Wicked Eddies Page 3

  He pulled out a sheet of paper containing the photo of a teenage girl sitting on a large boulder with the sunlit choppy water of the Arkansas River behind it. “Maybe you can distribute this among the rangers and ask them to keep an eye out for her.”

  “Sure.” Mandy took the photo. The girl was petite and thin but had a shapely figure. Her long, straight brown hair was swept back over one shoulder. A large mole under her left eye somehow added to her beauty instead of detracting from it. “Did Howie have a family of his own?”

  Quintana folded his arms awkwardly over all the equipment on his uniform belt. “No, Brenda said he was somewhat of a loner, and had a temper on him. No woman seemed to tolerate him for long.”

  “Think one of them was mad enough to hatchet him?”

  “I kind of doubt it. Brenda said he hadn’t dated anyone steadily for a couple of years. But, I’ll sniff around for old girlfriends, of course.” Quintana leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Here’s something interesting. You remember Unger saying Howie had something slimy on his face?”

  Mandy nodded. Where is this going?

  “Well, once Paul gets a bee in his bonnet, he goes after it until he’s satisfied with the answer. He had the lab test the substance right away. Guess what it was.”

  “Probably not something as mundane as sunscreen or bug repellant, but I don’t know what else it could have been. Was it some kind of food he didn’t wash off after eating?”

  “Nope, it was all over his face.” Quintana waited, stroking his mustache and obviously relishing his secret.

  Mandy shrugged. “I give up.”

  “It was pepper spray.” A wide grin split the detective’s face.

  “Pepper spray? Why pepper spray?”

  “Curious, isn’t it? And what’s more, Paul says it was sprayed on after Howie was hatcheted. Droplets overlaid the wound’s initial blood flow, and Paul found some inside Howie’s mouth and on the handle of the hatchet.”

  “That’s really odd. You think the killer did it?”

  Quintana cocked his head. “Let’s see if you reach the same conclusion I did. Why would the killer squirt Howie Abbott with pepper spray after swinging a hatchet into his neck?”

  Mandy flinched at the violent scene Quintana’s words invoked. “Because he was deranged or really, really mad at Howie?”

  “Maybe. What other reason can you come up with?”

  She closed her eyes and tried to envision the attack. She put herself in the role of the killer, wielding the hatchet, hearing Howie scream and stepping back to pull out the spray can….

  Her eyes flew open. “You think the killer was afraid that if the hatchet didn’t do the trick, Howie might come after him?”

  Quintana slapped the arm of his chair. “Bingo. So what does that say about the killer?”

  Mandy pondered this for a moment. “That he—or she—may be smaller, older, or weaker than Howie, not confident of defending himself or herself against the man, even though Howie’s life was pouring out of his neck.”

  “And that not only did the killer bring a hatchet to the scene, he brought pepper spray, so this probably was a premeditated act.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Mandy replied after a moment’s thought. “Some women always carry pepper spray in their purses. And it can be used against bears, so both the spray and the hatchet might have already been at the campsite. The killer could have made a last-minute decision and discovered everything he or she needed right there. Did you find any evidence yet about who else was there?”

  “No, but we do know someone else was at that campsite. We matched Howie Abbott’s fingerprints to some of those on the beer cans that were in the trash bag, but we found other prints that don’t match his. Neither Howie nor his friend reserved or paid for the campsite, though, so we don’t know yet who was drinking with him.”

  “Could you match the prints to the CBI database?” Mandy knew the Automated Fingerprint Identification System maintained by the Colorado Bureau of Investigation wasn’t complete by any means, but sometimes they got lucky.

  “Not yet,” Quintana answered. “But we haven’t finished pulling all of the prints off all the evidence. And, it takes time to do the comparison analysis.”

  “What about campers at other campsites?”

  “Steve only found one reservation for last weekend at Vallie Bridge.” Quintana peered at her. “You guys need to police your campgrounds better.”

