Too Rich and Too Dead

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Half the fun of travel is the esthetic of lostness.”

  —Ray Bradbury

  The next morning, Mallory lay in bed for a long time, savoring the delicious groggy state that always enveloped her as she awakened. Her brain was still so firmly encased in cotton batting that she didn't know whether the feelings waiting for her on the other side of semiconsciousness would be good or bad.

  But as the cotton batting began to fall away, she gradually remembered that both feelings were lurking in the wings.

  The good feelings, of course, were the result of having been kissed by two different men the night before. Two divine men, if she dared use a word that sounded like something out of Sandra Dee's vocabulary.

  But as she grew even more awake, she remembered that her luscious role as femme fatale was also clouded by negativity. While Gordon Swig elicited plenty of good feelings, at the same time he elicited some bad ones. After all, she still wasn't completely convinced that he wasn't Carly Berman's killer.

  Impossible! Mallory thought, finally opening her eyes to a room that positively glowed, thanks to the bright early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. As she replayed the night before in her head, she found that she couldn't believe Gordon capable of any crime—that is, aside from stealing someone's heart.

  Then, of course, there was Trevor. Sweet, shy, down-to-earth Trevor, she thought, unable to keep from smiling. She and her boss had both been jolted into recognizing that they had feelings for each other, and as a result she was glowing with the same intensity as the early morning sun.

  After weighing the pluses and minuses, she decided that on balance she deserved to be happy about what had happened. What is happening, she corrected herself. Yesterday was just the beginning.

  She finally dragged herself out of bed and busied herself with her first task of the day: calling room service and ordering breakfast. Doing so signified that she was now officially awake, which meant it was time to stop lolling about like the heroine in a romance novel and get busy with the day's To Do list.

  So while she waited for breakfast to arrive, she grabbed the small pad of paper printed with the hotel's logo and did some quick calculations. Then she turned on her laptop and went on-line to look up the number of the state of Pennsylvania's government offices.

  By the time Mallory had worked her way through half a pot of coffee, she was ready to get serious. After checking her watch to make sure it was late enough on the East Coast, she dialed the phone number for the Office of Vital Records. She was pleased that an actual government employee answered, instead of a machine.

  “I'm wondering if you can help me with kind of an unusual problem,” Mallory began, hoping the woman on the other end of the line would turn out to be as friendly and helpful as her greeting had made her sound. “I'm going to my high school reunion next month, and for the life of me I can't remember the name of the guy my best friend from back then ended up marrying. I know I'll run into both of them there, and I'm going to be really embarrassed if I don't know what to call her husband when she and I start reminiscing about gym class and prom night!”

  “Have you tried looking through your yearbook?” the woman suggested. “That might jar your memory.”

  “My friend and her husband didn't meet until later,” Mallory explained. “That's why it's so hard to remember what the heck his name was. Is there any way you could look it up for me?”

  “What year did your friend get married?”

  Mallory's heartbeat sped up. This was looking promising… She glanced at the pad of paper on which she'd figured out the year Carly had most likely married her first husband. Based on what Gordon had said, she'd figured Carly had probably been around twenty.

  After telling the woman the year she'd targeted, she added, “I'm not positive that's the correct year. It's close, but it could actually have been a year or two before or after that.”

  “Give me the exact spelling of her name and I'll see what I can find,” the woman said kindly. “Do you mind if I put you on hold for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all. Her name is Carly—that's C-A-R…”

  While she waited, Mallory's heart pounded so hard she was glad she wasn't a hypochondriac. It was only then that she realized how badly she wanted it to turn out that Carly's wayward ex-husband was the culprit. She certainly didn't want it to be Gordon. Harriet, either. Or even Sylvie, for that matter. If the reason for Carly's murder was that a terrible mistake she'd made more than twenty years earlier had come back to haunt her, her death would still be just as terrible—but at least it would let all three of the people Mallory had gotten to know in Aspen off the hook.

  “I found it!” the woman at the end of the line announced triumphantly less than five minutes later. “The man your friend married is named Clive Darnell. Let me spell that for you.”

  After thanking the woman profusely, Mallory focused on her laptop once again. Her heart was still pounding as she did a search for the state of Pennsylvania's corrections department. Once she found it, she did a prisoner search for the name Clive Darnell.

  Then she held her breath for the few seconds it took the system to search. “No Name Found.”

  “Okay, there are still forty-nine more states to try,” she muttered, unwilling to be discouraged. “Just because Carly's ex spent some time living in Pennsylvania doesn't mean he never got into trouble somewhere else.”

  She tried Ohio, then Indiana. When both states’ corrections department Web sites failed to turn up anything about a Clive Darnell, she hesitated, wishing she'd paid closer to attention in geography class. She finally Googled a map of the United States, then started checking the Web site of every state in that part of the country.

  “Yes!” she cried when Clive Darnell came up on the Iowa corrections department Web site.

  But her momentary elation over finding the information she'd been looking for turned to something else when she read the rest of the information the Web site supplied. Clive Darnell had been released in March, exactly three weeks before Carly's murder.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “He's out.”

  Which means he could very well have killed Carly.

