by Mara Purl
“Well, I don’t know. He didn’t say his name. Never had seen him before, but he seemed worried about her. Did somethin’ happen to her?”
“We got an anonymous tip. She might be in trouble.”
“Oh, Lordie.”
Del’s mind raced. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts into the deliberate slowness he’d trained himself to use for investigations. “Back up a minute. There was a man—but you don’t know who—and he knew Ms. Christian?”
“All’s I know is, this man sat right here at my counter yesterday morning, and he was nervous like, and when I asked him who he was waitin’ for, he gave her name. Didn’t ring a bell then. But I never can keep names in my head. Faces, though, well they stay clear as the view out my Mama’s picture window.”
While Sally described the man who’d sat here, Del’s hands lifted off the counter as though it’d suddenly grown hot. Would there still be fingerprints? No … I’m too late by hours, the way Sally runs a rag over this counter every few minutes. I just hope I’m not too late for Christine Christian. “How did you know he was waiting for someone?”
Sally tilted her head and leaned her cheek against one hand. “Oh … I just knew. You get to readin’ customers after a time.”
“Sally, would you be willing to come down to the Sheriff’s station today and work with one of our sketch artists?” Sally made a face—one he’d never seen before—and it put a smile back on Del’s, in spite of himself. “You might be helping us a lot.”
“All the way over to San Luis? I got to get back to my stew! And I hardly got to lookin’ at that man’s face at all. I was too busy with customers.”
“Couple of hours,” he countered.
She made another face.
“All right, how about if I promise to have you outta there in one hour?”
“I’ll agree to meetin’ with your sketchin’ man, Delmar. But first I gotta get through the lunch hour. And then I got one real important errand to do.”
She’s calling me by my first name again. That’s a relief. It means we’re still friends. Friends do favors. And I need one.
Sally O’Mally stepped onto Main Street and glanced up to see the buildings across the street splashed with the gold-orange glow of afternoon sun. Makes ever’thing look like giant punkins.
Slinging the purse strap over her shoulder and pulling her sweater closed, she marched down the street toward Sawyer Construction. When she reached the building she strode up the few exterior steps, opened the outer door and glanced around, seeing no sign of Kevin.
Jus’ as well. I’m in no mood for niceties. Walking across the stained wood floor toward the door mounted with a small “Jack Sawyer” plaque, she paused a moment. I s’ppose I could knock before I jus’ barge in. She hit the door with the knuckles on her right hand. “Jack! Jack are you in there?” She knocked again. “Jack! I saw your truck outside so I know you’re in there, and I have to see you right now!”
She could picture him lurking in his office, doing his best to keep even his breathing silent. Well, this time it jus’ won’t work. She tried for a sugar-sweet voice. “Ja-a-ack? You’re not poutin’ in there, are you?” He hates it when I say that … but it should get him t’ open the door.
Sure enough, the door swung suddenly inward. “All right, Sally, but I’m in the middle of a million things. Make it snappy.”
“Snappy? Hmm. I’ll see if I can oblige you.”
He barely glanced at her as he returned to his chair. It creaked beneath his weight, and he made no attempt to offer her a seat
Standing opposite his desk, she forced a smile. “I have some information for you,” she sang.
“Well? What is it?” he barked the words, as though this might shorten the conversation.
“It’s confidential information.”
He blew out a sigh of exasperation. “It’s always ‘confidential’ information with you, Sally, and it never amounts to anything. I don’t have time for your gossip. So if you really have something important to say, get it out and get it over with.”
I’m not gonna let that gruff voice get in my way. “Well, I think first of all I’ll jus’ make myself at home.” She pulled a battered chair away from the wall and watched with a grimace as its legs left tracks in the floor’s accumulated dust. “You ought to clean this place more than once a year, Jack.” Sally sat and slid the strap of her purse over the chair. Pulling back the velcro tabs on her high-tops, she slipped off her shoes, allowing them to fall noisily to the floor. “O-o-o-h,” she moaned, massaging first the right, then the left sole, wriggling her toes while she spoke. “You know, a girl like me spends so many hours on her feet, you jus’ would not believe how awful tired she can get”
She knew she was trying his patience, and watched with interest as he forced air through pressed lips, making himself wait her out. “Fine,” he said deliberately. “Take a load off, but remember I haven’t got all day for this.”
