by Janet Dawson
“I think Magruder’s being hasty,” Errol said, examining the rich amber in his sherry glass. “I know a man in Carmel Valley who has a T-bird just like Bobby’s. Same color, same year. Unless Magruder has more, such as a full or partial plate number.”
“I wonder if this arrest is due to pressure from the Logans,” Minna said. She scratched the cat behind the ears. Suddenly Stinkpot perked up, as though he’d heard something. He leaped from her lap and went off to stalk some unfortunate creature in the garden.
Errol squinted at me in the dimming light. “What else did you find out in San Luis Obispo?”
I gave Errol a rundown of my interviews in SLO and Paso Robles, speculating about Ariel Logan’s interest in the seals Susan Dailey had pulled off the beach near the oil refinery at Avila. Ariel’s report to the SPCA about sea lions in trouble had to be connected. But how?
“If there had been any oil spills in the sanctuary there would be a hue and cry,” Minna pointed out. “Something else must have caused those sea lions to behave oddly.”
“Maggie Lim told me that Ariel seemed very interested in chemicals used at the Beckman boatyard here in Monterey,” I said. “I read an article in one of the San Francisco newspapers a couple of years back, about workers in a boatyard who were getting sick because of the paints and solvents used there. What if Ariel discovered something going on at Beckman Boat Works?”
Errol tilted his head to one side. “Are you saying Karl Beckman, either deliberately or accidentally, is not complying with environmental regulations when it comes to toxic materials?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s a stretch. She may simply have been curious, which wouldn’t be surprising. She was an environmentalist, concerned about the ocean. And she’d seen those sea lions. But Errol, what about the argument with Bobby? Ariel mentioned reporting something. That something was important enough to send Bobby on a hunt for Karl.”
Now Minna spoke up. “Do you think Karl Beckman killed Ariel?”
I didn’t respond immediately. Karl Beckman certainly seemed like a personable, ordinary businessman. I wasn’t quite ready to accuse him of murder. Still... “Bobby never found Karl,” I said slowly. “And Karl won’t tell me where he was. He says it’s none of my business.”
“Maybe it isn’t,” Minna said.
An uncomfortable silence stretched while I wondered again if my readiness to believe that Karl Beckman was hiding something had more to do with the way I felt about his relationship with my mother.
“So we’re back to Ariel.” I sighed. “What she knew or thought she knew. I think it was about those sea lions she saw in August. Evidently she wasn’t planning to tell anyone until she’d had a chance to discuss it with Bobby. But maybe she kept some notes or wrote an account of what she saw.” I glanced at Errol. “Did you ask the Logans if I could look through Ariel’s things from school?”
“Yes. I talked with Peter this morning. Got an unequivocal no.”
“Why should they?” Minna asked. “Now that there’s a suspect in custody. If the DA doesn’t charge Bobby, maybe the Logans will reconsider.”
“I may have some leverage that will make Peter Logan change his mind,” I said slowly. “When I was down at the Rocky Point Restaurant earlier today, I showed the staff a picture given to me by Maggie, a snapshot that shows Ariel with her parents. The bartender says he saw Peter Logan in the bar Friday evening, around dusk. He was there long enough to have two drinks.”
“Curious,” Errol commented. “Why would the Logans let it be known that they returned on Sunday if they came back sooner?”
“I’m sure Glennis said they arrived Sunday.” Minna’s frown was just visible in the fading light. “Why would she say otherwise?”
“Maybe Sylvie came back Sunday,” I guessed, “and Peter earlier. How would they travel?”
“Sylvie’s French,” Minna said. “When she goes to Paris she always flies Air France out of San Francisco International. There’s only one flight a day. You either have to drive to the city and leave your car in a lot, or catch a United shuttle out of Monterey.” A streak of black-and-white fur shot across the garden and landed on Minna. She reached up and stroked Stinkpot as he settled onto her lap. “I can find out, Jeri. We use the same travel agent.”
