Deadly Currents

by Beth Groundwater

  After she left, Cynthia gave a theatrical shudder. “No way is that woman a natural blonde. I bet her hair is as black as evil itself.”

  Mandy patted Lucky’s stomach to signal she was done with his tummy scratch. “She didn’t seem to be grieving much, did she?”

  “No, I’d say she was just plain mad.”

  “And her anger’s pointed right at me.” Just like at Tom King’s funeral. “What did I do to her?”

  No one tests the depth of a river with both feet.

  —African Proverb

  Mandy couldn’t put off paying a visit to Detective Quintana any longer. She dropped Lucky off at home and changed out of her rafting clothes into lightweight pants and a short-sleeved shirt with an actual collar.

  She tried to figure out how to pull the empty frame out of the kitchen window, but gave up after fiddling with the screwdriver and getting nowhere. Too many layers of old paint had the frame firmly welded into place. She had hoped to drop it off at a glass shop on the way to the Chaffee County building and get them to install new glass. Now, she would have to break down and ask Rob to help her get the frame out.

  With hands on her hips, she studied the window. Tomorrow morning the kitchen would be chilly without some kind of barrier. Maybe she could scrounge up some cardboard. And, as Cynthia said, anyone could sneak into her place through the opening that was now just covered by a screen. Mandy tried not to think about that.

  When she arrived at the Chaffee County building, she had to search the sheriff’s offices until she found Quintana standing at the copier. She spied an empty paper box next to the machine. “Mind if I take that?”

  “No, go ahead.” His gaze went straight to the note in her hand. “What’ve you got there?”

  Mandy handed it to him. “This was tied to a rock that sailed through my kitchen window yesterday.”

  “Were you home? Did you see anything?”

  “I was out of the house all day and didn’t get home until after eight. It shook up my dog, Lucky, though.”

  Quintana reread the note. “So where have you been poking your nose?”

  Mandy picked up the cardboard box and sighed. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “I suspect not.” He grabbed his copies and steered her down the hall. “Let’s go to my office.”

  Once they were seated, Mandy steeled herself and told him what she’d been up to.

  Quintana listened quietly, stroking his mustache. When she finished, he folded his arms and looked out the window, as if composing what he was going to say—or composing himself.

  Mandy clasped her hands and cringed inside.

  Quintana directed a steely gaze at her. “Just like I predicted, your personal involvement in the case stirred up emotions—the killer’s. Did you deliberately ignore my advice?”

  Morosely, Mandy shook her head. “I didn’t ignore it. I thought about it a lot. I just … you know, whoever killed Tom King indirectly killed Uncle Bill, too. I couldn’t walk away from these people when I had the chance to question them, when one of them is responsible for my uncle’s death.”

  “And by doing so, you’ve put your own life in danger. What would your uncle say about that?”

  Oh God, that was a low blow. Mandy folded her arms tightly across her chest. “He’d hate it. He’d be yelling at me, ten times angrier than you are.”

  “And he’d be scared for you. As I am. As you should be. You could have been hurt by that rock. And who knows what this person’s next move will be?” He braced his hands on his knees. “You’re in danger, Mandy, and I don’t have the manpower to put a guard on you. The best thing you can do right now is to obey the message.”

  Mandy took a deep breath. Could she stay out of this? Whether she could or not, she had to convince Quintana. “Okay.”

  Quintana stared at her for a moment, then seemingly satisfied, he said, “Okay. Now, do you suspect anyone in particular of throwing the rock?”

  “Unfortunately, I left every single one of them pissed at me in one way or another. Though it’s hard to imagine Paula King flinging the rock. It seems to be beneath her. But her son, Evie Olson, Lenny Preble, or Nate Fowler?” Mandy shrugged. “It could have been any one of them.”

  “Right now, I’d lay odds on Jeff King, at his mother’s direction.”

  “What makes you say that? Have you found out something? Something I can put in my case report or tell the park managers?”

