Cyanide Wells by Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online Page A

commanded a view of Gwen’s parking area.
    That was where he’d wait for her.
    By four-thirty he was cramped and tired and suffering from a severe tension headache. Best to pack it in and head back to the motel. After all, he’d waited fourteen years; another day or two wouldn’t kill him. He was now gainfully employed—general assignment photographer and truck mechanic for the local paper. That gave him a bona fide reason for prowling the countryside.
    But still he waited. Five minutes, ten, fifteen…Cars and trucks and SUVs passed—residents returning to their homes. He counted them, one through twenty, and then a white SUV appeared, slowed, and turned off into Gwen’s parking area. One of those new Mercedeses he’d seen written up in the automotive section of the Vancouver paper; suggested retail price was in the neighborhood of seventy-three thousand U.S. dollars.
    Doing well, Gwennie.
    He took up the Nikon again as the driver’s-side door opened. Leaned forward with the lens aimed through the Jeep’s wind-shield. A woman came around the vehicle—tall and slim, with a model’s erect posture and a dancer’s graceful step. Gwen’s posture. Gwen’s step.
    She went to the passenger-side door and opened it. Said something to someone inside and turned. Now he had a clear view of her face. Her once-smooth skin bore fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her long dark-brown hair had been cut so that it curved in smooth wings to her jawbone, but he recognized her instantly. He gripped the Nikon hard, and his nervous finger depressed the shutter.
    As Gwen moved to the rear of the SUV and opened the door, the passenger stepped down. A girl of nine or ten, dragging an enormous backpack of the sort all the kids seemed to favor these days. Her skin was honey-tan, and her features and curly black hair indicated African-American heritage. Had Gwen married a black man? Adopted a mixed-race child?
    Gwen was taking a folded metal cart from the rear of the vehicle. As the child approached, smiling up at her, Matt took another photograph. Gwen set up the cart and began filling it with grocery bags. After she finished and shut the door, she tried to take the backpack from the little girl, who resisted, laughing. Gwen laughed, too, ruffling the child’s hair; the love in her eyes was reflected in her daughter’s. The two started across the footbridge, Gwen pulling the cart with one hand, the other resting on the girl’s shoulder.
    Matt snapped a picture of them before they passed out of sight behind an overhanging fringe of pine branches.
    Well, now you know, Lindstrom. She’s got herself a nice home, nice little girl, probably a nice husband. The good life that she somehow couldn’t find with you.
    Now you know. And you know what you have to do.
    Back at his motel, he had one drink of Wild Turkey and then another. They did nothing to take the edge off. Even though he’d expected to see Gwen’s image through the camera’s lens, its actual appearance had shocked him. Altered him, too, in ways that he couldn’t yet begin to guess at. His hands were shaking as he poured another drink and the memories crowded in, their former bittersweet flavor now charred by rage.
    “Let me help you. Gwennie. Whatever’s wrong, I can help you through this if you’ll let me.”
    “Nobody can help. Least of all you.”
    “Is it my fault? What’s wrong with me?”
    “It’s not you. Just leave it.”
    “Gwen—”
    “Just leave it. And leave me alone!”
    “Why don’t you want kids? Give me one good reason why.”
    “For God’s sake, Matt, look at the world we’re living in. Do you really want to bring children into it?”
    “Ah, the standard line.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It’s everybody’s excuse when they’re—”
    “When they’re what? Too selfish? Is that what you think of me?”
    “No, but maybe you’re afraid of the responsibility.”
    “Well, what if I am?”
    “I’d share the