by Janet Dawson
“I overheard something else at the restaurant,” I said. “Rumors of financial difficulties at Beckman Boat Works.”
“That’s news to me,” Donna said, leaning back in her chair. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. So many of the businesses in town are hurting in this recession. The only thing that’s thriving seems to be the tourist industry.”
“As long as they buy my jewelry,” Kay said, “that’s fine with me. Just so I don’t have to go to Carmel on a weekend.”
“Oh, good, let’s trash Carmel.” I laughed. Then I stopped and shook my head. “But I do have to go to Carmel on a weekend. Tomorrow, in fact, to see the Sevilles.”
Eleven
I SHOULDN’T HAVE LAUGHED.
Getting to Carmel on a weekend is not a matter for mirth, particularly during tourist season, which on the Monterey peninsula is nearly year-round. I’ve never been fond of Carmel, more properly known as Carmel-by-the-Sea. I’ll admit the physical setting is glorious, with the blue-green water of Carmel Bay washing onto the impossibly smooth white sand beach at the end of Ocean Avenue. The rocky coast and manicured greens of Pebble Beach lie to the north. To the south is the rugged beauty of Point Lobos.
The older part of Carmel and its downtown are shaded by a thick canopy of Monterey pines, and much of the architecture looks like a fantasy out of the Brothers Grimm. Between the inevitable stores catering to swarms of tourists are restaurants, clothing stores, and art galleries with merchandise too expensive for my taste. There are no street addresses. Carmel residents get their mail at the post office and businesses advertise their location, discreetly, of course, by using the nearest intersection, such as Monte Verde at Seventh, if you’re going to visit someone you can spend the better part of an hour looking first for a parking place, then for a house camouflaged by foliage, with no distinguishing marks.
The place has a serious case of the quaints. Most of the time I find Carmel’s studied atmosphere a bit much to suit me. Besides, it’s such an enclave of money and privilege that my working-class roots rebel.
But Errol and Minna like it. Errol Seville is my mentor, the man who plucked me from my day-to-day toil as a paralegal and trained me as a private investigator. I worked for the Seville Agency for five years, until a heart attack forced Errol into retirement. That’s when my investigating career became a solo act.
Saturday morning I pointed my Toyota south on Highway 1, up the slope called Carmel Hill. It was early in the day and Ocean Avenue, Carmel’s main street, was not yet clogged with cars. As the day wore on, however, the street would become a nightmare of stop-and-go traffic.
The Sevilles live on San Antonio Avenue, in a patch of sun amid all the pine trees. They’ve owned the one-story house for years, visiting Carmel on weekends until Errol’s health made them full-time residents. The house is whitewashed stone, its dark green shutters matching the bounty of flowers and foliage in the garden, where duties are divided between Minna’s flowers and Errol’s veggies. I pushed through the wooden gate and walked down a flagstone path lined with autumn lilies.
I’ve always thought Errol looked like Sam Spade. Not like Humphrey Bogart in the movie version of The Maltese Falcon, but Dashiell Hammett’s description of Sam Spade in the opening paragraph of his classic novel.
“Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony,” Hammett writes, “his chin a jutting V under the more flexible V of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, small, V. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The V motif was picked up again by thick brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down—from high flat temples—in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.”
Errol’s hair, once auburn like mine, is silver now, forming a widow’s peak above his long narrow intelligent face, and Hammett’s Vs are evident in his pointed eyebrows and the shape of his mouth. Today he looked like a bemused satan, a large blue ceramic mug of black coffee in his hand as he greeted me with a foxy smile. I thought, as I had many times before, that Errol Seville looked sexier than a lot of men half his age.
This morning Errol wore loose-fitting khaki pants and a blue work shirt, but when I stepped into the living room it didn’t look as though Errol intended to do any work. Two matching wing chairs, upholstered with a tapestry fabric, were arranged in front of the fireplace, with a table between them. The table was piled high with books, detective novels. He loves to read them, using his knowledge of investigative fact to dissect the fictional form.