“I’ll nose around the Monterey airport,” I said, “to see if anyone remembers either Peter or Sylvie arriving. Is Glennis still here?” Minna nodded. “She’s the gatekeeper. Maybe I can talk to her.”
Errol spoke up now. “If the sergeant has Ariel’s things the question’s moot for now. In the interim, I think it’s time I did a little background check on Peter Logan.”
I had dinner with the Sevilles, then I headed back to Monterey and my mother’s house on Larkin Street I felt tired and travel weary, so I dumped my overnight case in the guest room without unpacking it and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
The phone rang as I was toweling myself dry. When I picked up the receiver I heard the unmistakable British voice of Stella, the barmaid at the Rose and Crown, sounding cheery over the rock music in the background.
“He’s here, ducks.”
“Who’s there?” I asked, feeling foggy as I rubbed my neck with the hand towel.
“The fellow I told you about, the one that was here when Bobby and his girl had that row. He just walked in, not five minutes ago.”
I shook my head and the fog lifted. “I’ll be right down. Keep him there.”
“No worry, love, he’s having dinner.”
The Rose and Crown was hopping when I got there, not surprising since it was almost eight o’clock on a Thursday night. As I walked past the counter that fronted the small kitchen, I saw that every stool at the bar was full and a serious dart game was in progress at the rear of the tavern. Most of the booths on the lower and upper levels were occupied. I spotted Stella delivering a round of drinks to a large group gathered around the big table in the back and waited for her to return to the bar.
“That’s him.” She pointed to a man in work clothes sitting alone at one of the upper-level booths. I thanked her and made my way to the booth. He was a broad-shouldered man in his middle thirties, his fair skin burned brown by the sun, his short brown hair receding from his high forehead. Until I approached him his attention had been occupied by the sandwich and french fries on the platter in front of him. Now he looked up at me, curious.
“May I join you?” I asked.
“Depends,” he said, a tentative smile on his face. He reached for a napkin. I noticed a wedding band on his left hand.
I gave him my business card as I slipped into the booth opposite him. “You were here about two weeks ago, on a Friday afternoon. Right before you came in you saw a man and a woman outside, having an argument. You mentioned it to the barmaid when you came into the tavern.”
“What’s this about?” he asked, frowning now as he studied my card.
“The young woman was murdered. I’m trying to find out what happened after she left here.”
“Murdered? No kidding?” He reached for the pint of porter near his left hand and took a large restorative swallow.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to set him at ease.
“Don. Don Porter.”
“Do you remember the people you saw? When did you first see them?”
“They were standing right there at the curb, just past the entrance to the pub here.” Porter set his pint on the table surface and pointed his right thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Alvarado Street. “I left my truck over on Pearl, so I’d just turned the corner.” He waved his hand to the right, indicating the street that intersected Alvarado, just to the south. “They were right in front of me. He was dark, curly black hair, with his back to me. She was a really pretty blonde. I could see her face over his shoulder.”
“When you came inside the Rose and Crown you told Stella they were really going at it hammer and tongs,” I said. “How could you tell they were arg
uing? Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Well, no,” Porter said, picking up his sandwich with both hands. “I couldn’t tell what they were fighting about. But I picked up on their body language. He had his hand on her arm. And she was frowning. Had both hands on her hips and was shaking her head all the time he was talking to her.” He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed it thoroughly, and washed it down with another sip of porter.
I leaned against the wooden back of the booth. Somehow I’d hoped for more. The evidence linking Bobby to Ariel’s death was tenuous, circumstantial, and a lot of speculation centered on the argument here at the Rose and Crown. I was trying to find out what happened after that and so far I’d come up empty. “So you didn’t hear anything?”
Porter frowned. “There was a lot of traffic, it being Friday afternoon. And the door to the tavern was open. I could hear the music coming from inside. But maybe—” He stopped and shrugged. “Well, just a scrap comes to me. I couldn’t even tell you which of them said it.”
“Just tell me what you heard,” I prompted, leaning forward with my arms on the table.
