by Janet Dawson
She looked at me and thought about it for a moment. “We grow apples, up near Sebastopol. I’m pretty sure this woman with the blue van lives up our way. At least I think I’ve seen her in town. Couldn’t tell you her name, though. I’ll bet you can find her at Santa Rosa tomorrow.”
I thanked her and continued along Ninth until I reached Broadway. Her lead was the best one I’d found so far. I finished my latte, disposed of the container in a nearby trash can, and walked back to my office, where I dug out the Sonoma County Farm Trails map I’d gotten at the Santa Rosa Chamber of Commerce two days ago. I scanned the farms listed for the Sebastopol area but didn’t receive any enlightenment. So many of them sold vegetables. I’d just have to make the trip to Santa Rosa again tomorrow. I double-checked the time of the farmers’ market, then turned my attention to other matters.
I had a prospective client coming in at ten, then a job that took me down to San Leandro for several hours. I spent the rest of the afternoon in my office, doing paperwork. Later I made a quick dash home to change clothes and feed Abigail and Black Bart, who didn’t quite know what to make of this deviation from our nightly routine.
The kitten sat at the edge of the patio for a good long time, making up its mind whether to risk a trip to the food bowl that was now practically at my feet. Finally Black Bart moved slowly across the concrete and lowered head to bowl. I put my hand out just as slowly, stopping once, then moving again, until my index finger brushed soft black fur. The kitten flinched and I froze. We both remained motionless for a moment, then the kitten resumed eating. I touched it again, stroking my finger lightly along the ridge of its backbone.
Somewhere in the distance a voice shouted and a dog barked. The kitten jumped in fright and vanished into the bushes, food unfinished. I sighed and looked at my watch, barely visible in the gloom of December dusk. Now I scrambled to my feet. If I didn’t hustle I was going to be late for my dinner with Bill Stanley.
I left Bill Stanley’s side and stepped off the curb onto the pavement of Broadway, turned and looked up past the vertical green, red, and blue sign that read PARAMOUNT. The huge mosaic figures that flank the theater’s name depict a massive pair of puppeteers, executed in brightly colored ceramic tiles. Their colors were dimmed by the night sky, but I knew that the golden strings hanging from the puppeteers’ fingers animated cowboys and tennis players, troubadours, and dancers.
Dancers tonight. I moved my eyes from the mosaic to Bill’s tall loose-limbed figure and bemused face under the bright white lights of the underside of the rectangular marquee. The soffit, that’s what the guide had called it last week when Duffy and I toured the theater. I recalled again how dark and quiet the theater seemed that Saturday morning.
This is the way I like my Paramount, at night, with bright lights and a crowd of people buzzing with anticipation as they head through the black-lacquered doors trimmed with chrome.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Bill. We queued up with the rest of the Friday night audience. When we reached the door, Bill handed a pair of tickets to the ticket taker and we stepped into the Grand Lobby. Above us on the black marble walls amber glass billowed in an illusory fountain. The leafy pattern of the ceiling, formed by metal strips and illuminated by hidden green lights, descended the opposite wall as well, pierced high by an oval window and ending in scallops above the mezzanine entrance at the top of a double staircase.
“Cookie-cutter ceiling,” I said, trying to sound architecturally knowledgeable as I pointed my thumb upward.
“I know.” He grinned. “I took the tour once myself.”
Bill and I made slow progress through the lobby, which was packed. He kept stopping to say hello to people he knew. The ballet’s early curtain time was intended to accommodate children, and they were here in droves and all ages, scrubbed and dressed in their good clothes, clustered around their parents, gazing at the Paramount’s ornamentation.
“Where are our seats?” I asked Bill, leaning close to his ear and raising my voice as we approached the doors leading to the auditorium.
“Orchestra. Left side.”
We angled in that direction and were escorted to our seats by an usher. As we settled comfortably and opened our programs, I glanced around at the golden figurines that lined the walls on either side of the dark red grand drape, trimmed in gold and silver. The orchestra was tuning in the pit. Before long the lights were down. The buzz of voices dampened and died away as I heard the first strains of the overture. Once again the theater worked its magic as a nutcracker became a handsome prince.
