The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  Shana watched her go. Three ravens dipped and flapped through the clear sky, their wings a rush of air, their voices harsh. Brothers to the dead raven by the fence? Laura said to Shana, “Did you drive up to Vegas with Dan and Kellee?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So it was you, Bobby, Dan, and Kellee?”

  “As a matter of fact, I met Bobby there.”

  “Who’d you come back with?”

  “Bobby. Why? Is it important?”

  Laura stifled her disappointment. She’d been hoping Shana had come back with Dan and Kellee. She might have seen something if they’d encountered trouble on the road. “Did anything happen on the way up?”

  “What?”

  “Anything unusual.”

  “What, like someone was following us? You think whoever—No. At least I didn’t notice anything.”

  “No one cut you off in traffic, anything like that?”

  “No.”

  Laura sighed. It had been a long shot. “You don’t know of anyone who disliked Dan or Kellee?”

  “I told you before, Dan was liked by everybody. Except for that one guy a long time ago.”

  It also appeared that Shana didn’t know any more. “What about Kellee? Was there anybody you know of who didn’t like her?”

  “God, I dunno. To tell you the truth, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about Kellee.”

  “You didn’t like her?”

  Shana hiked her shoulders, stared sullenly out at the pasture. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Figures.” She continued staring out at the pasture and the mountains beyond.

  Laura had exhausted this line of questioning. She wouldn’t get anything else out of Shana. So she ignored Shana’s cold shoulder, ignored the stink of the sun-warmed raven carcass, and watched the horses.

  They were Thoroughbreds. One of them had a knee the size of a honeydew melon, but all of them were well-conformed, beautiful to Laura’s eye.

  “What’s the story with him?” she asked Shana, nodding to the horse with the bad knee.

  “Mrs. Wingate takes in retired racehorses and tries to find them homes. She puts photos of them up on the Internet.”

  “That’s good of her.”

  “Yeah. She’s a pretty cool person. She works with little kids, too, ones that have problems. She gives them riding lessons. You should see it; it’s really kind of cool.”

  “Will she do that with Mighty Mouse?”

  “Probably not. He’s pretty hair-trigger. Not a beginner’s horse.” Her voice held a certain pride. “She’s going to save him for her granddaughter.”

  “Erin.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A screen door slammed and two figures emerged from under the porch. Barbara and a thin girl Laura guessed to be eight or nine years old came toward them.

  Laura was surprised that the girl—Erin—hung back. When faced with the prospect of a new horse, most girls that age would be excited to the point of hyperactive.

  Erin was very slight, and there was a strained look to her eyes.

  “Is Erin sick?” she asked Shana.

  “Uh-huh. I think she’s got mono.”

  “Mono?”

  “Or it could be something else. I don’t really know.”

  It was clear she didn’t really care either.

  Barbara Wingate stopped, looked back, said something to the girl, who hurried up. Barbara rewarding her with a beatific smile.

  Laura stood off to the side while Shana backed Mighty Mouse down the ramp and tied him to the trailer. Apparently, Shana was making a clean sweep; she pulled out a saddle, bridle, and dumped a pile of grooming equipment on the ground, as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of them.

  She stripped off the shipping bandages and saddled Mighty Mouse. Laura watched Barbara Wingate and her granddaughter. Erin stood there listlessly, as if she were watching a TV program she wasn’t much interested in. Barbara Wingate’s hand touched Erin’s back—offering comfort? When Shana was done, Barbara leaned down and said something softly to Erin. Erin nodded. Barbara helped the girl into the saddle.

  It was clear Erin knew how to ride. She dutifully trotted Mighty Mouse up the dirt road a ways and loped back, easily able to pull him up. She circled him one way and then the other, neck-reining him. Mighty Mouse looked like a million dollars.

  Glancing at Shana, Laura saw the pained expression, tears glittering in her eyes.

  Erin looked at Barbara for permission, then slid down to the ground and led Mighty Mouse over to them. “Nice horse,” she said. But her voice was flat.

  She started to cough.

