Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “Okay,” Radhauser said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  Matt looked at his watch. “Are you saying I can leave now?”

  When Radhauser nodded, the light in Matt’s eyes returned. “I’m supposed to meet Danni at 3 o’clock, but my car is parked in the school lot.”

  Radhauser suppressed a smile. Maybe things were looking up for this kid. “Good luck. Officer Dunn will drive you back.”

  * * *

  Matt slipped into the booth at Coco’s across from Danni, determined to talk to her about the night Crystal died. The restaurant served breakfast all day long and the freshly-baked smell of apple pies and blueberry muffins mingled with the sizzle of bacon, sausage, and hamburgers on the nearby grill. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No,” she said. “Are you all right? What did the police want?”

  “It’s a long story. But after we order, I’ll tell you if you’re willing to listen.”

  She leaned forward, her voice soft. “I’m sorry about the other night. I should have invited you inside and told you right away Larry is my cousin. But I didn’t want my mom to find out you were there. I never meant for it to hurt you.”

  They ordered slices of apple pie with vanilla ice cream and coffee, made small talk about Danni’s acceptance to nursing school until the waitress delivered their order. When she stepped away from their booth, Matt started to talk. “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to keep the heart necklace forever?”

  “No, I just said that to make you feel bad.” She gave him a closed-mouth smile to make sure he knew she was being sarcastic.

  “I found it. It’s at the jeweler to have the clasp repaired.”

  She smiled with her whole face this time. “Now that makes me very happy.”

  Tenderness for her brushed over Matt. He remembered how safe she’d once made him feel, the way he’d turned to her with his guilt over Justin, and again when things at home got crazy and out of control, just before Mom moved out. He wanted to touch her, but held back.

  The wadded-up thing in the pit of his stomach started to unfold. He told her what had happened at the wedding. “My mom has every right to hate me.”

  “She could never hate you,” Danni said. “She loves you too much. Did you know she called my house Saturday night looking for you? She said she couldn’t go to Aruba without making sure you were all right.”

  Matt didn’t know what to say. He didn’t deserve that kind of understanding from his mother or anyone else. He told Danni about the way he’d felt when he saw her with someone else. How he’d driven out to Catalina to talk with Travis and found him gone. How Crystal had invited him inside and they’d drunk way too many beers. The way she wouldn’t let him drive home without sleeping it off, and how he’d awakened to find her dead in the bathtub. Everything except the dancing and the fact he’d had sex with Crystal.

  He waited for Danni to say something, but she remained silent, her eyes focused inward, unreadable. A moment later, she reached across the table and took his hand, then looked straight into his eyes. She had a light dusting of freckles across her nose, the same golden brown color as her hair. “Are you asking me for advice?”

  Matt didn’t know what to say. He’d needed to tell at least part of the truth to someone safe, to say the words out loud. “Advice? Yes, I guess that is what I’m asking for.”

  “I think you should go back to Detective Radhauser and tell him exactly what you just told me. Everything you did was understandable. You were trying to protect Travis. He’s your best friend. No one can fault you for that.”

  Matt swallowed. “But what if they blame me for her death? What if they think I killed her?”

  “I thought it was a suicide.”

  “Radhauser believes she was murdered.”

  With her free hand, Danni lifted the blanket of hair from her back and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. “Who’d want to murder Crystal?”

  He told her about Crystal’s affair with his father, the way she’d called him on Saturday to pick her up at The Spur, and the fight they’d had in Crystal’s driveway, overheard by Mrs. Lawrence. That Crystal was pregnant, and his dad had given her a check for a thousand dollars.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Do you think your dad is the baby’s father?”

  Matt shrugged, told her about the vasectomy.

  “Do the police suspect him?”

  “How could they not?” Matt said.

