I think it’s the laundry service. Thought you’d cancelled them.”

“I did.” She scrunched up her face. “Shit, maybe I didn’t. Must do that today.”

As Mavis continued barking, I watched the man refill the tub with a new plastic bag. A gust of wind blew snow from the branches into his face. He removed a glove, swiped at his eyes.

“Those used towels from the pools,” I mused, “are they all from us?” Prior to the retreat, we’d taken almost daily soaks in our favorite hot spring, the Cottonwood pool.

“Garrett and Ziggy sometimes use the pools, help themselves to the towels. I suppose some people at the retreat may have, but I think it was only Wicked who did.”

Mr. Laundry Service, the black bag hitched over his shoulder, was lumbering toward the cabinet at the pool where Wicked had died.

“Last Friday night,” I asked, “do you recall the crime scene techs checking the cabinet next to the pool where Wicked was found?”

“Saw them dusting for fingerprints, taking photos.”

“Nothing else? Like remove the towels?”

“I…don’t recall that.”

“Fuck.” My adrenalin spiking, I grabbed my jeans off the floor, nearly fell stepping into them. “Got to stop him before he gets to that cabinet.” I pawed a sweatshirt off the floor, threw it over my head. “Those towels—they’re evidence!”

My head pushed through the neck hole in time to see Laura bolt butt naked out of the bed and hop toward the window.

I shoved my arms through the sleeves as I watched her throw back the curtain and bang on the window, a vision of bouncing breasts, wild hair, flailing arms.

“Yoo hoo!” Bang bang bang. “Hello down there!”

“Jesus, Laura, you’re naked,” I said stupidly.

She waved me off. “Get down there. I’ll try to stop him from up here.” She cranked open a window, her nipples pebbling at the onslaught of cold air. Leaning outside, she frantically waved her hand.

“Hey laundry guy, right, you! Don’t leave—stay there a minute, all right?”

She turned her head and looked at me, her cheeks flushed, a maniacal glint in her eye.

“I got the laundry man’s attention.”

Standing with her feet apart, her palms flat against the window, she looked like a cop’s frisking fantasy.

“Good,” I croaked, stuffing my feet into my boots, unsure if I was upset, shocked, or turned on. “I’ll be right down. Put on a shirt.”

I jogged down the hallway toward the stairs, heard her yell to stay where he was, had no doubt the dude would do exactly as told. It might be so cold outside that his balls had frozen to his shorts, but if the wild-eyed, bouncing naked woman told him not to move, he’d stand there until spring thaw.

Had a feeling he’d refuse to cancel that service agreement.

“You do not merely want to be considered just the best of the best. You want to be considered the only ones who do what you do.”
—Jerry Garcia

A
short while later, I walked back into the kitchen to find Garrett, encased in a jacket that looked like a down-filled Jamaican flag, pouring water into the automatic coffee maker. His small, sleepy eyes peered through a jungle of dreadlocks.

“Hey, man,” he rasped, “somebody’s been messin’ with the metamorphic rock next to the Cottonwood pool.”

I stopped next to the door, removed my snow-crusted boots while thinking that most of the rocks out there were metamorphic. “Probably the laundry guy I was just talking to.” I looked out the kitchen window, saw him glance up at our bedroom window as he walked away. A low, rumbling, feral sound shook loose from somewhere deep in my gut. I’d never growled in my entire life, except maybe once at opposing counsel.

“You okay, man?” asked Garrett.

“Time for laundry boy to get back to work,” I mumbled.

“Rock had been messed with before that guy showed up,” continued Garrett, “saw it, like, thirty or so minutes ago while I was on my way to Zig’s and my pool. Same rock I found the BlackBerry under the other day.” He punched a button. The coffee maker gurgled to life.

“Maybe it moved because you moved it that day.”

“Nah, I barely lifted the rock to get the BlackBerry. It was moved in a major way. Like, a foot, man.”

“How can you tell with this snow fall?”

“‘Cause when I found the BlackBerry, I remember looking down and seeing how the rock was nestled under a Russian Sage, but it’s not anymore.”