Cyanide Wells by Marcia Muller

never wanted children and was concerned about what kind of mother Ard would make, but I thought Natalie might settle her down, bring stability to our relationship. And by and large she’s done that. Ard’s a good mother, and I’ve found I enjoy having a kid around.”
    Lindstrom eyed her keenly. “But?”
    “Did I say ‘but’?”
    “You didn’t have to.”
    “All right!” Her irritation gave way to relief. It felt good to unburden herself, even though the recipient of her confidences couldn’t have been more unlikely. “I love Natalie, but sometimes she’s a reminder of how much Ard has hurt me.”
    “I understand. This running off—has it stopped since she had Natalie?”
    “No. But it’s not as frequent, and of shorter duration—usually only a day or two.”
    “It’s enough of a pattern, though, that you think this”—he nodded toward the hallway—“might be more of the same.”
    “I’m sure it is. Ard’s been under a lot of pressure lately. I think I told you the book she’s writing is due at the publisher soon, but it’s not going well.” She hesitated. “And we haven’t been getting along.”
    “Why not?”
    “My business, Lindstrom.”
    He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Has she ever done anything like this in the past? Staged a violent scene?”
    “No, and she’s never taken Natalie along, either. Frankly, I’m worried about her mental health. She claims somebody’s been watching her, that somebody’s been in the house while we were gone.”
    “You don’t believe it?”
    “No. There’s no evidence of forced entry, and I haven’t noticed any prowlers. Besides, she’s always been a little paranoid.”
    “When did she first mention this?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “Well, that explains it. I was out here then, and today, taking pictures with a telephoto lens. Maybe she sensed my presence. But I never got any closer than that grove of trees to the south. Tonight’s the first time I’ve been in the house.”
    She studied him thoughtfully. He was either an honest man or an adept con artist.
    He added, “If you’re worried about her mental health, you really ought to call the sheriff’s department.”
    “No.” she shook her head. “I can’t do that to Ard. The department didn’t like her coverage of the ‘faggot murders,’ as they privately called them. God knows how they’d handle this, what they’d say to the media. And I’ll admit to more than a little self-interest—my newspaper is the one voice of reason in this county, and I don’t want it discredited because its editor couldn’t control her personal life.”
    He nodded in understanding. “That detective who gave me a lift last night—Rhoda Swift—she seems nice, a sympathetic person. Nonjudgmental, too. Maybe you could ask for her.”
    “No, I couldn’t. Rho only works cases in the coastal area.”
    “But as a favor?”
    “Rho’s all the things you say she is, but she’s also a by-the-book cop. She’d have to bring the local deputies in on it. I know how she operates because I did a special interview with her a couple of years back about an old murder case that she cracked. Besides, she’s romantically involved with a bestselling journalist; if he got wind of this, Ard and I might end up as the subjects of his next book.”
    “Which neither of you needs.” Lindstrom frowned. “Me, either.”
    For the first time she considered how the situation might affect him. “Let me ask you this,” she said. “What did you plan to do about Ard? Obviously you came here with an agenda.”
    He looked away from her. “I guess you could say so.”
    “And that was…?”
    “To take pictures.”
    “Pictures of her?”
    “Right. I wanted to make an identification. Document her new life. Then I was going to take the photographs to the Sweetwater County, Wyoming, Sheriff’s Department—where there’s still an open file on her disappearance naming me as the prime