Cyanide Wells

by Marcia Muller

  “Let me help you. Gwennie. Whatever’s wrong, I can help you through this if you’ll let me.”

  “Nobody can help. Least of all you.”

  “Is it my fault? What’s wrong with me?”

  “It’s not you. Just leave it.”

  “Gwen—”

  “Just leave it. And leave me alone!”

  “Why don’t you want kids? Give me one good reason why.”

  “For God’s sake, Matt, look at the world we’re living in. Do you really want to bring children into it?”

  “Ah, the standard line.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s everybody’s excuse when they’re—”

  “When they’re what? Too selfish? Is that what you think of me?”

  “No, but maybe you’re afraid of the responsibility.”

  “Well, what if I am?”

  “I’d share the responsibility. You wouldn’t be alone.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Kids, they make everything so…permanent.”

  “The way you’re looking at me, Gwen, it’s as if you hate me.”

  “Matt, no…”

  “Well, that sure isn’t the way a woman looks at the man she loves.”

  “I do love you; that’s not the problem.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Matt, I want a divorce.”

  “You say you love me, but you want a divorce?”

  “I want a divorce because if I don’t leave you, I will hate you.”

  “The mind may forget, but not the body.”

  “Then stay. Refresh your memory.”

  “It’s not that simple, Matt.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it just isn’t.”

  When he reached for the Wild Turkey again, he saw the bottle of wine that he’d bought along with his lunch at the deli in Cyanide Wells.

  Sam! Jesus Christ…

  He’d been due at her house at seven, but now his watch showed eight-forty. Better phone. No—go. Think of some plausible excuse on the way. Poor kid, she’d been so excited; he couldn’t brush her off with a call.

  Sam’s little frame house was dark when he stopped at the curb, and for a moment he felt relieved. He could just drive away, call her in the morning. But then he spotted a flicker of light on the porch, and a figure moved in the shadows. After he cut the Jeep’s engine, Sam’s voice called, “Well, John Crowe. The roast I spent my hard-earned money on this afternoon is as tough as beef jerky by now, and the fresh asparagus have turned gray. So what’s your excuse?”

  He got out of the Jeep and mounted the steps. The light he’d seen came from a candle in a glass globe on a small table between two broken-down wicker chairs. Extending the wine bottle to her, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  She took the bottle and turned toward the door. “It’s my fault, for making a big deal out of having a guy I met in a bar over for dinner.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I lost track of the time.” The elaborate excuse he’d concocted about his new job and a time-consuming first assignment seemed a shabby lie now.

  Sam said, “I’ll open the wine and get us glasses. Maybe after we drink some, the beef jerky won’t seem so tough, and I can probably get the asparagus up on their feet with some salad dressing.”

  In a couple of minutes she came back. Wordlessly she handed the open bottle to him, set down two glasses, and indicated he should pour. When she sat, the candle’s light touched her face, and he saw her eyes were puffy and red.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “Crying’s kind of my thing these days.”

  “Sam, I should’ve called. I was thoughtless, and I’m sorry.”

  “One ‘sorry’ is enough, thank you. How much bourbon have you drunk, anyway?”

  “Too much.”

  “You shouldn’t’ve driven in your condition. I don’t like drunks behind the wheel. My girlfriend’s little boy died because of somebody like you.”

  “I’m—”

  “Yeah, I know—you’re sorry. Give me your car keys.”

  “What?”

  “Your car keys.” She held out her hand, snapped her fingers.

  “You can stay here tonight, because I plan to drink this wine and then some more, so I won’t be able to take you back to your motel.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not a proposition. My dad’s bed is made up fresh.”

  He reached into his pocket, surrendered the keys.

  She nodded in approval. “So why the communion with the bottle?”

  He had an easy answer prepared. “Celebrating too much.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “My new job as general assignment photographer for the Spectrum.”

  “Hey, that’s great!”

  “I’m pretty happy about it.”

  “That what you did up in Canada?”

  “For a much smaller paper.”

  “Then you know about all the world-shattering events you’ll be taking pictures of: the hog judging at the county fair, old folks celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversaries, the groundbreaking for the new Denny’s.”

  “Listen, in order to get the job I had to fix Carly McGuire’s truck. After that, everything else’ll seem exciting.”

  Sam laughed. “She bullied you into it, huh?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I hear she’s not easy to work for, but if you’ve got a good idea she’ll turn you loose on it. That’s what she did with Ardis Coleman on the series that won the Pulitzer. And she ran an arty shot by the last photographer every week. You give her something she likes, she’ll print it.”

  “You sound as if you know her.”

  “I don’t really know anybody in Cyanide Wells.”

  “What about Ardis Coleman?”

  “I told you last night, the closest I’ve gotten to her is being in the next line at the supermarket.”

  “You must’ve heard something about her. She’s a local celebrity.”

  “How come you’re so interested?”

  “I guess it’s kind of like hero worship. This is the closest I’ve gotten to a Pulitzer winner—being in the same county with her.”

