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  Heaven Preserve Us: A Home Crafting Mystery © 2011 Cricket McRae

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  Dedication

  To Neil, with love.

  I couldn’t choose a better paddling partner with whom

  to navigate the turbulent waters of the river of life.

  One

  To paraphrase a deceased patriot, I regret that I have only

  one life to give to my fly-fishing.

  —ROBERT TRAVER

  A shiny black raven shot a raucous caw toward the blue whitewater raft that nudged its nose into the Arkansas River bank. Disturbed, the bird flapped its wide wings and swooped to another large peachleaf willow farther downstream, where it scolded the two interlopers in the raft.

  Ignoring the Native American’s keeper of secrets, Mandy Tanner stowed her bow paddle and stepped out onto the muddy bank. She planted a sandaled foot against an exposed sandbar willow root to keep from slipping, then pulled on the bow line to beach the raft.

  The stern paddler, Steve Hadley, her boss and the chief river ranger of the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area, swept his paddle in the calm water of the eddy to give her an assist.

  Mandy secured the bow line to a nearby wooden post sunk into the river’s shoreline at the Vallie Bridge campground for just that purpose. Then she stretched and drank in the sight of the collegiate range of the Colorado Rockies to the east. The fourteen-thousand-foot-plus peaks of Mt. Harvard, Mt. Oxford, Mt. Yale, Mt. Princeton, and Mt. Columbia knifed into the clear blue sky. Mandy reluctantly dragged her gaze down to the muddy earth and held the raft still for her boss.

  “This should be an easy clean-up,” Steve said while he clambered out of the raft.

  Since the campground was solely walk-in or boat-in access, it had only sixteen primitive tent campsites partly shaded by four large peachtree willows. Even the pit toilets were located at the day use area next to the road about a hundred yards away. Vallie Bridge was the least used of the six campgrounds maintained by the AHRA.

  “So you only assign yourself the easy ones?” Mandy flashed a teasing grin at Steve.

  Of course, as Steve’s partner on this end-of-the summer trash pickup excursion, she benefited from the light assignment, too. Usually she got the worst grunt work and shifts, this being her first season as a river ranger. That meant a lot of sweaty tree and brush removal and busy weekend river patrols dealing with clueless, and often inebriated, tourists.

  “Seniority has its privileges.” Steve unzipped his personal floatation device, shucked it, and tossed it into the raft. The short sleeves of his dark green ranger shirt exposed well-tanned and muscled arms.

  Heat waves shimmered off the parched ground. Mandy followed Steve’s lead, removing her PFD and lifting her blonde ponytail off her damp neck. An early September Monday in Chaffee County, this one was showing signs of being a record-breaking scorcher. While Steve took a long pull on his water bottle, Mandy shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the Vallie Bridge campground. All of the tent sites looked deserted.

  With the annoyed raven now quiet, the only sound was the hot wind soughing through the nearby willow trees, bringing with it the scent of baking dry vegetation, and something else …

  Mandy wrinkled her nose. “Something smells rank.”

  Bent over the raft unlashing a dry bag of supplies, Steve stopped, sat back on his haunches, and sniffed. “Probably a dead animal.” He pulled a shovel out from under one of the raft’s inflated gunnels and tossed it by Mandy’s feet. “You can have the pleasure of burying it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Hey, I already pulled latrine duty.”

  Mandy nodded. Steve was right. He’d buried the dog and human waste they’d found at the last stop. Some people were truly animals.

  The two of them had worked their way down the river from the Rincon Campground, cleaning up ad-hoc, undeveloped campsites along the shores. All AHRA campers were supposed to carry out their trash, and campers outside of developed camping areas were required to use a portable toilet and fire pan. But not all of them followed the rules. Thus the need for periodic clean-ups along the river.

  Mandy helped Steve unload their supplies, including work gloves, heavy-duty trash bags, and their lunches stowed in waterproof containers. After pulling on her gloves and shouldering the shovel, she set off toward the dead animal odor. It seemed to be coming from the back of the campground.

  Steve headed upstream with a trash bag slung over his arm.

  Pausing at the first campsite, Mandy stuffed some slimy baked bean cans and an empty marshmallow bag in her green garbage bag. At the next site, she picked up cigarette butts and beer bottles crawling with ants.

  Why do those two types of trash always seem to go together? She shook off the disgusted thought and sniffed again. The smell of death was more distinct, overpowering the fresh fishy tang of river water.

  Mandy swiped sweat off her forehead, drank a swig from her water bottle, and took off again. Her river sandals crunched across sand, gravel, and sparse grass tufts. When she neared the willow tree in front of the fence separating the campground from private land, she saw a large lump on the ground. It lay in a depression on the far side of the tree, partially obscured by the wide, black-ridged trunk and some baby willows sprouting from the roots. The lump was dark and light blue, colors of cloth.

