by Janet Dawson
“Oh, yeah, that was Friday.” He nodded, running a hand over his chin, then wiping it on his filthy shirt. Now he looked at me. “What about it?”
“Bobby says he came by here looking for Karl.” I wished I could talk with the man without Lacy looming nearby in the role of the vigilant supervisor. “You know Bobby Ravella?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I know him.”
Frank’s shifty look put me on guard. Why did he keep cutting his eyes toward that door, as though waiting for something to jump out at him? It made me want to look behind the door. Suddenly I guessed who he was. Lacy hadn’t mentioned his last name, but something told me it was Alviso, the same Frank Alviso Bobby had fired this past summer. And who, according to Marsha Landers at the SPCA, may have had a part in the pelican mutilations several years ago.
Frank shook his head. “Nah, Bobby didn’t come by here. Least not that I saw. You could ask the other guys.”
I already had, receiving the same answer.
“The Gradys picked up their boat and we all split,” Frank offered with a shrug of his shoulders. “If Bobby came by, it must have been after that.” He shot me a look that made me distrust him even more and escaped to the machine shop. A moment later the saw was in full cry.
“Sorry we can’t help you,” Lacy said briskly, as though she’d like to return to her coffee before it was completely cold. Her smile didn’t quite reach her tiger eyes. “I’ll tell Karl you dropped by. Of course, he’s been spending so much time with Marie, you may see him before I do.”
Thirteen
THE ROSE AND GROWN ON ALVARADO STREET IN downtown Monterey is long, narrow, and dark, with booths and tables to the left of the entrance, some of them on a raised level, and a bar and small kitchen to the right. Farther back are two large round tables and a hallway leading to the rest rooms and a rear entrance.
It was nearly three on a warm Saturday afternoon. I figured everyone would be out enjoying the sunshine, but the Rose and Crown had plenty of customers. Most of them were younger than me, in their twenties. A group of three young men in blue jeans and T-shirts were playing darts near the back, where a television set suspended from the ceiling displayed the California lottery’s keno game. The rock music audible over customers’ conversation seemed at odds with the British pub atmosphere.
I took a seat on a bar stool and scanned the list of beers and ales. Most were British, as was the young woman behind the bar. I guessed her accent originated in England’s industrial north and she confirmed this, saying she was from Leeds.
“How long have you been in Monterey?” I asked, ordering a Samuel Smith’s Pale Ale.
“Two years. Come all the way from England and wind up working in a pub. Fancy that.” She was in her twenties, with a slender build inside the snowy-white T-shirt she wore, its front decorated with the Rose and Crown logo. Her short spiky blond hair was tipped with red, and several rows of earrings ranged up her earlobes.
I laid some bills on the bar and asked her if she’d been working Friday afternoon, a week ago. She squared her shoulders and narrowed her sharp blue eyes, a little less friendly than she had been a moment ago. “Who wants to know?”
“Jeri Howard. I’m Bobby Ravella’s cousin. He was here that afternoon, with a friend of his. Ariel Logan.”
As she considered this, one of the dart players stepped up to the bar and called, “Hey, Stella, bring me another Guinness.” She complied with his order, then moved back to where I sat and leaned her elbows on the bar.
“Yeah, I was working. Cops already been in, asking questions.”
“What did you tell them?” I poured some of the ale into the glass, watching the foam rise.
“Not much.” Stella quirked her mouth in a little smile. “Bobby and Ariel were here, talking. Then they went outside. Heard enough to know they were havin’ a row, but I don’t know what about. That’s what I told the cops.”
Somehow I thought she’d heard more than that. At least I hoped so. “What will you tell me?”
“Bobby’s cousin, eh? He’s got a lot of relatives. Where you from?”
“Oakland. My mother’s Marie Howard. She owns Café Marie.”
Stella nodded. “Posh place. I had a drink there once. Can’t afford to eat a meal, though. Not at those prices. Yeah, Bobby was here. Doesn’t come in much anymore. Heard he stopped drinking.”
