Free Cyanide Wells by Marcia Muller

that evening—didn’t the woman know that washers eventually wore out?—Matt thought about McGuire’s comments. She’d sensed his restlessness but interpreted it in conventional terms—and wrongly. His was a condition born of a desire to wrap up old business rather than to seek out the new. And the long journey he’d undertaken was not geographical, but one that would take him deep inside himself to confront things that now were only shadowy and unsettling. The prospect of that confrontation made him turn such a vigorous hand to tightening the pipes under the sink that one joint began to spit water.
    Just what he needed. Sam had no plumbing supplies on hand, and although he’d noticed an Ace Hardware in one of the strip malls near the freeway interchange, he hadn’t planned to spend all his evening performing handyman’s duties. He went to the kitchen, rummaged in the drawer where Sam kept her tools, and found a roll of duct tape. In his opinion, duct tape was one of the greatest inventions of the past century, a quick fix for everything; he’d used it for such diverse purposes as temporarily repairing a camera and hemming a pair of jeans. After he taped the pipe joint, he left a warning note for Sam, who was working till ten, and set out for Drinkwater Creek.
    Gwen’s house was wrapped in shadow when he arrived, its lighted windows a pale glow through the surrounding trees. He freed the Nikon from its bag, reattached the telephoto, adjusted the settings. It wasn’t till he looked up that he noticed there were two vehicles in the paved area by the footbridge: Gwen’s luxury SUV and a red Ford Ranger with a Save the Redwoods sticker on its rear bumper. Carly McGuire’s truck.
    Paranoia seized him. His explanation for his interest in Ardis Coleman hadn’t rung true to McGuire, and she’d come here to discuss him with her friend. Somehow Gwen would figure out who he was, and…
    Don’t get ahead of yourself. McGuire’s probably here for a perfectly normal visit.
    He turned off the switch on the truck’s dome light, slipped out, and ran lightly across the pavement. The footbridge was easily visible from the house, so he walked downstream until he found a narrow place where he could cross on stepping-stones. After scrambling up the opposite bank, he stopped to get his bearings. The house was on a forty-five-degree angle to his right, screened by a windbreak of eucalyptus. He moved toward them and stood in their shelter, sighting on one of the lighted windows with the telephoto.
    Kitchen: granite tiles, wood cabinets, lots of stainless steel. Table with remains of a meal for three set in a cozy nook.
    He moved to the next window. Living room: hearth with fire burning, white cat sleeping on the area rug in front of it, black leather furniture. Gwen sat at the end of the sofa, her feet propped on a coffee table, her head bowed as she went over some papers, probably manuscript pages. A half-full wineglass sat on the table beside her; she reached for it and sipped, looking up at the window. Involuntarily Matt stepped back, even though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him. She set the glass down, turned her head, and spoke to someone outside his range of vision. Appeared to be waiting for an answer.
    Still pretty, Gwennie, even after fourteen years. You’ve taken good care of yourself. Of course, with money, that’s easy.
    He began to snap photographs.
    Gwen said something else, set down the papers, and curled her legs beneath her. She was wearing a long blue robe, and she pulled its hem over her bare feet—a gesture he remembered.
    Now Carly McGuire came into view, moving around the sofa and setting a glass of wine on the coffee table before she sat. Gwen spoke again, and Carly shrugged, her mouth set. Gwen frowned, said something else to Carly. Even though he couldn’t hear her words, Matt remembered that look and the tone that accompanied it. McGuire closed her eyes, shook her head.
    God, it was like