The Breakers

by Marcia Muller

  Dana had the right take on Mrs. Brower after all, I decided. She was something of a “mother from hell.”

  10:15 p.m.

  When I’d called Clive Canfield, Christopher Wickens’s partner, earlier, he’d told me to drop around any time I pleased. “I’ll be up till all hours,” he said. His voice had sounded flat, but he seemed to be glad at the prospect of having company.

  His small adobe home was perched on a ridge about a mile from Celia Brower’s house. But there was no resemblance between the two dwellings. The Canfield place was warm and welcoming, with none of the stylized perfection of the Browers’. As in Chris’s aunt’s house, enlarged prints of Christopher’s photos covered the walls. Comfortable chairs were placed close to the hearth, and the floor plan was designed to flow into one big room with a sleeping gallery upstairs. Clive Canfield fitted its style: slightly pudgy, with wild gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, casually dressed in jeans and a sweater. He led me to one of the comfy chairs and insisted I join him in a glass of amaretto.

  “I work for a liquor distributor, and I like to hear people’s opinions on our wares.”

  The liqueur was excellent and I told him I’d highly recommend it.

  He smiled gently. “It’s good to have someone to share it with. This house has been pretty lonely without Chris. I haven’t had a serious relationship since he died. Or a nonserious one.” His lips quirked up slightly with this feeble attempt at humor.

  “I visited with his aunt Alida this afternoon.” I held up the camera bag I’d carried in with me. “She sent this to you.”

  “Chris’s bag? Where did she get it?”

  “Found it in the wheel well of his car. She said she’d been meaning to give it to you.”

  “I’m glad to have it. Was there anything important in it?”

  “Some photographs.” I took them from my purse and he thumbed through them.

  “Nature shots,” he said. “Not terribly inspired. That happened with Chris sometimes when he had an assignment that didn’t thrill him. These were probably commissioned by some travel magazine or maybe his newspaper.”

  “I think it was the paper.”

  “Well, even an artist like Chris has to take the little jobs to earn a living.”

  “Do you happen to recognize where those were taken?”

  He flipped through them again. “Could be anyplace around here. There’s no date stamp, so he must’ve developed them himself.”

  “Where?”

  “At the newspaper lab. We don’t have space here for a darkroom.”

  “There aren’t any negatives.”

  “Then the paper must have them. I’m not conversant with the legalities, but I assume if they commissioned the photos they have a right to both them and the negatives.”

  “If it’s all right with you, let’s not tell them we have them just yet.”

  “Or ever.”

  He got up and poured me more amaretto, as if he was afraid our words had ended our visit.

  “Do you know what happened to his Leica?” he asked.

  “It’s still in official hands, Alida said, but once it’s returned, it will also go to you.”

  His brown eyes grew moist. “A nice lady, Alida. A kind lady.”

  He spoke the word “kind” as if it was one he didn’t hear a lot. Come to think of it, neither did I.

  “Tell me about Christopher,” I said, settling back into my chair.

  “What specifically?”

  “Nothing specifically. Just tell me who he was.”

  Over the next hour we discussed his dead partner, me asking many of the questions I would in a formal interview. Chris had been kind, to grown-ups, to children, to animals. He’d been generous to aspiring photographers who wanted advice. He’d often go away for periods of two to three days, but Clive hadn’t worried about him. In time he’d return and rush to the newspaper lab to develop his film, then gleefully show off the good shots.

  Clive said, “I thought all of them were good, but Chris was a perfectionist.”

  “Did he have any other interests besides photography?” I asked.

  “Classical music; we had season tickets to the symphony. We both volunteered for the Humane Society, collected for the Cancer Society and Heart Association—that sort of stuff. But Chris’s true passion was his photography.”

  He told me nothing that helped the investigation, but I came away with the knowledge of what a truly good man Christopher Wickens had been. Clive Canfield too.

  11:30 p.m.

  I drove back to my motel, updated my notes, and treated myself to a long, hot bath. While in the tub I called Rae, who as usual was wide awake in spite of the hour.