“Want a cup of coffee?” Errol asked. He didn’t wait for my answer, instead beckoning me through the living room to the kitchen, where a coffeemaker sat on the counter. Next to it a square pan held something with walnuts and cinnamon sprinkled liberally over the top. “How about some coffee cake? Minna made it this morning.”
“It looks delicious,” I told him, succumbing to the warm spicy scent.
“Whack off a chunk, then.” He opened a cupboard and handed me a plate, then pulled out a drawer and removed a knife and fork. While I cut myself a square of coffee cake he reached for the coffeepot and poured a mug of coffee.
“Where’s Minna?” I asked, peering through the French doors to the flagstone patio and the garden beyond.
“Gone to do the marketing. She likes to get it out of the way early.” Errol headed back to the living room and I trailed behind, balancing my plate and my coffee. Errol settled into one of the wing chairs and waved his hand at the other. “Have a seat. Just shove Stinkpot off the chair.”
Stinkpot glared at me as though he understood every word and was daring me to try. He must be fifteen or sixteen years old now, an enormous neutered tom, as big as the average beagle, with the disposition of a cranky pit bull. The cat’s long black-and-white hair and pushed-in face indicated some Persian in his mixed ancestry. He sprawled on the second wing chair, draped over two pillows that had once been blue but were now grayed by a visible layer of black-and-white fur. Stinkpot’s yellow eyes glittered at me and he growled low in his throat. He flexed his front paws, showing wicked-looking claws that would slash at my hand should I be so foolish as to shove him off his chair.
I bypassed the wing chair for the nearby sofa, setting my mug and plate on the coffee table. I knew better than to mess with Stinkpot. He had the most disagreeable disposition I’d ever seen in a cat. Maybe it was the result of going through life with a moniker like Stinkpot. His primacy established, the big tomcat rose majestically to all four paws, stretched luxuriously, and turned his back to us, sprawling across the chair seat, his tail trailing to the floor like a triumphant plume.
“So why was your cousin Bobby Ravella arguing with Ariel Logan at the Rose and Crown last Friday afternoon?” Errol asked, sipping coffee.
I swallowed a mouthful of the coffee cake, which tasted as good as it looked. “He won’t tell me. Do you know everything?”
If he did, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Errol is a damned good investigator, one of the best. I feel fortunate to have learned the business under his tutelage and to count him and Minna as friends. I call Errol on the phone when I need his help, or just need someone to act as a sounding board for ideas and theories. He may be retired but his brain and instincts are still sharp. And sometimes it seems to me he knows everyone in law enforcement throughout California, local and state and even federal. It’s as though he’s plugged into an enormous intelligence grid, and all I have to do is connect with Errol to gain information.
“Just about. Carmel is rather gossipy. It’s been a major topic of speculation all week, ever since the Logans got back from Europe and reported their daughter missing. We know the parents, not well. They live just around the corner. I don’t recall having met the daughter.”
“What have you heard?”
“The most persistent theory about the argument,” Errol said, “is that Ariel had tired of the relationship with your cousin and that he didn’t want to break it off. That’s what I heard when she was reporte
d missing. After her car was found down at Rocky Point, the rumor mill suspected foul play. By late yesterday afternoon everyone had heard the news about the autopsy. Since the cause of death was a blow to the head, it’s a rather short jump to the theory that he killed her.”
“Bobby wouldn’t kill anyone. Especially not Ariel. He loved her.”
Errol tilted his head to one side and diplomatically did not remind me that people very often kill people they love. “Then you’d better find someone else with a motive. Peter Logan has already asked the sheriff’s department why they haven’t arrested Bobby for Ariel’s murder. Sergeant Magruder is supposed to be meticulous and methodical. Also relentless. That’s the reason he’s the head of the county investigations division.”
“I need more details. When did Ariel die? No one admits to having seen her since Friday afternoon. Her car wasn’t found until Wednesday. So presumably she was killed sometime between Friday evening and Wednesday morning. The coroner must have pinpointed the time of death. Is there any way you can get a copy of that autopsy report?”
