Don't Turn Your Back on the Ocean

by Janet Dawson

  I was startled to see a For Sale sign in front of Linda’s little wood-frame house, so similar to my mother’s place, with one story and two bedrooms. The house sat on the upslope side of the street, so Linda had a scrap of a view, the blue waters of the bay visible in the gap between the two houses across the street. There was a wooden glider on the porch, its seat covered with fat pillows. Next to it was a small rattan table and a large jade tree in a pot. Several smaller plants were arrayed along the porch railing. As I climbed the steps to the front door I saw a red plastic crate containing balls in various sizes and other items made of plastic that I could only guess were toys. It seemed quiet when I rang the bell. I guessed that eight-year-old Nicky Ravella wasn’t home.

  His mother was, though. It was just after noon and Linda was in the kitchen, fixing herself a big salad. She invited me to join her, sliced a few more carrots and cucumbers, and fetched another wineglass from the cupboard. After eating, we adjourned to the porch and the glider, slouching comfortably, pillows propped behind us as we talked and finished the bottle of wine.

  Linda’s hair was brown and curly, caught back with a red ribbon, and she had large brown eyes rimmed by long lashes. Her body looked trim in the blue jeans and pink T-shirt she wore. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a diamond engagement ring, which explained the For Sale sign in front of her house.

  “Your parents are going to hate it when you leave.” I looked past her to the framed photograph she’d set on the rattan table. Her fiancé was a tall blond fellow with close-cropped hair and blue eyes, broad shoulders straining the jacket of his green uniform. His name was Warren Everett and he was an Army master sergeant stationed at the Defense Language Institute at Monterey’s Presidio. But not for long. He had orders to Washington, D.C.

  “I know,” Linda said, her fingers playing with the diamond setting. “I’ve got mixed feelings myself. I’ve lived in Monterey my whole life, never even traveled much. Going up to San Francisco is a big deal to me. Now I’ll be living all the way across the country. It’ll seem strange not seeing Mom and Dad two or three times a week. But I’m looking forward to seeing another part of the country. And Warren—”

  Linda flashed a big warm smile. “He’s got a daughter from his first marriage, so I’ll have that little girl I always wanted. She’s ten and kinda feisty. She and Nicky get along pretty good. Warren is really nice, Jeri. I can’t wait for you to meet him. We’re having dinner tonight at your mom’s restaurant. Bobby’s got Nicky this weekend.”

  “I’ll be at the restaurant, too, with some friends. If you see us, bring Warren over. I’d like to meet him.”

  I sipped my wine and broached a subject that had been on my mind ever since Linda told me about her impending marriage and departure from Monterey. The first was scheduled to take place in October, the second before Thanksgiving. Bobby had always played an active role in Nicky’s life, spending alternate weekends with the boy. When Linda moved from Monterey, he would not see his son as often. I knew that would bother him.

  “How’s Bobby taking this?”

  “He hasn’t said.” Linda’s smile dimmed. “Bobby’s got a lot on his mind right now.”

  “I know. He said he and Ariel were planning to get married.”

  Linda nodded. “He told me, too, right after he asked her. They were going to wait until Ariel finished her degree. She was with him once, when he came to pick up Nicky, and Bobby introduced us. She seemed like such a nice girl, so good for Bobby. He really had changed for the better. After we were divorced he was pretty wild, drinking too much, hanging out with a rowdy crowd. What a terrible thing to happen. When Bobby picked up Nicky this morning, he looked like someone had punched him in the stomach.”

  Their usual arrangement was for Bobby to pick up Nicky Friday night and return him to his mother’s house Sunday evening. But Bobby had been in no condition to see his son yesterday.

  “There’s a lot of talk around town,” I said, “about Bobby and Ariel.”

  “People are blaming Bobby. My parents told me. Jeri, that’s outrageous. If you could have seen them together. He loved her as much as I love Warren.”

  “I know you and Bobby have kept up a friendly relationship with each other, in spite of the divorce. Linda, did he say anything to you about what was going on between him and Ariel? I’m trying to find out what they were arguing about last week.”