  She was agonizing over whether she could figure out how to use the Internet to find out if he owned a forest green Ford pickup when her cell phone rang. She rushed to her pocketbook and pulled it out.

  She just assumed one of her admirers was calling, and she was anxious to find out which one. So she was actually disappointed when the number of the caller ID screen told her that one of her children was calling.

  Squelching the feelings of guilt that instantly arose, she answered, “Hello, sweetie,” even though she didn't know which of her two sweeties it would turn out to be.

  “Why haven't you called?” Amanda immediately demanded, her tone accusatory.

  Where should I begin? Mallory wondered.

  Aloud, she said, “Sorry, honey. I've been busy. You know I'm only going to be here for a few days but there's still so much I have to get done—”

  “You know I worry about you when you're on the road,” Amanda countered. “Traveling in a strange place all by yourself…”

  If only you knew, Mallory thought, smiling to herself.

  “As a matter of fact, that hasn't been a problem,” she assured her daughter.

  “I've been thinking,” Amanda continued, barging ahead as if she wasn't really listening. “Maybe I'll just hop on a plane and fly out there myself. To keep you company, I mean.”

  “Please don't!” Mallory cried. Believe me, she was thinking, the state of Colorado is already crowded enough. But since she didn't want to sound as if she wasn't grateful for her daughter's concern, she quickly added, “Honestly, Amanda, there's no reason to worry about me. I'm just fine. Besides, I don't want you missing any of your classes.”

  “But Mother, I hate to think of you stuck out there all alone!”

  “I'm not exactly alone,” Mallory finally told her. “My
boss flew out here last night.”

  “Trevor Pierce?” Amanda asked, surprised.

  “That's the one.”

  “Now that makes me feel a lot better,” Amanda said. “It must be comforting to have someone you know out there with you.”

  I don't know if comforting is the right word, Mallory thought. Confusing, maybe. Or discombobulating… but in a good way.

  After hanging up, she distractedly grabbed her coffee mug and realized the coffee had gotten cold. She plopped it back down on the tray and turned back to her laptop.

  Where was I? she thought. But she quickly remembered precisely where she'd been: making real progress in her Internet research about Carly's first husband, but growing frustrated over all the questions that still remained unanswered. And the most important one of those was the nature of the crimes that had put him behind bars.

  Thank heaven for Google, she thought, typing in the name of Carly's ex-husband once again. But this time, she added a few more search words, including “arrested.”

  She held her breath while she waited for Google to work its magic. Within seconds, a page of entries popped up, with Clive Darnell in bold in every one of them.

  She clicked on the first entry and found an article from a local newspaper in Iowa, right below a short article requesting donations of cakes and other baked goods for the Methodist church's annual bake sale. Its date was July 13, 2005.

  Downingville Man Arrested

  for Check Fraud

  Clive Darnell, a 44-year-old resident of Downingville, was arrested yesterday on suspicion of check fraud.

  He was apprehended while trying to purchase a big-screen TV at an electronics store in Davenport. His arrest ended an eight-month investigation into a series of thefts dating back to 2003.

  According to police, Darnell stole the checkbook from someone's briefcase, then wrote a check for $2929.50 and attempted to use it to buy a 46” Sony flat-panel LCD HDTV. When the store's employee asked for identification and he was unable to provide any, he alerted police.

  Darnell was booked on suspicion of theft and forgery.

  Check fraud? Mallory thought frowning.

  It was a terrible crime, of course. It just wasn't the type she'd imagined Carly's ex-husband committing. Frankly, she'd been expecting something more along the lines of armed robbery or assault with a deadly weapon.

  In other words, something violent. Something that would make him look more like the type of person who was likely to track down his ex-wife and kill her in cold blood. Maybe even someone whose behavior had pointed to psychopathic tendencies.

  You've been reading too much Jonathan Kellerman, she scolded herself. The criminal world isn't characterized by that level of drama. Or by such quirky personalities, either. All it would take for Carly's ex to have acted that way would have been extreme jealousy or a desire for revenge…

  With a sigh, Mallory pushed her laptop away. The information she'd found was disappointing. True, the scenario she'd been hoping to construct—one in which Carly's ex-husband hightailed it over to Colorado to track her down the moment he was let out of prison—was still a possibility. It was just that deep down in the pit of her stomach, she wasn't even close to convinced that it was a strong enough possibility to clear the names of all the other suspects.

  Which meant she still had more work to do. And that work had to be done where Carly's killer most likely lurked: right here in Aspen, within the circle of people who had been closest to her.

  As she contemplated what to do next, Mallory mentally ran through her list of suspects. She realized that questions about Dusty still nagged at her. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that over lunch at the top of Aspen Mountain he'd denied being Carly's paramour. But what interested her even more was that Autumn had insisted he was.

  Then there was the fact that he had insisted Autumn was his girlfriend while she claimed to be his ex. What's that about? Mallory wondered.

  She remembered Dusty mentioning that he and his household full of ravenous roomies lived on Waters Avenue. According to her map, it was tucked away on the edge of town.