  Her grandmother squatted down next to her. “Erin, do you want to go inside now, Honey?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She didn’t sound okay.

  Shana checked her watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  Barbara dug into her jeans pocket and handed Shana a check. Laura caught the amount: over twelve hundred dollars. Shana tucked the check into her own jeans pocket and walked briskly for the truck. “Where do you want the trailer?”

  Laura and Barbara Wingate exchanged looks. Sadness in the woman’s green eyes, the lines around them wrinkling in sympathy. “Go ahead and back it up next to the barn,” she said.

  “Are you coming?” Shana yelled to Laura. “Or do you want to walk home?”

  Laura said the usual, “it was nice meeting you, hope Erin enjoys Mighty Mouse,” then got into the truck.

  Shana backed the horse trailer expertly back into a slot between the pasture fence and the barn, got out and unhitched it. She got back in and floored the truck so hard the tires slewed in the dirt.

  Laura looked back in the side-view mirror at Barbara Wingate and her granddaughter, watched them dwindle down to tiny dots.

  On her way back from Shana’s house, Laura drove by a car repair shop. The sign outside said SHADE TREE MECHANICS, the name of the garage Jamie Cottle’s father owned.

  Jamie Cottle was the boy who had a crush on Kellee.

  Even though the place looked closed for the day, she pulled into the parking lot. The sun’s last rays glittered redly through the boughs of the massive elm tree out front, possibly the shade tree in the garage’s name.

  Laura unclipped her cell phone from her belt and punched in her home phone number in Vail. She realized by the fourth ring that the answering machine would pick up. Thought about leaving a message, but ended up disconnecting instead.

  She looked at the garage. Shade Tree Mechanics was a converted filling station from the Mother Road days. Two bays buttoned up tight, the glassed-in office papered with posters for the Grand Canyon Railway and a faded one from the Williams Rodeo, a year old. She peered in through the office and could see through the window in the door to the service bay. A couple of cars were parked inside.

  Up against the far back wall, she glimpsed part of an industrial-sized tool chest; more tools on the pegboard to the left. The cherry red tool chest was grimy and scuffed from years of use, much bigger than the one at the Chiricahua Paint Company warehouse. That had been the kind you got at Sears.

  The Chiricahua Paint Company had burned to the ground a little over a month ago. She had been inside. And the tools—

  Suddenly Laura got that aspirin taste in the sides of her mouth and under her tongue she got before throwing up. She clamped her mouth closed and swallowed, willing whatever wanted to come up to go back down. Think about something else—Tom? No. The bobcat kittens who lived on the roof of her desert house. She concentrated on that, and after a few moments the feeling went away.

  Not good, though. She couldn’t react like this every time she saw a tool chest.

  It looked like the owners of the Pioneer Motel were having a yard sale, card tables set up on the walkway outside the office and the first two cabins. Not much left, except a couple of cases of cheap-looking jewelry and old computers, printers, a coffeepot decanter. Richie Lockhart’s car was still gone; Laura wondered if he was s
till interviewing the roommates in Flagstaff.

  A large woman in a wheelchair kept a sharp eye on two boys packing stuff up as she chatted with the young woman who had given Laura her key last night.

  The young woman was tall with long dark brown hair that fell to her waist, wearing jeans and a blue tunic top that Laura had seen on nurses and orderlies. She was leaning down to talk to the woman in the wheelchair. A black chow wearing a purple bandana sat patiently under the card table nearby. The boys were in the process of stowing fold-up chairs into a pickup truck. Laura noticed that one of them was college-age. A contemporary of Dan and Kellee?

  She went up and introduced herself to the group.

  The dark-haired girl’s name tag said WENDY BAKER. “I thought you were detectives,” she said. She turned to the woman in the wheelchair. “She’s investigating what happened to Dan and Kellee.”

  The woman nodded sagely. She had very pale skin, her face pear-shaped and somehow amorphous, black hair stringy. But when she smiled it was hard not to smile along with her. She held out a soft, white hand ending in perfectly lacquered nails. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Donna. These are my boys, Matthew and Darrell.”

