Deadly Currents Page 4

  “I picked up Nate Fowler’s daughter,” Mandy said. “I want to get her contact information from you and thank her for helping me with King. She kept her cool and didn’t get all hysterical on me. But why invite King and Fowler? What was so special about those two?”

  “They’re in a bidding war over some combined forest and pasture land down south that has prime agricultural water rights tied to it. They both want to develop the land into high-priced country estates. Lenny said he’d like to convince whoever winds up buying the land to donate some of those water rights for recreation use.” Uncle Bill took a few gulps of root beer.

  Another thing he should be giving up—those six or seven sugary sodas he drinks every day. The man’s sweet tooth was worse than the average black bear’s by far. “And why the councilmen?”

  “Most of the councilmen know darn well how important recreation on the Arkansas is to Salida. We’re not back in the eighteen hundreds when hard industries like the railroad and gold mining kept the town pump primed. Nowadays, the economy is driven by tourism. Without the river and the tourists dripping money that it attracts, there’d be damn few city taxes to pay the salaries of those councilmen.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir here, Uncle Bill.”

  “I know you know all this. But Frank Saunders isn’t on board, so to speak. That’s why Lenny invited him. And he asked two others who are river supporters to come, hoping they would help his case, lean on the developers and Saunders some.”

  “Okay, why the Numbers? Why not take these folks on a tamer run?”

  “Most of them have already run the tamer sections lots of times. Hell, I bet you could blindfold them all in Brown’s Canyon, and they could tell you what rapid’s coming up next. Plus, you know it’s the upper river runs like the Numbers that change the most when water levels drop.”

  “It was running high yesterday.” Over two thousand cubic feet per second. “If the CFS had been any higher, I probably wouldn’t have made it to shore before Number Five. How did Lenny plan to get his point across about low flows?”

  “He wanted to contrast high and low water runs through the Numbers and point out spots where low water made passage difficult. And he had photos taken during the 2002 drought to show them after the trip wound up. One of a fish kill was downright gross. Never got around to showing them, of course.” Morosely, Uncle Bill shook his head.

  Hoping to cheer him up some, Mandy said, “I stopped by the Chaffee County Sheriff’s office today to ask about the autopsy results on Tom King. The pathologist can’t say what the cause of death is yet, but it sounded to me like he’s leaning toward heart attack. That could be helpful for you.”

  “How so?”

  “If it’s not drowning or head injury or some other river-caused death, then your company can’t be blamed.”

  “But if the shock of the cold water caused the heart attack, we could be. Because if the man didn’t fall in the river, he might still be alive. Can the pathologist figure out whether the heart attack occurred before or after King hit the water?”

  Mandy nibbled her lip. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Detective Quintana.”

  The front door opened and Gonzo walked in, his wet river sandals slapping on the wood floor. “Hey, Mandy. Slumming today? Can’t get enough of this place?”

  “Or of you.” Mandy shot him a wide smile and a wink, though her heart wasn’t really into their usual repartee.

  Gonzo thrust his hip out, threw his head back and fluffed his tangled dreadlocks, as if posing for the cover of Vogue—or more likely, Mad Magazine. “Too sexy for you, I know.” For him, too, the wordplay seemed forced.

  “Hey, sexy beast,” Uncle Bill shouted. “What’d I tell you about coming in here with dripping wet shoes?”

  “Sorry man, but a customer needs change.” Gonzo handed a twenty over the counter. “I think he’s going to give me a sorry-ass five- or ten-dollar tip for taking his whole family down Brown’s. None of ’em could paddle worth a darn, they didn’t laugh at my river snake joke, and I bet they don’t turn their wetsuits right-side out for me either. Why is it that the customers who are the hardest to work with tip the least?”

  Mandy passed him the small bills her uncle had dug out of his desk. “At least he is giving you a tip. Thank the river gods. He could be stiffing you.”

  “Then he’d suffer from bad Gonzo karma.” He waggled his fingers as if casting a spell, then leaned on the counter to get a good look at Mandy. “Speaking of bad karma, how’re you doing today?”