During the intermission I went downstairs to the lower level lounge. A line of women and girls threaded through the brightly lit entrance with its glass counter, huge mirrors, and white rolled light fixtures in chrome holders. There seemed to be a large contingent of little girls in frilly dresses and patent leather shoes, pirouetting over the black carpet. One of them grande jettéed right into my shin. I winced.
“Ashley!” her mother exclaimed, apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into her.”
I did.
I smiled, at a memory rather than at the budding ballerina and her mother. Reaching back thirty years, I saw myself and my grandma Jerusha. She’d been an actress before Grandpa came along and swept her into married respectability. Her husband and children didn’t share her passion for the performing arts.
But I did. Grandma and I went to everything together, as soon as I was old enough to sit for two hours, quietly and without squirming. Ballet, symphony, theater, even opera—our taste was omnivorous.
My first taste of ballet was a matinee of Swan Lake, at the War Memorial Opera House over in San Francisco. I must have been the same age as this little girl who had just bumped into me. I too had pirouetted across the lobby after it was over, smack into a grand old dowager clad in furs and frills. She had smiled at me, the diminutive fledgling in a green taffeta dress. Maybe she’d been remembering another little girl, even longer ago.
The recollection made my feet lighter as they carried me back upstairs for the second act.
Fifteen
THE MAGIC OF LAST NIGHT’S BALLET, ILLUSION dressed in beautiful costumes and familiar music, slipped away in the cold gray light of Saturday morning. The weather had turned gloomy again, a gunmetal sky holding the threat of more rain. The menacing look of those clouds visible through my kitchen window tempted me back to my bed, but I had work to do.
The phone rang as I finished washing the bowl that had held my oatmeal. It was my sister-in-law, calling to report that she’d gone to the Sonoma farmers’ market on Friday, but she hadn’t seen anyone matching the sketchy description I’d given her. She had, however, talked to a man who thought he’d seen the gray-haired woman in the blue van at the Sunday Marin farmers’ market.
“Thanks, Sheila,” I told her. “I’m heading for the Santa Rosa market today. If I don’t get a lead there, I’ll try Marin on Sunday.”
I’d made a pot of coffee and had just one cup. Now I poured the rest into a thermos. I was sure pickings would be sparse at the market. Despite the fact that many of the local farmers’ markets advertised themselves as operating “rain or shine,” bad weather would certainly keep all but the most diehard customers away, as well as some of the sellers.
I sighed as the first spatter of rain hit the window. After breakfasting on cat food, Abigail had gone back to the bedroom, where she rolled herself into a tight furry ball on my down comforter. Sensible critter. Wonder where Black Bart was sheltering? I’d left a cardboard box lined with an old towel outside next to my back steps, but the only time I saw the kitten was at night when we went through our feeding ritual. I hoped I’d be able to catch the kitten soon. I worried about its chances of survival. If a car didn’t get Black Bart, a stray dog or a raccoon would.
I shook myself out of my reverie, tightened the lid on the thermos, and slipped it into a carrying case with a strap. Then I bundled up in a quilted jacket and headed out the
front door for the carport. Not much traffic this Saturday morning. Anyone with good sense had stayed in bed.
Douglas Widener said he’d encountered Maureen Smith at the Thursday evening farmers’ market on Fourth Street in downtown Santa Rosa. On Saturday the market moved east, where Highway 12 ran north along Farmers Lane before heading into the Valley of the Moon, toward Sonoma. It was just past ten when I found a parking spot near Sonoma Avenue and walked to the market. I was right. There wasn’t much of a crowd. It was raining in Santa Rosa too.
I helped myself to a restorative hit of coffee from the thermos hanging by its strap from my shoulder. Then I walked through the market, asking questions at each stall, getting negative responses. Finally I spotted someone from a bakery, selling bread and pastries. I bought a cinnamon roll and stood under the makeshift plastic awning stretching from the bakery van and over the table, eating the sticky bun that still held warmth from the oven, chasing each sweet mouthful with black coffee.
