Free Cyanide Wells by Marcia Muller Page B

Gwen? His plans? Should it? He’d waited such a long time for…
    Headlights flashed around the curve in front of him. The vehicle slowed, its driver spotting the flare. It U-turned and pulled onto the shoulder, beams blinding in the rearview and side mirrors. Matt stepped out of the Jeep.
    A woman walked toward him, moving in a deliberate but cautious manner, as a cop does when approaching a stopped vehicle. When she came closer, he saw she had closely cropped black hair and a pretty, fine-boned face; she wore a dark suit and had her right hand thrust inside her shoulder bag, as if it might contain a gun.
    “Need some help?” she asked in a guarded but friendly tone.
    “I’m out of gas. Can you give me a lift to the nearest service station?”
    “Sure can, but I’ll have to ask to see your license and registration first. Detective Rhoda Swift, Soledad County Sheriff’s Department.” She flashed her identification at him.
    He got the rental papers from the Jeep, removed his license from his wallet.
    The detective examined them in the headlights’ glare. “British Columbia, huh? Nice country up there. What brings you to Soledad County, Mr. Lindstrom?”
    “I’ve taken a job here, as a photographer for the
Spectrum.
” As soon as he spoke the words, he realized he’d made a bad mistake. John Crowe, not Matt Lindstrom, had taken the job.
    “Good publication. How’s Carly these days?”
    “Prickly as ever, but fine.”
    Rhoda Swift smiled faintly and said, “Well, Mr. Lindstrom, let’s get going before the sun comes up. I was headed north for Green Valley Road, but I can just as easily take Old Schoolhouse out of Santa Carla.”
    “I don’t want to make you go out of your way—”
    “Insuring the public’s safety is what we’re here for. Green Valley’s a better road, but Old Schoolhouse is more direct to where I’m going. I’ll deliver you to the service station there, and they’ll give you a lift back.”
    Matt barely had time to get his seat belt fastened before Rhoda Swift accelerated onto the highway, clearing the Jeep’s bumper by scant inches. He glanced at her, and she grinned wickedly—a good, fast driver who took pleasure in showing off for her passenger.
    There was a police radio mounted beneath the dash, its mutterings indistinguishable to him. Swift turned down its volume, and he was about to ask her about her job when she reached for the mike, keyed it, and said, “Yeah, Valerie, what’ve you got for me?”
    A pause, then a sigh. “I’ve told him my cell doesn’t work on this side of the ridge…Okay, patch him through to me.” She rolled her eyes at Matt. “Men! Yes, Guy…I told you—Oh, never mind…The meeting ran longer than I thought it would, but I’m on my way. Just have to deliver a motorist in distress to a service station first…Don’t worry, I’ll be careful…Yes,
dear.
”
    As she hung up the mike, Rhoda Swift laughed softly.
    “Overprotective husband?” Matt asked.
    “Overprotective gentleman friend. He’s a New Yorker, spends part of the year at his vacation home near Deer Harbor. When he’s in Manhattan, he thinks nothing of wandering the streets at two in the morning, but should I be driving one of our rural byways at night, his mind conjures up all sorts of peril.”
    “Men like to think we’re fierce protectors even when we’re not, I guess. Where’s Deer Harbor?”
    “On the coast, north of Signal Port.”
    “One of our reporters was covering a story in Signal Port today.”
    “That would be the Dawson case. Hugh Dawson, owner of the Sea Stacks Motel. Miserable cuss, and last night his wife finally decided she’d had enough of his abuse and shot him. I’ve just come from a meeting with the D.A. in Santa Carla; we’re in agreement that it was justifiable homicide.”
    For the remainder of the trip into town Matt chatted with Rhoda Swift about the county, learning more about the coastal area, which, by virtue of being cut off by the