“I can manage it. The Carmel police chief is a friend of mine.”
“The only way to go about this is to do exactly what Magruder is doing. Reconstruct Ariel’s last few days.”
“And try not to get in Magruder’s way,” Errol added. “I hear he has a limited tolerance for private investigators. Particularly one with a vested interest. And you definitely have an agenda, Jeri. Are you positive your cousin had nothing to do with Ariel Logan’s murder?”
“You always told me to trust my gut.” I looked at Errol steadily over the coffee mug I held cradled in both hands. “My gut says no. If I find out otherwise, I’ll do what has to be done.”
Errol nodded slowly. “What exactly did Bobby tell you?”
I took a swallow of coffee before I answered. “He says he owes someone a favor. He can’t tell me until he checks something out. My guess is he and Ariel were arguing about this debt. I’ll check out the Rose and Crown, to see if any of the employees overheard the argument. Even if Ariel was killed shortly after she left Bobby, surely someone must have seen her. She’d cut her Friday classes at Cal Poly, so she must have had a reason for driving to Monterey. What time did she get here? Did anyone see her before she met Bobby at the Rose and Crown?”
“I can answer that question,” a voice said behind us.
Errol and I both turned our heads and he smiled. “Hello, love.”
Minna Seville walked into the living room from the kitchen, a slender woman in her late sixties, with gray hair cut short and swept back behind her ears in a no-nonsense style. She wore blue seersucker slacks and a white blouse, her feet in blue canvas shoes.
“Hi, Jeri. Good to see you again.” She leaned over and kissed Errol on his forehead. “Groceries, Errol. I buy ’em, you carry ’em.”
“I’ll help,” I said as Errol got to his feet. We trooped through the kitchen to the side door that led to the driveway and ferried several canvas sacks of groceries into the kitchen, where we began unloading and storing provisions. I helped myself to another cup of coffee and poured one for Minna. “You were going to answer my question.”
“The Logans employ a Mrs. Costello, who cleans and cooks.” Minna took the mug I offered, thanked me, and took several cans from a bag. “She’d been off while Peter and Sylvie were in France, just dropping by periodically to check on things at the house and water the plants. In anticipation of their return on Sunday, she came to the house on Friday to make sure it was clean and the refrigerator stocked. She left to do the marketing, around two, and saw Ariel drive up just then. When Mrs. Costello returned later with the groceries, Ariel was gone. Her overnight bag was in her room, where Peter and Sylvie found it Sunday evening. It looks as though Ariel never came back to the house.”
As Minna spoke I found myself wondering again which route Ariel had taken on her drive north from San Luis Obispo. If she’d left early, as her roommate said, and taken the coast highway, her arrival in Carmel at two was not that unusual. But the inland route, U.S. 101, takes about three hours. If she’d taken that highway, where had she gone before arriving at her parents’ house?
“How do you know this, my love?” Errol smiled down at his wife and she responded by handing him a box of shredded wheat.
“Peter’s sister, Glennis Braemer, from Pasadena. I ran into her at the grocery store. Of course I had to convey my condolences. We got to talking.”
“Did she tell you whether the funeral has been scheduled?” I looked up from the bag I was emptying.
“Monday morning at eleven, at Carmel Mission. Glennis said people have been dropping by the house nonstop since the body was found.”
“Where do the Logans live?” I asked.
“Scenic Road. The gray stucco with the red bougainvillea, just past Santa Lucia.”
“With a view of Carmel Bay. Big bucks,” I commented.
“Oh, yes,” Errol chimed in. He was stacking cans of cat food on a lower shelf. “The Logans do not lack money.”
“Mother described them as Hollywood refugees. The mother an actress, the father a writer.”
“Ever hear of Sylvie Romillard?” Minna asked. I shook my head. “Before your time, really. Sylvie’s about your mother’s age, maybe younger. Peter’s older, probably my age. Sylvie was in some of the French New Wave films. When she came to Hollywood, her career never really caught fire. She married Peter in the late sixties. He’d been married before. Ariel was born down in Los Angeles, but they moved to Carmel shortly afterward. Peter still writes, but I think most of their money comes from real estate. I know they own some rentals and I think Peter’s involved in some hotel deals.”