“Bad day for a market,” I commented to the woman behind the table.
I’d offered her some of my coffee but she had her own thermos in the van. I couldn’t tell how old she was, since I couldn’t see enough of her to make a determination. She must have had a down vest under her quilted coat, because she looked so round and bulky through the torso. A red knit hat covered her head down to her eyebrows, and a matching muffler did a similar job on the lower half of her face. All that was visible were two good-humored eyes and a nose that wasn’t quite as red as the muffler, at least not yet.
“Awful,” she agreed, tucking her gloved hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. “I’m about to pack it up and go home. Half the sellers who are usually here didn’t bother.”
I nodded. “I’m looking for someone and so far I haven’t found her. She must have decided not to brave the rain. I don’t know her name. She has long gray hair and she sells vegetables from a blue van.”
“Oh, yeah.” The red hat bobbed up and down vigorously. “Really nice lady. She’s from west county. Occidental or Sebastopol or Forestville, I think. What is her name? Agnes? Ada? Can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure it starts with an A.”
That was something, at least. I finished my coffee and held my sticky hands out to the rain, then wiped them dry with the scrap of napkin that the baker had provided along with the cinnamon roll. I hoofed it quickly back to my car, started it, and turned the heater up full blast. Once I’d regained the feeling in my hands, I headed west on Highway 12, through Santa Rosa and into the countryside beyond.
I always associate Sebastopol with apples, because they grow so many varieties on the rolling hills surrounding the pleasant little town. Gravenstein, Jonathan, Rome, Macintosh, Winesap—the names roll off the tongue, as full of flavor as the apples themselves. Here you can buy Criterion, York Imperial, Arkansas Black, and Black Twig, apples you don’t see in your local supermarket, where variety has been replaced by the ubiquitous and sometimes tasteless Red Delicious. Each August, Sebastopol pays tribute to its major crop with an Apple Fair in Ragle Park, where one can buy apple dolls and eat apple fritters hot off the grill.
Highway 12 continued west to Bodega Bay and the Pacific Ocean, but when I reached Sebastopol I turned left on Main Street, which was also Highway 116, running northwest toward Forestville and the Russian River at Guerneville. I parked in a lot behind a bank and went in search of lunch. Half a block north on Main Street was the East West Café, where I’d eaten before. I opened the door and discovered that a number of Sebastopol’s midday shoppers had the same idea.
While I stood at the end of the queue, I looked around at the café’s interior, painted a yellowish-orange, with Egyptian birds and eyes on the columns in the center of the room and Egyptian figures in the murals above the counter area. As I moved closer, I scanned the menu items chalked on the board on the wall, tempted by the desserts spread out behind the glass-fronted counter.
Real food first, I told myself firmly. Lentil soup sounded good on this cold rainy Saturday, and the young woman who took my order assured me that it was. The cafe was nearly full, but I spotted a vacant table near the front I transferred my lunch from the tray to the table and sat down. Through the window I saw people scurry through the rain. Christmas decorations swung from the lampposts and a cold blast of air swept into the cafe each time someone opened the door. As I ate my soup I examined the Sonoma County Farm Trails map again, tightening my focus to those farms in the Sebastopol area.
When I’d mopped up the last of my soup with a crust of roll, I went back to the counter and ordered a latte, to go with the slice of cheesecake that had been calling to me. This time I didn’t move immediately to the cash register, but lingered at the counter and repeated the words I’d already said so many times this morning.
“I’m looking for someone,” I began, giving the description and adding the information that the woman’s name started with an A. The young woman who’d dished up my lentil soup paused in her construction of a plateful of humus and falafel.
“You must mean Aditi,” she said. “We buy vegetables from her. She’s at Mother Earth Farm, off Graton Road.”
Driving norm on Highway 116, I passed a Christmas tree farm, the kind of place where they give you a saw so you can cut your own tree. I slowed my car because of the parked cars lining both sides of the two-lane asphalt and groups of people walking along the road. Inside the fence others trudged in between the uniform rows of pines in the fields, examining trees, searching for one of the right height and breadth and thickness.