  “I don’t know.” Linda paused and sipped wine, then set her glass on the table next to the photograph. “You see, Bobby was supposed to have Nicky last weekend, Friday night to Sunday night. But he showed up at my office last Friday afternoon, about four, and asked if he could pick up Nicky Saturday morning instead. I was a bit put out, since Warren and I had plans. He’s got child-care arrangements on his end, too, which makes it difficult. But Bobby said it was urgent. He looked worried, upset, like a thundercloud. He must have just come from the Rose and Crown, from his fight with Ariel.”

  “What was so important that he’d rearrange the schedule at the last minute?”

  “At first he was closemouthed, but I told him if he was going to change things at the last minute, he’d better tell me why.” Linda sipped her wine. “He said he had to find Karl Beckman. In fact, he was on his way over to Beckman Boat Works.” She tilted her chin in the direction of the bay, where Cannery Row was hidden from our view by buildings.

  Bobby had to see Karl Beckman? At this my eyebrows went up. This favor that weighed so heavily on my cousin’s mind—could it be owed to Karl Beckman?

  “And did he?”

  “I don’t know.” Linda shrugged. “Next time I saw him, he didn’t say.”

  I asked Linda about Bobby’s relationship with Karl Beckman. Like Donna, she speculated that it held some father-son element. Yet Bobby was close to his own father, so Beckman didn’t fill any evident gap. Or maybe he did. According to Linda, the friendship between the older boatyard owner and the young fisherman began sometime before Bobby met Ariel, when Bobby was exhibiting some of his wilder behavior. I knew that Nick and Tina had been worried about Bobby’s drinking and the company he kept. Perhaps the counsel of Beckman, an outsider, got through to Bobby when his parents couldn’t. But Donna’s theory was that Bobby’s turnaround was due to Ariel.

  I tried to tell myself that it was logical to be suspicious of Karl Beckman. But something inside me argued that I wasn’t giving the man the benefit of the doubt. And I knew why. It was because he was dating my mother.

  When I left Linda’s house, I did what she assumed Bobby had done, and headed down the slope of the New Monterey Hill toward Cannery Row, where the huge crane loomed near the aquarium. I found a parking space on Foam Street and shoved coins into the meter. As I walked toward my destination I saw another crane and a sign announcing the impending construction of yet another hotel.

  I wondered how long Beckman Boat Works could hold out against this shifting tide. Years ago, when canneries crowded both sides of the street, Beckman’s Cannery Row location was an advantage. Now the yard was crowded by hotels, one across the street and one right next door. On the other side was a beach popular with divers. It was a given that traffic was already a problem. And people who stayed at those hotels no doubt wanted to look off their balconies at the bay and the rocky shore. Would they think it picturesque to view a high fence surrounding a yard full of boats in various stages of repair, accompanied by banging hammers, the whine of power tools, and the spark of welding torches?

  Added to this was the fact that Beckman Boat Works was smaller than its only local competitor, the Monterey Boat Works, a couple of blocks away, at the foot of the Coast Guard jetty. Could the economy of the Monterey peninsula support two boatyards? I recalled all those sailboat owners at the luncheon yesterday and shrugged. As long as people have boats, those boats will need repairs.

  I wasn’t sure the boatyard would be open this Saturday afternoon, but the gate yawned wide and there was activity inside. As I entered the yard I saw a Travel-Lift
directly in front of me, its supports sunk into the bay floor. At the moment its straps were secured around the hull of a cabin cruiser, suspended in the air as several of the yard’s employees hauled it out of the water.

  To my right I counted seven boats, resting on blocks or hitches. The one closest to me was a metal-hulled barge; a welder in coveralls was applying a torch to a seam. The other vessels were constructed of wood or fiberglass, and each had something being done to it by one or more of the workers, wielding paintbrushes, hammers, or other tools. In the old days most of these vessels would have been commercial fishing boats, but now it looked as though half of them were pleasure craft.

