'Not that I know of. Why? Do you want to pin your pet theories on Sondra?' Curt loaded the pot expertly and poked the 'on' button. Anna crawled onto a stool on one side of a counter that separated kitchen from dining space. Curt settled on the other. Both stared hopefully at the pot filling between them.
'That would be nice, wouldn't it?' Anna said.
'Pinning it on Sondra?'
'She's such a twit.'
Curt laughed, and Anna felt forgiven. They sat without talking till there was enough liquid in the pot to fill two coffee cups. Curt poured and Anna fetched a pint of heavy cream from the refrigerator. Curt's eyebrows rose. 'No soy milk?'
Anna didn't share Zeddie's taste for good health. 'I smuggled it up while you guys were still in Lechuguilla. How well do you know Sondra?' she asked as she poured cream into her cup.
'You're going to make me do something, aren't you? Something sleuthy and embarrassing. Something that will probably get my face slapped. If I just confess to shooting you in the foot and murdering whoever you think was murdered, can I be excused?'
Anna refused to be diverted. 'Are you good friends, medium friends, friendly acquaintances, what?'
Curt groaned.
Anna waited.
'Between medium and friendly acquaintances,' he said warily.
'Could you call her?'
'Do you know people she knows? Family, friends, whatever?'
Curt sipped his coffee. Anna sipped hers. He looked over the rim of his cup. 'I smell a trap. I'm not answering any more questions until you tell me what it's going to cost me.'
'Since you're in the Minnesota connection, I thought maybe you could make some calls,' Anna said. 'Find out where she is. I'm getting a bad feeling about her.'
'Why don't you ask Peter to do it? He knows more about where his wife might be than I would.'
'Peter's part of the bad feeling.'
'Jeez. I guess I should be honored you don't suspect me.'
'Not yet.' Anna wondered if she was only kidding.
'Sure. I'll do it,' Curt said at last. 'After all, it's not like I have a life or anything.'
George Laymon was if not pleased then anxious to talk with Anna. Ushering her into his office the moment she arrived at park headquarters, he sat her down in the visitor's chair. From his familiar perch on the edge of his desk, he towered over her. His face was an interesting amalgam of aggravation and concern.
'Oscar called last night, and I talked with Holden Tillman at the BLM this morning,' he said. 'The sheriff's department is taking care of returning the government vehicle.' Laymon didn't change the tone of his voice, yet much was conveyed in that simple sentence: the knowledge that Anna had used an NPS vehicle in an unauthorized manner, a threat of reprisals if the sedan was damaged, the hint that he now held the upper hand in this conversation.
'I think Brent's murder and Frieda's are connected,' she said baldly.
Moving as if a weight had settled on his shoulders, Laymon put his desk between them. 'You said Frieda changed her story, didn't remember anybody trying to kill her.' Anna started to protest, but Laymon silenced her with a raised hand. 'I know. You thought you might have seen something near the site of the rock slide. We went over that with Holden and Oscar,' he said patiently. 'Oscar felt, given the place, the conditions, and the stress levels you were all operating under, a fleeting impression in shifting loam wasn't significant. Holden agreed with him.'
'He's changed his mind,' Anna said. She was pushing her luck. Concern was growing rigid, cracking across Laymon's cheekbones.
He looked out the window for a minute, the cloudless sky bluing his eyes. His fingers drummed softly on the desk blotter. 'I'm not surprised,' he said. 'Losing a patient is hard on anybody and harder on Holden than most.' His focus returned to the room, the chair, Anna. Reasoning with her was at an end. Folding his hands in front of him, he told her how it was going to be.
'In using a government vehicle in an unauthorized manner, you have overstepped your bounds considerably. You have made remarks without substantiation that do not reflect well on the people here, people who worked so hard to save your friend. You have no authority in Carlsbad. You are a guest of this park. Until now we have been willing to cut you a good deal of slack because of what you have been through. You've used that slack, Anna. I can put you in touch with human resources either here or, better yet, in your home park, and we'll get some counseling for you. Other than that, there is nothing we can do. Oscar and I have talked it over with the superintendent. This latest incident is a BLM matter. Your statement has been taken, but, as you arrived after the fact, you aren't a material witness.'
'Attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, illegal discharge of a firearm,' Anna said. 'Whoever it was shot at me more than once. Malice.'
George Laymon's eyes strayed again out the window. 'You had a bad scare,' he said carefully.
'You think I'm making this up?' Anger boiled so hot the image of steam pouring from her ears didn't seem so much ludicrous as inevitable. What saved her from an unladylike outburst that would have gotten her tossed out of Laymon's office was the sheer profusion of hostile remarks that clogged her brain and tied her tongue.
'I didn't say that, Anna. Some of these good old boys around here get carried away. Look at any road sign. They are all riddled with bullet holes.'
'My boot heel-'
'Could have been broken off on a rock. That's rough country out there. Or it could have been shot off like you say,' he said placatingly.
Anna was not placated.
'I just think there are many explanations you haven't considered.
You're too close to this. Too personally involved. To put it bluntly, you're out of line. It's time you went home.'
A brief maelstrom of emotions ranging from acute humiliation to homicidal rage seethed. Because she was female, her body's natural response to the onslaught was tears, tears of anger that, had she allowed them to fall, surely would have burnt holes in the carpet like droplets of battery acid. Determinedly impassive, she waited for the storm to abate. She hadn't a leg to stand on. Everything George Laymon said was true. A Chinese aphorism came to mind:
Going home to Mesa Verde, her tower house, her cat, tempted Anna to the very soul. It was, as the bard had said, peevish and self-willed harlotry that bade her stay. Self-willed harlotry won. The time had come to grovel fetchingly.
Anna sighed and rubbed now-dry eyes. 'Thanks, George. A counselor would be good. I know I've been a pain in the neck. I guess I needed to blame Frieda's death on somebody human. God is so unsatisfying.' She laughed, and it took no effort to sound shaky and uncertain. 'I'll talk to a shrink, get some rest, and get this ankle stable. I'd like to be here for Brent's funeral, get some closure. Then I'll head home.' Laymon couldn't very well refuse to let her stay for the funeral of a coworker whose body she had found. That and a shrink appointment would buy her a few more days in which to continue wearing out her welcome. 'Thanks again for listening,' she said. 'This has been a rough week.'
Laymon was relenting, though his eyes were still wary. Anna didn't want to overplay her hand. Pushing herself up from her chair and limping more than was called for by her rapidly healing ankle, she allowed herself to be shunted from his office.
Outside the building, she stood in the thin winter sunlight pretending she felt some heat from it. Sheltered from the wind, it was almost true. She turned her face to the light the way a sunflower will. The day was young. Laymon was a professional; he'd managed to rake her over the coals in less than a quarter of an hour. One thing was sure: she was officially on foot. CACA wouldn't be giving her a vehicle in the near future. Later she would consider