Shall it be long-needle or short? White or Douglas fir? Monterey or Scotch pine? Which one will look perfect in that corner of the living room?
Another ritual of the season, one that reminded me again how little Christmas spirit I had mustered this December. I kept waiting for the magic to kick in and carry me through to New Year’s Day. It had in years past, when I was younger and less cynical. But this year the Christmas magic was illusory, like those two brief hours last night at the ballet.
Graton Road was midway between Sebastopol and Forestville. I stopped, waiting for oncoming traffic to pass, then turned left, heading toward the hills. The little town of Graton was several miles off the highway. It was what my grandmother used to call a wide spot in the road. There was a gas station, a little market, some abandoned buildings, a few houses, and not much else. I’d already located Mother Earth Farm on the Farm Trails map, near the far side of this little valley, where Graton Road curved to the south. But the map wasn’t accurate as far as scale or distance, so I drove slowly, looking for a sign or a mailbox. Finally I spotted a wooden sign on the left side of the road.
The listing on the map said Mother Earth Farm grew organic herbs and vegetables and made goat cheese as well. These products were available at local farmers’ markets or the public could purchase them at the farm on Saturdays, if the public called first. I hadn’t. But then, I wasn’t after goat cheese or herbs.
I turned my Toyota into the gravel drive next to the sign and drove about a mile up a curving, gently rising lane until I reached a sprawling two-story farmhouse nestled among the oak trees. The front door looked as though it were rarely used, as is often the case with houses in the country, so I continued to the back of the house. The blue van was there, an old Chevy parked next to a Jeep Cherokee of more recent vintage. Smoke curled from a chimney, and the house looked inviting through the gray mist. It had stopped raining, for the moment anyway.
As I got out of the car a trio of dogs came to greet me. One looked like a Jack Russell terrier, a male who took a territorial stance and barked at me. The second was black and white and skittish, showing a mixed lineage. She yipped and wagged her tail, as though she could have it both ways. The third dog had yellow Labrador parentage, and she ambled toward me, slowed by her ample girth and the age evident in her white muzzle and careful gait. She barked once, more of a friendly howdy than a warning. I held out my hand, all three dogs sniffed, and decided I was probably o
kay. Then I scratched the old dog’s ears and she thumped her tail against my leg.
As I walked toward the steps a tall, stringy man with a long narrow face came out onto the back porch, summoned by the dogs. His sandy hair, receding from a high forehead, was long and curly around his neck, and he wore a pair of loose-fitting blue denim overalls. He peered at me curiously before he spoke.
“We’re sort of not open, because of the weather. Unless you called. Then I guess it would be cool.”
“I’m looking for someone named Aditi,” I told him, stopping at the bottom step.
“She’s inside. She expecting you?”
“No.” I took one of my business cards from my purse. “I’m Jeri Howard, a private investigator. May I talk with you and Aditi?”
He rubbed his chin as he examined the card. Now that I was close enough to get a good look at him, I saw plenty of lines in his face, caused not only by age but by working out in the sun. The sandy hair held plenty of gray as well. On his left hand he wore a wide gold wedding ring.
“Come on inside,” he said. “Get out of the rain. I’m Viraj, by the way.” I climbed the steps onto the back porch as he opened the door for me.
Viraj and Aditi had probably started life with names more prosaic and ordinary, such as George and Martha. Sometime in the past thirty years, in the process of reinventing themselves as many of us do, they had become enamored of things Indian. That was evident from much of the decor in the big room Viraj and I entered. Wall hangings, brass bowls, statues of Shiva and other deities were in evidence everywhere I looked. The quilt that hung over the fireplace, however, was as American as my hosts.
The room was a combination of family room, dining room, and kitchen, as wide as the house itself. The fireplace to my left looked inviting, with a flowered sofa and several fat comfortable chairs grouped around it and a low table between. To the right was a long trestle table surrounded by chairs, enough to seat a dozen or more.