  “Just a sec,” she said. “Let me save this.” A couple of clicks and she was back to me.

  “Working?” I asked.

  “I had this idea for a new novel…Well, you’ll see—eventually.”

  “Have you been to visit Ma again?”

  “Yes. I spent most of the afternoon there. She was pretty out of it. Hasn’t been knitting any more, which is probably just as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Yesterday she started a sweater, only she wasn’t doing too good a job of it. I can’t imagine who it’s supposed to be for; if she ever finishes it, it’ll be very big, with long arms that wouldn’t fit anybody except an ape. Oh, and the caregiver I arranged for her went by to get acquainted this afternoon and they got along fine.”

  “Does the caregiver have long arms?”

  “What? Oh, I get it. It’s late and I’m kind of dense. Anyway, your mom will be going home as soon as she’s able.”

  “I still think I should see her. I’m down in San Luis Obispo—I’ll explain why later—and I could swing over to Pacific Grove on the way back—”

  “No.” Rae’s voice was firm. “She made it definite that she doesn’t want to see you. Don’t know why, but those were her orders. Maybe it’s something to do with your other family.”

  My “other family” and our tangled roots, the lies and half-truths that had been spoon-fed to me since my birth; thank God we’d untangled them and finally spoken the whole truth.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “In fact, Ma and Saskia are good friends. And surely you remember that episode when she concocted an imaginary romance with Elwood. Let’s face it, she’s just nuts.”

  “Not everybody who doesn’t get on with you is nuts, Shar. I’m not getting on with you at the moment, and I’m not nuts—just tired. And I’m going to bed.” She broke the connection.

  I smiled as I switched off my phone. Rae has always been able to put me in my place when I need it.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 13

  7:44 a.m.

  A call from Hy woke me from my restless sleep—brave man—for two reasons. One was to ask me what if anything I’d learned in the San Luis area, which wasn’t much so far. The second was to ask when I’d be coming back to the city.

  “Why?” I tried to lean against the pillows, but they were scattered on the floor. I hate sleeping in motel beds.

  “Just missing you. Plus things’re getting interesting here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tyler Pincus, the amateur magician from the Breakers, is back in town. Last night KOFY-TV had a clip of him on the late news, doing a weird dance in front of the Breakers. He told the reporter he’d had a vision of a murder there while in an ‘elliptacoid trance.’”

  “What the hell is an ‘elliptacoid trance’?”

  “There’s no such thing; I googled it. But from what Pincus was photographed doing it involves running around outdoors calling attention to himself and wearing all white with a red sash. The guy’s a nutjob.”

  “Is he still at the Breakers?”

  “Maybe, but I think he’s kind of lost his audience. So when are you coming home?”

  “Later today, probably. I’ve got one more thing I want to check on here. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”

  10:3
0 a.m.

  Santa Marta Creek—population 3,293—was in the foothills of the Santa Lucia Range northeast of Bakersfield. A well-paved highway led me there from San Luis. Nestled between tall stands of ponderosa pines, it consisted of one long block of commercial establishments—laundromat, IGA grocery store, Lil’s Coffee Shop, Trekker’s Shoes and Sporting Shop, the Rod and Tackle Depot—interspersed with modest homes. I located the county sheriff’s substation and, as a courtesy to let them know I would be operating in the area, went inside, where I was greeted by the deputy, Andy Owens. Not all law enforcement people are cordial to private investigators, but he was. He poured me a cup of chicory-flavored coffee, seated me in a comfortable armchair in his otherwise sparsely furnished office, and asked, “So what brings you here from the big, bad city, Ms. McCone?”

  “A hunch.”

  “Not a wild one, I hope. The damn things don’t want to let you get off.”

  A comedian—but the old joke was pretty funny, or would have been in different circumstances.

  I placed the prints from Chris Wickens’s camera bag on the desk. “Does this terrain look familiar to you?”

