Free The Story Teller by Margaret Coel

island, a newscaster’s voice droning softly through the bubbling water.
    “Wine?” Marcy hoisted a long-stemmed glass half-filled with deep red liquid and took a long sip. “Or are you still a teetotaler?”
    Vicky nodded. She had always been a teetotaler. Ben was the one who drank; she had watched the alcohol steal his soul. When he was drunk, he turned into someone she didn’t know or understand, not the man she loved. It was when he was drunk that he’d hit her.
    Suddenly Vicky found herself focusing on the newscaster’s voice. Another homicide. Latino or Native American male. Early twenties. She was off the stool and, in two steps, in front of the TV. She turned up the volume. “Denver police say the body was found this morning near the confluence of Cherry Creek and theSouth Platte River. Exact cause of death is unknown, but the police believe it is homicide.”
    “My God,” Vicky said, half to herself. “I’ve been trying to reach a young man from the reservation. He’s not around. His fiancée is worried he’s in trouble.”
    “This is the city.” Marcy shrugged. “People turn up murdered from time to time. Chances are the victim isn’t anybody you know.”
    Vicky was already around the island. She hurried down the hallway, ignoring Marcy’s voice calling behind, “Dinner’s about ready.” In the bedroom, she found Steve Clark’s card on the dresser where she’d left it. She carried it over to the phone and tapped out his number.

7
    T he detective sounded both glad and surprised to hear from her: the exuberant tone, the questions tumbling out. How long was she in town? When could he see her? Vicky explained she was calling about the body found in the South Platte River.
    There was a slow intake of breath on the other end, a long sigh. “What do you know about it?”
    “A young Arapaho, a graduate student, could be missing,” Vicky said. She was beginning to feel like an overanxious mother. She had no proof Todd was actually missing. He might even have gone back to the reservation, for all she knew. Maybe he was in one of the cars on I-25 below while she’d flown overhead. And even if he had dropped out of sight for a while, what evidence connected him to the body dragged out of the South Platte River?
    She realized Steve had asked if anyone had reported the student missing, that he was awaiting the answer. She said, “I don’t believe so. But no one has seen him in the last few days.” She told him about stopping by the apartment, about the papers and mail.
    “What’s his name?” The detective’s voice steadied into an official rhythm.
    “Todd Harris,” Vicky said. Then she blurted out the rest. Twenty-four years old. About five foot ten. Black hair. Dark complexion. Handsome, a nice kid. About tofinish a master’s degree in history at CU-Denver. She was thinking this could be a mistake. Calling police attention to an Indian kid in Denver, when there were probably a thousand rational explanations for the unclaimed mail, the stacks of newspapers.
    “Physicals could be close,” the detective said. “But we don’t have an ID yet. I’ll call you as soon as we get one. You’re at Marcy’s, right?”
    For an instant Vicky had the sense Steve might think the missing student and the news of a homicide were just fortunate coincidences she’d seized upon in order to call him, a way of saving face. Hurriedly she said, “I can identify the body, if it is Todd.”
    A clanking noise sounded over the line, as if the detective had just set something down on a hard surface—a coffee mug perhaps. “You don’t want to do that, Vicky.”
    “I’ve known Todd all his life,” she persisted. He was the same age as her own son, Lucas.
    “You don’t understand.” A stern note came into the detective’s voice. “The body was floating in the river at least twenty-four hours before it got hung up on rocks and bushes near Confluence Park. And there’s something else.”
    Instinctively