  She squeezed his hand. “But you were there. You know your father wasn’t. You have to tell them before it’s too late.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Just before 7am on Saturday, one week after Crystal’s death, Radhauser parked his car in the circular driveway behind the Mustang. He’d called the Arizona State Prison and learned Mitch Reynolds had been released on parole nearly three weeks ago. Could he have been the “old friend” waiting in the parking lot to get a look at Travis?

  The prison authorities told Radhauser that Mitch lived in a halfway house in Florence and went to work at 10am. If Radhauser wanted to get there in time to see Crystal’s ex-husband, he’d have to be on the road by 8:15.

  It was at least an hour drive and could take him another half hour to find the house. But he also wanted to catch Loren Garrison, detain him if necessary, so his Lincoln would be available when the other officers arrived with the search warrant.

  Radhauser strolled around the Mustang once, admiring the sleek, but squared-off lines, the deep turquoise paint job, the white racing stripes on the back fenders and doors. He cupped his hand over his eyebrows to block out the sun’s glare and peered through the driver-side window. The blue and white upholstery was new—but original-looking—as was the carpet. Someone had spent big bucks on restoration.

  When he rang the bell, Matt answered, his hair neatly combed but still wet from his shower. He wore his usual black jeans and a black button-down collar shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He held his car keys in his hand. “Thank God you’re here. I came by the Sheriff’s office to see you last night, but you weren’t there.”

  Radhauser tipped his head toward the Mustang. “Nice ride. You sure keep it clean. Those spoke wheel covers are a bitch to wash.”

  The kid smiled. “I try. Did you get my message? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. I came to talk to your father. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Why do you want to see my dad again?”

  “Some questions I need to ask. Is he around?”

  “His bedroom door was closed when I got up. I can check and see if his car is still in the garage.”

  While he waited, Radhauser twirled his Stetson and studied the Mustang—the distinctive fender emblem—a wild horse racing across red, white and blue stripes. Pieces of his old life coalesced around him.

  In 1967, the year he’d graduated from Camelback High School in Phoenix, Radhauser had driven a beat-up Ford pickup with rusted fenders, and upholstery that always reeked of cow manure. It had belonged to his uncle, a cattle rancher Radhauser had been sent to live with after his mother’s breakdown. He’d lusted for a Mustang, listed it in the yearbook as the set of wheels he’d most wanted to own.

  He thought about Lucas then, wondered what kind of car his boy would have dreamed of owning. Maybe they’d have bought a Mustang and refurbished it together in the driveway, with Laura watching them through the kitchen window as she loaded the dishwasher. Instinctively, Radhauser fingered the silver belt buckle.

  Matt returned. “He’ll be right with you.”

  “You headed somewhere?” Radhauser asked.

  “The grocery store. We’re out of everything, even Fruit Loops.” He shrugged and jingled his car keys in his left hand, as if to validate what he’d said. “I can wait if you have time. But I need to talk to you in private. Without my dad.”

  The judge had granted Radhauser a warrant to search the Lincoln, and he hoped Matt wouldn’t be home when the officers arrived. “We can talk this afte
rnoon,” Radhauser said. “After I return from Florence.”

  “I’m helping Travis spread Crystal’s ashes after work.”

  “I’ll be in the office until late,” Radhauser said, then stood on the porch for a few moments, watching the kid drive off and thinking about the way Laura had kept their pantry stocked with Lucas’s favorite cereals and snacks. The way she’d joked about the huge quantities of food their pencil-thin son could pack away.

  A rust-colored dog raced out of the neighbor’s driveway, yelped, and chased alongside the Mustang. Matt’s brake lights came on. He rolled down the window. “Go home, Meyer.” He pointed toward a neighbor’s driveway. The dog obeyed, and when it was halfway down its own driveway, Matt’s brake lights went out and he continued down the road.

  A gate squeaked. Footsteps crunched in the gravel. Loren Garrison stepped around the corner of the house, through a redwood arbor covered in bright pink bougainvillea blossoms and into the driveway. He was unshaven, dressed in work clothes, and had a pair of pruning shears in his gloved hand. Sweat wet his brow and a streak of dirt spread across his right cheek. He could have easily been mistaken for a gardener working for minimum wage. “Sorry for the wait,” Garrison said.

