Where Echoes Live

by Marcia Muller

  I nodded in agreement. “I guess this rules out the cabin as the scene of the Erickson homicide.”

  “Yeah. What we’ve got here is a second victim. Just when I thought maybe my job was getting easier.” Lark scowled at the vial containing the bullet. “Well,” she added, “the only thing to do is go back to Bridgeport and sit on the lab people until I get at least an informal report—weekend or no weekend. Where’ll I be able to reach you?”

  “Willow Grove Lodge, at least through Sunday.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up sign and went back into the cabin.

  I was driving along what used to be the main street of the town when I saw Ripinsky’s Morgan idling at the far end; it looked as if he was waiting for me. When I pulled alongside, he leaned out his window and said, “Saw you coming and decided to save wear and tear on my suspension.”

  “I’m surprised you’d come out here in that car.”

  “It’s tougher than it looks. Besides, a car’s for driving. Why else keep one around? What’s with the sheriff’s people? I spotted them going this way when I was headed into town. More trouble?”

  “Not exactly.” Given the efficiency of the local grapevine, there was no way he wouldn’t hear about the lab team going over the cabin. “They’re checking out Hop wood’s place. There’re some bloodstains in the living room that make it look like someone met with foul play there.”

  Ripinsky frowned. “Jesus, I hope not. I’m not crazy about the old guy, but I’ve always felt a kind of kinship with him.”

  “How so?”

  He made a quick gesture of dismissal. “Nothing I can easily explain. So where are you off to now?”

  “Back to town, I guess.”

  “Let me buy you lunch at my place. You can fill me in on the San Francisco end of the investigation, since it doesn’t look as if we’re all going to be able to sit down together.”

  “Why not?”

  “Anne-Marie’s due to leave for Humboldt County any minute. When I went to town she and Ned were doing some last-minute conferring in the Coalition trailer. There was a distinct chill in the air, so I took off. What gives, anyway? Am I suddenly persona non grata?”

  “The chill was between Anne-Marie and Ned, I think. She’s not happy that he decided he could do without her here.”

  Ripinsky nodded but looked unconvinced; I could understand why. Anne-Marie had probably passed along my suspicions of Hy to Sanderman, and as I’d expected, neither had covered well.

  “How about it?” Hy asked. “Can we talk?”

  I couldn’t keep putting him off, but I needed some time to decide which facts to feed him. Carefully chosen, they might elicit some sort of telling response without revealing very much. I searched for a delaying tactic.

  “Okay,” I said, “but first I need a favor. Will you show me that little museum of Hopwood’s?”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t mind taking a look at it myself. Let’s park over in the livery stable. That way we won’t be climbing into ovens when we leave.”

  I followed the Morgan down the dusty street to a building with gaping front doors. There was just enough room inside—amid a welter of rusted wagon wheels, trash, and an ancient wagon—for our two vehicles. After we’d left them, Ripinsky led the way along the gapped board sidewalk. In order to keep him from questioning me about my investigation, I asked about various buildings that interested me, and he replied with enthusiasm.

  “That was the schoolhouse, and beyond the vacant lot is the undertaking parlor. There’re still empty coffins inside, waiting.”

  “And over there—the one standing all by itself? Why’s it so isolated?”

  “The way the town looks now is deceptive. Before the fire the buildings stood shoulder to shoulder. Christ knows why it took some of them out and spared others. By all rights that one should have burned; it was the most notorious cathouse.”

  “They had a lot of them?”

  “Fair number, as well as saloons and gambling halls. Promiseville was never as wide open as Bodie, the ghost town down near Mono Lake that’s been made into a state park. But in its time there were twenty saloons, innumerable ladies of the evening, and some pretty desperate characters.” He stopped, turning to look the length of the street. “What the Friends are trying to do is get Promiseville status as a historic district. We wouldn’t trick it up or even restore it, but there would be government money available for preservation. If you’ve come up with something that will help us get those bastards off the mesa, we might stand a chance. But once they start mining it...”He shrugged and began walking again.

