Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (19 page)

Irwin? The name meant nothing to me. “He was by himself?”

“No. There was another gentleman in the car out front.
Mr. Irwin said this Edwards was a writer and needed someplace secluded.”

Finas chuckled. “Ain’t no place no more secluded than
the Carmony place.”

She shrugged and grinned at her friend. “You ever hear
of a writer named Edwards, Finas?”

Finas shrugged. “You know better’n that, Myrt! I never
read nothing except the comics”

Myrtle laughed. “Anyway, that’s what he said.”

“You seen him back in town since?”

She pondered my question. “Not really. Saw him drive
through a couple of days back with two other fellas. They
didn’t stop. Just headed on out to the Carmony place”

“Carmony place, huh? How do I get there?”

She gave me directions that were so convoluted I knew I
had to wait until morning. A couple of the turn-offs marked
by nothing more than fallen pines or deserted sheds would
be too easy to miss in the dark. With the temperature plummeting, I didn’t want to get stuck out all night.

The small village might have been out of the way, but it
had all the modern conveniences that appeal to tourists:
satellite TV, central heat, and Wi-Fi.

That night, I pulled up my e-mail and, with mixed feelings, discovered that cyberspace had decided to play ball.
Meekly it handed over Eddie Dyson’s response to my inquiries concerning Raiford Lindsey and Frank Cooper. Go
figure.

Both men were in hock from the top of their heads to the
soles of their feet. And then some.

I printed out his report and settled back on the couch to
peruse the information. I couldn’t help whistling in surprise as I skimmed the report. Of the two, Cooper appeared
to be on shakier financial ground.

Lindsey had taken out options on several thousand acres
in South Texas on either side of a proposed toll road from
Mexico to the Texas Panhandle that the Texas governor
was trying to dump on the Texas taxpayers. Lindsey had a
one-hundred-thousand-dollar note due in two months.

According to Eddie, Cooper was a silent partner in
Golden Gate Oil Brokers Incorporated, which had for the
last several months been under fire from federal investi gators because of deceptive accounting, including hiding
various manipulative practices that enhanced profitability
reports for stockholders and the government.

Now, I’m not too astute on most business practices, but
over the years I’ve seen companies literally rip the financial
belly from hundreds of thousands of average investors simply because of greed.

Fortunately, some of those responsible received welldeserved prison terms, but even that satisfaction was a moot
point to those who lost their life savings or had their retirements wiped out.

Both Lindsey and Cooper now had motive. Both had opportunity. Both had means. But, I reminded myself, Carl
Edwards was purportedly here, alive.

So much for Cooper’s or Lindsey’s motives.

Still, I couldn’t help toying with various scenarios.

Remembering Eddie Borke and Jack Ramsey’s sketchy
description of the heist men, I could eliminate Raiford Lindsey. The two guards stated the gunmen were about their
size, which was slender, not bowling-ball round like Raiford
Lindsey.

That left Cooper, of whom several questions continued
to nag at me. Unfortunately, there was a plausible explanation for each.

He claimed to have recognized Edwards’ voice, but the
slight vice president had laryngitis. Maybe it was the hoarseness he recognized.

Second, the gunshot wound Cooper suffered was to his
left side, the side opposite where a southpaw would likely
have fired if the two were standing face to face. To be fair,
Edwards might not have been standing directly in front of
Cooper, which meant he could have shot Cooper in the left
side.

And third, other than Edwards’ family, Cooper was the
only one I mentioned Falcon Reservoir to, yet the next day,
Rita Johnson suggested the lake. Was he the one who told
Rita about it? If so, why? Or had Carl Edwards told her in
casual conversation? That, though, was too much of a
stretch. He had never even mentioned it to his own wife.

I stared, unseeing, at the TV. Despite knowing Carl Edwards was alive, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was working
on a puzzle with half a dozen pieces missing. And without
those pieces, I’d never learn the truth.

During the night, I awakened every time the heating unit
kicked in, which was frequently. I discovered why when I
glanced at the sliding glass doors the next morning and saw
nothing but the artistic handiwork of Jack Frost scribbled
across the glass.

