“So she lost more often than she won.”
“Got that right. Tossed away dollars like they were pennies.”
“How heavy were her losses?”
“Thousands sometimes. Eight K once when I wasn’t with her. Didn’t bother her.” Jacklin’s mouth twisted into a bitter little sneer. “Why should it? Her old man’s rich as hell.”
“Did he know how much she was losing?”
“Sure, he knew. Kept after her to quit, threatened to cut her off if she didn’t cool it.”
“Maybe he finally got through to her,” I said. “Maybe that’s the reason, or part of the reason, she altered her lifestyle.”
“No way,” Jacklin said. “Mel never paid any attention to her old man when I knew her, just went ahead and did what she wanted and bragged about it afterward. He was just blowing smoke with his threats.” The sneer again. “Daddy’s baby girl and she knew it.”
“Then how do you account for the change in her?”
“I can’t, man. Neither can anybody else. She blew off all her chick friends the same time she did me, wouldn’t tell anybody why. Holloway wouldn’t tell me, either.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Once, for about five minutes, and he did all the talking.”
“When was that?”
“After she came back home from wherever she disappeared to.” The bitterness was palpable in Jacklin’s voice now. “Showed up here one day, said Mel was through with me and if I knew what was good for me I’d never try to see her again. Prick even waved a check in my face. Five thousand bucks, for Christ’s sake, like he was firing me from some fucking job.”
“And you turned it down?”
“Like hell I did. I was entitled to something after what the bitch did to me, wasn’t I? Even a lousy five K to sign a paper promising I’d never have anything to do with her again?”
* * *
On the way back to the city, I made an effort to put what I’d learned from Conner Jacklin together with the other bits and pieces into a credible scenario that would explain Melanie Holloway’s brief disappearance and its aftermath. Jacklin’s theory of a pickup who’d physically abused her and/or fed her heavy doses of hard drugs was reasonable enough. A couple of weeks in jail or a hospital somewhere would explain the disappearance, all right. The hush-up afterward, too; Vernon Holloway was the type to take whatever steps necessary to avoid negative publicity for himself and his reckless daughter. It might also explain Melanie’s lifestyle change, whether Jacklin thought so or not. The experience, if it was a bad one, could have scared the hell out of her and made Holloway finally lay down the law.
But if that was the answer, then I was looking at another dead end as far as Ray Fentress was concerned. He hadn’t been the type to appeal to a then-twenty-two-year-old rich girl; neither had Floyd Mears. Which reduced the slim links between Fentress and Melanie Holloway to a couple of coincidences after all.
Well, suppose Jacklin’s theory was only half-right. Suppose Melanie hadn’t hooked up with another man that weekend. Suppose her gambler’s luck had changed and she’d finally hit a big-time winning streak; that she was carrying a large amount of cash when she left the casino; that she’d been accosted in the parking lot or followed somewhere … mugged, robbed, hurt badly enough in the process to wind up in the hospital. There had been no police report of such an incident or Tamara would have turned it up, but the girl could have insisted her father be notified instead of the cops. The rest of the scenario—the hush-up, Melanie incommunicado, the lifestyle change—would then follow the same explanatory lines.
And suppose the perps were Floyd Mears and Ray Fentress. Mears the instigator, Fentress a reluctant accomplice. The crime wouldn’t have been premeditated; Fentress could have known of Melanie’s weekend plans, but not that she’d win a large sum of money. Spur-of-the-moment thing. Okay, but why would the two of them be at the Graton Casino that night? Fentress hadn’t been a gambler, or his widow or one of the people I’d talked to would have mentioned it. Well, assuming he and Mears had buddied up at the Lake County hunting camp, maybe they’d decided to get together at the casino, have a few drinks, and look the place over … boys’ night out. And while they were there Fentress recognized Melanie Holloway while she was on her winning streak, Mears hatched the robbery idea and talked Fentress into it—
No, dammit, it didn’t feel right, didn’t hang together. You could poke a bunch of holes in it without half-trying.