  “Maybe it sounds like a waste of money,” he added after a moment, “saving old wrecks like these when people are hungry and homeless. But how else are future generations going to know how things were? How are we going to know who we are if we don’t have some sense of those who went before us?”

  I could well understand his conflicted feelings. There were so many causes: feed the hungry, save endangered species, stop drug trafficking, fund the arts, find a cure for countless diseases, promote literacy, provide job training, save the environment, preserve the past….

  The list was endless, the proponents of each adamant that their cause should come first. And in a so-called land of plenty, there was not enough money to go around. Sometimes I pictured the country as a battleground covered with skirmishing armies of well-meaning but single-issue soldiers who would eventually wipe one another out. And all the while, the people who held the real money and power—and didn’t give a damn about anything but money and power—watched with amusement.

  I followed Ripinsky along the boardwalk, wondering how a man who spoke so passionately of saving Promiseville could have sold it out. Was I wrong about him, as Anne-Marie claimed?

  The building we finally arrived at was the store I’d noticed the first time I’d come here. It had a high false front and large dusty windows overlooking the street. Its torn screen door hung loose on its hinges; the inner door scraped against the buckled floorboards as Hy pushed it open. “After you,” he said.

  The store of the hanged Chinese was one gloomy cavernous room. Darkness shrouded its upper reaches; odd bulky shapes lurked in the shadows. The air was musty, the trapped heat intense. I remained in the doorway until my eyes adjusted to the dim light that filtered through the filmed windows.

  Before me lay a maze whose alleys and turnings and dead ends led among haphazard heaps of ...things. When I stepped into it, I saw distinct strata: At bottom were large items—furniture, mining machinery, wooden crates and barrels. On top of these were piled household goods, clothing, tools, lanterns, bottles, crocks, and tins. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

  “My God,” I said, “how can Hopwood call this a museum?”

  Behind me, Ripinsky gave a faint grunt of surprise.

  I squeezed into one of the aisles, past an upright piano that was swathed in moth-eaten fur garments. The glassy eyes of a fox-head boa followed me. The aisle was narrow and crooked; I glanced up, fearful that a stack of browning newspapers perched atop an armoire might fall on me. After a few feet I came to a dead end at a wooden barber pole.

  I retraced my steps and turned to the right, taking care not to step on a line of toy train tracks that snaked out from under a bureau. A chipped cigar-store Indian with a broken nose barred my way.

  “It isn’t a museum,” I said. “It’s a pack rat’s nest—an insane pack rat.”

  Ripinsky didn’t answer.

  I made a couple more turns and finally emerged near the front of the store next to an iron cookstove heaped with books and yellowed papers. Ripinsky was leaning in the doorway, his hawk-nosed face in shadow; I could see little more than its contours and the glint of his eyes. The peculiar white light of the high desert afternoon shimmered behind him, making his dark blond curls a tarnished halo. He didn’t move or speak, just watched me. Suddenly I became aware of the hush in this mausoleum of the past, was struck anew by the great silence of the valley.
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br />   My mouth went dry. I ran my tongue over my lips and stepped back until my hands were braced against the edge of the cookstove. A strange image flashed through my mind: Ripinsky and myself walking along the deserted street in that pale, watery sunlight, insubstantial as figures in an overexposed photograph. As we walked, first the town and then the two of us faded to nothing.

  Ripinsky continued to watch me.

  I swallowed, nearly strangling on the dryness.

  He pushed away from the door frame, letting the screen flap closed behind him. Moved toward me in a loose, unhurried stride. My fingers convulsed on the edge of the stove.

  Ripinsky put his hands on either side of my face and tipped it up toward his, fingers rough against my skin. His eyes fixed on mine, the fine lines around them taut. I caught my breath. And waited.

  After a moment his eyes narrowed. He rubbed his thumb over the bruise on my cheek, then let his hands drop to his sides. As he turned away from me he said, “It’s not our time yet, McCone.”

