Wicked Eddies (15 page)

The tall one straightened, dropped his stake, and knocked the stakes out of the shorter one's arm. Then the two of them high-tailed it for their raft, stumbling over rocks and clumps of high grass.

Mandy and Steve beat them to it. Mandy took their paddles and tossed them into her cataraft basket, so the men wouldn't be able to paddle away. Then she stood with crossed arms in front of their raft, trying to look as large and intimidating as she could.

Steve stepped out of his cataraft, a hand on his sidearm. Being a full-time ranger, he was one of the few on the AHRA staff who had been trained in firearms and was allowed to carry a weapon. As a seasonal river ranger, Mandy wasn't allowed to carry a gun. Steve positioned himself in between Mandy and the men.

“Hold it right there,” he said to the two sprinting men. “Hands on your heads.”

They stopped, panting, and eyed his handgun. They slowly raised their hands to their heads.

“We're rangers with the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area,” Steve said. “And you're under arrest for vandalism.” He tossed his radio back-handed to Mandy. “Call for backup.”

She radioed headquarters and asked for two land rangers to come in one of their pickup trucks. Their current location was about half a mile from County Road 160, so the land rangers could transport the men out in their truck. The vandals probably hadn't realized how close they were to the road and that abandoning their raft and running for the road would have been a better choice.

In the meantime, the taller one was wheedling Steve. “C'mon, we were just out for a float down the river. Had to stop and take a piss, you know. We weren't doing anything wrong.”

“And you need tournament stakes to take a piss?” Steve asked sarcastically. “Lie down on the ground.”

The two exchanged nervous glances.

Steve tapped his handgun. “Am I going to have to draw this on you?”

“But our raft?” the short one said. “How're—?”

“Oh, shut up,” the tall one said. “Don't say anything else. If we
keep our traps shut, we can get out of this.” He dropped to his knees then lay facedown in the grass.

Mandy put her hands on her hips, trying to look authoritative and hide her nervousness.

The short one looked at Steve, his gun, then back at his friend. Then he took off. He ran away from the river, high-stepping over the humpy ground.

Steve pulled out his gun. “Stop or I'll shoot!”

The short guy jerked and glanced back. That was his mistake. His foot caught and he plunged face forward onto the ground.

“Stay with the smart one,” Steve said to Mandy, and he ran after the short guy.

Mandy looked down at the tall guy lying on the ground but stayed a defensible distance away in case he got any ideas of his own. He mumbled to himself, and she caught phrases such as, “God damn idiot,” and “Fool will get us in jail.”

Steve came marching back behind the short guy, who walked gingerly with his hands on his head and a frown on his face. Steve shoved him on the shoulder. “Sit down next to your friend.”

The man gave a worried glance to his taller companion, who snarled at him, and sat at least five feet away from his buddy, well out of kicking range. He turned his head so he didn't have to look at his friend glaring at him.

“Okay, you can sit up,” Steve said to the tall guy, whose T-shirt was already wet from the damp ground.

After he had rolled himself up to a sitting position, Steve said, “As I said, you're both under arrest for vandalism.”

“They're just fuckin' plastic stakes,” the short one muttered.

Steve ignored him and recited the Miranda rights to the two men. After getting their agreement that they understood, he said, “Two more rangers will walk you out to the County Road and take you to AHRA Headquarters in their truck. You'll be processed there. Mandy and I will tow your raft down to Headquarters with us, and you can pick it up after you're released. Any questions?”

They shook their heads glumly.

Steve and Mandy stood over them for the twenty minutes it took for the other rangers to arrive. Once, the short one opened his mouth to speak, but the tall one kicked his cohort's foot and shook his head. They didn't get another word out of the two of them.

When the two land rangers arrived, the full-timer handcuffed and searched the two men while Steve covered him. Then he drew his weapon and marched the saboteurs toward the road, following with his partner.

After they were out of hearing range, Mandy said to Steve. “Thank goodness they didn't put up much of a fight.”

He led the way to the men's raft. “Yeah, I didn't want you handcuffing them, because you're not trained for that. The most dangerous moment during contact with a violator is when you're applying handcuffs. And I didn't want to give you the gun while I handcuffed them either.”

