Where Echoes Live by Marcia Muller

bring along some of the Coalition literature and position papers on the situation here in Mono County. I was happy to; we’re always short on funds, and Mick seemed well off. I was hoping for a donation.”
    â€œDid you get one?”
    â€œYes. Two or three weeks later he showed up again. This time he took me to dinner. He asked a lot of questions about Tufa Lake and Stone Valley. Before he left he gave me a thousand dollars for the Coalition.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œThat’s the last I saw of him.”
    I thought for a moment about what he’d told me. “Tell me more about Mick Erickson. What was he like?”
    â€œLike?” Sanderman stared off at the lake, where the tufa islands were taking on sharper definition as the rising sun gilded them. “An attractive guy. Well dressed, drove a Jaguar. Not handsome in the classical sense, but there was something about him that made women sit up and take notice. Very smooth, with a good sense of humor. He wasn’t the sort to tell jokes, though; they were more like amusing stories, anecdotes. Not your stereotypical marketing type—much more sophisticated.”
    â€œYou know anything about his personal life?”
    â€œI think he was married. At least, when I ran into him that Christmastime, he complained about how difficult it was to choose perfume for his wife.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œWhat about the consulting firm he’d set up?”
    â€œI can’t even recall its name.”
    â€œOkay, now let me ask you this: You must have suspected the dead man and Mick Erickson were the same person when we all talked last night. Why didn’t you mention it then?”
    He wet his lips, compressed them.
    â€œNed?”
    â€œI just …I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ripinsky, not until I’d thought it over.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWell, the way it looks to me—and I’m sure it will to him—is that I inadvertently gave Mick an idea that he later exploited.”
    â€œAbout the gold-mining potential here.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHy could scarcely blame you for that. As far as you knew, Erickson was interested in the Coalition’s work. He did give you a sizable donation.”
    â€œYou and I see it that way, but Ripinsky will manage to turn it around. He’s like a lot of the old-style environmentalists—a zealot who resents the new breed.”
    â€œI’m not sure I understand.”
    â€œRipinsky’s in love with Mother Nature. Every tree, every rock, every bird, must be preserved at whatever the cost.” Sanderman’s lips twisted scornfully. “He doesn’t see the realities of what we’re up against. Doesn’t see the need to compromise, make accommodation. And he doesn’t understand just how bad our need for money is. We can’t exist on the dribs and drabs that trickle in from our members and private foundations. We need big money, and we have to learn how to tap into the sources for it.”
    â€œDid you think you could do that through Mick Erickson?”
    â€œâ€¦ Well, he certainly seemed like a man who could provide a good entree to the big-money interests. But try telling that to Ripinsky. He’d accuse me of selling out the entire Tufa Lake area. And the devil of it is that if anyone else—Anne-Marie or one of the Friends, for instance—had made the same error in judgment, he’d have understood how it could happen. But because it was me …Ripinsky’s out to get me.”
    â€œWhy?”
    He shrugged and looked away.
    â€œI don’t think he’s out to get you, Ned. The two of you just don’t get along because of the difference in your personal styles.”
    Sanderman still did not meet my eyes. He seemed to want to tell me something, but was unable to broach the subject. Finally he said, “Maybe you’re right. This kind of