A breeze pushed the last of the storm up the valley, moving it south, toward the mountains behind him. Clouds from the retreating storm looked like a triumphant army, hauling away its ordinance for another engagement-with only white-gray stragglers tagging behind. As he peddled downhill toward Ridgway, he could see the east side of the valley, exposed to the southern sun, had melted nearly clear of snow while across the valley, draped in shadow most of the day, the western slope retained almost all its recent covering.
Dean sped downhill, the temperature dropping in the breeze he created as the steep sides of the narrow valley blocked out all the midmorning sun. Three or four miles from town, the roadway opened and he slowed, allowing the warmth of the day to soak into his stiff body. He hit a comfortable pace and stayed there as he peddled past the cemetery and the open meadows where a herd of elk grazed near the river to his left, standing at attention near the edge of the tall cottonwoods that lined the bank. Here the road was dry and only a few cars passed him before he drifted past a private hot spring, along the wide curve and by the County fairgrounds before entering Ridgway.
Just as he neared the intersection, Dean recognized Corday and Fitzgerald driving toward Ouray. He instinctively ducked his head but the two were paying no heed to a passing biker as they sped south. He was pleased he'd accepted Fred's offer to stay away from Bird Song. He was in no mood to talk to the pair.
Dean paused at the County's sole traffic light, a recent addition and, in some minds, a reluctant bow to progress. Just west of the intersection, he pulled up to Cimarron Books, a small combination bookstore and coffee shop. He asked Priscilla, the owner, for a cup and filled it from one of the coffee dispensers. He then asked if he might use her telephone with his phone card. She obliged with a smile and was polite enough not to question his eccentric dialing pattern and cutting the connection twice before letting it ring. He muttered some lame excuse, feigning making an error. Cynthia finally answered.
There seemed to be improvement in her mother's condition but Cynthia's mood remained subdued. She questioned how the investigation was proceeding and her pointed questions forced him to admit he was the prime suspect.
"That's ridiculous," she exclaimed. "You were a police officer yourself."
Dean pointed out the obvious reasons he was suspected of cutting the rope. He let her know he and Fred were sniffing about in an attempt to determine the real killer. This, however, gave Cynthia little solace.