  “Sure does. They must’ve been taken at Wingspread, the old Reynolds place. I’d recognize that footbridge anywhere. But these shadowy areas—are those people?”

  “I think so.”

  He nodded as if I’d confirmed something he already knew, and absently began hand rolling a cigarette. After a moment he said, “This state, particularly in the wilderness areas, generates a lot of legends. Have you heard of the Dark Watchers?”

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Folks say they appear either at dawn or dusk. Huge silhouettes that, once sighted, vanish before your eyes. Some describe them as wearing wide-brimmed hats; other claim they carry walking sticks. The only consensus is that they’re featureless.”

  “When was this supposed to have happened?”

  “From roughly thirteen thousand years ago to this very day. At least that’s how far back the Chumash Indian stories go. The Indians called them ‘Los Vigilantes Oscuros.’”

  “And you say you recognize the photos as having been taken at a place called Wingspread?”

  “It’s an old hacienda built by Spanish settlers sometime in the 1800s and passed along until the family died out. Then it was turned into a winery, abandoned now. Maybe ten years ago a young couple name of Krist bought it with the idea of restoring it. They got a start on it too, but then they were killed in a mudslide—damn thing just pushed their car over the cliff near Big Sur. A relative someplace back east inherited it, but hasn’t shown any interest. So there it sits.”

  “Were the Krists renovating it themselves?”

  “Not completely. At least, some construction company put up signs, but their workers weren’t there long.”

  “Do you remember the name of the company? Were they local?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t.”

  “Would anybody mind if I explored the property?”

  “Not if the deputy sheriff gives you permission.” His eyes twinkled, then became serious. “I’d be careful, though. A young man—a photographer from the San Luis paper—got himself killed out there a number of years back.”

  “Christopher Wickens. I’ve talked with his family.”

  “Sad case: he was stabbed to death. Body was found on the southwest side of the property, where it drops off into sheer cliff. He was supposed to be taking pictures of the winery, but we guessed he went over there for some shots that would put the place in context.”

  “You mean, so it could be located in terms of the sea, mountain ridges, and so forth.”

  “Right.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Hiker, about a day later.” The deputy shook his head. “There was an indication the murder might be linked to other cases in the area. Chris’s body was disfigured.”

  I knew the answer, but I asked, “How?”

  “There was something weird carved up high on his chest—a circle within a circle and a funny kind of arrow. Reminded me of drawings you see of the evil eye.”

  11:35 p.m.

  Following the directions Deputy Andy Owens had given me, I took a graveled road up into the Santa Lucias for almost ten miles, then turned onto a dirt track leading still higher. When I stopped at a turnout to look out over the valley, I could see all the way to San Luis and the sea. The air was cooler here and very still; the only thing that moved was a red-tailed hawk that soared overhead and vanished beyond the next ridge. Then there was a scuttling in the brush and a family of quail strutted by, heads bobbing.

  I got back into the car and pressed the button for the retractable roof; might as well catch a few rays while I could.

  The dirt track continued on, past manzanita and stunted cacti, for two more miles before ending at the massive iron gates to the old winery. They stood ajar, one leaning on a broken hinge. I parked in the shade of a buckeye tree and continued on foot, pulling the gates closed behind me. The ground was rutted from runoff from last winter’s rains, but I saw no evidence that a vehicle had passed recently. Around a sharp turn, the track split and curved back to meet itself around a sun-browned patch of land that might once have been a lawn. In a copse of half-dead eucalypti the remains of two picnic tables lay on the ground.

  The entire area was surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence, probably left over from the days when the winery had been under renovation. On a couple of wooden signs, affixed near its top, the word “Construction” appeared in faded blue paint, but the signs gave no name for the company. An old yellow tractor stood near the copse of trees, and an earthmover sat near the ruined picnic tables, its jaws frozen open as if it were prepared to take a final bite.