  To my left I saw a two-story building with several doors. The first door had a soda machine and a pay phone next to it. I peered inside. This was the chandlery, a marine supply shop. A few steps farther a second wide door opened onto the machine and woodworking shops. In here, chaos and noise reigned as a saw screamed somewhere in the back.

  A third door, on the bay end, had a small wooden sign that read OFFICE. As I approached it I saw a white pickup truck with a blue logo on the driver’s-side door. It was a stylized drawing of a sailboat and below this, in a half circle of capital letters, I saw the legend BECKMAN BOAT WORKS.

  I went through the door and up the stairs to the second floor. A small office looked down on the yard. There was no one in sight. A utilitarian metal desk held a phone, a message pad, and several flyers advertising for bids on government boat repairs. Behind the desk was a row of four-drawer filing cabinets and on the wall to my left I saw a copy machine, a fax machine, and some cabinets containing office supplies.

  Doors on either side of the filing cabinets led to two additional offices. The door nearest me was closed, the other stood open. I tried the closed door and discovered it was locked. I moved to the open doorway and decided this office belonged to Karl Beckman. The wooden desk and the padded leather chair had a clubby male feel to it, and I saw that the wall behind the desk held several framed photographs showing the tall fair-haired boatyard owner with a variety of people. Another photograph on his desk caught my eye and I moved closer, frowning as I recognized the face. It was my mother.

  I heard footsteps climbing the stairs and I stepped out of Karl’s office, just before someone entered from the landing. She was a tall, athletic-looking woman wearing olive-green slacks and a crisp white shirt. Her straight shoulder-length hair was the same gold as ripening wheat, and her eyes were an odd shade of yellow brown that reminded me of the stone called tigereye. She was an inch or so taller than my own five feet eight inches, and several years older. Late thirties, I thought, spotting a few wrinkles around her eyes that didn’t look like laugh lines.

  The woman looked startled to see me there. She stopped and I saw that she carried a paper sack in one hand and a slender brown leather bag slung over one shoulder. The fingers of one hand ran down the strap of the bag. Her oddly colored eyes looked wary as they examined me, but her voice was polite enough. “May I help you?’

  “I’m looking for Lacy Beckman.”

  “I’m Lacy. What can I do for you?”

  “My name’s Jeri Howard.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lacy Beckman said. Now she reached into the leather bag and pulled out a set of keys, unlocking the closed door. “Marie’s daughter. The private investigator.”

  “You know what I do?” I asked.

  “Oh, Marie’s told us all about it.”

  I followed her into the office, which couldn’t have been more unlike Karl’s. Everything was high-tech and modern, from the white laminated desk to the bookshelves and cabinets behind it. A computer and printer sat on a mobile cart, ready to be wheeled into position for use.

  Lacy Beckman took a seat on the gray office chair at the desk and opened the paper sack, taking out a large container with a lid and a crusty roll. She removed the lid and the aroma of strong coffee filled the room. The only other seat in the room was an uncomfortable-looking director’s chair with a red canvas seat and back. I sat down in this.

  “Is there something you wanted, Jeri?” Lacy Beckman raised the coffee to her lips.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. It concerns Bobby Ravella.”

  She took a sip of her coffee and tore a chunk off the roll. “Bobby Ravella. Your cousin, isn’t he? I heard about his friend Ariel. What a tragedy.” She said the words without much feeling, as though she were saying it just because everyone else was. “You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Of course not,” she assured me as she pinched off a smaller section of the roll. “But there’s certainly a lot of talk making the rounds. Especially after that fight at the Rose and Crown.”

  “Bobby may have come over here late that afternoon, looking for Karl. Were you here?”

  “Friday afternoon?” She took another swallow of coffee. The phone rang and she picked it up, saying, “Beckman Boat Works.” She listened, reaching for one of the pencils that stood in a gray plastic cup near her hand. As she talked she scribbled some notes on a pad of paper.

  “A forty-three-foot Beneteau from Bodega Bay to Monterey? Certainly. We can haul it or sail it, whatever you’d prefer. Let me check my calendar.” She and the caller talked figures and dates. When she hung up the phone she smiled again and reached for her coffee.

