“What then?” If he had more feeling than showed, I was torturing him.
“Police got us all up, herded us into the living room, and questioned us. We were all in shock. I don’t think we were much use.” He stared out the window, searching the blue sky for memories.
“Who was there?”
“Your mom and dad, of course Carol, Ron, Suzy, Tom, Jamie, Elliott.” Uncle Dave fiddled with his monogrammed cuff, checked the distance the shirtsleeve stuck out past his jacket. Was he looking everywhere but my eyes hoping I wouldn’t see his pain? Or what was he hiding?
He must have a thing about his neck because he always wore either a turtleneck or a cravat. Did I mention Uncle Dave is known among his friends for his fastidious, obsessive compulsions?
“No wait, I don’t know that he was there, in fact we wondered where Elliott was.” Dave said after some hesitation.
“Anyone else?”
“No. I don’t think so.” He looked maybe actually sad now. “No.”
“Who was usually at the house?”
“Well, Jeff, Lexi, and I lived there officially. Our names were on the lease.” Uncle Dave hesitated. “Carol had moved in a few weeks before. She shared a room with Lexi. And Jamie, Tom, and Elliott hung out there a lot. Ron too, but he actually spent most of his time at Jamie’s ranch.”
“Did they usually sleep there?”
“Only if they were too stoned or drunk to get home.” His smile was actually sad.
“Where did they live?”
“On a ranch in Novato that Jamie’s family owned.”
“With Jamie’s parents?”
“No-o . . . the parents didn’t live there. They were separated or something. The mom lived in New York. I don’t remember the dad.” He seemed to have recovered some of his appetite. He readjusted the napkin in his collar and took a bite of his egg white omelette.
“Why did the guys live there?”
He swallowed. “They were kinda taking a gap year between undergrad and law school.”
“What about you?”
“I couldn’t afford a gap year, or grad school, I worked here, in the city, but I was mostly around on the weekends. I commuted from Berkeley.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair.
“What did they do with themselves?” I wasn’t through.
“Drugs, sex and rock’n roll––all in an upper middle class verging on intellectual sort of way.”
“And what way would that be?” Steven asked.
“They tried to be considerate of the caretaking couple at the ranch. The housekeeper saw to it that they were cleaned up after, especially after one of their cook-a-thons. Hell, they were among the original foodies, now that I think of it. Drugs were mild, just marijuana and some hallucinogens. Sex was definitely all heterosexual, mostly monogamous if serial. And private. Orgies were not part of the scene.”
“Is the caretaking couple still there?”
“I doubt it. That land has to have been sold off and developed years ago.” He stood, rearranged his slacks, straightened the crease, and plucked off a piece of lint.
“Do you know their names?”
“Na. Hell, I wasn’t there that much. I worked, remember.”
“How would we find this place?” Steven asked.
Dave’s cell chirped an incoming text. He picked it up, studied the screen. “Damn. Fucking idiots.” He looked at the sideboard. “Maria” he screamed, “I want a damn piece of paper.” He stomped his foot. “Maria. Goddamn! Where the fuck are you?”
My theory of Dave was that he thought of other humans as worthless annoyances. He made no pretense otherwise with his servants.
A pale Maria scurried through the swinging kitchen door, pen and tablet in hand. She placed the items on the table and shook while awaiting further instructions.
“Get outa here,” Dave snapped at her.
Steven frowned as though he were about to chastise Dave.
With a look I reminded my brother about Uncle Dave’s hypersensitivity to anything that he could construe as criticism. I remembered Dave bitching to Dad that he thought Mother had insinuated that he was nouveau riche when he complained about a scratch on the dining table. In fact, my mother never criticized anyone. But I knew from her reaction to being told about Dave’s complaint that she does not, in fact, think too highly of him, and his new money has nothing to do with her low opinion.
Steven got the message. We wouldn’t get anything out of him if we pissed him off.