“How well do you know them?” I asked.
“We’re friendly, but not close. I met them several years ago, before we moved down here for good.” By now Minna had emptied all the canvas bags of their burden. She laid them on top of each other and rolled them into a neat bundle, then tucked them into a drawer. “I’d met Ariel. She seemed like a pleasant, intelligent young woman, the kind who’s destined for great things.” Her smile was sad.
“Bobby said they were planning to get married.”
“If that was so,” Minna said, “she hadn’t told her parents. I think they were hoping your cousin Bobby was a phase Ariel would outgrow.”
I nodded. “They didn’t think the fisherman was good enough for their daughter.”
“Of course not,” Errol said. “There is definitely a social pecking order around here. Ariel and Bobby were on different levels.”
“Ariel had another boyfriend, before she met Bobby. A lawyer.”
“Ryan Trent,” Minna said. “He has an office downtown. A rather brash young man. I hear he was extremely upset when Ariel broke off their relationship.”
I mulled this over for a moment, thinking that it would be worth my while to talk with Trent. He wouldn’t be the first old boyfriend who didn’t want to let go of a relationship. Of course, that’s what people were saying about Bobby, an irony not lost on me.
“Did Glennis say how her brother and his wife were handling their daughter’s death?”
“She didn’t have to. Peter and Sylvie Logan thought the sun rose and set in that girl. Now that she’s dead they’re devastated.” Minna’s words echoed those I’d heard yesterday at Café Marie. “They’re eager to find someone to blame. Your cousin happens to be the likely target.”
I told Errol and Minna about the incidents at my mother’s restaurant, those accidents that looked more and more deliberate. As I laid the details before him I saw Errol’s gray eyes sparkle at the prospect of a real puzzle rather than the fictional ones that now occupied most of his time. My mentor was bored with retirement and eager to help me with this particular problem. Minna was willing to let him, as long as his assistance didn’t affect his health.
Errol agreed that the most likely saboteur was an employee. After all, who else would have the opportunity to move about freely in th
e kitchen? Who else would know enough about the placement of the knives to tamper with the drawer?
“I saw the unfavorable review in the Herald,” Minna told me, “but I didn’t really pay it any mind. Any restaurant can have an off day. I suppose it would be different if we’d had a bad experience ourselves. I can see why your mother’s concerned, though. Gossip can really have a negative impact on business. Café Marie’s been consistently excellent as far as I’m concerned. In fact, we’re having dinner there this evening, at seven. Why don’t you join us?”
“Good idea.” Errol’s mouth curved in a conspiratorial smile. “Then all of us can observe.”
Twelve
NEW MONTEREY IS SO CALLED BECAUSE IT WAS newer than the downtown section near the waterfront, which was the earliest settlement of the citizens of Spain and Mexico who later called themselves Californios. The people who lived in New Monterey were the fishermen and cannery workers like the Doyles and Ravellas. The streets climb a steep hill above Lighthouse Avenue, looking down on Cannery Row and the bay. The houses are wood frame and stucco, larger than they look from the street, now sharing space with apartment buildings and condos.
Linda Camacho Ravella came from a fishing family. That’s how she met my cousin Bobby. Their fathers and grandfathers knew each other, fished together, their boats plying the rich fishing grounds of Monterey Bay. Their mothers and grandmothers worshiped at the same Catholic church and belonged to the same civic organizations. The Ravellas even lived near the Camachos.
Linda and Bobby grew up together, attending the same schools and graduating together from Monterey High. They’d dated all through their senior year and it seemed natural that they’d exchanged marriage vows. Nicky came along three years later, but the marriage fell apart after that. Linda got a job working in the office of one of the chain hotels in downtown Monterey and bought a house on Belden Street in New Monterey, a block or so from Bay View Elementary, where Nicky had just started the third grade.