“Whoo, now that would have been really dangerous!” Mandy envisioned shooting Steve by accident and shuddered.

Shaking his head, Steve said, “I hate having to draw my gun. At least I didn't have to fire it. Every bullet discharged has to be investigated.” He pushed the men's raft to the edge of the water and started tying their bow line to one of his raft's stern D-rings. “They'll probably get off with just a fine and some community service hours.”

“I wish they'd said what made them do it,” Mandy said while she got into her raft. “I'm wondering if they had anything to do with Howie Abbott's death.”

Steve stepped into his cataraft. “They didn't act like ax murderers.”

Wondering, Mandy pushed off the bank into the rippling current.
What does an ax murderer act like, anyway?

Thirteen

Men and fish are alike. They both get into trouble
when they open their mouths.

—JIMMY D. MOORE

When Mandy walked into
the Vic that evening for an impromptu Wednesday evening pool date with a gaggle of river guides and rangers, the place was hopping to the beat of a country rock band playing on the small stage in the back. Underneath the wails of the lead singer, Mandy picked out the twangs of a talented banjo player. Her pace fell in step with the drummer's rhythm and her hips began to sway. The music was going to be a great accompaniment to the stories her group always swapped in the back room about the outrageous antics of tourists.

But tonight, Mandy had another agenda—to ask Cynthia about
her interview with Detective Quintana. Hoping Cynthia was in a talkative mood, Mandy approached the bar. Cynthia had three beer
taps flowing into three mugs, with three more empties waiting. A waitress slapped a drink order on the counter in front of her, and Cynthia gave a quick nod. Mandy would have to wait for a lull in the action to talk to her.

She looked around for a place to park her butt. Conveniently, a couple left their barstools with drinks in hand to talk to friends across the room, so Mandy snagged one of their seats. She let the cacophony of bar sounds wash over her. Her muscles loosened as the tension drained out, and she started bobbing her head to the music.

Eyes half-closed, she was lost in the band's rendition of Jack Ingram's “Barefoot and Crazy” when Cynthia appeared in front of her, snapping her fingers. “Yoo hoo! Fat Tire?”

Mandy smiled. “Sure.” She watched Cynthia pop the cap off a frosty bottle, pour half into a pilsner glass, and set both in front of her. The first swig went down real easy. “You got a minute to talk?”

Cynthia swiped a stray lock of damp hair off her glistening
forehead and looked down the bar. All of the barstool drinkers' glasses were at least half full, and no waitresses were approaching with orders. She propped a foot up and leaned her elbows on the counter. She looked beat.

“I'm probably good until the band takes a break. Then everyone will want refills before they start up again. How was your day?”

“Interesting. Steve and I nabbed a couple of guys who were sabotaging the fly-fishing tournament, pulling up beat stakes. One of them took off, and Steve had to pull his gun to get his attention.”

Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you're getting into this law enforcement stuff.”

Mandy saw her opening and went for it. “Speaking of law enforcement, how did your interview with Detective Quintana go?”

“Okay, I guess.” She looked down and started drawing circles on the bar with a finger.

Mandy laid a gentle hand over Cynthia's, stopping the circles. “I know it couldn't have gone okay. He suspects you of killing Howie Abbott! What really happened?”

Cynthia exhaled. “He said they found my thumbprint on the hatchet and asked me how it got there.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe it was Uncle Lee's hatchet. We all share his camping gear. I borrowed his tent and some other stuff for that two-day trip to Ouray I took in July. I probably took the hatchet, too, since it's a good tool for pounding in stakes and cutting kindling. Maybe my thumbprint got on it then. I'm surprised Quintana didn't find prints on it from anyone else in the family, though.”

“I thought that was odd, too.” Mandy mulled it over while taking another sip of her beer. “But he did say there were partials on it that they hadn't matched yet.”

Cynthia cocked her head and peered at Mandy. “You knew about
the thumbprint?”

Mandy nodded. “That's why I was so worried, why I want to know
what went down in the interview.” She paused. “Quintana wouldn't
let me observe since you're a friend.”

“I wouldn't have wanted you there either.”

“What's that mean? Why not?”

“It would have weirded me out. Who wants a friend listening in when they're being grilled by the police?”