  “Could be better, a lot better, but I’ll live.” Unlike King. Mandy shuddered, then she noticed how bleary-eyed Gonzo looked. He must have drunk some of those beers last night that he was talking about.

  He stuffed the money in his pocket. “Any word on how King died?”

  “Nothing definite yet.”

  Uncle Bill sat forward in his chair. “Maybe you can help us out, Gonzo.”

  When both Gonzo and Mandy stared at him, Uncle Bill said, “We were talking about the possibility of a heart attack and whether it could have happened prior to King hitting the water or after. You notice anything about him in the raft?”

  Gonzo stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Come to think of it, his strokes got weaker before we hit Number Four. They were pretty strong for the first half of the trip. Then all of a sudden I had to compensate, which probably led to the raft going sideways on me.”

  “Anything else?” Mandy asked. “Like wooziness, profuse sweating?”

  “Sweating, yeah. It was warm out, but King wiped his head a lot. He reached for his drink bottle right before we had to line up for Four. I yelled at him to wait. Come to think of it, the look he gave me when I said that was kinda weird.”

  Mandy came over to the counter, excitement making her edgy. “Weird how?”

  “Like he was having a hard time processing what I said to him.”

  Mandy turned to her uncle. “Sounds like maybe he was already having a heart attack before the raft spilled. That’s good news.”

  Gonzo raised his brows. “Good news how?”

  “If that’s the case, then no one can blame Uncle Bill, me, or you for his death.” Mandy turned to her uncle. “Quintana wanted me to pass on a warning that Mrs. King is talking to her lawyer and said she was going to sue someone.”

  Uncle Bill raised his hands and looked skyward, as if saying, “Why me?”

  Gonzo let out a low, slow whistle. “Man, I hope that don’t happen. But, if it’s like you’re saying, King was already dying when he left the raft, then that should get Steve Hadley off my back, too.”

  “Steve?” Mandy peered at Gonzo. “Why’s he on your back?”

  “Oh, he said it was standard practice after a fatal accident, but I’ve never been asked by a ranger to do it before. Only by outfitters for job-screening.”

  “Do what?”

  “Piss in a jar.” Gonzo turned and stomped out.

  _____

  After checking that her uncle had liability release forms in his file signed by all the passengers on Lenny Preble’s trip, Mandy went out back. She helped Gonzo and his fellow rafting guide, Kendra, unload and partially deflate the rafts while trading taunts and river rat jokes to lighten the load. Then they rinsed the customer’s wetsuits and booties in disinfectant, and hung them up to dry. Normally her uncle would have done these chores, but the gout flare-up had him limping in pain.

  While Mandy swept out the women’s restroom, Kendra brought in rolls of toilet paper and paper towels. The guide’s black skin glistened with sweat and suntan oil. “Hey, Gonzo and I are meeting some of the gang at Vic’s tonight to get ‘victimized.’ Want to join us?”

  At first, Mandy felt inclined to refuse. But then she thought hanging out with her rafting guide friends at the Victoria Tavern might help her stop
rehashing the events of the day before, even get some sleep. “I’ll have to feed and exercise Lucky first.”

  “That’s cool. We aren’t planning to meet up there until after eight anyway. I’ve got to wash this Arkansas River mud off first and see what bills have arrived that I can’t pay.” She cocked a finger at Mandy before walking out. “Catch you at eight.”

  Mandy locked the restrooms, checked the changing rooms for anything the customers had forgotten, and handed the keys over to her uncle. “How long has your foot been bothering you?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “Have you been watching your diet, laying off the beer and sodas?”

  Uncle Bill put down the root beer he had been sipping. “You’re not my mama.”

  “No, I’m not.” Mandy smiled and crossed her arms. “Only your niece—a niece who doesn’t like to see you hurting.”

