“Rho Swift is a fine woman. She’s turned into a good officer. But back then she was new to the department, had only been working there three weeks. Then she walked into an ungodly mess. One of the little boys, Health Wynne, died in her arms. It’s no wonder she made mistakes.”
“You said there was a radio call?”
“Yes. Neighbor woman reported hearing shots fired. That’s not unusual here. But the woman heard what sounded like semiautomatic weapons and people screaming.”
“This neighbor — who was that?”
“Virge Scurlock. She and her husband, Will, own the adjoining acreage. Big tract, and the house is a long ways from the canyon. Sounds up there get muted or distorted. That’s why Virge didn’t call it in until it was too late.”
Guy pictured the couple in the bar: the tense-faced redhead and her solicitous husband. “This Will Scurlock, what does he do for a living?”
“Contractor. Decks, woodworking, that sort of thing.”
“Does his wife have red hair?”
“So you’ve seen them. Virge used to be a beauty, but in past years she’s taken up eating in a real serious way. Not that you can blame her, having to live next to that canyon. It’s been left exactly like it was the night of the murders, and now it’s falling to ruins.”
“The property hasn’t been sold in all these years?”
“Who’d want it? Besides, Susan Wynne’s family back east — people name of Harrison, who took her little girl to raise — don’t want to sell.”
Harrison, Guy thought. Maybe those years off from writing had taken their toll after all. He hadn’t made the connection between Susan Wynne’s birth name and that of the man who had interested him in this project. Susan was probably Dunbar Harrison’s younger sister. And, come to think of it, hadn’t someone mentioned an orphaned niece going to live with Dun after old Mrs. Harrison died? Now Guy better understood the haunted quality he’d sensed in the man, as well as his anguish when he thought Guy was turning down his idea.
He asked, “Why don’t the Harrisons want to sell?”
“What I heard was that Susan Wynne’s mother wanted the property left just like it was as a monument. As a kind of reproach to the folks that live here, too. Don’t know what comfort that could’ve given her, but people take their solace in strange ways. Anyway, until she died last year it just sat there with a local security patrol guarding it. After her death, whoever inherited stopped paying on the contract, didn’t respond to the company’s inquiries.”
“But the taxes are current?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’ve decided to let it go to the county. I hear the family’s rich. Rich people can afford to toss away what makes them uncomfortable.”
Or to send an unsuspecting journalist to rip open the town’s old wounds, find answers for them. But had Dun been so foolish as to think he wouldn’t find out his motives? Or had he assumed that by then Guy would be so fascinated with the story that he’d fail to take offense?
If so, he’d been right on the second point.
“This deputy,” he said, “Rhoda Swift. How’d she cope with being blamed?”
“Bad, at first. She was born and raised in Signal Port, daughter of a deputy herself. Being blamed showed her how a town can turn on its own. She got drunk and stayed drunk for a few years. Would’ve lost her job, but the station commander cut her a lot of slack. He was there that night too. Her husband left her, but maybe that was good, ’cause afterwards she shaped up. Didn’t try to run away, either, just settled down to being the best deputy we got. I’ll tell you, Rho Swift’s a tough one. Good one, too.”
Yes, Guy thought, his instincts told him the same.
“One more thing, Mr. Cordova,” he said. “Will you direct me to Cascada Canyon?”
Rho sat with her feet propped on the desk, leafing through an old issue of Field & Stream without really seeing it. An hour had passed, and Mercedes’ emergency operator had yet to get back to her with information on the abandoned car. The door opened, slammed shut. She looked up. Wayne, red-faced and scowling.
“Dammit, Rho,” he said, “Grossman may have tried to put a lid on the murder, but word’s all over town. The EMTs stopped in for coffee at the Oceanside earlier, and after they got through talking, we might as well’ve posted it on the Internet.”
She dropped the magazine, lowered her feet to the floor. Now they had a potentially bad situation on their hands. Besides igniting the town’s collective paranoia, the nature of the crime might make people who had seen the woman on Friday reluctant to come forward. “What’s the reaction so far?”
“About what you’d expect. Folks’re grim, and a lot of the women’re scared. I’ve canvassed half the town and only found two witnesses who’ll admit to seeing our victim at the turnout.”
“There must be dozens.”
“I know that, and I’ll keep canvassing till they own up.” Wayne paused, frowning. “People’re acting strange, and here’s one example: When I stopped in at the hotel, Virge Scurlock was in the bar watching the ’Niners game.”
“What’s strange about that?”
“She’s not a sports fan. Will usually comes down by himself to catch the games on the big screen, but today he had an appointment with a client up at Deer Harbor. Virge told the waitress — that Becca Campos — that he’d dropped her at the supermarket, but she decided to stop in for a drink before she did her shopping.”
“So?”
“She isn’t much of a drinker, but today she was getting shitfaced on stingers.”
“When was this?”
“Around one thirty, and she was well on her way. Becca said she came in about noon.”
“You’re right — it is strange. You talk with her?”
“Yeah, and she wasn’t making much sense, but I did find out that she’d already heard about the murder.” Wayne paused, thoughtful. “You know, a couple of years ago Will and I got drunk together. Right after Janie threw me out for those three months. He was supposed to be consoling me, but I ended up consoling him. He told me that every year since the canyon murders, Virge has gotten more and more squirrelly.”
“I’ve heard the same.”
“Well, she’s squirrelly as hell today, and I think maybe we should—”
The phone rang. Rho said to Valerie, “I’ll get it.”
Mercedes, with the current address and phone number of the car’s owner, one Richard Bartlow.
“I’ve turned up something out here that’s raised an interesting issue,” Guy said over the phone to his research assistant, Aaron Silber, “and I need to check a fact with you. It’s probably in the material you gave me, but I don’t have time to plow through it right now. Who’s paying the taxes on the Cascada Canyon property?”
Silence, except for the clicking of Aaron’s keyboard. Guy pictured him: wiry-haired, lean-faced, hungry eyes staring at the screen through tinted glasses, a smile on his thin lips. Nothing had pleased Aaron more than Guy’s call saying he was about to begin another book. He’d willingly set aside two potential clients — “Political analysis, advertising demographics. Who needs that?” — in order to return to Guy’s employ.
“Damn!”
Guy held the receiver away from his ear. “What?”
“I didn’t run a check on ownership. Major oversight. Sorry, Guy.”
“No harm done. But do it now. My source here thinks Dunbar Harrison’s family may still own it.”
“Harrison? Fellow who talked you into the project?”
“One and the same. I think his sister was one of the victims, and he wants me to play detective.”
“Kind of bogus of him not to tell you.”
“Well, it’s a complicated situation.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I put together those files.” More silence except for the keys tapping. “Son of a bitch! The database I use doesn’t cover that area!”