  A few minutes later, she found herself strolling down the quiet residential street, trying to look casual instead of like someone who was scoping it out. Not surprisingly, most of the buildings she passed were well-maintained condos whose proximity to the base of Aspen Mountain undoubtedly meant they were the weekend getaways of the wealthy. One building, however, stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. The dilapidated three-story structure, covered in wooden shingles instead of sturdier materials, looked unloved, as if it was silently begging for a new coat of paint and the services of a competent window cleaner. Its tired appearance, combined with the fact that it was wedged between two considerably tonier complexes, made Mallory wonder if its owner was counting the minutes until he could knock it down and put up something that would justify higher rents.

  Once she'd zeroed in on the building she was certain had to serve as Dusty Raines's castle, she retreated to a small espresso joint she'd noticed on the corner. The last thing she needed at this point was more caffeine. Her nerves already felt as if someone who'd time-traveled into town from the Spanish Inquisition had stretched them on a rack. But she needed a place that could serve as headquarters for her stakeout.

  So she went inside and ordered a cappuccino. “Make that a decaf,” she added at the last minute, figuring that at some point in her life she might actually want to sleep.

  While most of the tables were empty, she headed for one of the stools at the counter lining the front window of the storefront. What the seating arrangement lacked in comfort it more than made up for in the first-rate view it afforded her of Dusty's street. At least the end of it, a point he had to pass through if he was going to leave home sweet home.

  Mallory only had a chance to sip half her coffee before she spotted her prey, dressed in the same sloppy jeans that in her mind had become his trademark. She stuck the plastic lid back on and stepped outside, trying to act casual even though her heart was pounding so hard she wondered if the barista had surreptitiously slipped a few milligrams of caffeine into her cup.

  She was out on the street quickly enough to see Dusty turn right. She strode down the street after him, walking at a speedier pace than just about anybody else in Aspen. Then again, she still had half a cappuccino in her hand, which she hoped would offer an obvious explanation to anyone she passed who thought it strange that she was moving so fast.

  Mallory took care to lag far enough behind that she could keep an eye on Dusty without him realizing he was being followed. When he disappeared inside a doorway, she quickened her step. The leftover coffee sloshed around in the cup, threatening to erupt through the tiny opening in the plastic lid. She was still debating whether to chuck it or hold onto it as a valuable prop when she saw that the place Dusty had ducked into was a small grocery store. She tossed her cup into the nearest trash can, then followed.

  Peering through the storefront window, she saw that the shop sold basics to condo dwellers, staples like blue corn tortilla chips, vitamin water, and cartons of limited-edition Ben & Jerry's flavors. But as she was about to step inside, using the same door through which Dusty had disappeared, she realized that not only was it practically empty at this hour, it was small enough that he was nearly guaranteed to spot her.

  Instead, she loitered outside on the sidewalk, debating what to do next.

  But before she'd had a chance to come up with a plan, the door opened and Dusty emerged. Mallory stepped back against the building, cursing herself for standing in such an obvious spot. But luck was with her. He turned to walk in the opposite direction without even glancing in her direction.

  She also saw that he was no longer alone. Walking alongside him was a woman.

  But she didn't appear to be Dusty's age, even from the back. Mallory could see she was wearing a tailored jacket made of fine, expensive-looking wool and a pair of shiny patent leather high heels. She carrie
d a Coach purse and her hair was meticulously styled into a neat pageboy, dyed blond and subtly interlaced with silver streaks.

  In short, she looked rich. And not at all like a person who was part of Dusty's demographic—that is, someone who would enjoy whiling away the day eating pizza and playing Grand Theft Auto.

  Another lady friend? Mallory wondered.

  She picked up her pace, trying to keep far enough behind to go unnoticed but close enough to hear some of what Dusty and his Coach-clutching companion were saying to each other. The two activities, it turned out, were mutually exclusive. Unless she dared to hover dangerously close to them, she would never be able to hear a word of their conversation.

  She was still struggling to come up with a solution when the woman suddenly threw back her head and laughed loudly. “Oh, Dusty!” she cried. “I don't know what I'd do without you!”

  Is he that clever? Mallory mused, thinking that she must have missed something.

  She trailed them a little farther, noticing that by that point the three of them had reached the outskirts of town. Here, the streets were still lined with buildings, but most were clusters of condominiums.

  Mallory realized that if Dusty and his companion went inside one of them—for example, if it turned out that Ms. Coach lived in this part of town—she wouldn't have learned a thing.

  Mallory's heartbeat speeded up again when they turned into a small park that separated two of the condo complexes.

  Actually, it was more like an alleyway—that is, if the chic town of Aspen could have within its boundaries anything as base as an alleyway. Mallory broke into a jog, suddenly afraid she'd lose them. If they headed down a long, narrow passageway, especially one that veered off in another direction, she knew she ran a terrible risk of being spotted—and that if she was, she'd be hard-pressed to come up with a reason for why she was pursuing them.

  But as she stopped a few feet before the turnoff, inched her way along a brick wall, and finally peered around the corner, she saw that the alleyway was only about twenty feet long. It was also filled with garbage pails. Not surprisingly, the residents of Aspen seemed to prefer to keep their trash out of sight.