“Did you know Ariel Logan?” I asked, sipping my ale.
“Just to speak to. She used to come in here when she was seeing that lawyer. Now, he was a flaming asshole. She was better off with Bobby. I don’t think he’d hurt her. Never mind what the gossips are saying.”
Stella pointed over my shoulder at a booth on the upper level of the pub, near the front. “Bobby and Ariel came in ‘round three o’clock and sat there. Had mineral water, both of them. Guess Bobby really is on the wagon. He ordered a sandwich.” Stella wrinkled her nose. “He smelled of fish. After they ordered, he went back to the loo for a wash.”
At three in the afternoon, I thought, Bobby had just finished his day’s work at the wharf. Unless he’d gone home first to clean up, he would be both hungry and dirty. “Did you hear any of their conversation?”
“They were talking low, like they didn’t want to be overheard. But I did hear a scrap or two. Just words, mind you. Couldn’t really put them together.”
I raised the glass to my lips. “What were some of the words you heard?”
Stella frowned and thought hard. “Solve,” she said finally. “Like, maybe it doesn’t solve anything. Ariel said something about having to report it.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “Report what?”
“A boat. Ariel saw something.” Stella shook her head. “Sorry. Makes no sense. Only time I heard anything was while I was delivering drinks, to their table and the ones around them.”
“How did they look? Body language, I mean.”
“Bobby was all tight-jawed. Ariel was doing most of the talking.” Stella fingered one of her multiple earrings. “Then she stood up and walked out. I saw her, because I was heading toward the booth with Bobby’s sandwich. He threw a twenty on the table and followed her out, didn’t even have a chance to eat I guess they went at it hammer and tongs outside.”
“How do you know that, if they were outside? Was the door open?” I glanced to my right, at the entrance.
“Usually is when the weather’s nice. Maybe I heard them.” Stella shrugged. “No, that’s not it. A fellow came in right after they went out. He remarked on it.”
“Who was he?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“I don’t know,” Stella said apologetically. “He comes in now and then. I’m sure I’d recognize him if I saw him again.”
I gave her my business card and wrote Mother’s telephone number on the back. “If you think of anything else, or remember who this guy is, get in touch with me.”
Stella nodded and moved off to wait on several people who stepped up to the bar. I finished my ale and left her a large tip, then stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Rose and Crown, where Bobby and Ariel had continued their argument that Friday afternoon. What were they fighting about? Something serious, something important, something Ariel saw and wanted to report The sea lions? She’d already reported that to the SPCA. It must be something else. Why didn’t Bobby want her to say anything?
I worked my way down both sides of Alvarado Street, looking for someone who might have seen Ariel or Bobby that afternoon. It had been Friday, the end of the work week, and I was sure the street had been busy with people running errands on their way home, headed for dinner or a drink after work. Someone must have seen them. But I came up empty. Besides, Sergeant Magruder had been there before me, presumably with the same results.
I arrived at Café Marie before my seven o’clock date with Errol and Minna Seville, wearing a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved shirt in a pale turquoise that blended with Café Marie’s ocean decor. I took a stool at the b
ar. Evan the bartender gave me a friendly hello, despite the fact I’d interviewed him yesterday about the incidents at the restaurant.
“Calistoga?” he inquired.
“Sherry.”
I glanced toward the kitchen. Mother and Julian were both in the thick of it, activity swirling around them as the cooks chopped and sautéed and arranged things on plates for the waiters. I turned toward the dining room in time to see Rachel Donahoe escort Karl and Lacy Beckman to a table on the lower level, near Café Marie’s front windows. If I hadn’t known they were sister- and brother-in-law, I’d have thought they were a married couple, an oddly matched one. I watched with interest as they greeted their dining companions, an older couple who had already been seated. The man was nearly bald, with a thatch of white hair behind his ears. He stood to greet the Beckmans, slapping Karl on the shoulder as he shook hands with Lacy.
Errol and Minna arrived a moment later. Rachel greeted them with a big smile, succumbing to Errol’s charm. Our table was in the middle of the crowded lower dining room. The Sevilles took the two seats facing me. When I looked to the right I could see right up the two shallow steps leading to the bar and the kitchen.