Even if Melanie had hit a hot streak, her total winnings couldn’t have amounted to much more than ten thousand dollars; by law casinos have to report winnings above that amount to the IRS, and if she’d insisted on taking the money in cash they would have insisted in return on providing a security escort when she left the casino. If a robbery had been managed and Fentress had gotten his share and stashed it somewhere, he’d have had no reason to go calling on Mears after his release from prison; he and his wife could’ve just packed up and moved immediately. And if he hadn’t gotten his share and was worried that Mears would try to cheat him out of it, it was as out of character for him to threaten Mears with a gun for a few thousand dollars in cash as it was for a few hundred worth of marijuana—not nearly enough money to put a down payment on a farm, much less buy one.
Two other things didn’t fit, either. The fact that whatever had been preying on Fentress’s mind had started him drinking heavily in June of 2014, a month before Melanie Holloway’s disappearance. And the recent presence of the mystery woman named Mary.
Robbery wasn’t the answer.
12
The house Doreen Fentress had shared with her late husband was a small frame that dated back to the postwar forties, its roof and off-white paint job showing signs of neglect. No garage. A tiny front yard of weed-riddled grass bordered by flower beds and decorated with an ancient, chipped garden statue of what might have been a cherub holding a bowl filled with ferns and yellow jonquils (I knew that’s what they were because jonquils are among Kerry’s favorite flowers). Mrs. Fentress had apparently done what she could to keep up appearances, but working two jobs wouldn’t have left her much time or energy for yardwork.
At one time you probably could have bought the property for under ten thousand dollars; now, given San Francisco’s ever-increasing real estate prices and the Excelsior next in line to the Mission District for gentrification, it would go for upward of five hundred thousand. No wonder longtime residents have begun to sell out and move away in droves, deeding over much of the city to the affluent. If the Fentresses had owned the place, they could have put it on the market and made a bundle to finance Ray Fentress’ dream of owning a farm. But it was a rental they’d occupied for fifteen years. The owner, unlike most landlords, wasn’t greedy; he kept the monthly nut affordable and evidently had no inclination to sell. Doreen Fentress would be able to continue living there in the short run, at least.
It was a little after four when I arrived at the house. The widow had told me at our first meeting that she’d been given some time off from her clerk’s job, and I’d called to make sure she was home before I drove out. She must have been watching for me from behind the curtained front window; the door opened before I was halfway up the cracked front path. A small black-and-white wire-haired terrier came out with her and sat peeking around one of her legs, like a kid hiding behind his mother’s skirts.
I tend to be wary of dogs, no matter what size; I’ve had run-ins with more than one breed, including a scary one not so long ago that had come close to being fatal. My expression as I glanced down at the terrier must have alerted Mrs. Fentress, because she said, “Don’t worry, she won’t bite. Tina’s a sweet dog, just very shy. Aren’t you, Tina?” Mrs. Fentress reached down to pat the animal’s head affectionately. It licked her hand in return.
The three of us went inside, Tina giving me a wide berth. Mrs. Fentress seemed more composed today, her pale skin less waxy and the aura of melancholy less pronounced—partly, I thought, because t
his interview was being conducted in familiar surroundings instead of a stranger’s office. She led me into a tidy living room that had a faint doggy odor beneath a liberal spraying of lemon-scented air freshener.
The room was sparsely furnished: two old-fashioned Morris chairs sided by floor lamps, a mismatched two-seat couch, a couple of end tables, and a sideboard of a darker-colored wood. Much if not all of it had probably come with the house. All the lamps and a ceiling globe were on, making the room very bright. Light to chase away more than one kind of darkness.
A pillowed basket bed sat next to the chair that was obviously Mrs. Fentress’; the dog jumped into it, put her head on her paws, and watched me with eyes that were as sad as her owner’s. The placement of the basket and the maternal way the woman talked to the dog was another attempt at keeping darkness at bay, I thought, the kind engendered by both childlessness and loneliness.