  “Now, what was it you were asking? Was I here Friday, a week ago? Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Right here in the office, catching up on some paperwork. That’s what I do, keep the books, pay the bills, that sort of thing.”

  “And transport boats,” I said, nodding at the phone.

  “That, too. I love to sail. This gives me a chance to do it, on all sorts of boats, without the expense of having one of my own.”

  Lacy Beckman had a way of tilting her head back and looking down her patrician nose when she spoke. Her tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but I didn’t think the woman and I were going to be best buddies either. She sounded as though she’d spent some time back east or in an upper-crust school. What was she doing here in Monterey, keeping the books and hauling boats from place to place? She looked as though she belonged on the deck of a yacht with a cocktail in her hand, not behind the desk of a boatyard office. Even if she had inherited her share from her deceased husband, this business partnership with her brother-in-law was an odd pairing. I recalled the curious shadow that had passed over Karl Beckman’s face when I’d mentioned his sister-in-law.

  “If Bobby was here,” I said slowly, “it would have been four-thirty, five o’clock. Did you see him?”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. We were probably getting ready to close. Several people worked late that day, finishing up a job, so someone else may have seen Bobby.”

  “And what about Karl?” I asked, trying to find a more comfortable position in the canvas chair.

  “I don’t know where Karl was,” Lacy Beckman said. She popped another piece of roll into her mouth, chewed, and washed it down with coffee. “He was here earlier that morning, then he left and I didn’t see him again until Monday. I thought maybe he and Marie had plans.”

  She smiled again. I looked at her sharply, wondering if she knew that it bothered me to hear her say anything about Karl’s relationship with my mother. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  I intended to do just that. “Which of the employees were here finishing up that job?”

  “Want to talk to them? To see if any of them saw Bobby? Sure, let me check the payroll records to see who worked that afternoon.”

  She stood and walked the few steps to the outer office, keys in hand, and I heard her unlock one of the filing cabinets. She returned a moment later with a file folder in hand. She opened it and rattled off several names of employees who’d been here last Friday, including those who’d worked late. I had hoped that she would let me prowl the yard on my own but she had other ideas, such as escorting me. She left the folder on her desk and locked her office before lead
ing the way downstairs.

  Outside two workers in coveralls stood near the soda machine next to the chandlery door, taking a break. When they saw Lacy Beckman they finished their cigarettes and sodas quickly and headed back toward a sailboat in the middle of the yard. First we talked to the man who clerked in the chandlery, who didn’t recall seeing Bobby. Then we walked over to the Travel-Lift, where the cabin cruiser was now out of the water and up on supports. The employees knew Bobby but none of them had seen him.

  Finally we headed for the shops where woodworking and machine repairs were done. The deafening whine of the saw had stopped and whoever had been running it was nowhere in sight. Then I saw a man in dark blue pants and a torn and stained T-shirt that had once been white, coming through a door at the back of the shop. It must have led to the rest room because he was zipping his pants as he walked.

  He stopped when he saw us, and I looked him over. He was of medium build, lean, with stringy muscles visible in his arms, and long dark hair that looked like it needed a good wash. His upper lip was decorated with a thin mustache and now he tightened his thin-lipped mouth, narrowing a pair of muddy brown eyes. I had a feeling he didn’t much care for the boss lady, as represented by Lacy Beckman, who looked out of place here in the middle of all the grease and dust.

  “Frank, this is Jeri Howard,” she said, smiling as though to reassure him. “She’s Bobby Ravella’s cousin. She’d like to ask you some questions about last Friday.”

  “Friday?” he repeated, frowning a furrow between his eyebrows, as wispy as his mustache. His eyes flicked to his right, at a closed door, then just as quickly back to Lacy.

  “Yes, a week ago yesterday.” I wished Lacy Beckman hadn’t announced that I was Bobby Ravella’s cousin.

  “The day you were working on the Gradys’ boat,” Lacy prompted.