I saw Linda Ravella and her fiance at a small table in the corner. I excused myself and walked to where they sat. They were holding hands, leaning toward each other across the table, no doubt talking about their wedding and their future life together. When Linda saw me, she introduced me to Warren, who immediately got to his feet and grabbed my hand instead, shaking it vigorously. He seemed like a big friendly bear of a man, his devotion to Linda evident in his eyes.
“Who was that?” Errol asked when I returned to the table.
“Bobby’s ex-wife and her intended. He’s an Army master sergeant.” I settled into my chair, picked up my menu, and tilted my head to the left, in the direction of the foursome near the front. “Who’s that with Karl and Lacy Beckman?” There were two other tables in between, impeding my view, and the muted light of the restaurant made serious observation more difficult.
Minna Seville slewed her eyes to her right, “The Gradys. Recently retired and moved here from San Mateo. They have a sailboat berthed at the marina.”
Grady. That was the name I’d heard earlier at Beckman Boat Works. Our server stepped up to the table, bearing a basket of warm bread, and asked if we’d care to order drinks. Errol raked his eyes over the wine list and ordered a bottle of chardonnay.
When the server had gone, Errol peered at me over the top of his menu. “Why so interested in the Beckmans?”
I shrugged. “Karl seems to be good friends with Bobby. Besides, his name came up when I talked with Bobby’s ex-wife today.” I gave Errol and Minna a rundown of my conversation with Linda, wondering again why it was so important that Bobby track down Karl Beckman last weekend, after his argument with Ariel. According to Linda, he hadn’t succeeded in doing so. Where was Karl, then?
“Would this have something to do with the fact that your mother has been dating Karl Beckman?”
I looked at Errol, exasperated by his ability to hit nails on the head. “Is there anything that goes on in Monterey County that you don’t know?’
“I’m sure there is,” he said modestly. “I just happen to know that particular tidbit. I take it you don’t like the prospect that your mother has a social life.” I stumbled around a bit, not quite answering. “Just don’t let it color your judgment.”
“It’s not.” I took refuge in my menu, trying to decide which of the alluring entrées I wanted. I once described the type of food available at Café Marie as “California cuisine” but Mother corrected me, rejecting this overused term.
“I just cook good food,” she said. “Whatever’s fresh and in season, prepared in an innovative fashion.”
I had to admit, looking at the menu, which varied from day to day, that some of the dishes she and her staff created were remarkable. Sometimes there was a hint of a French accent in the offerings, and other times the flavor was Latin or Asian. Whatever wound up on the bill of fare, it was created from the best and freshest ingredients Monterey County had to offer. Calamari or sand dabs, caught that morning in the bay, grilled vegetables from farms near Salinas, artichokes from Castroville, strawberries from Watsonville, and wine from central coast vineyards.
I’d narrowed my menu choices down to three when the server returned with our wine and poured a small amount into Errol’s glass, waiting for him to pronounce judgment. Errol savored a mournful, then nodded, and the server poured each of us a glass.
“Are you ready to order?” he asked.
“I’ll have the grilled swordfish,” Minna said, handing her menu to the server. “And the arugula salad.”
“Consistency, thy name is Minna.” Errol gave his wife an affectionate glance. “I don’t know why you bother to look at the menu. If they have swordfish, that’s what you order.”
“I know what I like,” she retorted.
Errol snorted and closed the menu with a flourish. “The rack of lamb.” Minna started to say something about cholesterol but he waved his hand. “All I get at home is fish and poultry. Life’s too short not to indulge occasionally.”
I grinned at the two of them. Errol may resemble Hammett’s Sam Spade but sometimes he and Minna sound more like Nick and Nora Charles. Now the server was looking at me. I ordered a starter of mushrooms and polenta, and the panfried squid with scallions and ginger. Then I reached for a piece of bread before I continued our original conversation.