  A sleeping bag? With a person on top? Maybe someone was sleeping off a late night of drinking.

  Her suspicion was confirmed when she spied a couple of plastic six-pack rings by the nearest campfire ring. Mandy stooped to pick up the rings and stow them in her bag. The death smell was stronger now, coming in nauseating waves as the hot wind shook the willow’s limbs and rustled the leaves. She heard a low hum of buzzing flies. One flew past her nose, startling her. She scanned the area, but couldn’t spot an animal carcass.

  That person on the sleeping bag must really be dead
to the world if he can’t smell this. She hollered, “Hello? Ranger here. Sorry to disturb you.”

  Nothing. No movement from the bag.

  The hairs rose on the back of Mandy’s neck. Something was wrong here.

  She ducked under a low-hanging branch and stepped into the welcome shade. Her eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting while she rounded the trunk, approaching the sleeping bag from the foot. With her next step, observations flooded her senses.

  The person was large and lying on his back, wearing blue jeans and socks. A rotund stomach strained against a blue-checked shirt.

  A stick or something poked into the air near the head.

  The death stench grew overpowering.

  A dark stain spread out on the ground. Blood?

  Mandy’s heart thudded. Her ears buzzed along with the angry cloud of flies which, disturbed by her approach, rose.

  She looked down at the face, now no longer obscured by flies. A middle-aged man’s face, it was bloated and gray, distorted, the lips open in a silent scream.

  At the neck, an angry red gash crawled with maggots. Embedded in the gash was the blade of a small camping hatchet, the handle pointing straight at Mandy.

  She staggered back, dropped her shovel, tripped over a rock, thudded on her rump. Tearing her gaze from the horror, she turned her head and heaved up her breakfast.

  _____

  Sitting with her back against a willow tree and her knees drawn up before her, Mandy stared out over the water, hoping to release the grisly image burned on her retinas. She tried to force her thoughts to flow with the calming movement of the water sparkling in the sunlight. The river’s story was that life goes on, regardless. Death, however, still stalked her mind.

  Footsteps approached and someone cleared his throat beside her. She looked up.

  Steve leaned down to rest a hand on her shoulder, his brow furrowed. “Feeling better?”

  Mandy nodded, even though it wasn’t true.

  He squatted and joined her in contemplating the river. The last hour flashed through her synapses. After her stomach had stopped contracting, she’d hollered Steve’s name over and over while she scrambled away on all fours, putting distance between herself and the dead man.

  When Steve came running, she’d warned him before he saw the body, so he could steel himself. Then he radioed headquarters, which dispatched calls to the fire department for an ambulance, the county coroner, and the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office. Mandy and Steve had waited for the caravan to drive, with lights flashing, across the County Road 45 bridge to the day use area parking lot, then up the hundred-yard gravel walking path to the campground. The vehicle occupants got out, to a cacophony of slamming doors, and pulled out a stretcher and forensic equipment.

  Detective Victor Quintana had quickly gone to work, directing evidence collection and telling Mandy and Steve to stay put. By now, it was well past lunchtime, but Mandy hadn’t the stomach to eat the PBJ sandwich baking in the World War II relic waterproof ammo box that served as her lunchbox.

  She’d noticed Steve hadn’t touched his lunch either.

  Quintana crunched up and lowered his stocky, middle-aged frame onto a downed log across from Mandy and Steve. Sweat circles bloomed under the armpits of his dark blue uniform. He swiped a handkerchief across his swarthy brow, then stowed it in his pants pocket.

  Stroking his black mustache, he peered at her. “Second death in your first season. Might be a record, Mandy.”

  “At least this one was already dead when I found him.” Mandy winced. “Sorry, that came out bad.”

  “I know what you mean,” Quintana said with a nod. He took out a pen and his trusty notebook and opened it to a blank page. “Walk me through the discovery, starting with getting out of the raft.” He waved his hand toward their raft, still bobbing next to the river bank.

  Mandy pointed out where she’d walked and gave as many details as she could remember. From her past experience with a prior murder case, she knew he needed them. Quintana stayed silent and took notes during her narrative. She ended, red-faced, with, “Sorry about the puke.”

  Quintana pshawed. “Doesn’t smell any worse than the body. We’re used to it at violent death scenes. Usually from the first responder, who hasn’t had a chance to prepare himself—or herself.” He pointed at the work gloves lying beside her. “You keep those on the whole time?”

  “Yes,” Mandy replied. “Until I got here.”

  “What about you?” he asked Steve.

  “Same thing.” Steve slapped the gloves stashed in one of his cargo shorts pockets.

  “So neither one of you touched the body or anything near the campsite?”

  “Right,” they answered in unison.

  “Good, don’t need to worry about prints from you two, then. That your trash bag, Mandy?” Quintana pointed to the heavy-duty black trash bag next to where she’d thrown up.

