Four

Around the bend, a quarter mile from the trailhead, stood a square white ambulance. Beside it, on a lichen-stained boulder, sat Tanner Lundquist, clad in a black wetsuit, one long leg outstretched, his head in his hands.

The world went gray. It spun, the giant evergreens suddenly spiking downward in front of me, the sun’s rays shooting up. I reached out a hand to steady myself, but grasped thin air.

What’s going on? Was he—

“Erin! Erin, what are you doing here?” An electric hand touched my shoulder and the shock spun me toward the voice I loved, the voice I’d feared never hearing again.

“Adam. Oh my God, Adam. You’re okay. You’re all right. You’re …”

His arms enveloped me and the world steadied itself. I held on. And then he stepped back, his hands on my upper arms. “Of course I’m all right. We’re fine, both of us. Did you think—?”

“All I knew was that there was a body and that you two were out on the river and … ”

He held me tight, and Tanner wrapped his arms around us. I kissed him, too. They were safe. They were safe.

So who—?

I pulled back. “What happened? Why are you two up here? And who’s down there?”

Derek D’Orazi, a picture framer and EMT, rose into view. He climbed from the hillside on to the trail, breathing hard, his navy uniform smudged with soft, red-brown dirt. He wiped his hands on his pants, though they were too filthy to help.

“That musician,” Adam said, and a hot, sour taste bubbled up in my throat. “Not the local guys. The guest artist.”

Oh my God. “Gerry Martin? He played with the trio, and with Gabby Drake.”

“Yeah. We’d just shot out the last rapid, and Tanner got ahead of me.”

Tanner broke in. “I let the current push me sideways, so I could take in the view. I looked up and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Two figures, standing close, then all of a sudden—” His eyes and mouth went wide, and he traced one hand through the air, demonstrating what happened next. “The other person reached out and shoved him. He came flying down the cliff, arms and legs flailing. He hit a small tree, and crashed right past it. Nothing could break his fall. He hit a rock, bounced, and landed on another rock. I signaled to Adam. We paddled over and he climbed up to see if … ” His voice cracked. “But no one survives a fall like that. Not the way his neck was bent.”

Adam runs outdoor camps for kids. He’s a search and rescue expert with years of experience in wilderness medicine. He races rapids and climbs ice cliffs for fun. Naturally he’d been the one to paddle to shore and scramble up the rocks to check for signs of life. Now he pressed his lips together, eyes downcast.

“Somebody pushed him? Who?” I asked.

Tanner pressed his lips together. “I couldn’t see well enough to tell. Not from that distance and angle, with the trees and shrubs in the way, and the current moving me. I don’t know who anybody is here, anyway.”

“I was on the other side of the big rapid,” Adam said. “I didn’t see a thing.”

I blew out a noisy breath. Footprints and witnesses gave the best chance at identifying the killer, but there was no one else around.

The River Road is heavily lined with brush and trees, except in a few spots like this one, where about ten feet of the edge stood open, unobscured and unprotected. “This is where you think he went over? Where did you come up?”

“Best I can tell. We followed a game trail, upstream a ways. Crazy-steep, but we made it. We’d left our phones in the car, so Adam sprinted to the nearest house to call 911 while I stayed here to mark the spot.”

The EMTs had scuffed up the ground, but their footprints were easy to identify—heavy tread in a distinct pattern.

I silently cursed my own rules. My phone was back at the Merc, in my bag in the tiny upstairs office.

Derek stood by the back of the open ambulance, not far from a yellow sawhorse that meant no access. Farther east, another sawhorse blocked traffic from the other direction. He frowned when I approached. “There’s no reason for you to be here, Erin.”

“I need your phone.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

I wriggled my fingers. “Because none of us has one. C’mon, Derek, help me out.”

He glanced down the trail, then handed me the phone. “Make it quick. The sheriff will be here any minute.”

I snapped several shots of the ground near his feet, for the footprints, then two more shots of the soft marks made by the gripper-soled water shoes Adam and Tanner wore. They must be part goat to have climbed the steep, rocky slope in those. No doubt adrenaline helped.

I didn’t want to mess up the scene any more than I wanted the sheriff’s deputies to yell at me when they arrived, so I crossed to the far side of the trail and circled around the other barricade. I hopped back on the rock ledge, a few feet east of the gap where Martin had gone over, roughly where the guys had come up. Heights rarely bother me, and my balance is decent, but I didn’t want to look down the steep slope. Didn’t want to see what Adam and Tanner had seen.

Near the edge, the ground was badly scuffed. Tanner had seen a second person, but from this angle, I could not pick out their tracks.

I crouched. The ground below the cliff’s edge was undisturbed. I saw no indication of impact—no scuffed dirt, no broken branches where Martin had reached out, grabbing for anything to break or slow his fall.

In other words, the scene and Tanner told the same story.