“Did you say anything that you don't want me to know?”

“Maybe.” Cynthia gave her a sideways glance, then stood up. “You
want another beer?”

“Stop being evasive!” Mandy slapped the counter. “This is important. I'm trying to help. What did you say?”

“Look, Mandy, I don't want to give you all the details about what Uncle Howie did to me, and I'm sure you don't want to hear them.”

“Okay, sorry—that I understand. But did Quintana believe your story about using the hatchet on your camping trip?”

“He said he'd confirm it with Uncle Lee.” Cynthia looked around
the bar. She seemed not just tired and busy, but haggard and distracted.

“It's pretty damning that only your print has been identified on the hatchet, Cynthia. If only someone else's was there, too, like one of the Ellis family. Or Newt, who we know was at Howie's campsite. Or Jesse Lopez.”

“The killer could have worn gloves. Ever think of that?” Cyn
thia leaned in. “I overheard some fishermen talking in the bar last
weekend about the rivalry between Jesse and Howie. It was pretty hot and heavy. Both had accused the other of cheating in one tournament or another, though Jesse was the most belligerent about it. Of course, Howie kept beating him, sometimes by just a few points, so Jesse had the most to prove.”

“Unfortunately, Jesse probably has an alibi for the Sunday when Howie was killed, though Quintana's still checking it out. Did you tell Quintana about the conversation you overheard?”

“Didn't get a chance to. He was too focused on me.”

Mandy nibbled at her lip. “That doesn't sound good, not good at all.”

“Well, I'm still here.” Cynthia spread her hands wide. “He hasn't
locked me up yet.”

“Don't say that. Jesus, don't jinx yourself. Do you think you gave
him any more reasons to suspect you than he already has?”

“Like the fact that the bastard abused me?” Cynthia put a hand on her hip. “That's reason enough, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Mandy didn't like the way this conversation was going at all. Cynthia wasn't swearing her innocence and didn't seem to have done any better with Quintana.
Does she know how big a hole she's digging for herself ?
“I wish I could find someone else for Quintana to focus on.”

With a flourish, the band ended their tune, and the crowd started
clapping wildly. Once the applause died down, the band announced they were going to take a fifteen-minute break.

“That's my cue,” Cynthia said. “I need to pour a couple pitchers of beer for the band, then be prepared to fill other orders. Kendra and Gonzo are in the back room, as is your honey bear.” She gave Mandy a nudge with her elbow. “Go talk to them, instead. I'll see you later.”

While Cynthia headed for the beer taps, Mandy watched her go. Her friend's shoulders were low, not high and jaunty as usual. And again, no blonde joke. There hadn't been one for days. Cynthia might be trying to hide it, but she was worried.

And so was Mandy.

_____

Mandy walked past the band platform around to the back pool room, barely paying attention to the people she was passing as she kept replaying her conversation with Cynthia. Should she have asked her friend point blank if she killed Howie? Mandy thought it over and finally decided no.

She wanted to believe—needed to believe—that Cynthia wasn't a killer. And even if there was a niggling doubt, Mandy realized she was more concerned about keeping her best friend out of prison than punishing her. Cynthia should know that she had Mandy's support, one hundred percent of it.

And if she
had
asked that loaded question, in a crowded bar even, she would have created a legal mess, as a member of the investigative team. No, if it was going to be asked, Quintana had to be the one to do it.

As she entered the back room, she spotted Rob first, sitting at a table against the far wall of the room and talking to Ajax. Kendra and Gonzo were playing pool on opposite teams, so Mandy wished them both luck as she sidled by their pool table. She didn't want to play favorites.

When she approached Rob's table, he reached an arm around her hips and pulled her next to him. “I've been waiting for you,
mi querida
.”

He leaned his head against her, so she put an arm around his shoulders to keep her balance. He inhaled deeply of her scent,
and she did the same—leather, musk, pine soap. Almost what you'd
expect of a cowboy, but he was no cowboy. He was a river rat through and through, as was she. And he fit very comfortably against her like that.

Rob looked up at her and ran his hand up and down her hip. “What's troubling you?”