  The face of the winery was fieldstone and redwood, but many of the beams were rotten, and the large stones between them had fallen loose. Bright-green moss lurked in the shadows, but where it was exposed to the sun it was dull orange. Terra-cotta tiles had fallen from the winery’s roof and were smashed on the ground. From somewhere inside the structure came a steady banging noise—probably a broken shutter moving in the light breeze. I approached the building cautiously, my hand on the butt of my .38; I’d transferred it from my bag to a light holster clipped onto my belt.

  I went through weathered double doors into what had once been a tasting room. Dark in there, except for shafts of light that streamed through the places where the roof tiles were missing. Dust motes danced in the beams. I took out my flashlight, shone it around.

  Cobwebs. Spiderwebs. Paneling sagging off the walls. Broken mosaic floor tiles. A tasting bar, minus equipment such as sinks and a dishwasher; the backbar mirror was smashed, and the ornate cornice usually found in such establishments had been torn from its anchoring, probably carted off by vandals. Something moved to my right, and I shone my light that way; a rat, half as big as a jackrabbit, ran across the floor.

  A swinging door opened at the right side of the bar. I pushed through it. Beyond was a room filled with oak barrels, their odor musty and pungent. I walked among them. Zinfandel, cabernet, merlot; the dates grease penciled on them were over eight years old. I turned the stopcocks on a few, found them dry.

  Okay, this was the winery, but where had the owners and help lived? There was a back door off the barrel room, and I passed through it to the outside. More tall weeds, stunted trees, and a couple of outbuildings, their once-white paint flaking off. I went to the larger of the two.

  Bunk beds for eight, their thin mattresses almost devoured by mice. A wood stove. A big round table and rudimentary kitchen cabinets and counters. Through a window I glimpsed a privy.

  I felt as if I’d stepped into an episode of Gunsmoke.

  The smaller building was a house, in marginally better shape than the bunkhouse. Its porch steps teetered as I mounted them. Inside it was fully furnished: Pullout sofa close to the woodstove; lamps on end tables beside it; a couple of rockers. A bookcase, its paperback volumes also ravag
ed by mice. I glanced at the titles: the Krists had been into science fiction and astronomy. Well, what better place to study the stars than here, where there was no light pollution?

  The adjoining kitchen contained jelly glasses, apparently used for drinking; a few plates that I remembered from my childhood as being called Melmac; miscellaneous flatware, knives, and utensils. A couple of jugs of Carlo Rossi red sat in a bottom cabinet; it was a wonder nobody had appropriated them. (Or maybe not such a wonder.) The bathroom looked as if someone had rushed off to work: towels hanging crookedly on racks, toothbrushes propped on the porcelain, toothpaste stains in the sink. A makeshift closet was crammed with jeans, T-shirts, and sandals.

  The house looked as if the couple had planned to return soon, probably would have except for the freak accident that had taken their lives. The items here were largely impersonal. What about things of significance, such as documents, financial records, and correspondence?

  Nothing like that on the premises. The Krists must have kept their important papers in a safe-deposit box, but I couldn’t locate a key. There were some receipts from Dom’s Grocery in Santa Marta Creek—vanilla yogurt, lemons, apples, granola, greens. A healthy diet to go with the wine they’d bought, a good-quality label that maybe they’d been hoping to emulate. Postcards attached by magnets to the fridge door were from the Grand Canyon, Martha’s Vineyard, New Orleans, and Dallas. None of the signatures meant anything to me, and the messages were strictly of the “wish you were here” variety. There were few photographs except the kind of formal poses taken for graduations and other landmark occasions. I studied them. Mrs. Krist had been a large woman with thick black eyebrows and a pugnacious jaw. Her bespectacled husband reminded me of a malnourished laboratory assistant.

  Finally, tucked partially under a place mat on the cluttered dining table, I found something of interest—an unfinished letter to someone named Nadia, written in a woman’s hand. Lots of exclamation points and the i’s dotted with little hearts. In an amusing manner it detailed an uneventful day-to-day existence and aired a few dissatisfactions with “the huz,” but then the tone became serious.