I slid a door open, and the bitter air took my breath away.
I slammed it quickly and whistled. Donning my wool
trousers and shirt, I slipped into the fur-lined boots and
stomped downstairs to the motel lounge where flames leaped
in the massive fireplace, sending their warmth around the
room to the handful of customers enjoying their breakfast.

On a highboy against one wall was a continental buffet,
so I helped myself to a cup of steaming coffee and a cinnamon bagel. A couple sat in front of the blazing fire.

One or two motel guests nodded to me, and I returned
their greeting.

“Cold enough for you?” one sunburned man asked with
an amiable grin.

I shivered and slid onto the couch in front of the fire.
“Too cold”

“Where you from?”

“Austin”

He chuckled. “Gets a tad colder up here, friend. Twenty
degrees this morning”

I laughed with him. “I’m finding that out”

At that moment, the proprietor, Willie Morales, came
through. He pulled up when he spotted me. “Any luck finding your gent?”

“I’m not sure. Myrtle Cummings said a guy by that name
rented the Carmony place. I’m driving up there this morning.”

He clicked his tongue and gave his head a shake. “Narrow roads up through there. Almost deserted. Lucky if two
jeeps a week go through. You watch yourself” He studied
my clothing from head to foot. “Looks like you’re dressed
okay. Got a parka and gloves?”

His remark puzzled me. “Yeah. I’m only going to be
gone a couple of hours”

The man next to me wearing a bulky turtleneck sweater
leaned forward and extended his hand. “They call me Norby
Collins. I own the gun shop down the street. I don’t mean to
butt in, but it wouldn’t hurt if you took some emergency gear
with you” When I frowned, he continued. “Likely as not,
you’ll not need it, but weather up here is mighty fickle.
Never hurts to have something to fall back on if worse
comes to worst and you can’t make it back in tonight”

I glanced up at Willie. He nodded. “Norby’s right, Mr.
Boudreaux” This time he pronounced my name correctly.
“Sometimes two hours can turn into two days”

I patted my pocket. “No cell phone service up here?”

Both men chuckled. “That’s the beauty of this place,”
Willie said.

Norby leaned back, a grin on his ruddy face. “Come on by
my place, Mr. Boudreaux. I keep a couple of backpacks put
together with poncho shelters, mini warmers, dried food, Thermo-Lite blanket, medical kit, and fire starters. I’ll toss
one in your car. If you don’t use it, just drop it off when you
come back”

I lifted an eyebrow at the hospitable offer. “Sounds fair
enough to me”

“And,” Willie added, “best you put chains on them
wheels”

Thirty minutes later, tire chains, emergency pack, and
all, I pulled out, heading north up into the pine- and fircovered slopes of the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Snow still lay in the shady slopes and crevices of the
mountain.

I grinned when I remembered how Norby Collins had insisted I stash a few envelopes of dehydrated food and food
bars as well as a fire starter in my parka. In fact, after
demonstrating its use, he had fastened a small starter to the
zipper tab on my coat. He started to explain, but I beat him
to it. “I know, I know. Never can tell what might happen”

He had laughed. “You learn fast, Mr. Boudreaux”

The first few miles, the drive was everything a travel agent
could say about the mountains. Tall pines, bushy firs, various
understory vegetation growing around the rocky boulders
lining the narrow road, which was not much more than a
couple of ruts over rocky slopes. On either side of the bumpy
road, icy streams sluiced down the mountainside, their swift
moving water cutting through banks of snow.

My first turnoff sent me climbing steeper up the slope.
From time to time, the road switched back, climbing slowly,
and at each switchback, the road widened, leaving ample
space for vehicles to park as others made their way up or
down.

The slopes between the switchbacks were vast fields of
small boulders, black and gray, covered with patches of
lichen and moss. A sudden motion in one of the fields caught
my attention. I braked to a halt and stared at the sprawling
carpet of various size stones.