I took a deep breath, then wrapped my left hand around the trunk of a scrub pine, its pungent scent striking my nostrils. I steadied myself, and peered over.

The cliff was about three hundred feet high. Gerry Martin had tumbled down nearly the full length, over sharp rocks and round ones, past stubby spruce, tall pines, and birch beginning to leaf. He’d landed, finally, on a flat sandstone ledge. Farther upstream, larger outcroppings serve as viewing platforms and picnic spots. During the annual Whitewater Festival, held a couple of weeks earlier, thousands of kids and adults had clustered on the big rock ledges to watch kayakers from all over the country race the river.

I shivered in the slowly warming air and drew back. Took another deep breath and leaned forward, still clutching the pine. For reassurance as much as safety.

Last night, on stage, Gerry Martin had worn black from head to toe. The distance and angle made it hard to tell, but he appeared to be in black now as well.

Had he taken a solo stroll along the River Road to calm himself before the day’s activities, only to encounter someone with a gripe?

Or had he walked up here with his killer?

Male voices interrupted my internal chatter, and I glanced up to see an SUV marked with the sheriff’s shield. Undersheriff Ike Hoover jumped out of the passenger side, the uniformed driver emerging more slowly. The EMT I’d seen at the gate climbed out of the back. I took several more quick shots, then e-mailed the photos to myself. I handed Derek his phone and stood beside Adam and Tanner, rubbing pine pitch off my palm.

If Central Casting sent out a rural Montana sheriff, it might be Ike Hoover, except that his version of a work uniform is khakis and a polo shirt, biceps straining the short sleeves. When the weather requires, he adds a fleece pullover. He’s second in command, but I’d heard talk that the sheriff might retire—the rumor mill said cancer, though the rumor mill often says that, true or not. Ike was the obvious choice as successor after thirty years on the job, and I knew he had the ambition.

He stopped at the yellow sawhorse. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene, his dark eyes pausing briefly on me. He exchanged a few words with Derek, who pointed at Adam and Tanner.

“Erin, I didn’t expect to see you. Adam,” Ike said. They shook hands. I’m five-five, but I felt like a shrimp, surrounded by men six feet or better. Adam introduced Tanner, who described what he’d seen. Ike listened intently, then, when Tanner had finished, asked a few questions. I admired Tanner’s composure, though his voice trembled at the part about the body hitting the rocks, and I shivered involuntarily. Adam wrapped an arm around me.

“You’re sure the other person shoved him?” Ike said.

“Absolutely,” Tanner said. “But height, gender—no idea. Sorry.”

“Keep that to yourselves, if you wouldn’t mind.” Ike’s face gave away nothing. “All three of you.”

We nodded, and Ike trained his attention on the trail, as I had done, careful of his footsteps. Deputy Oakland took the same shots I’d taken, using a ruler and a big camera on a tripod. Ike directed him to get a few close-ups at the trail’s edge. I wondered if they could see prints or scuff marks that had not been visible from my rock perch.

Ike conferred with the EMTs, then came back over to us. “We’ll need to make a water approach, to get the body. It’s too steep to safely bring him up this way—I won’t put anyone else at risk. We can come up from the bay and skirt the last rapids, but the water’s too shallow for our power boat.”

“I can borrow a motorized raft from an outfitter in town,” Adam said. “No reason to wait for Search and Rescue to truck theirs over.”

“Good idea.” To his deputy, Ike said, “Coordinate with Dispatch to commandeer that raft. D’Orazi, can you take the ambulance around to the bay, then bring a stretcher up with the raft? I’m going down to check the scene.”

Deputy Oakland opened his mouth, but at a look from Ike, he closed it and handed his boss a smaller camera, which Ike hung around his neck before heading down the game trail the guys had used. Never begrudge a law enforcement department its in-house exercise gym and weight room.

We watched him go over the edge, then he disappeared from sight and Oakland started muttering. “He’s too old for that. If Deputy Caldwell were here—”

He caught himself and broke off, glancing at me sharply, then radioed Dispatch with an update and to request a call for the raft.

I’d been at more than my share of crime scenes in the last year, each unique, but what made this one different was the absence of Deputy Kim Caldwell, my BFF from the sixth grade to the middle of senior year. When my father was killed in a hit-and-run that February, I’d lost my best friend, too, and hadn’t learned why until last winter, fifteen years later. The tragedy changed both our lives. She responded by becoming a deputy sheriff, working her way up to detective.

But the discovery of the guilty driver’s identity a few months back had shaken her deeply, and she took a leave of absence from the department. To rethink things, she said. She’d spent the last few months working with horses in California. She’d returned to her family’s guest lodge and dude ranch a couple of weeks ago, and we’d gone riding on Wednesday.

I wasn’t entirely sure that she’d finished rethinking.

But while I trusted Ike Hoover to handle the matter well, Kim’s presence would have reassured me, in more ways than one.

“We’ll come back up in the raft,” Adam said to his own BFF. “Lend a hand if they need us, then grab the kayaks.”