Dave scribbled on the paper. “I don’t have a clue as to the address, but I can draw you a map of how to get there.” He tossed the scribbles at us as he stood up.
“Were you home when Lexi left that night?” I wasn’t through with my questions.
“No. I was at work.” Dave turned his back to me and walked toward the entry hall.
I knew he wasn’t at work, unless he’d gone back to the city after being home in the early afternoon. I followed him into the hall. “What was the name of that place, the bar on San Pablo?”
Dave picked up his briefcase. He didn’t answer, but I saw red creep up his neck past the cravat.
“Was it something like the Monk?” I pressed.
“The Monkey Inn.” Dave turned to glare at me, then softened the look. “I really gotta get to the office.” He forced a smile. “I am sorry I can’t help you kids, if I think of anything that might be . . . useful, I will definitely be in touch.”
“Did you stop there on the way home from the city?”
“Sometimes,” Dave threw a Burberry trench over his arm.
“That night?”
He shook his head.
“The day before?”
“I don’t remember.” He walked out the door.
One of those events you never forget, he had said. Did you forget what you were doing right before it happened?
Steven and I exchanged shrugs as we got in the car. He turned to look at me as he pushed the power button. “Wow. Dave has serious money. That was a Jasper John in the entry hall, a Renoir on the staircase wall. Did his . . . hmm . . . intensity earn a fortune?”
“You know Steven, he always was weird.”
Dave was intense even when we were still in school. Intense just wasn’t cool then. Laid-back, like Jamie’s insouciance. That was the way to hang.
Maybe it was because he grew up poor. Many in that generation grew up with enough financial security to give more attention to saving the world, or creating great art, or changing the social structure, or bringing peace to earth, something other than making money. Not Dave. He’d parlayed a waterbed company into a chain of waterbed stores, then into furniture stores, and then into an enormous import company that brought in furniture from all over the Orient. When the China market opened up, he became a billionaire. But all that success, all that money sure hadn’t made him happy.
CHAPTER
41
The drive to Marin would have been beautiful, had we been in the mood to enjoy the Golden Gate Bridge, the rich yellow, rolling hills dotted with dark coast oaks. Not this time. After we got off the freeway in Novato and passed the usual new shopping centers that look the same everywhere these days, we drove on a two-lane road that wound among giant oaks and golden pastures.
We found the farmhouse set in the midst of an apple orchard. It looked just as I had imagined it––or, rather, as I remembered it. I had been there before; that is Lexi had.
White clapboard siding, covered front porch––style elements known among architectural historians as farmhouse Victorian. The decorations are much simpler and more functional than on the fancy painted ladies of San Francisco.
The house, barn, and some orchard were still intact, but instead of being set in fifty acres, a single acre was surrounded by a housing development of McMansions. A sedan and an old Land Rover were parked in front of the barn. We found the front door and knocked.
No one answered. We peeked in windows, pounded on another door. There
was no sign of anyone yet the house was furnished and a bowl of fruit was visible in the kitchen.
Steven checked out the barn. I walked through elderly, gnarled apple trees. I saw Birkenstock clad feet and worn denim-covered legs at the top of a wood ladder.
“Hello, hi.” I stood near the bottom of the ladder. There was no response to my greeting. “Hello,” I repeated. “Hi.”
“I hear ya. Wadda want?” asked a gruff voice.
“Can we talk?” I still couldn’t see a head and didn’t know if I was addressing a man or a woman.
“We’re talkin’, aren’t we?”
“My name is Alexandra Nichols. I’m looking for some people who used to live here. A couple, the caretakers, and some friends of my father’s.”
“Can’t help ya.”
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“I would very much appreciate your help,” I said.
“I’m busy.”
“Could I come back later?” I figured he or she would have to come down that ladder eventually. Maybe I’d just wait.
“No.”
“Are you the owner?”
“Get the hell out of here.”
Steven joined me. “Who are you talking to?”
I shrugged, pointed up to the legs.