  Mandy rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. We know we’re losing revenue like crazy, but it takes money to make money. Right now we can’t afford to pay for extra ranger shifts to do campground checks. And the word is getting out that campers can get away with not paying.”

  “I sympathize. We’ve got the same problem with parking violations in Salida. Anyway, I assigned a patrol officer to interview the family who made that one reservation. Hopefully they saw something—or someone.”

  “So, nothing yet.” Mandy sighed and stood. She tapped the photo of the missing girl that she held. “I’m going in to do the paperwork on the body discovery. I’ll copy and post this photo while I’m at headquarters. We’ve also got some big meeting this afternoon about the fly-fishing tournament next week. You involved in any way?”

  Quintana shook his head. “Too busy trying to catch a killer to catch flies—or fish, for that matter.” He stood. “Thanks for the tip about Newt Nowak. We’ll keep in touch. You going to see Cynthia soon?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Please give her my condolences about her uncle.”

  While Mandy walked back to her car, she rehearsed what she could say to Cynthia about her uncle’s death, but everything came out lame. Even though Mandy had been to hell and back after her own beloved uncle’s death and could relate, Cynthia had never mentioned her uncle and how close she was to him. So, Mandy had no idea how upset her friend might be upon hearing about his death—by the hand of a hatchet and pepper-spray wielding assailant.

  What a way to go! An involuntary shudder shook Mandy’s spine.

  _____

  Mandy slipped through the conference room doorway at the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area headquarters building a few minutes after two. Juggling a much-needed mug of coffee and a notepad and pen, she searched for an empty chair. All the chairs around the long oval table were taken, as were most along the two side walls and the back wall in the crowded room. Spotting an open seat along the far wall under the window, she shuffled sideways past knees and conference table chair backs, nodding to familiar faces, until she could plop her butt in the empty chair.

  A fireman she’d gone through whitewater rescue training with that spring winked at her. “Welcome to the sardine can.”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t start to smell like one,” Mandy replied.

  She took a sip of her coffee and wished she’d thought to make it an iced coffee. With all these bodies, the room would heat up soon. The room was crammed with rangers, firemen, ambulance crew, sheriff’s deputies, and anyone else involved with emergency rescue situations in the Arkansas River Valley who wasn’t currently out on assignment.

  Mandy spotted Steve Hadley standing at the front of the room. He was chatting with the Chaffee County Sheriff and the Fire Chief of the Chaffee County Fire Protection District, both of whom she knew by sight. Mandy didn’t recognize the older woman with smartly coiffed gray hair, dressed in a stylish pant suit, who was standing with them.

  The woman rapped her knuckles on the conference table to get people’s attention. “Okay, let’s get the meeting started so you can all go back to your important duties as quickly as possible. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Sandra Sechrest, Chair of the Chaffee County Visitor’s Bureau. The purpose of this meeting is to brief all of you on the upcoming Rocky Mountain Cup fly-fishing tournament and make sure our emergency response plans are in place.”

  The woman went on to introduce her cohorts standing with her at the front of the room and to lay out the sche
dule. The tournament events would start the next Monday with judge and volunteer training, followed by two days of practice fishing by the competitors and two days of competition. The whole shebang would culminate in an award ceremony Friday night at the Salida SteamPlant, an electrical power plant that had been converted into a performing arts and events center. After Sechrest finished, each of the emergency response chiefs described their plans to support the event and what they expected from their troops.

  When Steve’s turn came, he started off with a question, “What’s one of the most deadly sports in the world?”

  Mandy knew the answer, but stayed quiet. Someone yelled out, “whitewater rafting,” a good guess, but not good enough.

  “It’s fishing,” Steve said, nodding while surprised murmurs filled the room, “usually from the fatal combination of boats, alcohol, and people who don’t know how to swim. Now, given that we have serious competitors participating in this event, I expect that alcohol won’t play a large part until after the award ceremony.”