“Sure.” Tanner looked queasy, as if he weren’t sure he wanted to come that close to Gerry Martin’s body a second time.

Adam took my hand. “We’ll walk you back to the shop.”

A few feet downstream, I spotted a white paper cup in a clump of snowberry. “Slobs,” I muttered and snatched it up.

At the trailhead, the onlookers had dispersed. Both Derek D’Orazi in the ambulance and Deputy Oakland in the sheriff’s rig had left, and the gate stood locked again.

Doesn’t seem fair that tragedy can strike as easily on a sunny day as under grim or dreary skies. Still, I suppose I’d rather my last vision on this earth be a glimpse of its beauty.

Who had pushed Gerry Martin? Was it in the heat of an argument, or on purpose? What had been his final thoughts? Had he regretted his outbursts of the night before, his angry snipes and bitter retorts? Had the delights of a blue-sky morning on the River Road calmed him and restored his faith in his fellow man—or at least, his fellow musicians?

I could hope.

“All these years, the way you’ve been talking about this place,” Tanner said, breaking the silence, “I thought you were a raving lunatic. I get it now.”

We paused halfway down Hill Street to drink in the views of the bay and beyond, Eagle Lake and the Salish Hills. We passed the handsome log building that anchors the north end of the village. Dragonfly Dry Goods quilt and yarn shop occupies ground level, the owner’s home above. On the opposite corner stands the historic chalet-style Jewel Inn—no lodging, just great eating. To the right, the recently-restored WPA steps lead uphill to an older residential area.

And to the left, down Front Street, lies the heart of the village. I’d grown up here, gone away, and come back. The village of Jewel Bay fills my heart, and occasionally breaks it.

No one ever expects a small town in Montana quite like this. Most days, I’m happy to go on and on about its restaurants, its art, its music, and all the amazing scenery and recreational opportunities. The rivers and lakes in our front yard, the wilderness at our back, and thirty miles up the road, Glacier National Park.

Today, my Chamber of Commerce patter failed me.

I gripped Adam’s hand a little tighter.

We passed Rebecca Whitman’s gallery. I supposed I ought to stop to tell her, since she was in charge of the festival, that one of her guest artists was dead.

Let someone else bear the bad news. Being this close to another death made me want to hide.

In front of the Merc, Adam kissed me tenderly and said they’d see me this evening, at my cabin. I watched the two of them go down the street, their strides long and loose, perfectly matched, Tanner a little thinner. They even held their heads the same way. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see them speak; I knew they didn’t have to.

My feet felt heavy as I crossed the threshold. The Merc, my happy place, seemed a tad less happy than when I’d dashed out the door. Less colorful and inviting. Behind the chocolate counter, Tracy’s eyebrows rose inquisitively. I mustered a wan half smile and retreated to my office.

I was startled to realize I still held the paper cup I’d found on the trail. Your standard white cup. I tossed it in the silver mesh waste basket and sank into my black desk chair.

Why did the death of a man I barely knew trouble me so? I’d enjoyed his music, though I lacked Heidi’s emotional connection with it. Last winter Martin had put on a private concert down at Caldwell’s Eagle Lake Lodge. He’d been pleasant, focused on his performance and the big-money donors he’d been brought to town to court. I’d barely merited an introduction, but I hadn’t minded—that’s how the money game is played.

Arms and ankles crossed, I swiveled my desk chair back and forth.

Martin’s death troubled me because of his behavior last night. Because I’d witnessed too many conflicts to think it an unfortunate coincidence.

And because I don’t believe in coincidence. Most times, it’s nothing more than events with connections we can’t see.

I brought the computer to life and opened my e-mail. Opened the photos I’d sent myself from Derek D’Orazi’s phone.

Martin’s death troubled me because of what I’d seen—and hadn’t seen—on the trail. But Ike Hoover had seen those things, too. His actions, his furrowed brow, the camera angles he’d directed his deputy to get—all told me he had questions and he’d demand answers.

And it troubled me because I’d been in this position before. I knew people would say the town was cursed. They’d sneak odd glances at my mother and Ned Redaway and me, because we’d hosted the party in our courtyard, the last place Martin had been seen in public. Because of what had happened there last year.

Because my boyfriend and his buddy had been the first to arrive.

Because this town depends on tourism, and anything that triggers talk and rumor and fear threatens our livelihoods. And sometimes, our lives.

I stared at Christine’s painting on the office wall, the stenciled letters, bright spring green on a yellow backdrop speckled with purple, red, and orange. If she were here, what would she tell me?

She’d toss that long red hair over her bony shoulder, and cackle. You’re screwed, Murphy, she’d say. You’re in this thing, whether you like it or not.

Because I’m nosy and snoopy and committed to this town. And because the death of a guest—even a few hours later, even after his rage against me and my friends—is bad karma, bad feng shui, and bad manners.

And my bad luck.