Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (18 page)

And then I remembered her last joking remark, “Maybe
it was because we were both southpaws”

For a fleeting moment I froze, stunned.

I reread that note card half a dozen times, all the while
cursing my own stupidity. A southpaw? A lefty?

Yet, Frank Cooper had been shot in the left side, not the
right side, the side that would be facing a left-handed
gunman.

Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the seat and tried
to steady my nerves. I couldn’t believe I had overlooked
these pieces of information for the last few days.

I was comfortable around firearms, having grown up with
them and, from time to time, relying on them in extreme
cases in my job.

And I knew of no one who did not use his dominant
hand when handling a handgun, be it a .357 magnum or a
.22 popgun. That meant, I told myself, that if Carl Edwards
had fired the shot that struck Cooper in the side, the wound
would have been on Cooper’s right side, not left.

A flashing sign above the closed door to the cockpit signaled passengers to buckle up. Hastily, I jammed the cards
back in my pocket and followed instructions.

The pilot came over the intercom, announcing that
weather was forcing us to divert to Albuquerque.

From the porthole window, I saw a light snow dusting
the ground, an ominous portent of what possibly lay ahead.

I shivered as I headed across the street to the Enchantment Auto Rental. The dispatcher, a weary-eyed lady in
wool slacks and a bulky wool sweater informed me that before I reached Santa Fe, I might need to fit the tire chains to
the Ford Taurus I was renting. She paused, glanced at the
credit information I had provided and, with a crooked grin,
said, “You know how to put them on, don’t you?”

I grinned sheepishly. “We don’t have much use for snow
chains down in Austin, Texas, ma’am.”

She chuckled. “About ten miles this side of Santa Fe,
pull into the Golden Globe Truck Stop. If you need them,
they’ll take care of it for you” She eyed my clothing. “To
be honest, friend, you best pop across the street at Target or
Academy Outdoors and get some proper gear. The temperature drops like a lead balloon up them mountains. You’ll
freeze your lanky tail off”

Thirty minutes later, after putting over four hundred
bucks on my VISA card, I headed up 1-25 North. The
snowfall remained light, but the gusting wind blew it sideways, forcing me to keep the wipers moving.

It was just after 10:00, but the ponderous gray clouds
lumbering across the mountains made it seem like dusk.
The warm air from the heater felt good.

About halfway to Santa Fe, the snow stopped falling,
and to my surprise, back to the west the clouds broke. According to the FM station I was listening to, no snow was
expected for a couple of days. I muttered a short prayer of
thanks, at the same time remembering the shaky prognostications of our local weathermen back home.

In Santa Fe, I bypassed the truck stop and pulled into a
restaurant for a hot lunch.

From Santa Fe, I headed northeast, higher into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains before, about mid-afternoon, I
dropped down into the Santa Fe Basin, which was where I
spotted Mount Baldy.

According to my directions, Lost Lake, a one-time gold
mining town that had turned to tourism, sat on the eastern
slope of Baldy.

It was from my Grand-pere Moise that I picked up my
appreciation for the beauty and complexity of nature. Even
on the desolate Louisiana prairies and back in the forbidding swamps, there was grandeur about if you wanted to
see it.

When I rounded the last bend in the highway and looked
down upon the small village of Lost Lake, I was awestruck
by its simple beauty. It was Christmas-card perfect, with its
snow-laden roofs and rustic buildings with golden lights
shining from store windows.

Perhaps a dozen shops lined either side of the highway
that continued its sinuous route higher into the mountains.
There was little traffic, which I guessed was to be expected
this time of year, although I noted several snow-covered
slopes around the village.

There were a couple of motels, the closest being the Ski
Slope. I pulled up to the wooden hitching rail in front of the
office. When I opened the car door, the bitter cold drove
into my bones. I shivered and slammed the door without getting out, grabbing the heavy parka that had set me back over
a hundred bucks, but when I opened the door again, it was
worth the money. Except for my hands and face, I was as
warm as the proverbial piece of toast.

Once inside, I discovered that while the exterior of the
motel might appear rustic, the interior was snug and cozy, with central heating spewing out warm air. Adjoining the
lobby was a spacious lounge where a handful of individuals were basking in the heat from a blazing fireplace and
enjoying a belly-warming libation.

A beaming old man who had to be in his eighties grinned
when I hurried in and slammed the door behind me. “Welcome, friend. Get in here and burn the chill out of your
bones”

I asked for a room, and he chuckled, his wind-burned
cheeks wrinkling with a wry grin. “This time of year, we
got ‘em to spare. Season’s about over.” He slipped me a
registration card and nodded to the few men and women
milling about in the lounge. “They’re the last of the diehards, hanging in until the last bit of snow is history”

Cocking his head so he could read my name, he asked,
“Be staying long, Mr. Boudreaux? That’s French, ain’t it?”