  The boys both nodded to her politely. Shy?

  The chow rose to her feet and walked over to Laura, standing in front of her as if to say, “You may pet me.” Kind of like the queen of England saying, “You may curtsy.”

  Laura held her hand out for the dog to get a whiff of her—a precaution in case she was wrong.

  “That’s Chelsea,” Wendy said. “Don’t worry. She won’t bite.”

  Laura ran her hands over Chelsea’s luxurious coat, then massaged the dog’s back just above one hip. The chow leaned closer, eyes closed in ecstasy. Laura smiled; she knew all the good spots. “Did you sell much?” she asked Donna.

  “A few odds and ends,” Donna said. “We’ve been set up all weekend, and tell you the truth I’m kind of disappointed. Locals came, but there aren’t many tourists left this time of year. They’re the ones who’d buy the jewelry.”

  Most of the jewelry in the glass cases looked like knockoffs of delicate Zuni work. The colors were silver, turquoise, coral. Lots of little birds strung on chains.

  Small town, everyone knew each other. Wendy could be Dan’s age or a little older, and Darrell could be a high school senior or first year of college. Laura said, “I guess everyone’s talking about what happened at Cataract Lake.”

  “Been all over the news,” Donna said. “Such nice kids, both of them. Darrell’s friend Jamie worked with them at The Mother Road Bar and Grille; isn’t that right, Darrell?”

  Laura straightened. “Jamie Cottle?” She looked at Darrell.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh-huh.”

  “Is it true what I’ve been hearing? Jamie had a thing for Kellee?”

  “He liked her. I don’t know if I’d go so far as that.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. Does he still work at The Mother Road?”

  “Nuh-huh. He works for his dad now at Shade Tree.”

  “Have you talked to him since the shooting?”

  He shrugged. Giving her the clear impression he wanted to be anywhere but here. “We talked on the phone.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Donna broke in. “On Oak across from the high school. You think he could have hurt those two kids?” She took a handkerchief out of her purse, shook it, snapped the purse closed and rested it on her ample lap. Wiped her face with the handkerchief. “Still hot, can you believe it? If you’re thinking Jamie Cottle did this, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I know him and I know his parents. He’s a good kid, been a real good friend to Darrell. In fact,” she glanced at Darrell, “weren’t you two out together Friday night?”

  Darrell nodded.

  “What were you doing?” Laura asked him.

  Another shrug. “Not much.” Looked meaningfully at the street as if to say, I rest my case. “Just hung out. Did a couple of loads of laundry.”

  “You usually do laundry on a Saturday night?”

  “If my clothes’re dirty. He was the one washing clothes. His dad works him so hard he doesn’t have time to do anything.”

  “You do it at his house?”

  “No. Sandoval’s 76. They have a laundromat.”

  With a little urging, he explained that they started a load of laundry around nine or so at night, then cruised for a while. Came back, moved it to the dryers, and cruised some more. Both of them too young to go to bars.

  “Were you driving or was he?”

  “I was.”

  “When did you drop him off?”

  Darrell said he wasn’t sure. Maybe midnight, maybe a little later. No one saw them at the laundromat, although somebody did dump his first load out of the dryer, leaving it on top of a washer. “Pissed us off, whoever did that.”

  “Why would they? Do that?”

  “The other dryers were out of order.”

  Donna said, “I’m telling you, that boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not after what happened to his family earlier this year.”

  “What was that?”

  Donna’s eyes looked like black currents, set deep in unrisen dough. “His younger brother died. The whole family’s been devastated.”

  Wendy said, “His brother was Terry Cottle—T.J.”

  Laura looked from one woman to the other.

  Wendy said, “T.J. was the boy who drowned in Cataract Lake.”

