Bishop,_Carly_-_The_Soul_Mate.txt Read online

  way out of the suite of offices, Kiel blustered, "Why did you do

  that?"

  "Step on your foot, you mean? Do angels experience pain?" she queried

  sweetly. "Dante?" she mocked, for good measure, still not over that

  one.

  "Kiel," he corrected her snappishly, "and no, we don't feel physical

  pain, exactly, but--"

  "Well, I did it to stop your egging on that poor defenseless cop," she

  answered primly, heading toward the exits. "Shame on you."

  "Jealous, Robyn?" he teased her in a playful tone, but he couldn't

  leave it at that. He was an angel--friendly, sure, but nothing more.

  "I wasn't egging her on. You introduced me, I smiled and shook her

  hand."

  "Whatever." She gave him a sideways glance. "I suppose it's not your

  fault that you're gorgeous."

  His stunning bronze eyebrows pulled together. "Am I? Gorgeous?"

  Robyn burst out laughing at his credulous tone, drawing curious glances

  from passersby in the old courthouse building. He really didn't

  know... or else, angels had no vanity. But surely it wasn't possible,

  was it, not to know, not to see, that redheaded, blue-eyed and as

  intensely male as he was freckled, he outshone the heartthrob Caruso a

  thousand times? "Don't tell me no one else has pointed this out to

  you, Kiel."

  He shrugged in his loose-limbed way. "No one has, Robyn."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "It's the truth."

  She turned suddenly, angry for reasons she couldn't even make come

  clear in her head. She backed him into a very small vestibule. "The

  truth is you must just have sprung out of the heavenly cabbage patch.

  Where did you come from, really? Mars, Mr. Call-Me-Dante?"

  "Robyn--"

  She held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it," she warned. "Not if

  you're going to tell me you're unaware of the effect you have on women.

  For heaven's sake, Kiel, the policewoman was all but drooling, and that

  little commandant Elsa Kautz melted. Even I--"

  "You what, Robyn?" He felt that curious lack of oxygen afflicting his

  lungs again.

  She clapped her mouth shut. This wasn't going anywhere, and what did

  it matter whether or not he admitted to knowing he had any effect at

  all on women? Because she was attracted to him and she wanted him to

  be--and admit it out loud--attracted to her?

  Folly.

  Complete, unadulterated folly. Angel or not, the absolute bar-none

  worst reason in the world to be attracted to him was that he reminded

  her of Keller. Refusing to be so horribly cliched and predictably

  dysfunctional, she plucked up her shoulders, tossed him a

  devil-may-care glance and turned away. "I have a murder to solve."

  She stalked to a telephone booth and checked the directory for the

  address of Ken Crandall. As she would have expected, had she been

  thinking instead of fuming, the police officer was not listed.

  Kiel had followed. He took the book from her and let it fall on the

  chain that poked through a hole punched in the upper left co ruer

  "Crandall lives at 0934 Carbon-dale, back down the valley a way."

  She eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know that?" "No tricks,

  Robyn." He stood slouched against a granite pillar and held up two

  fingers. Laughter played at his eyes. "Scout's honor."

  "Oh, please." He was teasing her, and she couldn't stay mad at him for

  two minutes. Did an angel need to swear on Scout's honor? No. Well,

  maybe one conceited enough to call himself Alighieri and naive enough

  not to know a woman in the early stages of a swoon. But she shook her

  head. Deluded or not, she'd already bought in, lock, stock and barrel,

  to Kiel being an angel. "How do you know where Crandall lives?"

  "I got Keller's Day-Timer out of his briefcase after you went to sleep

  last night. There's even a sketchy map. C'mon. I'll show you."

  He took her hand and led her out into the bright mountain sunshine.

  Main Street looked deserted in this off-season time. Her car, like all

  the others, was parked on a slant to the curb. She unlocked the

  driver's door of

  her coupe and flicked the unlock button for Kiel. Once inside, he

  produced the Day Timer from the floor and flipped to the page where

  Keller had noted the address and drawn a rough map to Detective Ken

  Crandall's property.

  Robyn studied the drawing. Keller obviously hadn't found anything to

  be amused about by Crandall. The sketch was perfunctory, a crude map

  and nothing more, with not even the likeness of a street sign

  anywhere.

  "Okay. Let's go see what light Detective Crandall can shed on the

  story."

  She drove to the outskirts of town, back down Main toward Killer 82.

  Crandall lived out in the country, northwest of Aspen near the town of

  Basalt. Bouncing down tracks of the ungraded road that Keller's map

  indicated, wincing when the underbelly of her car scraped against the

  hardened earth, Robyn pulled up between a small white Ford Escort and a

  '96 model four-wheel-drive import.

  "Pricey vehicle," she murmured.

  "How much?"