  Quintana picked up one of the papers he had brought back from the copier. “This is a search warrant for Paula King’s house.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I have two eye witnesses who saw her hand a sports drink bottle to Tom King. And no one who saw anyone else hand one to him. Given that we found aconite in one of the bottles in your uncle’s trash, we’re going on the assumption, for now, that that’s how the poison was administered. So, I’m going to look for evidence at her house and in her cars.”

  “You mean Western monkshood plants?”

  “Or the dried roots. I consulted a plant expert in the agriculture department at Colorado State University. He said the roots can be dried and stored for up to two years, then ground into a poisonous powder. We’ll look for any suspicious powders, too.”

  He handed her a couple of the sheets of paper. “He emailed some pages out of a plant guide, so we’ll know what we’re looking for. We won’t see those bluish flowers, because they bloom later in the summer. But they grow pretty tall, two to six feet high, and the leaves are what the guy calls palmate.”

  “Like a palm tree?”

  “No, like the palm of your hand and how your fingers spread out from that. He told me the best example is a maple leaf. We all know what one of those looks like.”

  “Can the poison only be made from the roots?”

  “The whole plant’s poisonous, but the biggest concentration is in the root, especially a young one dug up in the spring. And he said making a powder out of the stems or leaves is a lot more difficult and messy than using the root.”

  She pointed at a picture of what looked like a stunted brown carrot. “That’s what this photo is of?”

  “Yes. The guy said the root can be mistaken for wild horseradish.”

  He almost had to pry the pages out of her hands. She craned her neck to get another look at the photographs as he stapled four sets of them together. He tapped down the packets, put the search warrant on top, and stood.

  Realizing he must be planning to execute the warrant right then, Mandy rose, too.

  A woman poked her head in the office. “Deputy Rogers can’t come with you. He got a call that his wife is in labor.” Just as quickly, she exited.

  “Great,” Quintana said. “That means I’m short one on my search detail. I need a four-person team, two pairs, and there’s no other deputy available.”

  Mandy felt a stir of excitement. “Could you use some help from a fellow law enforcement officer, the one who initiated the case?”

  He stared at her for a moment, as if weighing the pluses and minuses. “If you could remain impartial, follow my directions to a T. Think you can?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’d much rather have you snooping under my tutelage than on your own.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand. “Now, if Paula or Jeff King object to your presence, it would be best if you went back to your car.”

  “I understand.”

  He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a rumpled, laminated clip-on badge, with the Chaffee County Sheriff’s logo and the words “Official Observer” on it. He handed it to her. “We use these for fellow law enforcement officers and plain folks who are doing ride-alongs with us. Gives you the appearance of a little more authority.”

  Quintana gathered a couple of patrol officer
s and introduced them as Deputies Mansfield and Thompson. He gave them the handouts on Western monkshood. He described what they were looking for, reviewed the search procedure and made assignments. Then the four of them trooped out to their cars. After stashing the cardboard box in the back of her Subaru, Mandy followed the two police cruisers to the flanks of Methodist Mountain south of Route 50, far from her own small cottage and the close streets of town.

  Here, widely spaced paved and gravel roads wound among new developments with large lots and names like Fawn Ridge and Cherokee Heights. Set far back from the road, luxury homes peeked through stands of gnarled pinion pine and juniper, what the rangers called “PJ forest.” Quintana turned his cruiser into a long cul-de-sac and parked in front of a huge custom-built home of Douglas fir post-and-beam construction perched on the top of a ridge line. A covered breezeway led from the house to a detached three-car garage.

  Mandy followed Quintana up the drive, then took a few steps into the side yard. She looked past a gazebo containing a hot tub to a panoramic view of the town of Salida, fronted by the curving highway and the sparkling creek alongside it, the South Arkansas, which joined with the main river south of town.

  “Quite a place they’ve got here,” she said to Quintana when she rejoined him on the porch.

  “Yep. Nice view, huh?” He rang the doorbell.