  Maybe Radhauser had pegged him wrong—maybe Garrison, despite his notoriety and subtle arrogance, deadheaded his own petunias.

  Garrison wiped his shoes on the mat, opened the front door and ushered Radhauser inside.

  In the entry, Garrison set the shears on a small Mexican-tile topped table, took off his gloves, wiped his right hand on his pant leg and held it out. There were circles of perspiration beneath his arms and he had the distinct musky smell of male sweat and last night’s alcohol. “What brings you here so early?”

  Radhauser shook Garrison’s hand. “I have a few more questions about you and Ms. Reynolds. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning, but it won’t take long.”

  Garrison led him into the family room.

  The plantation shutters covering the wall of windows into the backyard were closed, and it took Radhauser’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

  Garrison opened them and the sliding glass door to the back yard. The air held the faint smells of chlorine, pine, and wet soil as they seated themselves across from each other at the table.

  “Crystal’s neighbor, the woman across the street, claimed a white Lincoln with a blue top was parked in Crystal’s driveway last Saturday until around 7pm.”

  Garrison waved his hand casually, as if batting away a fly. “I already told you I left Crystal’s house about that time.”

  “The neighbor claimed you and Crystal were involved in a pretty heated discussion. Would you mind telling me what you argued about?”

  Garrison looked away. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you about my relationship with Ms. Reynolds.” He told Radhauser about their affair, the many times he’d tried to break it off and couldn’t, Crystal’s pregnancy, her assertion he’d fathered the child, and the vasectomy he’d had years ago.

  “I know about the affair,” Radhauser said. “I subpoenaed your office and home phone records for the past three years.”

  “And you found phone calls to Crystal’s house and her place of employment—not unusual when you’re in a relationship with someone.”

  His new attitude of cooperation surprised Radhauser. “Then you won’t mind me swabbing your cheek for a paternity test.” He didn’t really expect his captain to spring for DNA testing, but Radhauser could learn a lot from the suspect’s attitude about providing a sample.

  “Be my guest.”

  Garrison opened his mouth and Radhauser swiped the swab against the inside of his cheek, replaced the cap, then sealed it in the evidence bag.

  “The way I see it, you’d have a lot to lose if Crystal blabbed about you being the father of her child.”

  “I’m not the father.”

  “By the time you proved that, a lot of damage could be done to your reputation, to Harvard’s endorsement, and the sales of that new textbook of yours.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  Radhauser cocked his head, gave him a sympathetic but inquisitive look. “That you had motive.”

  “Motive for what? Didn’t Crystal commit suicide?”

  Radhauser was quiet for a moment, trying to decide how to play out his next move. A double murder in a town as small as Catalina was a big deal. The story could be a headliner in tonight’s paper, tomorrow’s at the latest. If Garrison read it first, he’d have time to recover, to plan his next move. Radhauser would miss his initial reaction.

  “No, she didn’t.” Radhauser’s gaze never moved from Garrison’s face. “The razor blade threw us off. Either someone tried to make it look like suicide, or the blade was superfluous—there because Ms. Reynolds used it to clean the tiles or to shave her legs. The ME established the wound was too deep to be self-inflicted with a razor blade. He’s calling it a double homicide.”

  Garrison went pale. He pressed his fingers into his temples. “Please, don’t do this. I had an affair with her while I was married. That was wrong. But you can’t think I’d kill Crystal.”

  “I’m not paid to think,” Radhauser said. “I’m paid to gather evidence and follow its trail until I get at the truth. And that trail leads me straight to you. Her neighbor said Crystal ran after your car, crying and screaming she’d prove you were the father. Sounds to me like a world of hurt.”

