Dead Dry Page 9

  Mary Ann hit the button to raise the windows of her SUV now that the air-conditioning unit had blown out the cauldron of hot air that had formed in it as it stood waiting for her in front of the garage with its windows up. The world around her receded as her rolling bubble of separation enveloped her with its steel- and vinyl-encrusted sense of well-being. She made the turn onto the two-lane blacktopped highway that connected her with the town, barely tucking in ahead of an oncoming truck. She glanced into her rearview mirror, wondering where it had come from so suddenly!

  The truck behind her cruised up close to her back bumper and hung there for a while, then finally backed off a few lengths. Really, where did such monsters come from! Just driving to town was such a torment these days, since her wonderful Henry had gone to his great reward. How she needed him. How she missed him. They had had the perfect marriage: He had worked and made the money, and she had kept the home—kept it neat as a pin, as he used to say. What a daily pleasure it had been to make his favorite foods and have the house just perfect for him when he came home, his gin and tonic and a little plate with crackers and cheese waiting for him on the table next to his favorite chair, right next to the paper, which she thoughtfully laid on top of all those nasty bills. Henry would sit down and raise the footrest of the chair, sip his drink, nibble his cheeses, and read the paper. Only when the last cube of ice had spun down to the bottom of the glass and every crumb of cracker was dabbed from the plate with those great, thick fingers he’d lick to show her how much he loved her attentions, would he give her that wink of his and take the mail and walk into his study, where he’d lay out the invoices and write the checks. What a strong man. What a good man.

  In the months before his death, he’d tried to show her how to turn on the computer and scroll through the electronic records of the checking account and the brokerage accounts that held their monies. He’d tried, and she’d tried, but it wasn’t her forte, and she was so upset by everything that was happening—the trips to the doctors, his increasing dependency on her. She had never driven farther than the grocery store before, and suddenly she was driving him clear to Denver for treatments! No matter, Banker Entwhistle was taking care of all that now, he and his marvelous staff. Henry had seen to that in his last days.

  The road led between the low bluffs, now dipping in near the bottomlands where a few willows grew. It was pretty, all this wilderness, but Mary Ann had to admit that a few doubts now came unbidden, now that Henry was not here to anchor this dream in place. Might she not be happier in a smaller house in a large town somewhere? She could move back to suburban Denver and be nearer her sister and friends, even walk to the store.

  But none of this could happen if she had no water. No one would buy her property if they had to cart water from town even to wash their hands or take a drink, let alone flush a toilet or do the laundry! All allegiance to Henry’s dream of a rural retirement was moot if it was rendered worthless by a lack of water!

  These thoughts grew like thunderclouds in her head as she drove the last miles into Castle Rock and idled uncertainly by the traffic light, trying to remember which way to turn to get to Mr. Attabury’s office. She looked left and right and finally spotted it. Well, that was one good point for living in a small town, everything was right there and easy to find! Feeling a flickering of hopefulness for the first time that day, Mary Ann turned the wheel and piloted the vehicle toward her goal.

  She maneuvered the SUV into a parking space, turned off the engine, stepped down onto the blistering hot pavement, closed the door, and pressed the locking button on her key fob—beep, beep. Waves of heat enveloped her. Her new-found confidence leaching through the soles of her shoes, she climbed the five steps into the real estate office. She was surprised to see Hugo Attabury’s inner office door click shut just as she entered the reception area. Always before, he had stepped out to greet her.

  She gave her name to the receptionist. She waited while that young woman first turned to call through what was usually an open doorway and then, finding it closed, dialed and spoke into the phone, announcing Mary Ann’s presence.

  The receptionist’s eyes widened at something being said to her through the earpiece. Putting down the phone, she informed Mary Ann that Mr. Attabury was in a meeting just now, and could she come back another day?

  Mary Ann stood by the receptionist’s desk, trying to think. It had never occurred to her that Mr. Attabury—that Hugo Attabury, good heavens, he must be two decades younger than she, young enough to be her son—would not be available, only that he might not know how to help. Certainly he had been amply available every other time she had been to this office, when they were first looking for property, when they were negotiating to purchase it, and when they came to sign the countless, confusing papers that made it their own and that obligated them—her—to pay for it.

  Mary Ann Nettleton, who had until that moment never in her life raised her voice to anyone except in jest, opened her mouth and shouted, “What could possibly be more important than getting water to my house! The house he sold us! The house where I live!”

  The receptionist goggled at her.

  The door to Hugo Attabury’s office remained closed.

  Mary Ann Nettleton suddenly felt chilled to the bone. Her hands trembled. Overwhelmed with the enormity of her outburst, she turned and hastened back out the front door of the office, down the five steps, into her car—beep, beep to unlock—turned on the engine, and drove home, where there was not a drop to drink.