Mandy glanced at Ajax, who was diplomatically watching the pool game and chatting with a river guide at the table next to theirs. “I just had a talk with Cynthia that didn't go well, but I'll tell you about that later. But just wait until you hear about my day.”

She disengaged herself and sat in one of the two chairs that Kendra and Gonzo must have vacated to play their game. One had half a glass of beer in front of it and the other had an almost empty soda glass. She told Rob and Ajax about collaring the tournament saboteurs, embellishing the story to make it colorful and take her mind off Cynthia's troubles.

“So what have you been up to today?” she asked Rob when she was through.

“Your story explains the call I got from John Squire today,” he said. “John was rounding up extra volunteers to patrol the wading beats and make sure no one messed with the stakes—or the controllers or anything else. I told him I'd watch one of the beats tomorrow.”

“Who's going to mind the shop while you're out?”

Rob pointed his chin at the pool table. “Gonzo.”

Mandy lifted an eyebrow. “Gonzo? Really?”

“Really.” Rob leaned forward and took her hand in his. He rubbed circles on her palm with his thumb, something that always made her heart beat faster. “Gonzo's been working hard to prove himself since he started AA. He's learned the cash register, been very polite and friendly to the clientele. I think it's time to show some more trust in him.”

Rob sat back, released her hand, and took a swig of his beer. “Besides, it's a weekday and we only have one trip going out. An afternoon run down Big Horse Sheep Canyon with a contingent of Red Hat Society ladies.”

“Aren't those a bunch of menopausal women who meet for lunches and teas wearing
red
hats and purple dresses? What are they doing taking a rafting trip?”

Rob laughed. “The whole point of the organization is to have fun and celebrate life. What better way is there to do that than take a roller coaster ride on the river? If this chapter enjoys themselves,
I plan to ask the Queen how to get in touch with other chapters to
offer them a special deal. It could be a whole new advertising campaign for us.”

That was Rob, always thinking of new ways to expand and grow the business. But … “Did you say ‘the Queen'?”

“Yep. She's like a chapter president. After they made the booking, I looked up the society on the web, so I could speak their lingo.”

“But you won't be there. Gonzo will.”

“Don't worry. I filled him in, and he's all prepared to butter up the ladies.” Rob winked at her. “You know he's good at that. And I'll be there for the pickup shuttle, so I can chat up the Queen.”

Mandy peered at Gonzo leaning over the pool table to line up a shot. He had managed to stay dry for well over two months, and he was drinking soda tonight. “I guess it is time to let Gonzo loose.”

Rob leaned forward and gave her a peck on the lips. “Speaking of letting loose and queens, let's go make some honey, honey.”

Mandy realized that after her rough day and the troubling conversation with Cynthia, she had no real interest in playing pool anymore. Rob's proposition sounded good, real good. She slipped her hand into his and stood, pulling him to his feet.

A slow, wide grin split his face. He tossed some money on the table. “That'll cover my share, Ajax.”

Ajax turned from his conversation with a “Huh?” then took one look at the two of them grinning at each other and waved a dismissive hand at them. “Sure, whatever. See ya later.”

Mandy and Rob walked out with arms around each other and gave a wave to Cynthia busy shaking a martini shaker at the bar. That reminded Mandy of Cynthia's mention of Lee Ellis and his camping equipment, particularly the hatchet. Rob said he hadn't talked to Lee lately when she asked him about Lee's business, but maybe he'd talked to Lee before, maybe even about camping. There was no better time than the present to find out.

When they stepped outside into the cool night air, she turned to him. “I have to ask you something. Before you and Lee Ellis got busy, what conversations did you have with him?”

“After we met him at the May meeting of the Arkansas River Outfitter Association, I talked to him at some other meetings, and he's asked me for advice on suppliers and such. We did the traditional beer for paddle trade a few weeks back when I picked up a couple of his paddles in Brown's Canyon. Chewed some fat at his business then. Sure hope he can make a go of it. It wasn't in very good shape when he bought it.” Rob shook his head.

Just like Uncle Bill's business.
“He ever talk about camping?”

“Yeah. He and Brenda and the kids used to camp a lot when Craig and Faith were little. He asked where some good campgrounds were up here.”

A chill breeze blew off the river and Mandy shivered. “How are we doing this, anyway? And whose place are we going to?”