Cyanide Wells by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online

him. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but when she insisted, he agreed.
    Next he went to the Jeep, removed the standard lens from the Nikon, and attached the F2.8 telephoto with 1.4x teleconverter—a combination that afforded the equivalent of a 400 F4.0 lens without the bulk and length. On the area map he’d bought earlier, he located Drinkwater Road, northwest of the Knob, along the creek of the same name. Before he left town, he bought a sandwich and a Coke at a deli and ate while he drove.
    Aspen Road led him across the eastern side of the meadow toward the Knob. To either side of the pavement, houses spread behind rustic split-rail fences: new, with much glass, yet weathered to blend in with their surroundings. An exclusive development to match the tricked-up little town, here in what he’d learned was a poor county where the economic bases of logging, mining, and commercial fishing were eroding. Perhaps luxury dwellings and services for retirees and second-homers would provide the answer to Soledad County’s dilemma, but to Matt it seemed they would only create a dangerous gap between the haves and the have-nots.
    Ahead, the Knob rose against the clear sky: tall, rounded on top, slightly atilt, eroded and polished by the elements. He couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps it had resembled an upended doorknob to the settlers who named it, but to him it looked like a huge erect penis. God knew what the retirees in their expensive homes thought about spending their declining years in the shadow of an enormous dick!
    Drinkwater Road appeared some two miles from town. He followed its curves as it meandered north along the creek bed. The stream was swollen with runoff from the mountain snowmelt, and its water rushed over rocks and foamed between them. To the road’s left, wooden bridges led to dwellings on the creek’s other side; eucalyptus and pine and newly leafed aspen blurred the buildings’ outlines. To the right of the pavement rose a rocky slope, broken occasionally by dirt driveways with mailboxes. He didn’t need to consult the slip of paper on which he’d written Gwen’s—no, Ardis Coleman’s—address; he’d already committed it and the phone number to memory.
    He drove slowly for several miles, taking careful note of his surroundings: blind curves, sheltered places to turn off, areas where there were no houses or driveways. When he saw a wood-burned sign at the end of a bridge on the creek side, bearing the number 11708, he didn’t stop. Instead he drove for another mile, still observing, then turned back.
    The house where his ex-wife lived—possibly had lived for all of the fourteen years he’d presumed her dead—was set back from the creek and screened by trees and other vegetation; the plank bridge was not wide enough to accommodate a car or truck, but there was a paved parking area to its right, currently empty. Matt stopped there, took up the Nikon, and scanned the property.
    One-story redwood-and-stone house with chimneys at either end and a number of large bubble-type skylights. Flagstone patio in front, equipped with a hot tub, table and chairs, chaise longues, and barbecue. Rope hammock in an iron stand under an oak tree to the other side of the walk.
    Nothing at all like the modest home he and Gwen had shared in Saugatuck.
    After a moment, he moved the Jeep to a different vantage point. There was a rose garden beyond the hammock, fenced off, probably against the incursions of deer. Gwen had always loved roses. And beyond that sat a child’s swing set. Gwen, unlike him, had never wanted children…
    A car, coming along the road from the south, taking the curves swiftly and surely.
    Matt started the Jeep, pulled away as the other vehicle crested a rise and sped past. Not Gwen, but it wasn’t a good idea for anyone to see him here. There was a place about fifty yards to the south that he’d spotted earlier, where he and the Jeep would be concealed from all traffic—a place that