Where Echoes Live

by Marcia Muller

  “Just so you return it. You find out anything in the valley?”

  “Only that Hopwood may have been there as recently as last week.” I repeated Bayard’s story. “You know,” I added, “it fits in with something I should have picked up on right off. That piece of dynamite crate I found at his place wasn’t weathered the way it would have been if it had been tossed on the dump weeks ago.”

  “What of it, though? Other people probably know about the dump and use it. They don’t have garbage-collection service out there, you know. And you say his cabin has an unlived-in feel.”

  “Unlived in and slightly … wrong is the only way I can describe it. Did you have a chance to ask around town about Erickson?”

  “I did, and nobody remembers seeing him. Distinctive looking as he was, you’d think somebody would.” Then he grimaced ruefully. “I did find out why the Tarbeaux name is so familiar.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, it came to me after worrying on it half the night.” He went to the side of the fireplace where the nonfiction books on the Old West were shelved and pulled down a volume. It was titled Knights of the Green Cloth: The Saga of the Frontier Gamblers.

  “I bought this years ago and glanced through it but never got around to reading it all.” He opened it to a bookmarked section and then extended it to me.

  The chapter he’d opened to was headed by a quotation: “Gyps and cons are all cases of the biter being bitten. I got into my three-card monte gyp because I loved to kid, and because I loved to trim suckers.”

  The quotation was attributed to one Frank Tarbeaux.

  I looked up at Ripinsky. “Frank Tarbeaux … Franklin Tarbeaux. A frontier con man?”

  “One of the greatest con men of all,” Hy said. “And a kidder. A goddamn kidder.”

  Eight

  Ripinsky and I went looking for Anne-Marie and Sanderman. The Coalition trailer was locked, as was Sanderman’s cabin at the lodge. There was no sign of Anne-Marie, and Rose Wittington had no idea where she’d gone. I tried to phone Kristen Lark or Dwight Gifford at the sheriff’s department in Bridgeport to tell them what Ripinsky had realized about the Tarbeaux alias, but both detectives were out of the office. While I waited for a return call, Hy and I passed the time by watching a colorized version of D.O.A. on the lodge’s big-screen TV—I tipped him to turning off the set’s color so it was at least palatable.

  We didn’t discuss the latest turn of events because of Rose’s nearby presence as she went about various housekeeping chores.

  Lark finally called around six. She found the information about the alias interesting, but didn’t attach much importance to it. Since I wasn’t sure what, if any, relationship the choice of name might have to the as-yet-undetermined events surrounding Erickson’s death, her lack of enthusiasm didn’t particularly trouble me. I asked if she’d gotten anything back from the medical examiner, and when she said not yet, I told her I’d see her the next morning.

  Anne-Marie finally rolled in around seven, with two Friends of Tufa Lake in tow. They’d taken a long hike up one of the feeder streams, then stopped at the home of another member to look at his collection of historical photographs of the area. The two knew Ripinsky well, so they settled in and chatted for more than an hour. By the time they left, I was ravenous.

  Ripinsky waited impatiently for Anne-Marie to return from seeing them to their car, then asked, “Where the hell is Ned?”

  “Sacramento. He packed up his computer and drove back for a couple of days, said there were some files he needed to access.”

  “He couldn’t do that from here?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Terrific.” Ripinsky’s fist slammed onto the coffee table his face congested with anger.

  I thought of Sanderman’s somewhat paranoid claim that Hy was out to get him. While I was sure it didn’t amount to that, Ripinsky certainly did have some problem with Ned and I had no clue as to what was at the root of it. I did understand Sanderman’s sudden trip to Sacramento, how even he was fleeing the explosion that was sure to come when Ripinsky found out about his dealings with Mid Erickson.

  Hoping that the explosion would be less violent in a public place, I suggested we go to Zelda’s for dinner.