  And cooler and quieter than town. The only other sounds were the soft rustle of the light breeze blowing through the trees and the creak of stiff shoe leather as Deputy Mansfield beside her shifted his weight. The scent was clean, too, of pine and juniper needles baking in the sun.

  Jeff King opened the door, his eyes wide with surprise. Barefoot, he was dressed in jeans and a stained Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt. He held a half-empty soda bottle. When he spied Mandy standing beside Quintana, he frowned. “What’s this?”

  Detective Quintana handed him a copy of the search warrant. “We have a warrant to search your home for evidence related to your father’s murder case.”

  “My mom’s not here.” Jeff’s hand was still on the door, blocking them from entering.

  “She doesn’t need to be,” Quintana said. “We still have legal authority to enter. You can call her, if you wish. Either you or she or both of you can be present, but you cannot impede the search in any way.”

  Jeff pointed at Mandy. “Why is she with you?”

  “Ranger Tanner initiated the case,” Quintana said, his tone calm and smooth. “The Sheriff’s Department often works cooperatively with other law enforcement officers whose agency is directly involved in an investigation. The team approach saves taxpayers’ resources.”

  Mandy kept her mouth shut. She noticed Quintana didn’t offer Jeff the option of objecting to her presence.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll begin on the ground floor.” Quintana stepped forward, forcing Jeff to step back and release the door. “Where would you like to remain while we conduct the search?”

  “The kitchen, I guess.”

  “Deputies Mansfield and Thompson will go with you to the kitchen and search there.” Quintana nodded to Mandy. “You’ll stay with me.”

  “I’m calling my mother,” Jeff said as he and the two officers headed for the kitchen.

  “Fine with me,” Quintana replied. “Deputy Mansfield, when she gets here, tell her I’d like a word with her.”

  He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and handed a pair to Mandy. He checked that Jeff was out of earshot then said, “Don’t want to take the chance of getting any aconite on our skin.”

  A chill went up Mandy’s spine while she donned the gloves and checked for holes.

  She followed Quintana through the master bedroom, with its heavy cherrywood furnishings, into the master bathroom. A glass-block walled shower stood in one corner and a Jacuzzi soaking tub in another, under a picture window overlooking the river below. Under a long mirror on one wall was a granite countertop with two sinks. One was cluttered with makeup pots and tubes and perfume bottles, and the other was completely bare except for an electric shaver plugged into an outlet. Either Tom King had been a neat freak, or Paula had already disposed of all of his things except for the shaver.

  Quintana pointed toward the medicine cabinet. “You look in there, and I’ll search the lady’s cosmetics and ointments here. Tell me if you find any suspicious-looking powder or something that might be a piece of Western monkshood root.” Quintana pulled out a drawer under the sink counter and leaned over it.

  Mandy opened the medicine cabinet. She felt a little guilty, like a party guest snooping on her host, then reminded herself she was part of a law enforcement team. Who would have thought that a former whitewater river guide would be sorting through someone’s medicine bottles?

  She went through all the bottles, opening them one at a time, but found only pills inside, mostly over-the-counter painkillers, cold medicine and stomach remedies, and a prescription for a cholesterol-lowering statin. At first, given their body types, she was surprised to see the prescription was written for Paula and not Tom. Then it hit her—Paula was the epitome of a Type A personality.

  “Nothing here,” she said to Quintana.

  “Okay, start on the clothes closet while I finish going through the drawers, sink cabinets, and linen closet.”

  Mandy stepped into the walk-in closet and let out an appreciative whistle. “My bedroom could fit inside here.”

  Quintana gave a snort and pulled out another drawer.

  In the closet, head- and waist-high rods across two walls held pants, skirts, shirts, and blazers. A high rod against the back wall held dresses, floor-length gowns, and men’s suits. Interspersed between sections of rods were shelves stacked with folded clothing, about a third of it men’s clothing.

  So Paula hadn’t gotten around to removing Tom King’s clothes yet.