  She shifted into park and switched off the engine. "Forty thousand,

  I'd bet."

  Kiel looked at her, his amazing blue eyes clear as the Rocky Mountain

  skies.

  She laughed. "You don't have a clue, do you."

  He puffed up his chest and looked askance at her. "I can fly, Robyn. I

  don't need a clue."

  "Well, for us mere mortals, forty thousand dollars is a hefty chunk of

  change. Maybe more than a police officer makes in a year." She would

  rather know what it was like to fly, but she didn't want to be shut out

  again as she had been in the middle of the night by asking questions

  Kiel couldn't--or wouldn't--answer.

  She released her seat belt. "On the other hand, just FYI, not because

  you need a clue," she teased, "the house is boxy. Ordinary. As

  inexpensive as any property in Pitkin County gets." With its minuscule

  size, reddish brown aluminum siding and a sagging stoop, Crandall's

  house wouldn't have met design standards or covenants anywhere but back

  down these remote mountain roads.

  Still, this was prime mountain property. The chilly air smelled fresh

  and clean. Blue skies stretched beyond the neighboring

  fourteen-thousand-foot peaks. She plucked up her shoulder bag from the

  center console, shut her car door and breathed deeply.

  A woman opened the front door and came out onto the porch wrapped in an

  oversize sweatshirt. "Can I help you," she called out.

  "Yes, thank you very much." Robyn crossed the small yard. "My name is

  Robyn Delaney. I'm looking for Detective Ken Crandall."

  The woman folded her arms over her chest and tilted her head. She

  could have been no more than thirty and had a very pretty face, but she

  was way too thin. Her green eyeliner had run, giving her a bruised

  look around the eyes. "He's my father, but it's his day off."

  "I understand. This is not police business, but personal. Is he

  around?"

  She jerked her head in a direction behind the house. "He's fishing."

  "Miss
... Crandall?"

  "Yes. Miss. Betsy."

  Kiel introduced himself. "Would it be all right with you if we just

  walk down there and talk to your dad?"

  She tucked her hair behind her ear in an embarrassed gesture. She

  smiled tentatively. "I don't think he'll mind."

  Kiel nodded. "Thanks, Betsy." He tempered his smile. Crandall's

  daughter turned back into the house. Kiel took Robyn's elbow and

  guided her around the house.

  The snow had all melted but the earth was still damp. Robyn followed

  in what would have been Kiel's footsteps, if he left any, which he

  didn't. They came to a steep decline. She could tell they were

  nearing a mountain stream.

  She first saw a fly fishing line whipping through the aft, then

  Crandall in hip waders, expertly casting the line. He pulled a trout

  from the stream as they came within shouting distance. He must have

  glimpsed them from the corner of his eye. He released the fish and

  tossed it back into the swirling stream, then waded back toward the

  shoreline.

  Robyn picked her way nearer. "Detective Crandall?" "Who's asking'?"

  "Sir, my name is Robyn Delaney. This is my associate, Kiel Alighieri.

  I'm sorry to interrupt your day off."

  A very fit man in his late forties or early fifties, suspicious by

  nature and profession, Crandall pulled the bill of his baseball. cap

  lower against the intense sun and waited for information relevant to

  the interruption.

  "My husband was Keller Trueblood," she offered. Nodding, he strode to

  the bank of the glacial stream-bed. The flesh around his eyes relaxed.

  He glanced at Kiel, then trained his attention on her. "Keller was a

  stand-up guy in a world full of stand-down clowns. Cryin' ass shame,

  that cave-in. How are you doing?"

  "I'm fine. Fully recovered." She tossed her hair back, annoyed now

  that she hadn't bound it up in a braid this morning. "But right now,

  my problem is that I'm not convinced that cave-in was an accident,

  Detective Crandall."

  He tilted his head and his eyes narrowed again. The sun glinted off a

  small gold St. Christopher medal nestled in the graying hair at his

  collar. "Come again?"

  "The cave-in," Kiel repeated. "Ms. Delaney has reason to believe that

  was no accident."

  Crandall planted the hook on his line in the grip of his pole and

  leaned the fishing gear up against a tree stump. "What reason would

  that he?"

  "I believe someone wanted Keller out of the picture." "To bring

  Candelaria's trial to a screeching halt?" "Exactly."

  "Well, we know who that someone would he, now, don't we? Stuart

  Willetts was going to have to turn around and kiss his ass goodbye if

  your husband had his way." '

  Robyn exchanged glances with Kiel. "Over what, Detective Crandall?"

  "Mr. Stuart Willetts had set himself on the do-not-pass-go path

  straight to hell."

  Robyn lifted a brow. "How, specifically?" "Professional misconduct,

  obstruction of justice at the low end. On the bright end, accessory to

  murder after the fact."

  Robyn shivered. "Keller threatened that?"