  Laura waited a little longer for Richie Lockhart, then walked to the Mother Road Bar and Grille for a quick dinner. In a way, she was glad to be alone; there was a lot to think about. Shana’s evasiveness, the fact that she’d gone to Las Vegas and lied about it, the act of selling her horse and trailer a day after her twin brother was found shot to death in a tent with his new wife. Pocketing twelve hundred dollars, closing the door on her old life. Reasonable explanations for all of it, but Laura felt Shana was hiding something.

  And Jamie Cottle. She asked about him at the Mother Road. Nice kid, good guy, quiet; one of the waitresses called him “sensitive.” All of them commented on the tragedy at Cataract Lake earlier this year, when his brother, accompanied by his high school coach and math teacher, dove into a dark lake late at night and never resurfaced.

  Common knowledge that Jamie had a crush on Kellee. But he’d never acted on it, as far as anyone could tell. The waitress who called him sensitive, a girl named Lilly Brawley, mentioned that he never said anything, but the crush was painfully obvious. He would blush and stammer when Kellee talked to him. He had it bad, Lilly said, but she couldn’t see him doing anything overt to get Kellee to notice him. And he knew Dan, who worked there, too. It was laughable to even picture them as rivals. Dan was an adult, and Jamie was a boy—despite the fact that there were only three years or so between them.

  Jamie Cottle either was or wasn’t tied to this case. On the surface, he didn’t seem capable of an act like that, but one thing bothered her: the coincidence. Jamie’s brother had died earlier this year at Cataract Lake. Dan and Kellee had been shot to death at the same lake. Superficially, the two cases didn’t appear to be linked; the boy had drowned early in the summer, and Dan and Kellee had been shot to death. T.J. Cottle had been accompanied by a teacher in suspicious circumstances—a man and boy out on a lake late at night. According to Richard Garatano, the teacher, T.J. had dived into the lake voluntarily.

  Wildly different cases.

  But Frank Entwistle had taught her that there was no such thing as a true coincidence. There was always a link somewhere, even if it was tenuous and unimportant, and it was her job to track that link down and decide if it had merit.

  Back at the motel, she divested herself of her gun and phone, placing them on the bed, and turned the local TV news on low. She caught the tail end of a report on the shooting at Cataract Lake, a glimpse of stock footage of the lake itself.

  She glanced at the phone on the bed. Tom would be done for the day, the horses fed and taken c
are of, no more tourists to wrangle. She made a move for the phone, but stopped herself.

  What did he say, just before she left? “I’ll call you.” But he hadn’t so far. She’d heard the “I’ll call you” line countless times during her single years, and they never meant it. But Tom lived with her. She wondered if he’d said it just to placate her. Or maybe out of guilt?

  He said he’d call her; let him call. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of going first.

  A loud rumble reverberated off the motel walls, punctuated by one ear-splitting roar before clean silence.

  Laura heard the car door slam, heard Richie unlock his door and go inside, heard the TV come on. Some thumping, the sound of the shower turning on.

  Not long after that, he knocked on her door.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, the look on his face triumphant. “Got something,” he said, walking past her into the room and sitting in one of the chairs by the window. He crossed his leg over his knee, wriggling his foot. Wired. “We’ve got a witness.”

  “We do?”

  “Yup. Some guy slept out by the lake, saw the whole thing.”

  “Where’d you hear this?”

  “Somebody heard him talking and reported it to Williams PD. A Sandra Bell, B-E-L-L, heard him bragging about it outside the Mother Road B and G last night.” He shifted in his seat, pulled out a crimped notepad from his jean pocket. “Guy’s name is Luke Jessup.”

  “You have an address?”

  “According to my notes, he’s a drifter, does odd jobs for folks. Delivers water.”

  “Delivers water?”

  “You see all those tanks around town? In the back of pickups, people hauling them around on little trailers? Place has a water shortage in the outlying areas. People outside the city limits have to come in for water. Fill up their tanks just like they’d do with propane.”

  Laura remembered the tanks. White ones, mostly, some shaped like propane tanks, only they looked plastic. She wondered why Richie had noticed that and she didn’t.

  “Has an old truck, a ‘67 Chevy, pals around with a guy named Dave Soderstrom. I do have his address.”