She stared at the small print of the sparkling nearby bay she’d tacked to his wall months earlier. “You know, this morning I was rememberin’ that nice little boat trip we took around Morro Bay.”
Jack chewed the edge of his lip.
“And when I was makin’ up my first batch of biscuits, I was thinkin’ an awful lot about that time we went over to the big Central Coast Food Fair.”
Jack stared out through his spatter-encrusted window. “I told you, I don’t have all day.”
“And how you told me none of those other ladies could cook a lick compared to me, and my biscuits won the prize that day and all.”
“Yes, yes, that was all very nice, but can you please get to the point? I’ve got men waiting at a construction site.”
Undeterred, she pressed on. “Well, anyway, I was jus’ thinking about what a nice time that was, and how I liked tellin’ you things about myself after that, ‘cause I felt like I could trust you, and then.—”
Jack Sawyer stood, unable any longer to keep his seat, or to listen to her nattering. “Look, Sally, I’m simply gonna have to leave. I can call you later at the restaurant, or you can call me, but right now I’ve got a meeting and people are waiting for me.”
He stared down at her, watching as she put back on those sensible shoes, relieved that he would finally escape this meaningless exchange. I’m surprised at Sally. She usually has better timing: either being clever enough to open these relationship discussions when she’s pumped me full of her excellent cooking—or has me where she wants me in bed. He glanced down at his desk to see what he might need to take with him, stuffed a file into his scarred leather briefcase and started for the door.
Sally jumped up from her chair and moved fast, intercepting him. She placed a hand that seemed tiny against his big chest—but it was her tone of voice that stopped him. “I told you I had confidential information for you, Jack. And I think this is somethin’ you’re gonna want to hear from me instead of from someone else.”
Her attitude did nothing to sooth his temper, which now roiled toward its flash point. “What kind of information, Sally?”
“It’s about a child, Jack.”
The sentence hit him like a two by four. “What? Do you mean to tell me you’re….?”
Jack stood suspended in an agony of anxiety, and she gave him no relief “I’m not tellin’ you nothin’ till you sign this.” She reached into her purse, withdrew a sheet of paper, unfolded it and slapped it on his desk.
She’s calm. How could she be calm about this? He watched, stupefied, as she collected her shoes, replaced the chair in its original spot, and opened his door to leave. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, there’s someplace I gotta go. Y’all have a nice day” she said.
It was his least favorite expression.
Chapter 15
Zack Calvin sat outside at the Rosencrantz Cafeé & Guildenstern Garden, observing how orange sunlight filtered through the tall pines and struck the tables at long angles. His gaze fell to a line of shadow th
at intersected a patio brick, and he stared at it for a long moment. I swear that line hasn’t moved in at least five minutes … as if time is suspended.
He’d ordered the homemade freshly brewed raspberry iced tea from the nice hostess with the long braid … Lucy, as she’d introduced herself. He took a sip of the tea now, finding it a little too sweet. He glanced around the terrace with its redwood tables, carefully manicured trees and well-tended plants. There were colorful hanging plants, but no hummingbirds; a hawk circled high overhead. At least it has something to do. More than I can say.
That morning, armed with a stack of brochures from his motel, he’d made his way up one side of Main Street and down the other, finding fine-art galleries, shops that featured wares from local artisans: pottery, glass, weavings, jewelry. He’d found real estate brokers and restaurants, clothing shops, a drug store, a beautiful old-fashioned stationers, the office of the local newspaper, and a medium-sized food market. But of all the businesses, he spent the most time in the bookshop. By The Book filled its plate-glass front window with a colorful autumn display that drew him into the comfortable, carpeted store. After he browsed Travel, Photography and Fiction, he sat for a while in an over-stuffed chair to read the first chapter of a book he found in the Self-Help section: Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. Though it’d been in paperback for two years, he’d considered the title to be more of a joke than anything serious. But the book seemed to have some merit after all. Maybe I’ll buy it later. Seems too substantial for a vacation read.