“Something about... give me some time, twenty-four hours.”
It must have been Bobby, I thought, asking Ariel to give him time to contact Karl Beckman. Which brought me right back to the question of why it was so important for Bobby to talk with Karl. It had to have something to do with the boatyard.
“Were they still at the curb when you came inside the pub?” I asked Porter.
The big-shouldered man shook his head. “She left the guy standing there and went off across Alvarado, toward that bookstore.”
“Maybe her car was parked on that side of the street.”
“No, she went in.”
“How do you know that? Did you see her go in?” I’d already talked to a clerk in the bookshop last Saturday when I was canvassing Alvarado Street He didn’t remember seeing Ariel Logan, but I might have talked to the wrong clerk.
Porter dipped a french fry into a puddle of ketchup and popped the strip of potato into his mouth. He looked at me quizzically. “I didn’t see her go in. I must have seen her come out. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure what I saw.”
“I’m confused,” I said slowly. “You saw the blond woman later, after she left the man at the curb? How much later?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Porter grinned and reached for his sandwich. “You see, I was over at the bar, and in comes this old guy I know. We got to talking and he wanted to see my new truck. So we finish our brews and go outside. Must have been thirty, forty minutes later. That’s when I saw her again, standing in front of the bookstore, next to a pickup.”
“Can you describe the pickup?”
“Of course I can. Beckman Boat Works,” Porter said, as if there were no other answer. “Light blue with a boat and letters on both doors. Karl and Lacy both drive trucks just like that.”
“You know the Beckmans?” I felt as though I were in the wrong play.
“Sure do. I know all the boatyards in this part of the state. I haul boats from one place to another. In fact, I’d just been down to the yard delivering a sailboat, before I came over here to the Rose and Crown.”
Porter pulled out his wallet and gave me a business card. “I work all up and down the coast, pleasure craft and commercial. Say Beckman’s got a sailboat needs to go from Monterey to Half Moon Bay. If it’s small enough, he calls me, we put the boat on my trailer, and I haul it up there. Now, if a boat’s too big, it would have to move under its own power. Lacy might sail it wherever it’s supposed to go. She’s a good sailor. Guess you’d have to be if you’re gonna be in that business. In fact, I haven’t been doing as much work for the Beckmans lately. Lacy’s been handling most of the boat transport.”
I nodded, recalling the phone call Lacy took while I was in her office. “Did it look as though the blond woman was talking to someone in the Beckman pickup?”
“Coulda been.” Porter took another bite of his sandwich. “I just noticed her because I’d seen her before. She was leaning toward the pickup’s window.”
I let Porter eat his sandwich in peace while I digested the information he’d just given me. Ariel could have recognized the truck and leaned toward it to look into an empty driver’s seat. Or she could have been talking to the driver.
Again I thought of last Saturday’s visit to the boatyard. Lacy told me she’d been upstairs in the office that Friday afternoon and hadn’t seen Bobby when he came by looking for Karl. But Karl was nowhere Bobby looked.
If what Porter told me was true, he’d placed either Karl or Lacy Beckman on Alvarado Street about an hour after Ariel’s argument with Bobby at the Rose and Crown.
Come on, Jeri, it didn’t have to be one of the Beckmans. It could have been one of their employees. But if Karl, Lacy, or one of the people who worked in the boatyard had seen Ariel Logan late Friday afternoon, why hadn’t that person come forward?
Twenty-eight
RYAN TRENT’S LAW FIRM WAS SANDWICHED BETWEEN two art galleries, in a two-story brown stucco building trying to look like a mission. According to the sign, so understated I almost missed it, the first floor was occupied by an accountant and a decorator. Silverberg and Trent were on the second floor.
It was about ten-thirty Friday morning. The front office had a dark clubby look, from the wainscoting on the walls to the blue-gray hues of the Oriental carpet on the floor. To my left towered a rubber plant in a huge black ceramic pot, glossy green leaves inches from the ceiling. On the right were two chairs and a sofa upholstered in the same subdued gray fabric. The sofa was occupied by a silver-haired man in a business suit. He favored me with the barest of glances, consulted his watch, and went back to reading his Wall Street Journal.