  “Well…They say she’s reclusive. Lives out on Drinkwater Creek on a big piece of property. Doesn’t give interviews or make public appearances. I think somebody told me she has a kid, but I don’t remember whether it’s a girl or a boy. She must have money, though; that’s one expensive, snooty town. I don’t know why that paper’s there. They crusade for all the things rich people are against: financing decent health care and welfare programs through higher taxes, making big corporations pay their fair share. They’re for preserving the environment, too, but they don’t go overboard; they recognize that people like loggers and fishermen have to make a living. What they want is a reasonable balance, and I like that. I also like it that the paper’s owned by a woman. It’s the kind of thing I’d’ve wanted to do if I’d gotten a decent education and had the kind of money Carly McGuire must.”

  In the light from the candle Sam suddenly looked melancholy. She added, “Lots of ifs, huh? But ifs don’t count. I’ll be working at the Chicken Shack till I keel over serving a Supreme Combo with cole slaw and fries.”

  “You told me last night that you were thinking of getting out of here.”

  “I think about a lot of things. It’s the doing that’s hard.” She sipped wine, more pensive. “So you’ll be staying around. Got a place to live?”

  “Not yet. On my salary I couldn’t even afford a closet in Cyanide Wells, so I’m thinking of looking here. I like Talbot’s Mills better, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s real.”

  Sam smiled grimly. “Oh, it’s real, all right. My dad could’ve told you how real it is. But listen, I know of a room for rent, with kitchen privileges.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Very cheap, if you volunteer for some chores, like fixing the drippy b
athroom faucet and cleaning out the gutters.”

  “When can I look at it?”

  “Right now, if you want.” She stood and moved toward the door.

  “I thought you had to be out of here next month.”

  Sam looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth about my dad. He…shot himself. Just couldn’t take being laid off at his age. After the funeral, one of the Spectrum’s reporters, that Donna Vail, interviewed me. I didn’t exactly hold back about the way the mill treated him. The manager there found out they were printing the story, so he called this morning and said I can live here rent-free till the end of the year, and if I want to stay longer, they’ll negotiate a fair price.”

  “And of course their P.R. department called the paper as soon as you agreed.”

  “Of course, but what the hell do I care? It’s a roof over my head, and if you move in I might actually be able to save some money.”

  He considered. Sam struck him as both levelheaded and easy to get along with. She wasn’t especially curious about either his prior or his present life and seemed disinclined to initiate a sexual relationship with him. Plus, she was an excellent source of information about the community. But best of all, he could get out of the motel, where he’d registered under his own name.

  “I don’t need to inspect the room,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m good with plumbing, so the leak should be fixed by this time tomorrow. Give me a little longer on the gutters.”

  Thursday, May 9, 2002

  Atour of the Spectrum’s offices, under the guidance of Severin Quill, was the first activity of the new day. Matt, nursing a hangover, suffered most of it in silence, saving his strength for Quill’s introductions of their fellow staff members. He’d already been greeted at the reception desk by the office and subscription manager, Brandi Webster, a young woman with the good looks of a high school cheerleader and the mannerisms to match; normally he would have found them delightful, but today they just seemed wearisome.

  As Quill got up from his desk and came to meet him, a heavyset woman in a purple straw hat and voluminous flowered clothing rushed past Matt, calling out, “Vera Craig, arts editor. Welcome aboard!” The scent of violet perfume trailed after her.

  Quill smiled. “Appearances to the contrary, Vera’s a damned good reporter and an astute critic. This morning she’s off to chronicle the opening of the new Thomas Kinkade gallery.”

  “Kinkade?”

  “California’s ‘painter of light.’ Mass-produced ‘originals.’

  ” “Like Keane paintings?”

  “No, more palatable. Idyllic scenes instead of glassy-eyed children. Very popular in the nineties; less so now, and his enterprises are overextended—hence a gallery in our provincial little community.”

  A woman came through one of the doors at the rear of the room, and Quill called, “Donna, meet John Crowe, our new photographer. John, Donna Vail, general assignment reporter. You’ll be working closely with her.”

  Donna Vail was small, blonde, and attractive. She wore shorts and a tee, and her frizzy shoulder-length hair was topped by a baseball cap. Her blue eyes surveyed him with frank interest, and she said in a husky voice, “Good to meet you, John. I’m sure I’ll enjoy working closely with you.” Then, like Vera Craig, she was out the door.

  Quill chuckled, and Matt realized his mouth had fallen open. “Don’t mind Donna,” Severin said. “She likes to project a bad-girl image. In reality, she’s a dedicated soccer mom and wife of the golf pro at the Meadows.”

  “The Meadows?”

  “A big planned community on the road east of town. The way to handle Donna is to serve back to her what she dishes up. She won’t know if you’re serious or not, so she’ll back off and treat you like a buddy.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  The tour went on to a large back room full of cubicles, where Matt met the display ad manager, advertising sales representatives, and mail-room personnel. As they were passing through the front room again, Quill introduced him to the religious/education and sports reporters. The door to Carly McGuire’s office was closed, and a Do Not Disturb sign—courtesy of Ramada Inn—hung on its knob.