I grinned to myself when he pronounced the name
Boo-dru-x. “Yep. Louisiana, but I live in Austin, Texas now”

He shot his slender arm across the counter. “Name’s
Willie Morales. I own this place. Happy to know you”

I slid the registration card back to him, and along with it,
a snapshot of Carl Edwards. “Thanks” I paused, and then
continued, nodding to the snapshot. “I’m trying to find this
gent. He’s missing, and his wife and daughter are worried.
He mentioned fishing up here in Lost Lake”

Willie grunted. “Ain’t no fishing up here this time of
year,” he muttered, staring at the snapshot for several seconds before shaking his head. “Nope. Don’t recognize the
fella. If he came up here often, he might of stayed down at
the Dunes. That’s the other motel in town”

“Good enough” I nodded to my registration. “I’ll probably be here a couple nights at least”

After dropping off my gear in my room, which was snug and warm, I headed out, planning on working my way down
one side of the street to the Dunes Motel, and back up the
other side.

Next door to the Ski Slope Motel was a brightly lit liquor
store. I gave the clerk the same story, and he gave me the
same answer. “What about the name Carl Edwards? Ever
hear that?”

He gestured to the snapshot. “That this feller’s name?”

“Yeah”

“Sorry.”

As I reached for the door, he stopped me. “Tell you who
might know. Abner Sweet. He’s across the street at Mountain
Realtors. A lot of rich folks own summer homes around here
and rent them out in the winter. Abner handles a lot of them.
Then down the street at Pure Creek Real Estate is Myrtle
Cummings. She rents a lot of them too. Maybe one of them
has heard of this old boy.”

By now, it was dark. The clouds had blown away, and the
frosty night seemed to enhance the brilliance of the stars
sparkling down on the small village.

I caught Abner Sweet as the rotund man was locking up
his business for the night. He held the snapshot in the glow
of lights from the saloon next door. “Nope. Never seen the
man”

“What about the name Carl Edwards? Ever hear that?”

He pursed his thick lips. “Hmm. Edwards, Edwards. I
know some Edwards, but no one named Carl” He handed
me the picture. “Sorry”

“Thanks anyway. Oh, by the way, can you point me toward the Pure Creek Real Estate? The clerk at the Mountain
Top Liquor store told me Myrtle Cummings might be able
to help if you couldn’t.”

He chuckled. “She might, but you won’t find her at the office this time of night.” He pointed down and across the
street to the garish lights of the Mount Baldy Bar and Grill.

The lights reflected green and red off the snow. “That’s
where you’ll find her. Can’t miss her. Skinny as a rail with
short hair, almost white.”

Thanking him, I stepped off the sidewalk, paused as a car
passed, and then slogged through the melting snow to the
bar, grateful I had ponied up the money to buy some waterproof boots. My running shoes would have been no match
for the slop I waded through.

Myrtle Cummings was a snap to spot. Perched on a bar
stool, she was chatting amiably with a gent wearing an
overcoat and a western hat tipped to the back of his head.

Apologizing for interrupting her, I gave her the same
story I’d given the others, and she gave me the same answer
after studying the snapshot. “Nope. He don’t look familiar.” She showed it to the rancher next to her. “You recognize him, Finas?”

The wiry cowpoke shook his head. “Nope” He handed it
to a woman a couple of barstools away. “What about it,
Connie? You seen this feller around?”

Connie was a tad overweight. She shifted about on the
stool, held the snapshot up to the dim light and, after several moments, shook her head. “Never seen him” She held
out the picture to me.

I continued as I retrieved the snapshot. “He goes by the
name Carl Edwards”

To my surprise, Myrtle Cummings nodded. “Carl Edwards? Why, I rented him the Carmony place up near the
lake a few days ago”

The unexpected announcement hit me between the eyes,
exploding my little theories like a hundred-megaton bomb.

Carl Edwards was alive. That meant that he indeed had
masterminded the heist and had picked this isolated part
of the country in which to disappear.

I frowned, wondering where he had been in the weeks
since the heist. “A few days, you say?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t this guy in the picture. His name
was-” She paused, wrinkling her forehead in concentration. “Let’s see, Irwin, Charles Irwin. Real skinny. He rented
it for this Carl Edwards guy. Paid cash for a month in advance”