  NINE

  YOU MAY THINK THAT BEING PACKED INTO A CAR WITH a woman for nearly an hour—the time it took to bounce back down the ranch road from Afton McWain’s ranch, wind our way back to the pavement, follow that pavement to I-25, and then to the first exit that would lead her to a major highway heading west—that we would have gotten some kind of information out of the amazing Gilda. But no. Nada. Bobkes. We got nothing. She barely spoke, except to say, “That turnoff will do nicely.”

  “Don’t you want us to take you to the bus station? Or perhaps the airport?”

  She shook her head. It was clear that she intended to extend her shapely thumb and catch a ride with the first tractor-trailer rig going her way, as her eyes were now fixed on a clutch of them that were huddled around a truck stop.

  Michele pulled up and got out. She walked up to a group of truck drivers and said, “You know anyone who’s going to Salt Lake today?”

  “I am, baby,” one driver said. “Can I give you a ride or something?” He was a big guy who looked like he knew how to order deep-fried cholesterol in five dialects and liked it served by waitresses with big tits. His buddies laughed sheepishly.

  “No, but my friend here is.” Michele pointed at Gilda.

  The man’s capacious lower lip hung even lower and grew shiny with saliva. “Sure …” he growled.

  “Which rig is yours?” Gilda inquired.

  The man pointed at a shiny Kenwood that was hitched to a moving van.

  Michele looked toward Gilda. Gilda nodded an okay. Michele flipped her badge out of her pocketbook and showed it to the driver. “Great. What a nice man you are. Now, take Gilda to Salt Lake and drop her at this address.” She handed him her business card, which gave the address of the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Department. “If you have any trouble along the way, you just show the patrolman my card.” She gave one to Gilda, too. “But be a good boy, or we’ll all be asking what happened to the driver of …” she glanced again at his rig—“Colorado license plate number JR–2623. Do I make myself clear?”

  The driver pursed his lips. His fingers moved like he was playing a tiny piano. “Clear as glass.”

  Michele gave Gilda a wink. “Have a nice ride, lovey.”

  We watched as the big guy handed Gilda up into the shotgun seat of the rig, climbed up himself, buckled his belt around his girth, and revved his engine. The flap valves on his exhaust pipes jumped merrily, the modern-day equivalent of the knight’s stallion rearing up in readiness.
He engaged his automatic transmission, gave us a wave, and was off.

  “What do you suppose that lady is all about?” I asked, as the rig climbed the ramp toward the highway.

  Michele made a show of scratching her head. “Got me, but it’s ornate.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, “I guess it’s not my problem anymore. I’ve done my bit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was done by lunchtime today. Or I could have been. All I need to do is write up my report, and you guys do the rest. The investigation, I mean. I could do a little more research about how long gravel quarry walls can stand without being disturbed, but other than that, I’m done.”

  Michele got a kind of puckery smile on her lips. “You sound like you’d like to do more.”

  “Well, some soil samples …” I laughed. “Yeah, sure, the old war horse smelling battle and all that. But I’ve learned my lesson: If I want to have a nice life, or much of a life at all, I’ll stick within my specialty.”

  “I hear tell your specialty is broader than just gravel quarries.”

  “Oh, sure. I used to get myself into some scrapes. I’m content to leave all that to you cops now.”

  “Okay …”

  “No, really.”

  “But if I have any questions?”

  “Well, questions …”

  “The man was in your profession. Geology. There have to be some connections I wouldn’t know to make.”

  “Sure … that’s the broad end of forensic geology: knowing the professional context. That’s why I looked in the window at what he was working on.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ll ask around.”

  “Okay.” I was suddenly feeling less and less sure about much of anything, but I smiled and gave her a nod.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back down to Castle Rock and make some more inquiries, but …” She looked at her wristwatch. “I’ll drop you the rest of the way into Denver first. You’ll have twenty minutes to spare. The Brown Palace, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  She laughed. “Want me to lend you a dress? I think we’re about the same size.”

  I turned to her and put a hand across my heart. “Sister,” I crooned.

  THE DRESS FIT JUST FINE, WHICH IS KIND OF AMAZING, considering that Michele and I were not built alike, and double-considering that I am not a wearer of dresses. The occasional skirt and blouse are within my sartorial lexicon, or, in the case of a five-star professional turnout, even a suit, but never a dress. I did not own one. I am a tomboy. I wear blue jeans by choice, and the fact is … if you put a dress on me, I feel like some kind of cross-dresser. But for some reason I could not quite identify, this one felt good. And it looked quite nice, even I could see that.

  I slithered into it in the ladies’ room just off the lobby in the hotel. It’s a Rolls-Royce of powder rooms, featuring private rooms, not stalls, for your peeing pleasure and cloth hand towels that you use once and toss into an elegant hamper. I made good use of that room, primping as best I could with the materials that came to hand. For once in my life, I even wished I had a dab of lipstick, but native looks were going to have to do, just like always.

  The dress was good, like I said. It was a lightweight, appealingly flimsy cotton in a kind of periwinkle blue that managed to put roses in my cheeks. In fact, the roses had found their ways there all by themselves. My pulse was pumping. I realized that I was truly looking forward to this dinner with Fritz.