  Crandall shrugged. "My guess. Willetts was boinking the Candelaria

  dame. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to read the writing on the

  wall."

  "All right. Stuart Willetts had a lot to lose," she granted.

  "Detective Crandall, did Keller ever ask you to follow up on any

  evidence that anyone else murdered Spyder Nielsen? The reason I ask is

  that if someone else did the murder, then whoever that was had to

  believe getting rid of Keller was the only way out."

  Crandall began shaking his head the minute Robyn asked about anyone

  else. "Sorry. That don't wash." "Why?"

  Crandall spat in the direction of the streambed. "Two reasons." He

  held up his thumb. "One, the Candelaria woman committed that murder

  sure as I'm standing here in God's own country. And two," he added,

  holding up a soiled forefinger, "even if someone else did the deed,

  whacking your husband the prosecutor was in no way going to prevent me

  from bringing said make-believe perpetrator to justice."

  Recoiling from the fishy smell of Crandall's fingers, Robyn nodded

  thoughtfully. "I see your point."

  '"Course you do, because it makes logical sense. Because, for

  instance, you take Chloe Nielsen." He bent down and picked a weed from

  the ground and stuck it in his mouth like a toothpick.

  "Who else had more to gain?" he went on. "Chloe gets every cent of

  Spyder's estate, with none bein' siphoned off to Candelaria, and it's

  bye-bye to the wicked stepmother in one fell swoop."

  "Then she must have been a suspect," Kiel said. "Is it possible that

  Chloe killed her father and left Trudi Can delaria to find Spyder and

  take the blame?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not?" Robyn persisted.

  Crandall started to say something, then his mouth slapped shut. "Let's

  just say her alibi was tight as a spinster's... well. Leave it to your

  imagination."

  Robyn didn't need her imagination, or appreciate Crandall's crudeness.

  His language was far from the worst she'd heard. It had taken years of

  practice and a lot of mental steeling to let remarks like that go by

  for the sake of getting at the truth.

  And the truth was, however crudely stated, Crandall was quite right. If

  Keller had come to believe, even in the middle of his prosecution of

  Trudi, that Chloe Nielsen or anyone else had really committed the

  murder, the problem would not be solved just by getting rid of Keller.

  Crandall would have had to be silenced as well.

  "The problem here," Kiel said, taking on the doubting Thomas line, "is

  that Trudi Candelaria still claims she didn't kill Spyder."

  "Yeah. I'll bet. Poor little rich girl, pure as the wind-driven

  snow." Crandall rolled his eyes. "Another cryin' shame, that dame be'

  rag set free." He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached into a

  small cooler for a can of tomato juice. "Want one?"

  Robyn declined. Crandall downed his in one guzzle. "Detective

  Crandal!" I need to get to the bottom of all of this for my own peace

  of mind. If that mine shaft collapsed because someone wanted to be rid

  of Keller, I intend to find out and bring whoever caused his death to

  justice. I know you must have spent a great deal of time--"

  "You have any idea the hornet's nest you're messing with?"" he

  interrupted.

  "I believe I do."

  "Well, missy, you may have been the prosecutor's wife, but it's highly

  unlikely you do. If someone made sure Keller bit the dust--and my

  chief candidate would be Willetts, you understand--then you're next if

  you come sniffing around."

  "That's why I'm with her," Kiel said.

  Crandall eyed Kiel, apparently judging him man enough to protect her.

  "All fine and good," he said, "and all due respect, ma'am. Bein' the

  widow, I understand why you'd want to get the bastards. But I

  seriously doubt you have the stomach or the inclination to get past

  square one."

  "You're wrong, Detective Crandall. I d
o." Robyn produced a resume, a

  list of her credentials and writing credits, from her shoulder bag.

  Crandall crunched up the small empty can, tossed it to the ground

  beside his tackle box and took her sheaf of papers.

  In the course of her research, people who had not read her work or

  heard of her often assumed she was a cop groupie or Hollywood-type

  looking for a quick and dirty TV movie-of-the-week idea.

  Because he'd worked closely with Keller on the case against Trudi

  Candelaria, Crandall wouldn't have made those assumptions. But she

  wanted him to respect her for more than the fact she was Keller's

  widow. She let her extensive experience in follow-up criminal

  investigations speak for itself. Crandall should know up front that

  her own credentials demanded a high level of consideration for their

  own sake.

  Crandall's brows rose as he flipped through her impressive but easily

  read papers. He flicked them shut at the end and looked at her. "An

  authoress, huh?"

  "Just 'author," "she corrected him, smiling through her irritation.

  "Detective Crandall, can you tell me where your investigation into the

  unidentified tire tracks was going?"

  Crandall narrowed his eyes. "You've already talked to Willetts."

  Kiel knelt and skipped a flat stone across the surface of the mountain