  Garrison studied him for a moment, as if he were a specimen in a glass case. “You’re a bit of a pitbull, aren’t you, Radhauser?”

  Radhauser laughed. “It’s the job. I’ve been called that and worse.”

  Garrison’s complexion had gone from pale to ruddy. “Like anyone would be, I was hurt by her obvious betrayal and the way she tried to blame the pregnancy on me. But I didn’t kill her. For Christ’s sake, I couldn’t even break up with her to save my marriage. She had that strong a hold on me. I’m not a perfect man, but I could never murder anyone. You already told me this nosy neighbor confirmed I drove away around 7pm, just like I told you?”

  “Yes,” Radhauser said. “She did. And the ME put the time of death between 10:30 and 11:30—with the possibility of it being as early as 9-9:30, depending upon the temperature of the bath water.” He waited a moment to see if Garrison responded. He didn’t.

  “Did you return to her house, hoping to make things right?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “There aren’t any streetlights out in Catalina,” Radhauser said. “The houses are set on two-acre lots. As you probably know, most of the folks are older, stick to themselves, and go to bed early.”

  Garrison looked down. Radhauser had no way of knowing how what he’d said had affected him.

  “But I didn’t return. I remained here. Nate dropped Sedona off at 9:30. I answered the door fully dressed—my hair wasn’t wet from a shower. I was calm and relaxed, working on a lecture. And I most certainly wasn’t covered in blood. If you don’t believe me, ask Nate.”

  “I intend to,” Radhauser said. “Did you give Crystal the thousand dollars to keep her quiet about your affair?”

  “No,” he said, meeting Radhauser’s gaze. “Absolutely not.” He told Radhauser about his concern the child would be born with fetal alcohol syndrome, and how he’d suggested Crystal consider an abortion. “She claimed she had no money. You may find this hard to believe, Detective Radhauser, but I tried to help her.”

  “After you broke up your family for her, I’ll bet you were pretty pissed off she’d been making it with someone else.”

  “I didn’t leave my wife. Karina left me.”

  “The end result was the same. I asked if you were angry.”

  Garrison shook his head. “The truth is, I was relieved. The hold Crystal had on me for years disappeared.” He looked at the detective, as if checking for a reaction, but Radhauser said nothing.

  Maybe he was wrong about this guy. Maybe he’d better start thinking abo
ut Matt, Mitch Reynolds, and other potential suspects. There was something about the waitress, Millie, and her concern over the way Crystal treated Thomas Baxter that seemed slightly suspicious. And Baxter must have been pretty pissed off, too.

  At the sound of a car coming down the driveway, both Radhauser and Garrison looked toward the entryway. Matt stepped inside, carrying two bags of groceries. “I can’t believe it. I must have run over a nail. I could barely get down the driveway.”

  Damn, Radhauser thought. He’d hoped the kid wouldn’t be home when the officers arrived with the warrant.

  “I guess it’s time you learned how to change a tire,” Garrison said. “I’ll help you when I get back. Call UMC and tell them you might be a little late this morning. Detective Radhauser and I are going out to CoCo’s for a cup of coffee.”

  Matt gave his father a long look as if trying to read his thoughts, then set the bags on the kitchen counter and began unpacking and putting them away, leaving out the box of Fruit Loops. He opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk.

  Radhauser checked his watch. “I’ll drive. I’ve got thirty minutes.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Matt sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and wondering what his dad and Radhauser were talking about. He thought about what Danni had said about telling the truth. He should have insisted Radhauser take the time to listen.

  For a moment, Matt felt sorry for his dad, understanding how the events of your life could become a tsunami. He made himself some toast, but couldn’t decide what to put on it, so he ate it dry.

  Without a clean shave and three-piece suit, his father had looked more vulnerable than Matt had ever seen him before—the way he’d pressed his fingers to the side of his head as if it could help him think more clearly, as if thinking was one more gift of youth that didn’t come so easily to him anymore.