  Over the meal Ripinsky explained to Anne-Marie about the Tarbeaux alias. When he finished, I related what Sanderman had told me about Mick Erickson. To my surprise, Hy absorbed this new information as calmly as Anne-Marie, his face intense but thoughtful.

  Again our conversation was inhibited by Rose Wittington, who had arrived shortly after us with a woman friend. When her companion left, Rose brought her coffee to our table unbidden and began questioning Hy and me about finding the body the night before. I let him do the talking—a scaled-down version that would only minimally satisfy the local gossip mills—then asked, “You have any trouble with Lily last night?”

  Rose shook her head. “I can handle her kind.”

  I couldn’t think of any tactful way to ask if she’d really hinted to the Tiger Lily that she’d poisoned her hot milk or if she’d actually caught her in flagrante with her late husband, but Rose’s gentle amusement when I mentioned how Nickles had reacted to the presence of Chinese guards at the mine site convinced me it was yet another of the prospector’s tall tales.

  “Lily’s always been a little cracked on the subject of Orientals,” Rose said. “Reminds me of a character in a Fu Manchu movie.”

  “She told me there hadn’t been any of ‘that kind’ around here since they hanged the Chinaman back in the eighteen fifties. What was that about?”

  “Dark chapter in Promiseville history. You know a lot of Chinese escaped the famines and wars at home by coming over to work in the goldfields?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, at first folks tolerated them, but by the mid-fifties things had turned around. Got pretty grim; there was a lot of anti-foreign feeling, color prejudice. In fifty-two the governor actually declared them a menace to the state. Some gold camps a Chinese didn’t dare set foot in for fear of being murdered.”

  Hy said, “The Promiseville Chinese owned the store, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah—good merchant, charged reasonable, was free with credit. Only reason they let him stay. But then he got into a fight with a southerner—they were the ones who really whipped up the race prejudice—and killed him. It was self-defense, but they hung the Chinaman just the same.”

  “You’re quite a historian,” Anne-Marie told her.

  “Not half as much of one as old Earl Hop wood, that turncoat who sold his land to this mining company.”

  “Speaking of him,” I said, “he seems to have disappeared. And do you have any idea where his daughter Peggy is living or what her current married name is?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from Peggy in years, close to ten now. At one time I think Earl said she was living in Marin County, but she’s moved since then.”

  “I hoped she’d know where her father is.”

  “Not likely; they seem to have had some sort of falling-out. But why do you say Earl’s disappeared? I saw him middle of last week, at the filling station.”

  Ripinsky and I exchanged glances. That made two sightings of the old man during the past week. While Bayard’s memory might have been skewed by drug abuse, I was reasonably sure I could trust Rose’s recollections. “Did he say anything about having been away? Or that he was planning to take a trip?”

  “Well, he did mention he wouldn’t be coming to our Bible study group last night. He’s missed for a month or more now.”

  “And you have absolutely no idea where Peggy might be?”

  “Well, she’s always lived in the Bay Area, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d put even more distance between herself and her father by now.”

  “Why?”

  “Peggy needed to escape his clutches so she could have a life. After her mother died, Earl clung to that girl the way a parent does when he’s got nothing else left. No one was ever good enou
gh for her; he ran off every boy that ever showed an interest in Peggy—including somebody seated at this very table.” She glanced pointedly at Hy, but his eyes were focused on the red-checkered tablecloth.

  I asked, “She left Vernon as soon as she graduated from high school?”

  “Right. She’d been accepted at Berkeley on a partial scholarship, but Earl didn’t want her to go. They had terrific battles over it, and eventually she just packed up and took off, went down there and got some sort of job and put herself through college. It was years before she and her father mended fences, but even then it was push-pull, push-pull. No sooner would they start getting along than he’d start interfering. She blamed his butting in for the collapse of her first marriage. I don’t suppose things will ever be right between them.”

  “And when she left for Berkeley, that’s when Earl lost interest in everything and moved out to Stone Valley?”