I declined the ritual offer of something to drink, and we sat down. I’d told her on the phone that I had a preliminary report for her and some questions to ask; I could have done both over the wire, but it seemed kinder to see her in person. Besides, I had another reason for coming to the house.
She sat quietly, one hand stretched down to fondle the terrier’s ears, while I told her the probable way in which her husband had come to know Floyd Mears. I finished by saying, “But I’m afraid that only raises more questions. Did your husband ever say anything to you about his trips to the hunting camp, the people he met there?”
“Very little. Hunting, even when he brought home venison … well, that’s one interest we didn’t share.”
“No mention of having made a new friend?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
“Did he keep a list of names and telephone numbers? Here at home, I mean.”
“An address book? I don’t think so, no. I never saw one.”
“Where did he keep his personal papers?”
“In the desk in the dining room. But I went through everything before I came to see you. There’s nothing new there, just his insurance policy and birth certificate, old hunting licenses, things like that.”
“Letters, postcards, notes of any kind?”
“No.”
“What about files of paid bills and bank statements from eighteen months ago? Do you still have those?”
“Yes. In a box in the spare bedroom closet.”
“Did he pay the monthly bills back then or did you?”
“I did. Ray had no head for figures.”
“Do you remember anything unusual that caught your eye during the month before his arrest? An unfamiliar credit card charge, for instance.”
“No.”
“Would it be all right if I had a look at the paperwork from that period?”
The skin between her eyes and across her forehead pinched together. “I suppose so. But why?”
“I’ve been told your husband began drinking heavily around that time. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“… Yes. But I don’t see—”
“He was a moderate drinker before that, just a few beers now and then according to Joe Buckner and Pete Retzyck. Do you have any idea what led to the heavy drinking?”
“No. He wouldn’t talk about it.”
“How would you describe him during that month? Upset, worried, nervous, secretive?”
“Withdrawn most of the time,” Mrs. Fentress said. Memory caused her fingers to tighten on Tina’s ruff, the terrier to whimper in response. “When he did talk, it was about moving away, starting over. Once he said we ought to move right away, but he knew we couldn’t afford it. We were swamped with bills—we couldn’t just pack up and leave.”
“At that time he was working on a large estate in Burlingame, a lengthy relandscaping job for a man named Vernon Holloway. Did he say anything about that?”
She thought for a time before she said, “The job at first, yes. He was impressed by the property, the new landscaping plans.”
“At first, you said. But not during that last month?”
“… Not that I remember.”
“Vernon Holloway has a daughter named Melanie Joy, twenty-two at the time. Did he ever mention her?”
“Yes, once or twice. He said she and her friends were spoiled rich kids … running around half-naked, bothering the crew.…” Her forehead wrinkled again. “You’re not implying the girl had anything to do with Ray’s drinking? That he made a pass at her and she rejected him?”
“No. Just asking questions, trying to fit pieces together.”
“Well, that’s not one you should consider,” she said. “Ray had his vices, God knows, but he wasn’t a chaser and he was twice that girl’s age.”
Which meant nothing, necessarily. The number of faithful middle-aged husbands who lost their heads over younger women is legion. But there was no gain in reminding Mrs. Fentress of the fact. There wouldn’t be any, either, in mentioning her husband’s afternoon tête-à-tête with the woman named Mary at the Bighorn Tavern; it was unlikely Mrs. Fentress knew who Mary was, and I had no desire to rub salt in the open wound of her grief.
I said, “Was gambling one of his vices, Mrs. Fentress?”
She blinked at the abrupt shift in questions. “Gambling? Ray? No, never.”
“So he had no interest that you know about in Indian casinos, such as the fancy new one in Sonoma County—the Graton Resort and Casino?”
“My God, no. What does that place have to do with Ray?”
“Probably nothing. Just a possibility that came up.”