  I reached out for him, but my fingers encountered only air. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  I turned blindly, stumbled into a hall tree hung with dust-laden garments. Fought through them, sneezing. As I fumbled in my pockets for a tissue, I kept moving toward the far wall, wanting to put distance between us.

  “McCone,” he said, “you okay?”

  I sneezed again, blew my nose. “Yes.” I looked up at the wall in front of me, at the tattered and browning maps that hung there. They appeared to be drawings of a mine works; beside them was a fresh white sheet with similar markings. It looked as if someone had tried to copy the originals and then given up. Hopwood making souvenirs to be sold in his “museum”?

  “Hy,” I said, “come here and take a look at these.”

  He came up beside me—close, but not touching. “It’s the old mine,” he said after a moment. “Here’s the main shaft and the various levels branching off. Hopwood must have hung them here as a display before this so-called museum got seriously out of hand.”

  I turned and surveyed the chaotic room. “Whatever possessed him?”

  Hy shrugged. “He probably thought he was saving all this junk for posterity, but the stuff just took over.”

  I remembered the photograph he’d given me of the old man, pictured the intensity burning in his eyes. Then I looked up at Hy and saw the same intensity—banked now, but steadily smoldering.

  I said, “Let’s get out of this place.”

  Twenty-four

  I told Ripinsky I needed to make some calls and suggested he meet me for a drink at Zelda’s at four-thirty. He wasn’t too pleased with that arrangement, but I made it plain he had no choice. Then I took off for Vernon. I wanted to get in touch with Bart Wallace at the SFPD to see if anything had come through on the checks I’d asked him to run. The problem was which phone to use: I could go to the Coalition’s trailer, but Ripinsky might show up there before I’d finished; the booth outside the filling station was noisy and inconvenient for taking notes. Finally I decided to brave Rose Wittington’s nosiness and drove to the lodge.

  Anne-Marie’s car was gone, and since I hadn’t seen it at the trailers, I assumed she must be on her way by now. The Chevy that usually stood in front of the main building was there, and Rose was raking leaves from the tiny lawn between the lodge and the highway. I left the Land Rover next to her car and walked over there.

  Surprisingly Rose didn’t seem all that glad to see that she still had me as a guest. She greeted me with a frown, her tone uncharacteristically abrupt. “How come you’re staying on now that Anne-Marie’s left?”

  “I thought I’d spend the weekend, as a mini-vacation.”

  “Huh” was all Rose offered as she began raking again.

  “Is it okay if I use the phone?” I asked. “Credit-card call, of course.”

  “Frankly, I’d rather you didn’t. People have been abusing the privilege, and I’ve decided to make it a policy not to allow the guests the use of it.”

  “I hope Anne-Marie or Ned didn’t run up charges they shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m not talking about them, just the guests in general.”

  There hadn’t been any other guests, probably not in weeks, but I didn’t point that out to her. “Well, I can understand why you’ve made that policy. I’ll drive back to town to call.” Halfway to the Land Rover, though, I stopped, remembering a question I had for her. “Rose, if a person needed emergency medical care for a … an injury, who would he go to?”

  “You hurt yourself?” In concern, she peered at my face.

  “Uh, yes. The scrape on my forehead feels as if it might be infected.”

  “You want to be careful about things like that. There’s no clinic or hospital in town, and only one doctor—Gene Mahoney. He’s got his office in his house over on D Street, two doors down from the Catholic church. Yellow house with a green iron fence, and there’s a sign. You can’t miss it.”

  I thanked her and got into the Land Rover. As she went back to her raking Rose looked vaguely guilty, as if she regretted refusing me the use of her phone now that I’d told her I needed a doctor.

  D Street intersected with the main highway across from the Swifty Mart; at its end the white steepled church I’d noticed last Friday was awash in a sea of gold leaves from the aspens that grew in the declivities of the hill behind it. The trees were nearly bare now, their branches frail as skeletons’ arms. With surprise I realized that fall was close to an end here; the air held a crispness that confirmed Lark’s anticipation of snow.