Suddenly, a tiny marmot darted from under one stone to
another and then a bird that reminded me of a Bob White
quail shot out and zoomed across the field of boulders.

The little marmot vanished.

Taking my foot off the brake, I continued up the road.

There were no guardrails along the precipitous slopes, so
I kept as close to the middle of the road as possible, crossing my fingers I wouldn’t meet anyone coming down and
thankful I’d had chains put on the car.

The fallen snow seemed to be lying in thicker patches.
The temperature grew cooler, and I kicked up the heat in
the Ford Taurus.

Suddenly, a deer darted across the road, followed by a
second one. I slammed on the brakes and watched as they
clambered up the rocky slope.

Drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, I continued climbing until I reached the last turnoff, a narrow trail
marked by a crumbling cabin. I was about twenty minutes
out of Lost Lake by now.

The slope was steep, so steep, I shifted down into a lower
drive and crept upward. I thought to myself that whoever
owned this place must have four-wheel drive, for I doubted
my rented Taurus’ automatic transmission could take the
strain of such a climb too often.

The narrow road switched back several times, each about
fifty feet above the other. After another ten minutes of winding through a forest of skyscraping pines and bushy firs and
gently easing around the sharp switchbacks, I drove onto a rocky plateau some hundred yards wide, covered with
patches of snow. I braked to a halt. At the back of the granite plate, a sprawling, two-story log cabin sat at the base of
the mountain slope. A Cadillac was parked in front.

I whistled softly. The place was the epitome of isolation.
I had the feeling the Carmonys didn’t care for drop-in visitors.

For a few moments, I studied the cabin, my stomach
churning with anticipation of what lay ahead. If Edwards
was here, I didn’t want to find him. I chided myself for
letting my own feelings become involved, yet I couldn’t
help it.

Tendrils of smoke rose lazily from chimneys at either
end of the house, and the soft purr of a generator drifted
through the air.

Taking a deep breath, I eased forward, wondering just
what I would say to Carl Edwards if I came face to face
with him. And what would he say to me?

Would he attempt to keep me from revealing his whereabouts? If so, how? I couldn’t imagine his resorting to extreme measures to keep me quiet. He might be many things,
but he was no killer. Yet, allegedly he shot Frank Cooper.

All I could do was shake my head as I pulled up to the
sprawling cabin and climbed out of the Taurus.

I climbed the stairs to the porch running the length of the
sprawling cabin. I couldn’t help admiring the structure. It
was one of those you would expect to see in a national
magazine or TV program.

Halting in front of two massive slab doors, I pounded the
heavy brass knocker.

Moments later, the door opened, and a slender man,
about six feet or so, faced me. “Yes?” His voice was highpitched and thin.

I glanced past his shoulder into the cavernous room and
said, “I’m Tony Boudreaux. I was told a Mr. Carl Edwards
had rented this house”

His large eyes stared at me from his sepulcher face. “So?”

“So,” I replied, sticking an unfelt grin on my face, “I’d
like to see him if he doesn’t mind. His wife sent me,” I
added.

The last remark got his attention. “Oh. I beg your pardon, Mr. Boudreaux. Certainly. This way, if you please”

Though his voice sent shivers up my spine, I was pleasantly surprised at the sudden cooperation. I stepped inside
and followed him across a shiny floor of heartwood pine. I
couldn’t help noticing he wore a light sport coat over a pair
of lightweight slacks. He was as new to the mountains as
I was.

To one side, a fire blazed in a fireplace constructed of
the granite rocks from the surrounding slopes. Chairs and
couches covered with Navajo blankets faced the fire. The
blankets were red with white, blue, yellow, and green horizontal stripes with spider woman crosses.

He halted in front of an ornately carved slab door and
knocked. From inside came a voice. “Yes?”

“A visitor, sir. A Mr. Boudreaux from Austin, Texas”

I stiffened. How did he know I was from Austin?

“Show him in”

The tall angular man opened the door and ushered me
inside.

I nodded to him as I passed, and then jerked to a halt,
staring into the leering face of Hymie Weinshank!