  “She’s hiding?” he asked.

  Quill rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank God. She came in loaded for bear.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows, with Carly?”

  “The truck got her to Santa Carla and back okay, didn’t it?”

  “If it hadn’t, my friend, you wouldn’t be alive.”

  Quill led him through another door, to a room where the production manager and chief of page makeup and their assistants congratulated him on joining the staff. Beyond their areas were a couple of desks, a bank of file cabinets, and a light table. A door labeled DARKROOM was set into the wall opposite them.

  “Your bailiwick,” Quill said, with a flourish of his hand. “Your assistant, Joe Maynard, is currently in the inner sanctum, printing what he claims are perfectly egregious photographs he took at the Calvert’s Landing mayoral press conference this week.”

  “Calvert’s Landing?”

  “It’s the largest town on the coast. An Alaskan company wants to float gigantic, ugly plastic bags at the outlet of the Deer River to collect water to sell to southern California. Mayor’s all for the deal; he claims the water belongs to the state, not the municipality, so they can’t stop it. Which means he’s been paid off by the Alaskans. His constituency is concerned about environmental issues and visual pollution. The mayor’s effort to convert them to his point of view ended up in an unfortunate egg-throwing incident, which Joe captured on film.”

  “Egregiously.”

  “He tends to underestimate his talents. Anyway, I’ll leave you to await his emergence.”

  Matt had hoped, now that the tour of the facilities was at its final destination, to ask Quill about Ardis Coleman. But when he invited him to sit down and chat till Maynard was done, the reporter said he had an appointment in fifteen minutes. Maybe they could have a beer after work? Matt suggested. Sure, Quill said, if they finished at the same time. Hours at the Spectrum were irregular at best.

  Joe Maynard was built like a linebacker, with a shock of unruly brown hair, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and almost no neck. His hands were so large and clumsy-looking that Matt wondered how he could manipulate the settings on his camera. As they began trading histories in the cautious manner of men who know they must get along in order to work together, he found that Joe had indeed been a linebacker, at UCLA, where he’d earned a degree in fine arts.

  “So what brought you to Cyanide Wells?”Matt asked.

  “A chance to work at a paper in a place where I could also hunt and fish. After college I played a couple of seasons on special teams for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but I hated the weather back there. And I wasn’t really pro caliber, anyway. So I saved my money, came back to California, and worked for the Long Beach Sentinel. Then I heard about an opening here and applied. They’d just won the Pulitzer, and McGuire had an interesting reputation. Plus, I could live cheap.”

  “How come McGuire didn’t promote you when the last guy left?”

  “She tried to, but I turned her down. I don’t want to work full-time. I invested well before the dot-com bubble popped, took my profits, and put them into conservative holdings. And a year ago my wife presented me with twin boys. I want to be as much a part of their lives as I can.”

  “Good for you.” Matt proceeded to give him the same abbreviated details of his made-up life that he’d told Carly McGuire, then said, “Now, let’s see how those shots of the egg-faced mayor have turned out.”

  Maynard’s photographs were so good that Matt wondered what he might have accomplished had he had the desire to apply his talent. But talent alone, he knew, wasn’t enough to ensure success; success took drive and dedication, which his new assistant plainly lacked.

  “So,” he said as they emerged from the darkroom, “yo
u came to the paper before it won the Pulitzer?”

  “Afterwards. That was one of the things that attracted me. I mean, how often do you get to work for a small country weekly that’s achieved the granddaddy of journalistic honors? The only other one that comes to mind is the Point Reyes Light, for their exposé of Synanon, and that was decades ago.”

  “I understand the bulk of the Spectrum’s prize-winning articles were written by a reporter called Ardis Coleman. You know her?”

  “I’ve met her.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Quiet. Unassuming. Self-deprecating, actually. She once told me she didn’t do anything special, she was just handed a great story. But under the circumstances, I’d say her coverage was extraordinary.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford, the murder victims, were good friends of Coleman’s, and she was the one who found their bodies. Yet she was able to separate herself from her emotions and write extremely balanced, well reasoned stories. I admire that kind of control.”

  And how had Gwen achieved such control? The picture that Maynard painted was not of the woman Matt had married.

  “What’s Coleman like personally? She married? Have kids?”

  Maynard smiled. “What, you thinking of asking her for a date?”

  “I’m just curious about how a woman like that balances work and family, if she has any.”

  Maynard seemed unconvinced of his reply. “Look,” he said, “she’s a good friend of McGuire’s. Why don’t you ask her?”

  He’d have more success prying information out of the Great Sphinx. “I guess I’d better wait till she’s having a better day.”

  “Good luck, buddy.”

  Within fifteen minutes, a memo from McGuire was delivered to his desk by a young man with magenta-and-green hair and multiple body piercings, who identified himself as the office gofer. “Name’s Nile, like the river.”

  “No last name?”

  “Don’t need one. How many people’re called Nile? Besides, Nile Schultz sounds just plain stupid.” He gave him a little salute and walked away.