He ambled back to his car and sat in the driver’s seat perusing again the brochures, finding one for the Lighthouse Tavern. I like the name and the look of this place. Wonder if it’d be a good place for dinner with Miranda tonight—assuming she can make it? Reviewing the map, he saw it was just at the northwest edge of town—at the end of the very road where the Belhaven and the other motels were located.
Zack fired up the engine and headed for Touchstone Beach, winding his way along the coastline until he came to the restaurant’s parking lot. As he exited the car and crunched across the gravel, he looked up at the mock-light tower atop the restaurant—realistic enough to be mistaken for the real thing, if it had contained an actual light.
When he checked the front door it was locked, a sign giving the hours as 5 p.m. to 10 p.m. But as he turned away, a gust of ocean breeze carried rich cooking odors across the parking lot. Drawn by the enticing aroma, he walked around the side of the building and noticed that the back door stood open.
Poking his head in, he enjoyed another inhalation. Garlic? And some kind of roast? Smells as good as Calma when James is cooking. Zack glanced around the elaborate kitchen where at least five people busily worked. It’s not quite time to call Miranda yet, but if I like the place, I could book a table, then cancel if she can’t make it. “Excuse me,” he called out. “Can anyone take a reservation?”
A slightly rotund black-haired man wrapped in a white apron looked up and called back, “Sure. Give me a minute.” After washing his hands, the man tore off a paper towel and dried them as he walked toward Zack. “For tonight?” he asked.
Zack nodded.
“What time?”
“Uh, how about seven?”
“Seven it is.” The man smiled.
“Are you the owner?”
He nodded and smiled. “Yup. And proverbial chief cook and bottle washer.”
Zack chuckled. “So, what’s on the menu? Got something special for tonight?”
“Always,” the owner affirmed. “We’re doing sand dabs. And since I caught them myself, I know they’re fresh.”
“A chef, and a fisherman, then. I’m an angler myself, when time permits,” Zack shared companionably.
“From around here?”
“Down in Santa Barbara. My dad calls sand dabs the poor man’s halibut”
“He’s right. They swim so deep, once you’ve hooked ’em, you’ve gotta haul like hell to get them to the surface. Worth it, though. They’re the regional delicacy.” An almost dreamy look seemed to come into the chef’s eyes, as though he were summoning the flavors. “That sweet, soft texture, moist and mild.”
This guy seems like the real deal. And since this is his restaurant, I think I might’ve found a gem. “So, how are you doing them? Meunière?”
“The best, in my view.” He glanced toward the array of pans that hung from an overhead rack, then continued. “A small flatfish like a dab is made for the skillet. A light dredging in flour, a quick sauté, add the chopped onions and parsley, finish with a squeeze of lemon….” The chef kissed the ends of his fingers.
Zack joined him in a laugh, then said, “I can already taste it! So I guess we’ll see you later.”
“We?”
“My date … my friend, that is. We … we’re just getting to know each other.”
The chef gave a knowing nod and pursed his lips. “Need to make the right impression, eh? No problem. We aim to please.”
“Thanks, man. I’m Zack, by the way.”
“Michael.” The chef shook his outstretched hand. “Michael Owen. Do you want me to go ahead and reserve two orders of the Dabs for you? Sometimes they go pretty quickly. Since it’s the special, it comes with salad, bread, and desert.”
“That’d be great. And do you have a local wine you recommend with the fish?”
Michael thought for a moment. “My choice would be the Cambria Winery. They have one called Katherine’s Chardonnay that complements a light fish.”
