Wicked Eddies by Beth Groundwater Page A

Cynthia stuffed her knuckles in her mouth and took a moment to compose herself. Then she got up and started pacing the room. “I should have done something, something more. Warning her wasn’t enough. Now she’s dead.”
    â€œWarning her? What are you talking about?”
    Cynthia stopped and stared at Mandy. Her mouth opened and closed, as if she were debating whether or not to say something. Then Mittens meowed at her and batted her leg. Cynthia reached down, scooped up the cat, and started petting it, her lips pursed.
    â€œNothing,” she said finally. “Faith was depressed. I tried to help her, but not enough. She wasn’t safe yet, and now it’s too late.”
    Before Mandy could ask more, a knock sounded on the door. The plaintive voice of Cynthia’s landlady asked, “What’s going on, Cynthia? Are you okay?”
    When Cynthia rose, Mandy stood, too. “What do you mean Faith wasn’t safe yet? Do you think she committed suicide? Was she depressed enough to throw herself in the river?”
    â€œMaybe. Or she took a risk and someone killed her.” Cynthia’s grip on the cat had tightened, and it let out a yowl of pain.
    â€œSorry, Mittens.” She loosened her hold and let the cat jump out of her arms, then opened the door.
    The retired couple stood outside. Wringing her hands, the woman looked from Cynthia to Mandy. “We heard screaming.”
    â€œMandy just told me that my cousin died,” Cynthia said.
    The woman gasped and put a hand to her face, while her husband gripped her shoulder. “We’re so sorry,” he said. “What can we do?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Cynthia replied, rubbing her forehead. “I need some time to absorb the shock.”
    Mandy touched Cynthia’s arm. “What kind of risk was Faith taking? What were you warning her about?”
    Cynthia held herself, her fingers making white marks on her arms. “I can’t talk about this. Not now.”
    â€œCan I make you some tea, dear?” the woman asked.
    Cynthia’s gaze flitted across the worried faces surrounding her. “I really need to be alone. Could you all just leave?”
    â€œSure, sure,” the man said, and he turned to leave.
    The woman made to leave with him, then turned back. “You call if you need anything. Anytime. And I’ll check on you in the morning.”
    Cynthia nodded, then looked expectantly at Mandy, still clutch ing herself.
    â€œAre you sure you want me to leave?” Mandy asked. “I’ll stay the night. I’ll do whatever you want or need me to, to help you through this.”
    â€œI know, and I appreciate it. Thank you for coming to tell me. I know it was hard. But right now, I just want to be alone.”
    _____
    The next morning, Friday, dawned bright and clear with a piercingly blue sky. Worried about Cynthia, Mandy called her and woke her up, but when she offered to bring breakfast by, Cynthia turned her down, saying she was going back to sleep. Mandy felt bad about waking her friend, but at least she knew Cynthia was alive and hadn’t succumbed to her grief and done something drastic—like following her cousin into the river.
    If that was how Faith died.
    After driving to headquarters, Mandy rode with Lance in one of the ranger pickup trucks from Salida north to the Railroad Bridge put-in at the entrance to Wildhorse Canyon. Last Sunday, a commercial rafter had called in a strainer, a dangerous tangle of branches in the water, in the Frog Rock rapid. The river rangers cleared strainers as soon as possible because they could trap and hold a swimmer underwater. But since Wildhorse Canyon wasn’t one of the popular runs on the Arkansas, the clearing of that particular strainer had been deferred. With the weekend coming up, though, it needed to be taken care of.
    The tools and paddles rattling in the truck bed kept up a percussive beat to Lance’s