  A sign on an iron stanchion in front of the yellow house directed me through its gate and down a side path to the office entrance. As I stepped inside, a buzzer went off behind a closed reception window. The waiting room was vacant except for a tattered-tailed hobbyhorse that was obviously for the entertainment of younger patients. After a moment the frosted glass of the window slid sideways; a man with thinning white hair looked out at me. “May I help you, miss?”

  “I’d like to see Dr. Mahoney.”

  “I’m Mahoney. What can I do for you?”

  I crossed to the window and showed him my identification. His thin face tensed and his pale eyes became wary and knowing. He said, “What’s this in regard to?”

  “Earl Hopwood.”

  “Ah.”

  “Where can we talk?”

  “Wait a moment. I’ll come out there.” The glass slid shut and shortly after that Gene Mahoney entered through the door next to it. He’d taken off his white coat, exposing a garish plaid sports shirt. It bagged on him, as did his dark trousers, and he moved as if he were a victim of chronic pain. “Please sit down, Miss McCone,” he said, motioning at the U of shabby green Leatherette furniture.

  I took a place on the sofa. Mahoney sat on the chair next to the hobbyhorse and immediately began fingering its bedraggled yarn mane. “I suppose I should be thankful you’re a private investigator rather than from the sheriff’s department,” he said.

  “You did treat Earl Hopwood for a gunshot wound, then?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d expected you’d put up more resistance to discussing it.”

  He made a feeble gesture. “Generally I’m a law-abiding man. During my forty years of practice I’ve done a few things that would be considered unethical or even illegal, though they weren’t to me: two abortions back before they were legalized, which were clearly cases of impregnation by rape; treatment of gunshot wounds without reporting them to the authorities when their intervention would have done more harm than good.”

  “And Earl Hopwood’s … ?”

  “Bad judgment on my part. I won’t attempt to excuse it, other than to say I’m old and not in the best of health.”

  “Why bad judgment?”

  “Because Earl was in an extremely agitated state and wouldn’t give me any explanation of what had happened. His chief concern seemed to be that he’d lost his own gun. I should have demanded to know the
particulars.”

  “How did he lose the gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you have no idea who shot him?”

  “No, but I suppose it must have been the son-in-law.”

  “Why?”

  Mahoney looked surprised at the question. “Well, he was killed. I assume Earl retaliated.”

  “Is it common knowledge in Vernon that Mick Erickson was Peggy Hopwood’s husband?”

  “Oh, no. When I first heard about the killing, I had no idea who the man in the lake was. But Peggy—Margot, she calls herself now—came in last night, and she told me.”

  “Margot Erickson came here? Why?”

  “The poor woman was distraught; that’s only natural. She’d lost her husband, and I suspect she knows her father killed him. Then she came here looking for Earl and couldn’t find him. And on top of that she’d been badly beaten. A woman like Peggy … well, I doubt anyone’s so much as laid a hand on her before. She wanted me to give her something to help her sleep. I thought it unwise to prescribe for her, given her emotional condition, but I did let her have one night’s supply of Seconal.”

  “Did she tell you who had beaten her?”

  Mahoney shook his head.

  “Or where she was staying?”

  “Why, at Willow Grove Lodge, of course. It’s the only place open this time of year, and Rose Wittington was like a mother to her at one time. She certainly couldn’t be expected to stay at that hovel Earl built himself out in Stone Valley.”

  So that was Rose’s reason for not letting me inside to use the phone; Margot Erickson had probably asked if there were other guests, and when she’d heard my name had asked Rose to keep her presence a secret. But why hadn’t I seen Margot’s Miata? I pictured the lodge, remembered a small garage to the far left-hand side.

  “Dr. Mahoney,” I said, “exactly when did Earl Hopwood come to you for treatment?”