  Mandy looked at the floor. In front of all three walls of the huge closet, except for one small area containing about a dozen pairs of men’s shoes, two rows of women’s shoes were lined up, most pairs sitting on top of shoeboxes. Every color of the rainbow was represented, as was every style—boots, mules, stiletto heels, pumps, you name it. Mandy popped the lid off one shoebox and spied another pair of shoes inside.

  The woman could give Imelda Marcos a run for her money.

  Mandy searched the shelves first, even dragging a chair in from the bedroom so she could see all the way to the back of the top shelves. Then she patted down the clothing, searching pockets.

  “I’m going into the bedroom,” Quintana announced.

  “I’ll be here awhile.” Mandy sat on the floor and started opening shoeboxes and checking them one by one. A pair of lime-green strappy heels, liberally studded with rhinestones, made her pause. She took one out of the box, stood it on her palm and stared at it.

  What possible event in Salida would you wear these to?

  A shadow fell over her.

  “Nice to know you’re enjoying my shoes.” Her voice dripping with sarcasm, Paula King stood in the closet doorway, arms folded across her chest. She swiveled to face Detective Quintana, who had come up behind her. “What is she doing here?”

  “She’s part of our investigative team.”

  “Oh, no. You’re not pulling one over on me. She’s a river ranger, not a sheriff’s deputy. I want her out of my house. Now!”

  “Fine,” Quintana said smoothly. “She can search the grounds outside. If you’ll follow Deputy Mansfield back to the kitchen, you can wait with your son there while we finish.”

  Silently simmering, Mandy returned the shoe to its box and stood. Yes, she and Detective Quintana had discussed this possibility, but instead of leaving, she would much rather tell this uppity woman where she could stuff her lime-green, rhinestone-studded shoe.

  After Paula left the room, Quintana quirked an eyebrow at Man
dy, sympathy and humor conveyed in that simple gesture. “We’ll switch partners. You and Deputy Thompson can search the grounds while Deputy Mansfield and I finish the house. Show me where you left off in the closet.”

  Mandy pointed out which shoeboxes still needed to be searched then gave him a curt nod and left. While she walked toward the kitchen, Paula’s shrill voice preceded her as she gave Deputy Mansfield not just a piece, but a large, jagged chunk of her mind.

  In the kitchen, all the cabinet doors gaped open. Mansfield had taken everything out from under the sink and was now shoving the haul back in, under Paula’s watchful eye. Thompson had pulled spice jars off a large spice rack onto the granite countertop. He was opening the jars and sniffing them, then returning them to the rack, probably out of order. Jeff King sat slumped at the kitchen breakfast counter next to his mother. His cheek rested on one hand, while the other hand spun his empty soda bottle on the smooth gray granite.

  Mandy quickly explained to Deputy Thompson what Quintana wanted them to do. As she made a hasty exit out the back door, Paula King’s glowering stare seemed to drill a hole into her back.

  Thompson followed, carrying a small duffle bag. “I feel sorry for Mansfield, having to babysit those two.”

  Mandy walked to the breezeway and surveyed the grounds. “Where should we start?”

  Deputy Thompson pointed to the garage. “How about there?”

  When Mandy opened the door, the warm, musty smells of potting soil and fertilizer greeted her. Two luxury automobiles sat parked in the front of the garage, just inside the closed automatic doors, but at least ten feet of space was available in front of them. The third, empty bay and the space in front of all three seemed to serve as a garden shed. Shovels, rakes, hoes, and brooms hung between pegs on one wall. A hose snaked across the floor and more hoses hung looped on racks. Along the back wall stood a built-in worktable, with shelves above and below it. A jumble of pots, seed packets, gloves, bulbs, smaller tools, and gardening supplies filled the shelves.

  Mandy gawked at the huge space. “My whole cottage would fit inside this garage.” And I’m repeating myself. Through the windows on the garage doors, she spied Jeff’s battered pickup truck on the driveway. He probably wasn’t allowed to park his undignified transport inside.