“Perfect, save us a bottle of that too,” Zack confirmed.
“I’ll make sure it’s chilled. Look forward to seeing you this evening. And the young lady.”
Back in his car, Zack checked his Rolex, and then flipped open his cell phone. Service is nil right here. Better find a spot on top of one of the hills. He crossed Highway 1, then chose a residential street that twisted and wound its way to a higher altitude. Edging away from the densely populated lane, he headed for an empty lot with a For Sale sign and pulled alongside. Wow, whatever gets built here will have a spectacular view. He checked his phone again. Not that much better, but enough, I hope.
He felt only slightly guilty that he’d disrupted Miranda’s schedule in the last couple of days. Funny, he’d always imagined artists as living spontaneous, free-flowing lives. Yet hers seemed so structured and disciplined. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.
His own life in Santa Barbara comprised a structured agenda neatly entered into his personal info system. Mary input his appointments. James picked up his pressed shirts. All this was supposed to leave him free for his “higher purpose.” But what that really meant was concentrating on the bottom line for Calvin Oil, and lately he wasn’t sure how high a purpose that truly was.
He’d enjoyed the work in his twenties. Being the youngest member of his Harvard Business School graduating class to make Vice President was no mean achievement, even if it was the family firm. The position required focus and stamina. He had plenty of both.
He also enjoyed Dad. They endured their share of friction, but over the years, they’d forged a bond few men seemed able to create. In fact, they were living the classic dream. Father and son, CEO and VP, united in business and work ethic, competitive in sport, gentlemanly with women—the two most eligible bachelors in Santa Barbara, one for each age bracket. They saw each other at work, kept their distance after hours unless attending the same social function.
Lately, though, Zack had begun to have the constant feeling life was repeating itself. He tried to outrun the sensation by generating a busier schedule: more ambitious quarterly goals; more international partnerships; more meetings; more squash matches; more yacht parties. And more evenings with Cynthia.
Cynthia! I haven’t called her all weekend. He grinned. I haven’t called anyone. In fact, I haven’t even checked my messages.
He glanced at his wrist. Still a few minutes before I’m supposed to call Miranda. Dad might need him for something. Pulling out hi
s phone, he reluctantly dialed his own number and discovered he’d received one call.
“Zackery, darling … it’s me.” There was that throaty voice. “I miss you so much. Wait till you see what I’m almost wearing for Halloween, When are you coming back from that place up the road? I talked to Mary, but I forget the name. What’s it called? Mill Pond? You must be so-o-o bored. Don’t worry. Cynthia fix.”
He terminated the call. Her message had sent an arc of electricity traveling from one end of his synaptic structure to the other, but left him feeling spent, as though the sudden charge had drained his battery. The old, familiar malaise washed through him, his system overloading with conflicting data, slowing his response time and choking off his new-found sense of discovery.
He could envision Cynthia placing the call, twisting the phone cord around a long, manicured finger. She’d be reclining against her satin pillows, pouting. Is it cute and sexy? Or is it manipulative?
That world seemed a dark one from this perspective, appealing to a shadow self which, for today, was banished by the gentle sun of this quaint little town. I am not bored! He shifted in his seat. Am I? How typical that she couldn’t even remember the name of Milford-Haven, discounting it as some sort of backwater, unworthy of her ambitions and, therefore, of his.
But I like it—a place I found on my own. She doesn’t know about it and I don’t have to tell her. No need to return her call. Her message had been intrusion enough into his remaining hours of freedom.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the slip of paper on which he’d jotted Miranda’s number. He lifted his phone and dialed the number, disappointed when her machine picked up. He listened to the timbre of her voice, intrigued by its clarity and softness, and nearly forgot what to say when he heard the beep.
“Miranda, it’s Zack. Zack Calvin. Uh, if we’re still on for dinner, I thought…that is, if it works with your schedule, how about dinner at seven? If you can’t make it, leave me a message at the Belhaven. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll pick you up at six forty-five.”