  He was waiting for me in the lobby, standing near the double doors that lead in off Tremont Street. I saw him an instant before he saw me, so I had the pleasure of gauging his reaction. His eyebrows jumped and he smiled warmly, a smile that spread into a grin.

  He stood straight, his shoulders back but just a tad higher than usual. He’s tall and handsome, in a down-home sort of way, and he looked marvelous in a linen suit jacket I’d never seen before, a crisp, white button-down shirt, and gray summer-weight wool slacks that draped his firm torso and muscular legs to good advantage. His hair was still damp from a shower. The effect was delicious.

  “Hello,” I said. “Looking for anyone in particular?”

  With two long strides, Fritz came up next to me, but then he stopped awkwardly and gave me one of his trademark one-armed hugs. Or at least, this is what he had always given me for a hug. When he hugged Brendan, his son by his former wife, or little Sloane Renee—Faye’s daughter—he used both arms with robust affection and kissed a cheek or nuzzled as the situation warranted, but what I got was a quick sidewinder, firm but brief. “M’lady,” he said, now offering me his arm.

  I slid my hand up into the warmth of his elbow and let him lead me into the restaurant.

  The Ship’s Tavern is done up to look like the aft galley of an old schooner. It’s a comfortable place that serves nice steaks and other tried-and-true repasts, with just the right degree of the gourmet for a ranch kid like myself. Fritz had the maitre d’ seat us over to the side under the windows where we’d have a little privacy, although the acoustics of the place preclude the subtlety of whispering. He ordered prime rib for each of us and offered me a drink, which I eschewed in honor of keeping him company. The standard pilot’s motto of “eight hours from bottle to throttle” is considered prudent, and he had at least sixteen hours before lift off, but Fritz was not your average pilot. He wouldn’t drink so much as a beer within twenty-four hours of taking to the sky.

  Over iced tea and salads we talked about flying and where we thought we’d go hiking next. Over the main course we talked about his son Brendan, who was just about to turn eleven. I liked the kid. He was bookish and a bit of a couch potato in comparison to his father, but the two found plenty to do together. Fritz took him to the library a lot, and the two had become aficionados of Saturday morning garage sales.

  “What does a boy that age want for his birthday?” I inquired, as dessert arrived.

  “A little brother,” Fritz said succinctly.

  I choked on my after-dinner coffee.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “If you won’t marry me and help me make him a sibling, I can always get him a dog.”

  By this point I was hacking into my linen napkin. When I finally pulled myself together enough to speak, I asked, “Doesn’t your ex-wife have a handle on the baby production department?”

  Fritz gave me a wolfish grin. He seemed to be enjoying putting me on edge. “Who, Marsha? Don’t wait up.”

  “But she’s remarried.”

  Fritz leaned onto the table with both elbows and studied me carefully. “I was truly enjoying this meal. Can’t we talk about someone … or something … else?”

  “I’m sorry. Has Marsha been misbehaving?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Fritz’s gaze dropped to the tabletop. “She and her new husband are thinking of moving out of the state.”

  “You’re kidding! She can’t do that, can she?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath. “Some things I shouldn’t fight.”

  “But Brendan loves you.”

  “And I love him. And his stepfather has a career to look after. And that is important to Marsha.” Quickly changing the subject, he said, “Do you want any dessert?”

  “No. The waiter already brought it, remember?”

  “I was thinking of another kind,” he said.

  “Of what?”

  “Of …” He blushed. “Never mind. I’m out of line.”

  When I didn’t reply, the look on his face faded from embarrassed mischief to concern.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I meant to ask you about that. How did things go?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “This was a friend of yours who was killed.”

  “A colleague. A friend’s h
usband, or ex-husband, as it turns out.”

  “Did you find who killed him?”

  “No. And I’m not going to. It’s not my job.” I found that I couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. I stared instead into my coffee.

  Fritz reached out a hand and covered mine with it. It was warm and dry. “What you saw this morning was a shock.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Do you have more work to do on it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Thank heaven for that. How did your friend take the news?”

  “Shook her up.”

  “Of course.”

  Fritz signed the check and pocketed his credit card. “Come with me,” he said.

  We headed out to the lobby. Fritz handed his claim check to the doorman, who called the valet to bring his car, or should I say the black, late-model SUV that Trevor Reed kept at his condo in case he decided to go skiing. Fritz had told me about this condo. It wasn’t far away, just at the other end of downtown in a reviving neighborhood called LoDo, where antique brick buildings stood side by side with newer, more earthquake-resistant renditions of the style. He said, “I brought the car in case there was anywhere you wanted to go.” He guided the vehicle around the block to Eighteenth Street, from which he could access either LoDo or the highways. “We could run out to Golden and unscrew the light bulbs on the Colorado School of Mines ‘M’ if you like.”