Directly in front of me I saw a wooden office desk with a computer workstation to one side. Seated at the desk was a sleek brunette, her purple silk dress a vibrant splash of color that drew the eye. She was on the telephone. Behind her an open door led to a room where filing cabinets and a copy machine were visible. On either side of her desk were two doors, both closed.
The receptionist finally hung up the phone and gave me a cool smile. “May I help you?”
“Jeri Howard to see Ryan Trent.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Her eyes flicked over my slacks and cotton shirt, then down at the large leather-bound calendar on one corner of her desk.
“No. But I’m sure he’ll see me.”
The smile dimmed and her eyebrows raised. “Mr. Trent has a client due at eleven. And he’s busy after that. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment.”
“Just tell him I’m here,” I said firmly, taking up my immovable object stance in front of the desk.
She looked past me at the more presentable client with his nose in his newspaper and decided I was quite capable of making a scene. I was, if the situation warranted it. “Just a moment, please.” She pushed the chair away from the desk and walked to one of the closed doors on the left. She tapped lightly, then she opened the door and stepped inside. A moment later she came out and resumed her seat without a word.
Ryan Trent opened the door of his office and glared at me as though he knew he’d seen me before and he was trying to remember who I was. His dark blond hair was combed back from his tanned face, as it had been when I’d encountered him Monday at Ariel Logan’s funeral. His mouth compressed into a thin line and his gray eyes were cold. Finally he placed me and scowled.
“You were at the mission.” His voice was low and its temperature wasn’t any warmer than his eyes. “With Ravella.”
“I’m a private investigator,” I told him, voice even and face expressionless. “Bobby Ravella is my cousin.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” He dismissed me with a contemptuous sneer and turned. I moved quickly, my hand flat on the door he was attempting to shut. That surprised him. He was used to calling the shots. At the funeral I had noticed the tic at the left side of his mouth. Now i
t started to twitch and fury warmed the gray eyes.
“Get the hell out of my office.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sherry, call the police,” he barked. From the corner of my eye I saw the receptionist reach for the phone.
I smiled. He wasn’t expecting that either. “By all means, Mr. Trent. Call Sergeant Magruder while you’re at it. You have as much motive for murdering Ariel Logan as Bobby did. I’d be happy to explain it to the sergeant. Or maybe you’d rather talk about it first.”
The man waiting on the sofa peered over his Wall Street Journal, trying not to watch but unable to stop himself. Then the office door opened and his eyes swiveled from Trent’s doorway to the newcomer, a sleek older woman who, oblivious to any other drama but her own, said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I simply couldn’t find a parking place.”
The older man folded the newspaper, left it on the sofa, and stood. “We’d like to see Mr. Silverberg now,” he said, with just a touch of eagerness to get away from all this drama.
The receptionist, phone in hand, looked up at the client then to Ryan Trent He gestured abruptly. “Never mind, Sherry. Hold my calls.”
Now he jerked open the door, at the same time he jerked his chin to the left I took this for permission to enter, so I stepped inside. A neat freak, I thought comparing this orderly space to the offices of some of the attorneys I’d worked with over the years. A place for everything and everything in its place. Even the files on the surface of the wide desk were stacked neatly, at right angles to the edge. So was the laptop computer on the other side. All the pens and pencils were uniformly arranged in a square container just above the desk blotter.
Trent remained standing near the door, ready to boot me out at the first opportunity. I settled into a chair. “Don’t get comfortable,” he snapped. “You’ve got sixty seconds to explain that crack about motives for murder. Then I’m tossing you out.”
I laced my fingers together, crossed my legs, and didn’t say anything. Instead I stared quite deliberately at the sweeping second hand on a round brass clock on the wall behind the desk. When sixty seconds had gone by I looked at the attorney.