  A few snorts and chuckles punctuated that remark.

  “However,” Steve continued, “we still have boats on the float-fishing practice and competition days giving us the same problems whitewater rafting boats do—hitting underwater obstacles and pitching their occupants into the water. And most of these teams are unfamiliar with the upper Arkansas, its rapids, and its hazards. So, I’m increasing river ranger patrols on the river during the competition.

  “And then there are wading fishermen on the shore fishing days.” Steve shook his head and tsked. “I hate waders. As the old-timers know, we usually have at least one fly-fisherman die each season, from either getting a foot trapped or tripping while standing in the river wearing waders. The fisherman falls in the river, the waders fill up with water, dragging the wearer underwater, and then he drowns.”

  A solemn silence descended on the group. Mandy, and no doubt many others, was remembering the most recent drowning of a local fly-fisherman that spring, leaving a widow and two teenaged children.

  “I want all of you river rangers to be on the alert,” Steve said, “for boaters not wearing their personal flotation devices and for standing fishermen wading in too deep. If you see a boater without a PFD, you give them a warning. If you see someone wearing waders without a belt, suggest they put on a belt immediately. Tell them it will stop most of the water from flowing into the waders if they fall and may very well save their life. If they’re standing in moving water past their knees, you give them a warning.”

  One of the river rangers raised a hand. “We’re bound to get complaints.”

  “Don’t worry about complaints,” Steve replied. “I’ll deal with them. We want folks going home from this competition with a memory of the big one that got away, not the big guy who passed away.”

  Ouch. Mandy cringed. Had Steve rehearsed that line?

  He handed some sheets of paper to the first ranger sitting at the conference table. “River rangers, each of you take one of these. They’re the shift schedules for next week. Some of you will be working extra shifts to make sure we have adequate coverage along all of the competition beats—that’s river sections for those of you unfamiliar with the lingo of fly-fishing competitions. Given the economic times, I thought some of you might appreciate the overtime.”

  Mandy checked her schedule and saw she had an extra shift next week. She could always use the additional money, so she didn’t mind. Poor Lucky would be left in the yard alone an extra day, but she would make it up to him. And Rob was so busy coordinating rafting trips for RM Outdoor Adventures, he probably wouldn’t even notice she was working overtime.

  After answering a few questions, Steve gave a nod to Sandra Sechrest, who stepped forward. She cleared her throat, looking nervous for the first time. “We’ve already had one death of a competitor. Howie Abbott was killed sometime Sunday. He was registered to compete in the tournament.”

  Mandy sat up straighter. This was news to her.

  “Furthermore, Mr. Abbott was most likely cheating.” Sandra frowned. “His body was found at the Vallie Bridge campground, with his fishing gear nearby, and that campground is within one of the beats. No one competing in the tournament is supposed to access the competition river sections for six weeks prior to the start of the tournament.”

  “Isn’t that a float-fishing beat?” one of the firemen asked.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t matter,” Ms. Sechrest answered. “Scouting out from the shore where the fish tend to gather is still against the rules. Now, I know our prizes can’t compete with the large sums offered in European tournaments, but a ten-thousand-dollar first prize is nothing to sneeze at. The temptation to cheat is there, and the whole point of the rules is to squelch that temptation.

  “My hope is that Mr. Abbott’s death is unrelated to the tournament, but the suspicion that he was cheating has already cast a pall on the event. We don’t want these competitors, who are flying in from all over the world, to leave Chaffee County with a bad taste in their mouths.”

  Well, well, well, Mandy thought. Did someone catch Howie cheating? Was that motive enough for murder? And what about the other camper who was with him? Was that person a competitor, too, and also cheating?

  _____

  She made a mental note to get a copy of the list of the competitors to give to Detective Quintana.

  Three

  The only time a fisherman tells the truth is when

  he calls another fisherman a liar.