“Karl got sick eating here at the restaurant. He was with Lacy that night. And Lacy, according to my cousin Donna, has been seeing Julian Surtees, Mother’s new assistant.” I glanced up, looking to my right at the hallway leading to the kitchen.
“I met Lacy this afternoon at the boatyard,” I said, briefly describing my visit. “She strikes me as a cold customer. What can you tell me about her?”
Errol deferred to Minna, who seemed to know as much about Monterey Bay citizenry as he did. But even Minna didn’t have a full dossier on Lacy Beckman. “She’s from San Francisco, supposedly a wealthy family. She certainly has all the Pacific Heights moves. I think she’s been married before, but Lacy never volunteers any information. Everyone was quite surprised when she showed up on Gunter Beckman’s arm four years ago. I don’t know where they met, but Gunter was definitely not the marrying kind. If he hadn’t died in that car accident, I wonder if he and Lacy would still be married.”
“Was Gunter the younger brother?” I asked.
“Older. Gunter was the black sheep of the Beckman clan. He liked liquor and women, and he didn’t much care for the responsibility of running the Boat Works.”
“He had a serious falling-out with old Hans,” Errol continued. “Went down to Los Angeles and worked in the aerospace industry. With all the defense cutbacks he lost his job about five years ago, moved back up here. I gather he still owned a half interest in the boatyard, so Karl took Gunter back into the firm.”
“How did the two brothers get along?”
Errol thought about this for a moment as the server delivered our starters. “Karl’s the worker. He’s the one who has kept the Boat Works going all these years after his father died. He’s the one who makes sure the boats get repaired and delivered on time. Gunter was more adept at customer contact, drumming up business. Whenever I think of Gunter I see him at a social gathering, chatting with people, a glass in his hand.”
“In other words,” I said, “Gunter didn’t dirty his hands. Karl does.”
Errol nodded. “But someone needs to make those contacts that can be made in the clubhouse at Pebble Beach. There are two boatyards left in Monterey, and they compete with one another for trade. I know they bid on repairs and overhauls to the Coast Guard boats. Used to be most of their work was commercial trade, like your cousin’s fishing boat. Now it’s about half, the other half being pleasure craft, those sailboats and cabin cruisers owned by the kind of people who play golf at Pebble Beach or Spanish
Bay.”
“People like the Gradys,” Minna added, “who have a sloop that needs regular maintenance.”
I digested this along with my polenta and sipped some more wine. “Did Lacy step into Gunter’s role after he died?”
“I think so.” Minna set aside her fork and reached for the breadbasket. “She has the social skills. She works as office manager, too.”
“And moves boats from place to place. How’s business at Beckman Boat Works? I’ve heard it’s bad.”
I looked to my left where a server was taking dinner orders from the Beckmans and the Gradys. As the server stepped away from the table Lacy Beckman rose from her chair and walked between the tables. She glanced at me before she stepped up to the next level. I watched her stroll up the hallway separating the bar from the cloakroom and office. She pushed open the door to one of the rest rooms farther down the corridor.
“I don’t know,” Errol said. “The recession has taken its toll on the peninsula. Lots of small businesses in trouble, or closing. The Fort Ord closure will take much economic adjustment. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, and let you know if I hear anything specifically about Beckman Boat Works.”
The server arrived with our entrées. Everything looked terrific. I wondered if these dishes were Mother’s handiwork, or if they’d been prepared by the surly Julian.
As I picked up my fork I heard a loud burst of laughter and looked for its source, several people at a table on the upper level. Then I saw Lacy Beckman standing at the bar. She was looking through the window to the kitchen, apparently watching Julian Surtees at work, standing with her hand casually stuck into the pocket of her green slacks. Then she walked this way, returning to the table where Karl Beckman and the Gradys sat.
During dinner I told Errol and Minna about my visit to the Rose and Crown and my conversation with the barmaid, Stella. “She said he smelled fishy, as though he’d just come off the boat. Whatever Ariel wanted to talk with him about, she must have gone to meet him at the wharf after the housekeeper saw her in Carmel.”