  Rose looked puzzled. “He moved to the valley, yes, but I wouldn’t say he lost interest in things. What he did was become a fanatic.”

  “About what?”

  “Like I said, he’s a historian, at least when it comes to Promiseville and the mine his family used to operate.” She looked at Hy. “Didn’t you ever see his little museum?”

  Ripinsky shook his head.

  “That’s right,” Rose went on, “by the time he set it up, you’d left here yourself. But I’m surprised he never dragged you and Julie there; I thought the three of you were close.”

  “Julie was always fonder of Earl than I was.” Hy shut his eyes, trying to call up a memory. “Now that you mention it, though, I think he may have taken her there back when I first knew her. I’ve got a vague recollection of something to that effect.”

  “Well, as far as I know, not many of us have seen it. Earl’s gotten hermitlike in his old age.”

  Anne-Marie asked, “Where is this museum—in his cabin?”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s in what’s left of the Chinaman’s store out the end of Main Street. Earl collected old stuff that was left after the big fire—everything from mining equipment to household goods—and brought it all together there. He let me have a look around just once; it struck me as …well, kind of pathetic.’’

  I recalled seeing a store near where I’d parked my car the day before, rusted cans and dusty bottles barely visible through its grime-caked windows. “How long ago was that?”

  “Ages, it seems. He may have given up on it by now, but I kind of doubt that. That town and the old mine are Earl’s obsession.”

  “If so, it’s odd he would sell his land. Did he ever tell you how that came about?”

  Rose’s jaw pushed out pugnaciously. “He knows better than to talk to me about commercial mining in Stone Valley.”

  “Do you know that he got under fair market value for it?”

  “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Earl doesn’t give a hoot about money. What he does care about is seeing that mine operate again. It’s part of his fixation, that Promiseville will rise out of its ashes.” She snorted. “We all tried to get it across to him that a big modern mining operation will just spoil the place, but what can I tell you? Earl’s not all that bright.”

  “Maybe he just wants you to think he’s not bright,” Hy suggested.

  “I’ve known Earl pretty much all my life, and I can guarantee he’s at least medium stupid.” Rose glanced at her watch. “Will you look at that! It’s after eleven already, and there’s a Clint Eastwood movie on at half past. You’re all welcome to watch it with me.”

  We declined politely, and Rose departed. Once she was gone, a listlessness settled upon us. I kept glancing at the door to the balcony, reliving what had happened on the dock the night before. When Anne-Marie signaled for the check, I expelled a sigh of relief.

  The temperature had remained surprisingly warm, almost muggy, and there was a heavy cloud cover. We stood chatting in the parking lot for a few minutes. Anne-Marie looked weary from her long hike, but now that we’d left the restaurant I’d regained my energy and I sensed Hy felt the same. He suggested he pick up a couple of six-packs at the Swifty Mart and meet us back at the cabin so we could brainstorm uninterrupted by Rose. I was agreeable, and Anne-Marie didn’t seem to care one way or the other, so we reconvened and rehashed everything we knew about the goings-on in Stone Valley—to the extent of several Buds and no useful conclusions. Sometime during the last half hour Anne-Marie fell asleep in her chair; it was close to two before she roused herself, mumbled apologies, and stumbled off to bed.

  Hy was still going strong. He stood up and said, “Let’s take a ride, McCone.”

  The idea appealed to me; I was too primed by the futile brainstorming to sleep. “Okay,” I agreed, getting up and grabbing my jacket.

  Hy picked up the remains of the second six-pack and went toward the door, beer cans dangling by their plastic straps. I followed, about to protest against drinking while driving, but once outside he turned toward the lake.

  “What … ?”

  “A boat ride, McCone. I’m not about to get behind the wheel.”

  “But where—”

  “Quiet—you’ll wake up the whole north shore.” He waited for me to lock the cabin door, then led me down the slope to the dock, where the lone warning light spread bloody stains on the water. A rowboat was tied up beside it. Hy handed me the beer and motioned for me to get in; then he untied the lines, climbed aboard, and pushed off from the dock.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, sitting down on the center seat.