  He sighed. “Okay, okay. Go on and drink a beer at the Vic for me. I’ll just sit here and sip on green tea.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  The incongruous image of her uncle sipping from a dainty china cup while demurely holding out his pinkie kept Mandy smiling most of the ride home. She fed Lucky and tossed a tennis ball to him in the back yard until the ball was sodden with dog drool, then went inside to clean up and eat before going to the Vic.

  _____

  When Mandy walked up to the historic two-story red brick building with its distinctive green awnings, she could feel her spirits lifting before she even opened the heavy scroll-worked door. Later, the door would be propped open to let in fresh air and let out the throbbing beat of whatever roaming Colorado rock band was booked to play that night. The well-oiled original wood floor from 1900 creaked under her feet as she pushed past chattering groups on her way to the bar to find her friend, Cynthia.

  The Vic’s stamped tin ceiling, built to deflect sound away from the hotel rooms above, magnified it in the main barroom, so Mandy had to shout, “Cynthia! Cynthia!”

  Cynthia Abbott, her brunette hair pulled back in her trademark French braid, looked up from pouring beer out of two taps into pilsner glasses. Her purple tank top showed off a peek of cleavage and the tattoo on her upper arm—of a hummingbird drinking nectar out of a flower.

  “Hey, best buddy! The usual?”

  Mandy flashed a thumbs-up and leaned her elbows on the enormously long, polished wood bar to wait. She caught her reflection in the stained glass panorama behind the bar—an exotic display with multicolored parrots and toucans peeking out from lush jungle foliage. Not quite your typical Rocky Mountains panorama. Mandy never tired of looking at the glass, dreaming of one day being able to afford a tropical beach vacation. She scanned the room, but didn’t spot Kendra and Gonzo.

  Cynthia slammed a sweating bottle of Fat Tire Ale on the bar next to Mandy’s elbow, making her start. “Okay, here’s a good one. Why does a blonde have T.G.I.F. written on her shoes?”

  Today was Friday, but why thank God for the fact on your shoes? Mandy shrugged. “I give up.”

  “Toes go in first!” Cynthia snickered then glanced over her shoulder and straightened. “Give me a sec to fill some more orders, then we can chat.” She hustled off before Mandy could respond.

  Still chuckling, Mandy took a long, cold draught of beer, letting the soothing liquid slide down her throat and ease the tightness in her chest. Cynthia poured half a dozen tequila shots and served them with a bowl of lime wedges and a salt shaker to a rowdy group of young men. From their excited chatter, Mandy concluded they were celebrating a day of jousting with the river and crowing and preening like a bunch of roosters over their battle victories. She scanned their clothing for college logos.

  “Okay, where’d that crowd come from?” Cynthia asked as she put a foot up on a crate behind the counter.

  Mandy squinted at the group, who had just let out a cheer. “Colorado State.”

  “Darn.” Cynthia slapped the bar. “How’d you know?”

  “The hat on the tall guy in the back. You can’t see it, because it’s backward, but there’s a ram above the brim.”

  “I checked their shirts, and when I didn’t see any from the university, I thought I’d catch you. They already told me where they hailed from when I checked their IDs. You won this round.”

  “You mean this one in my hand?” Mandy winked, held up her beer, said, “To friends, especially best buddies,” and took a sip. Identifying the origins of out-of-towners in the bar was a game Mandy enjoyed playing with Cynthia, especially since Mandy often won. Cynthia could easily confirm their guesses by chatting up the customers or having one of the waitresses do it.

  “Speaking of best buds, how’s that friendship bracelet I made you holding up?” Cynthia stood on tip-toe to look over the bar.

  Mandy put her foot up on the barstool next to her, showing Cynthia the frayed hand-woven strap around her ankle, before she dropped her foot back down to the floor. “Probably has a few more weeks left before it falls off.”

  “I’d better get started on another one.”

  “How’s yours doing?”

  Cynthia glanced at her ankle. “You’re off the hook. Since I’m not a river rat like you are, mine don’t wear out as fast. I think I’ve made you twice as many as you’ve made me.” Then Cynthia slapped the counter again, making Mandy dribble the beer she’d just raised to her lips down her chin. “Hey, I heard about your rescue yesterday. Toughie, huh?”