  “Yes, and that shovel next to it.”

  “What about that bag?” Quintana pointed to another trash bag, dark green and smaller, that sat farther away.

  “No, that’s not ours.” Mandy stood and craned her neck to get a better look at it. It was open and some of the contents were spilled out. So that’s where the beer cans had ended up. She sat back down. “Why would he pick up his beer cans and not the plastic rings?”

  Quintana shrugged. “Could be he was only interested in recycling the cans. Could be he wasn’t the one who collected the cans.”

  “You think the killer collected them?” Steve asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe someone else.” Quintana pointed his chin at a technician, who was carefully transferring a flowered garden glove from the ground next to the bag of cans into an evidence bag. “We’ll see if any prints are on that glove or the cans and if they match the victim or not. We haven’t found any direct evidence he had company at the campsite—yet.”

  He looked at Steve. “I’ll need the reservation form, if there is one.”

  Steve raised a skeptical brow. “If there is one, I’ll get it to you.”

  Mandy knew folks often used the AHRA campsites, especially Vallie Bridge, without making a reservation or paying. They played the odds, waiting to see if a ranger checked before coming up with a story about forgetting to pay and forking over the dough.

  She had an idea. “I picked up some trash at a couple of the other campsites that may have been recent, especially those slimy bean cans. You should check if there are reservation forms for any of the other campsites. They may have seen something.”

  Quintana winked at her. “You beat me to it, Mandy. I was about to ask Steve for any other forms for reservations here this weekend. Now you’re thinking like a cop.”

  Mandy felt her cheeks warming and glanced away. She noticed another technician collecting and cataloging a fly-fishing rod, waders, tackle box, a small cooler, and other gear. So the man had been a fly fisherman. The fly fishermen she knew were mostly gentle souls, the peaceful time on the river bleeding anger and angst out of their systems. Who would have wanted to kill him so violently, with so much rage?

  She shuddered.

  Quintana raised a questioning brow, but she feigned nonchalance, took a sip of water from her water bottle, and focused her attention back on the river. A ripple broke the surface, and a fin flashed. A splashy rise. The fish were feeding, probably on a late summer caddis fly hatch. The insects rose from the water in busy spirals.

  Another man walked up, tall and rangy with a pock-marked face and a serious expression. Quintana made the introductions. “Mandy, this is Paul Unger, the county coroner. Paul, Mandy Tanner was first on the scene. You and Steve know each other already, right?”

  “Right. Hi, Steve.” Unger shifted his clipboard to his other hand so he could shake Mandy’s. “Nice to meet you, Mandy. Sorry it couldn’t have been under better circumstances.”

  He focused on Quintana. “You wanted an estimated time of death. Given the insect activity, I’d say sometime yesterday, probably afternoo
n. The pathologist might be able to narrow that down some after we get the body to the lab in Pueblo.”

  Quintana gazed at the river. “So the guy probably set up camp sometime Saturday, drank some beers, and ate some hot dogs.”

  “How do you know that?” Mandy asked.

  “We found mustard and bags for buns and hot dogs in the cooler,” Quintana replied.

  Mandy remembered the plastic rings. “You think he drank two whole six-packs?”

  “Over the space of two days, he could have, or maybe he had company.” Quintana looked at Unger. “I’ll need a stomach content analysis and blood alcohol level.”

  “Sure thing.” The coroner made a note on his clipboard.

  “Anyway,” Quintana continued, “the guy slept here Saturday night, probably ate the Hostess cupcakes, whose wrappers are also in the cooler, for breakfast. Then he fished Sunday morning, releasing any he caught, because there’s none in the cooler.”

  “Most fly fishers practice catch-and-release on the river,” Steve said. “If they’re fishing for food, they go to one of the lakes.”

  Paul cocked his head. “Why’s that?”

  “In the river, the fish tend to hang out in certain spots, and the anglers get to know those spots. If you take a fish from a spot, you can ruin someone else’s fun.”

  “Back to our fisherman,” Quintana interjected. “After lunch—probably the rest of the hot dogs—he lay down for a nap, which is when someone axed him. You agree with that scenario, Paul?”

  Unger nodded.

  Quintana smoothed his mustache again. “Any idea what the residue on his face is?”

  Mandy gave them both a questioning look.

  “You probably didn’t notice,” Paul said, “but something was sprayed on the man’s face. Something slimy. It’s obviously not bug repellant, because the flies aren’t deterred.”

  “Sunscreen?” Steve offered.

  Unger shrugged. “We’ll do a chemical analysis on it.”

  “And we’ll look for a spray can,” Quintana said.

  One of the techs at the crime scene, a woman, called for Unger, and he left. Mandy admired the woman’s fortitude, which was obviously better than hers.