  —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  After feeding and playing with Lucky and heating up a can of chili for herself, Mandy arrived at the Vic well after eight on Tuesday night. The historic tavern’s heavy scroll-worked door was propped open to let in the fresh night air. A light breeze coming off the mountains to the west, a harbinger of an impending cool front, teased a few loose strands of Mandy’s hair, tickling her cheeks.

  The entertainment that night was warming up, and their reggae beat lifted her spirits when she stepped over the threshold. Once inside, the golden stamped-tin ceiling of the large barroom magnified the sound of both the music and chattering groups of people. Mandy worked her way to the long, polished wood bar.

  She spotted Cynthia at the taps at the far end, pouring beer into pilsner glasses. Her bare arm flexed when she plugged the taps, twitching the green and red broad-tailed hummingbird tattooed on her bicep. With the back of her hand, Cynthia swiped at a lock of brunette hair that had come out of her French braid, then piled the glasses on a tray for a waitress standing at the ready.

  Mandy shouted, “Cynthia!” and waved.

  Cynthia flashed a thumbs-up and held up an empty beer glass.

  Mandy returned the thumbs-up.

  Cynthia retrieved a bottle of Mandy’s favorite Fat Tire Ale from the cooler. After walking down the length of the bar with it, she plunked the glass in front of Mandy, and started pouring. “The usual for my best bud.”

  “Thanks.” Mandy took a welcome sip, then feeling tongue-tied over what to say about Cynthia’s uncle’s death, she stalled with, “It’s busy for a Tuesday.”

  “I think it’s the band. Brought some groupies with them.” Cynthia’s trained eye scanned the bar. Seeing no one who required her immediate attention, she propped a foot up on a box behind the bar. “Ready?”

  Mandy rolled her eyes, expecting another of the ritual blonde jokes Cynthia enjoyed teasing her with. Thankful for delay in talking about Howie Abbott and thinking Cynthia might need to work up to the topic, too, she smiled. “Fire away.”

  Cynthia pointed to the stained glass display behind the bar—multi-colored parrots and toucans hiding in lush green jungle foliage. “Here’s why we don’t have a mirror behind our bar. Once there was this bar that had a magic mirror. If you told a lie it would suck you in.” She leaned on her elbows. “You with me so far?”

  “I’m with you.” Mandy took a sip of beer.

  “Well, one day a brunette came into the bar.” Cynthia patted her own hai
r for emphasis. “She walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world’ and it sucked her in.” Cynthia slapped her hands together.

  “The next day a redhead walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world’ and it sucked her in.” Another clap.

  “Then the next day a blonde came into the bar. She walked up to the mirror and said ‘I think …’ and it sucked her in.” Cynthia slapped the bar, a grin splitting her face.

  Mandy laughed. “Good one. Where do you dig these up?”

  Cynthia waved her hand. “Oh, I’ve got a million of ’em. You blondes just keep giving the comics more material.” Her smile slowly died while she polished away at an imaginary spot on the bar.

  Mandy realized Cynthia was just going through the motions. “I guess your aunt told you about your Uncle Howie.”

  Avoiding her gaze, Cynthia scratched at a sticky spot on the bar. “Yeah, I heard.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss and I feel terrible about it. I’m the one who found him.”

  Cynthia’s head came up, concern in her eyes. “I didn’t hear that. That must have been awful.”

  To get the sudden sour taste out of her mouth, Mandy took a drink of her beer. “It’s part of my job. Eventually I’ll have to get used to it. But that’s nothing compared to what your family must be going through. Detective Quintana wanted me to pass on his condolences, too.” She put a hand over Cynthia’s, stilling her fingers. “And if there’s anything I can do, just—”

  Cynthia pulled her hand away and shoved the bar rag into her back jeans pocket. “There’s nothing you need to do. Frankly, I won’t be shedding any tears over good ole Uncle Howie.” Her lips pursed as if she’d bitten into an unripe persimmon.

  This wasn’t the reaction Mandy had expected at all. “What’s the story?”