  “I really wouldn’t call it a rescue.” Mandy put down the beer, which suddenly tasted stale.

  “You saved Nate Fowler’s daughter, and you pulled Tom King out of the river, too.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Mandy. What’s cooking?” Gonzo put a hand on her shoulder. “Couple pitchers of Bud, please,” he said to Cynthia.

  Kendra leaned out from under Gonzo’s other arm. “Dougie’s staked out a pool table for us in the back room. Want to shoot a few games with us?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  When Cynthia returned with the pitchers, Mandy said her goodbyes.

  “Sink the eight ball for me.” Cynthia took Gonzo’s money. “Catch you all later.”

  Sometimes, like now, Mandy wondered if Cynthia regretted having to work behind the bar, because she never got to hang out with her friends for long. She and Kendra picked up the glasses and followed Gonzo as he led the way, reverently protecting the two pitchers from stray elbows.

  They commandeered a small table under the incongruous shark mounted on the wall and pulled up a few chairs. Mandy paired with Dougie in a few spirited games of team eight-ball against Gonzo and Kendra until their friend and fellow guide, Ajax, arrived with some other guides. Letting them have a turn, the four sat down. Gonzo poured the last dregs of the two pitchers into their glasses.

  When Dougie went to fetch two more pitchers, Kendra leaned across the table to make herself heard above the band, which had started their first set. “I want to hear how you missed going over Number Five with two passengers on your cat. That must have been a tight spot.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.” Mandy tapped her feet to the music. Her head had a soft buzz going, but not enough to drown out her guilty thoughts.

  “Oh, c’mon. It’s got to make a good story.”

  Waiting for his pool shot, another guide shouted to Mandy. “I hear you were a real rescue ranger yesterday. Too bad you lost one.”

  Yeah, too bad. Mandy stood. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  As she walked away, she overheard Kendra say to Gonzo, “Boy, I didn’t realize she’d be so prickly about it.”

  Mandy spent as much time as she could in the restroom, combing her hair and reapplying lip gloss, until a young woman with muscular shoulders shoved open the door. “You Mandy Tanner?”

  Not another guide wanting to hear the st
ory. Mandy thought she would get away from her nightmares by coming to the Vic, but they were stalking her there. She ducked her head, said, “Yeah, sorry, got to go,” and walked out.

  She insinuated herself into the next pool game and kept busy making shots and tossing out ribald comments on the other players’ shots—anything to deflect the topic of conversation from her attempted rescue. By midnight, she was having trouble standing up straight and her game had deteriorated. She plopped down on a chair across from Gonzo.

  He held out the pitcher, but Mandy shook her head. “You’ve been slugging down beer all night, and you still out-shot us all. How do you do it?”

  “You drink enough beer every night, your body gets used to it.”

  “You drink the nights before you guide, too?”

  “Usually.”

  “Doesn’t it affect your timing on the river?”

  Gonzo took another gulp. “Not so as I’d notice.”

  “How many beers did you have night before last?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe most of a six-pack. What’s it to you?”

  Mandy drummed her fingers on the table as she reviewed Gonzo’s raft tipping over. “I was surprised you didn’t make it through Number Four yesterday. Usually you breeze right through it. I’ve never seen you flip in that rapid, even if a paddler’s strokes are off, like you said King’s were.”

  Narrowing his eyes and frowning, Gonzo stared at her. “What’re you implying?”

  If she hadn’t been drunk, she never would have said what she said next. “Maybe if you weren’t hung over, your raft wouldn’t have flipped.”

  Gonzo stood up too fast and knocked his chair over, sending it clattering to the floor. “Oh no. You’re not pinning King’s death on me because you can’t take the guilt. You took full responsibility yesterday. What happened to you today?”

  Mandy stood and stepped in close. “You said it was your fault yesterday, and I had to talk you out of it. What happened to you?”