“Hello,” Steven said to the legs. “Sorry to bother you. Could we just ask a few questions?”
“Oh for godsakes.” The feet started down the ladder and a head swathed in netting over a hat emerged from the branches. “Are you friends of my son?”
“Who’s your son?” I asked.
Steven gave me a look that said ‘you are going about this all wrong’. “Our father used to visit here some decades back when he was in college. His friend Jamie’s parents owned the place then. We’re trying to locate the couple who acted as caretakers at that time.”
Hands covered in leather work gloves unwrapped the netting and removed the hat uncovering the attractive, wrinkled face of an older woman. “You have any idea how long it took me to get all this crap on and finally do something about trimming these damn trees?” She walked toward the house. We followed. “Wait here,” she said when we got to the front porch. A few minutes later she emerged from the house, handed us a piece of paper, and walked back to the orchard.
I looked at the paper. At the top it said, “Caretakers” followed by “Susan and Mac McAller” and an address in Novato. Now it came back to me. We had called them Mr. and Mrs. Mac.
“Who was that?” I asked Steven.
He shrugged.
CHAPTER
42
The address turned out to be a rest home. Mac and Mrs. Mac sat in wheelchairs in the sun of the atrium. I was determined to do a better job of interviewing these two.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. McAller. I’m Alexandra Nichols. This is my brother Steven. Our father, Jeff, used to stay at the Gregg’s farmhouse back in the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s. Would it be alright if we asked you a few questions?” I pulled the photo of the gang out of my pocket thinking I could use it to jog their memories.
“What’s she saying? Can’t hear her,” Mr. McAller yelled at his wife.
Mrs. Mac reached over to readjust her husband’s hearing aid, smiled at us, and said, “Please have a seat. Presumably Mrs. Gregg told you where to find us. I’m Mrs. Mac, that’s what the young people like you always called me.” She offered her hand, pulling her housecoat closed on her legs.
I shook her hand. So that was Mrs. Gregg at the farmhouse, Jamie’s mother.
“We’d be happy ta talk. What would ya like ta know?” Mrs. Mac continued.
“When you took care of the place, who all lived there?”
“There was just one year, 1969, when anyone actually lived at the farm. Rest'a the time, it was just weekends when they’d come. ‘Course we never knew when they was comin’. They’d just show up which made shoppin’ complicated, but Mr. Gregg insisted we always be prepared for company, and he footed the bills, so who were we ta complain?”
“Who lived there in 1969?”
“Jamie Gregg and three of his friends mostly. Others would show up. Most we ever had at once was about thirty, I’d say. Lord. Had bodies everywhere. Every bed, every sofa––even the hammocks and chaises on the porch. Some even slept in the orchard. They helped with the cookin’, wanted me ta teach 'em how to cook everything, apple pies, apple butter, stews. They was a real nice bunch ya know. Good kids.”
“What did they do besides cook?” Steven asked.
“Played a lot of cards. Liked ta play with maybe ten people, lots of decks. Mostly hearts.”
“Cooked, ate, played cards, slept. Does that cover it?” I asked.
“Oh, no! They used ta crank up the sound on the hi-fi so loud it ‘bout shook the house down. Could hear it all through the orchard. They’d dance through the trees, even on the roof.” In a sweet but cracking voice she sang, “All ya need is love, love, love: love is all ya need.’ Those songs and the like. Of course they’d be smokin’ that mary-juana all the time. And drank up the good wine from the cellar, Mr. Gregg wasn’t too happy bout that but he didn’t care about the maryjane.”
“The three friends, male?” Steven asked.
“Oh yes. Course they had girls around, too. Sister of one of the boys come pretty often and she’d bring her friends.” Mrs. Mac leaned over to whisper, “We’d always find it interestin’ ta see who would end up in what beds. Plenty of that going on too, ya know.”
I returned her smile and nodded. “What names do you remember?”
“Jamie, of course.”
“What girls did he have around?”