The terrier uncurled out of the basket, put forepaws on Mrs. Fentress’s knees—begging for attention. She picked the dog up, cradled and cuddled her against her breast. “I don’t understand all these questions. Why are you so interested in what happened the month before Ray went to prison? What does that have to do with his murder?”
“I don’t know that it has anything to do with it. Trying to fit pieces together, as I said.” I got to my feet. “Could I have a look at those stored files now?”
She said, “Yes, all right,” and stood with Tina still cradled in her arms. The spare bedroom, at the rear of the house, was not much larger than a cell; a double bed, one nightstand, a bureau, and an old rocking chair left so little room that Mrs. Fentress stood in the doorway while I located the file box labeled “2014” and liberated it from the tiny closet. I deposited the box on the bed, sat down next to it for the search.
Easy task, because everything in the box was segregated in neatly labeled manila folders. I examined the credit card bills first, paying particular attention to those for May and June. The charges were all standard and all relatively small; the modest credit limits on both cards, Visa and MasterCard, had almost but not quite been maxed out and the monthly payments had been the minimum. Canceled checks and bank statements next. The largest monthly balance at any time during the year was six hundred dollars, the largest check amounts for the house rent and credit card payments. No checks made out to individuals and only a couple to cash for fifty dollars apiece. No correspondence addressed to or written by Ray Fentress. Nothing that even remotely pertained to Floyd Mears or the Holloway family.
Mrs. Fentress was still standing in the doorway with the dog in her arms, watching. She knew from my silence that I had not found anything useful; she remained silent herself as I replaced everything in the file box, returned it to the closet.
I said then, “Have you sorted through your husband’s possessions, Mrs. Fentress?”
“His possessions? I don’t—”
“The clothing he wore the week after he came home from Mule Creek. Whatever he might have had that he didn’t take with him to the Russian River—keys, another wallet, that sort of thing.”
“No. No, I … I couldn’t bring myself…”
“I understand. Would you mind if I looked through them?”
She didn’t mind. We went into the master bedroom, larger, with a bronze crucifix on the wall above the double bed, two cretonn
e chairs, and two blond-wood bureaus; the extra furniture made it seem just as cramped as the spare bedroom. She pointed out which bureau had belonged to her husband—not that it was necessary, because a man’s catchall tray and two bottles of cologne sat atop it—and then stood back in the doorway as she had before to watch me, the dog as placid as a sleeping baby in her arms.
The tray held a quarter, two dimes, and four pennies, a ballpoint pen, nail clippers, an outmoded tie clip that probably hadn’t been used in years. The drawers contained the usual array of underwear, socks, a pair of pajamas. I closed the last one, went to open the closet. The clothing on hangers was divided into about equal halves, his and hers. Two small suitcases on a shelf, shoes on a pair of racks, and a cased rifle and a well-used camper’s rucksack tucked into one corner.
“The brown checked sport coat,” Mrs. Fentress said. “Ray wore that one the day when he went to see Joe Buckner. And the jacket with the hood he wore another day when it was raining.”
The slash pockets in the jacket were empty, but there was something shoved down inside the sport coat’s right-side pocket. Crumpled piece of white paper, torn across at one end—the kind that comes off a small notepad. I smoothed it out. Scrawled in soft-lead pencil in a nearly illegible hand was what appeared to be an address: 357 or 557 Old Wood or Old Hood Rd. After that were the initials MR and, on another line, “7:00 Mon.” The address number and street name were finger smudged so that I couldn’t be sure.
Mrs. Fentress had come over next to me. I held the paper out so she could read it. “Mean anything to you?”
“… No.”
“Your husband’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“The sport coat. Was it dry-cleaned and then stored in the closet while he was in prison?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
So he must have pocketed the paper the one time he’d worn the coat last week. And the occasion hadn’t been to see Joe Buckner, I was thinking; it had been the day he’d met with the woman named Mary.
“Old Wood Road,” Mrs. Fentress said. She was still peering at the paper. “I have no idea where that is.”
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