  “No place. We’ll just drift.” Hy took the front seat, angling his lean body so his knees were draped over one side. “Give me a beer, will you?”

  I did, and took one for myself. The popping of the tabs was loud in the still night; all I could hear was a faint rustling in the trees and the gentle lapping of the water.

  “Awfully quiet, isn’t it?” I said.

  “You don’t like quiet?”

  I thought of another dark night not so long ago, remembered water lapping and trees soughing, and the terrible, final sound of a gunshot. “Sometimes it gets to me.”

  If he noticed any excess of emotion in my voice, he didn’t comment, merely tipped his beer can and drank. I did the same, then set the can on the seat beside me and huddled inside my suede jacket.

  “So,” Hy finally said, “what do you really think?”

  “About the situation here?”

  “Uh-huh. I sensed you were holding back some while we were talking in the cabin, afraid of worrying Anne-Marie, maybe.”

  “I’m not really holding back, at least nothing concrete. It’s more a feeling, the kind you get when something’s wrong but you can’t put your finger on it.”

  “Yeah, I feel it, too.”

  “This Tarbeaux alias that Erickson used—from what Ned told me about him, it strikes me as just the sort of joke he would play. Ned said he had a good sense of humor, but of a subtle, sophisticated sort. He must have enjoyed putting something over on the Bureau of Land Management.”

  “But why? Why not just patent the land in his own name?”

  “Because of who or what he was, I suppose. His connection to Transpacific, maybe. We won’t know until we know more about him. What about the real Tarbeaux, Hy? Did you do any reading on him after you realized where you’d heard the name?”

  “Just what there was in the book I showed you. He played cards strictly for the money. Lulled the suckers into a false sense of security, then milked them for all they were worth. Bloodless bastard; a writer once described him as showing no emotion—only vigilance. Ice-cold and totally focused, that was old Frank.”

  Totally focused, perhaps obsessed. The way Rose Witting-ton had described Earl Hopwood. A zealot, as Sanderman had called Ripinsky. But wasn’t Sanderman merely another type of zealot?

  What made people that way? Well, the events of Earl Hopwood’s life provided one answer: first he’d lost a young wife; then his possessiveness had driven his only daug
hter away. And Sanderman had plunged into his environmental work in the aftermath of a painful divorce. Hy had also lost his wife, and there had been things before that had turned him bitter and withdrawn—things I couldn’t begin to guess at.

  I said, “People whose dreams all died.”

  “What?”

  “It’s how the Tiger Lily described the people in the Promiseville cemetery. Your dreams die, and life narrows. You can turn inward, become obsessed, like Hopwood.”

  “You really talking about Earl, McCone? Or are you maybe talking about me?”

  There was a rough undercurrent in Hy’s voice, a hint of paranoia. I thought of Anne-Marie’s assessment of him: “He’s still dangerous.”

  I felt a tension in the boat now. Hy crushed his beer can and tossed it under the seat. When he reached for another, I shifted so his hand wouldn’t brush my knees.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I could also be talking about myself.”

  He grunted disbelievingly.

  But it was true—although up to now I wouldn’t have admitted it. Lately I gave a good deal of lip service to how on-track my life was now that George and I were together; it had taken some probing on Anne-Marie’s part to make me voice my reservations about where the relationship was leading. But events that I hadn’t sought had changed me since George and I first became lovers, and the changes, while subtle, went deep.

  I picked up my beer, drank, then cradled the can between my hands. From the grove came an animal’s cry—swift, shrill, as if the creature had been seized as prey. The sound echoed and sent chills across my shoulder blades.

  I shivered and closed my eyes against the bloody glow on the water. Remembered my impression upon arriving here that Tufa Lake was a place where echoes lived. There was also a place like that in the mind, where the past played and replayed….