“Not many, really. Which was surprisin’ ‘cuz even as a young man, he was a charmer. Very much a gentleman.”
Mrs. Mac hesitated in thought for only a second. “One girl named Nancy that came with Elliott’s sister the first time and then he’d go pick her up sometimes. I’m pretty sure she ended up with Elliott, ya know in the end when they was all grown ups and started gettin’ married.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“Tom. Now he was a handsome Irish boy. Liked ta cook. Had a different girl every week until that Linda come along. Then it was just her. They’re still married ya know, I read about them in the papers, society pages.”
“Elliott came there?” I asked “Before Nancy?”
“Yeah, he were one of ‘em. That poor boy got his heart broke so often. He would go for the kinda plain ones, too. But they never lasted more than a week or so. Now that Ron. He practically had ta beat’em off with a stick. Weren’t just ‘cuz of his looks either, he was kinda a rugged blonde. ‘Course he was so much fun. Always laughin’, smilin’, jokin’ around. Sure did enjoy him. Smile that lit up the room.”
“Those were the three that lived there with Jamie in 1969?” I asked. “Elliott . . . Tom . . . Ron.”
Mrs. Mac nodded after each name.
I continued, “and then Linda, Nancy, and what was Elliott’s sister’s name?”
“Lucy,” she said.
“Boy, what a memory. Do you remember any other names, Mrs. Mac?” I asked.
“There was Lexi that come sometimes. She brought her friend Carol once when they’d had some car trouble. Lexi would go ta the orchard and paint the most lovely landscapes. She gave me one. Still have it. Hung it in our suite here.” She smiled at me. “And your father. He and Lexi were close, but just friends I think. Later he’d bring Lauren with him. She was such a nice girl, so polite and helpful. Your mother right?”
I nodded. “Anyone else?’
She looked away for a moment, then shook her head. “No, not that I recall, not regular like.”
“How wild would it get? When the music was cranked up. Did the parties ever turn violent?” I asked.
“Oh heaven’s no.”
“No fist fights or brawls?”
“They was all good friends. Nothing bad like that. They had the right idea.”
I looked at her questioningly.
“All peace and love, ya know.”
“Was there ever any yelling? Did the couples fight?” I persisted.
“A little bickering, but no yelling ever. Not when they was at the farm. Or when we was there, anyways. We did take off every Wednesday, but they wouldn’ta been different then, I don’t guess.”
“So no violence, no fighting, nothing ever like that?”
“Definitely not.” She smiled, patted her quiet husband’s hand. “I sure did love all those kids.”
“They loved you too, Mrs. Mac,” I said as I gave her a gentle hug.
CHAPTER
43
We climbed back into the car. “Sounds pretty idyllic, huh?” Steven said.
“Can you imagine Mom and Dad never yelled?” I said.
My brother and I laughed. Our parents famously talked––that is, fought out all of their differences of opinions until they agreed or agreed to disagree. It was never a quiet process after Dad taught Mom to yell.
“Regardless of what Mrs. Mac said, I still think that farm and what went on there in 1969 has something to do with this whole thing.” I said.
Should I mention to Steven the memory that came to me while Mrs. Mac spoke? An overheard conversation that made no sense to me at the time. Would he think I was nuts if I said the conversation took place in 1969?
Instead I said, “Let’s work our way down the list. Who’s closest to here?”
“Tom’s law office is in Napa.” Steven answered.
Tom’s address went into the GPS and off we went, grabbing sandwiches to eat in the car on the way. We arrived at a Craftsman bungalow an hour later.
“We need to see Mr. O’Connor.” I told the receptionist.
“Appointment?”
“No.” I shook my head. “We’ll just take a few minutes of his time.” I gave her our names confident that he would see us. We’d spent time with him on several occasions.
She asked us to have a seat and went through a door. A few minutes late she returned. “Mr. O’Connor would be happy to see you now. He has a few minutes before his next appointment.”
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