by Susan Dunlap
I said, “I was asking them what they knew about Frank. Everyone is talking about Frank’s death. And these people were Frank’s friends.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Nothing really.”
“What exactly?”
“They told me what they would have told you if you had asked them. They said they didn’t know anything about Frank being involved with drugs, but no one seemed surprised that the topic was broached.”
“Is that all?”
It wasn’t. I didn’t mention Patsy’s anger, or Skip’s observation that there was something particular about the Place that attracted Frank, or Frank and Patsy meeting in the park, or Madge selling her shop. But these people were my friends. One might not be, but the others were. I didn’t feel right telling the sheriff about them. And even if I did, what I knew was closer to gossip than fact. I said, “That’s all.”
“Detective work isn’t as easy as it seems, is it?”
There was no need to reply to that. In the silence, he stood up and carried his cup to the kitchen. And, irrationally, that show of fastidiousness annoyed me more.
“Do you have a sledgehammer, or an axe?” he asked, stopping at the front door.
“No, why?”
“You have a pile of wood outside.”
“I bought it.”
“So you don’t have an axe?”
“Are you suggesting that I wrecked my own engine?”
I had put the question lightly, I thought, but his response was all business.
“I’m merely trying to find the weapon.”
“Oh.”
“The damage was superficial. Whoever did this didn’t intend to cause a lot of expense.” He walked out, closing the door.
I hesitated; I was tempted to follow him and demand an explanation for his last statement. Just because there weren’t hundreds of dollars of damage, did he find this attack trivial? Did he assume I’d done it myself? Did he consider it an attempt to direct guilt elsewhere?
I left the door shut, walked back into the living room, and sat down. With Wescott, I had no idea what he thought. I didn’t know whether he truly suspected me, or didn’t, or even if he understood the threat made here.
I sat for about half an hour with my back to the fire, feeling the cold on my chest. My house, which had been a refuge from the cold and wet outside, a place where I could be safe, now seemed isolated and vulnerable. Whoever attacked my truck could as easily have attacked me. The neighbors were not alerted by the slapping of the garage door. They would not have heard a muffled scream. Even with all the lights on, the house was too far up from the street, too “protected” behind tall trees, for anyone to look through the windows and see someone attacking me.
At best Wescott’s reaction could be called noncommittal. And even if he did believe me and decided to search elsewhere for Frank’s killer, all I told him was that no one knew anything about Frank and drugs. That certainly wasn’t going to prod him on. I really did need some solid evidence, something linking Frank to drugs. I wished now that I’d used those PG&E passkeys I’d been too angry to return, gone to Frank’s Place last night and searched. There had to be some evidence there. If someone could break into my garage unnoticed, I could easily have let myself into Frank’s Place with a key. I could have done it last night, when I still had a truck to drive there. Once inside the truck the rain and wind would have protected me, but to walk several miles through the rain, keeping off the street and out of sight when a flood was on its way, was out of the question. I’d had my chance and blown it.
I was still sitting in my chair when I heard a knock on the door. I jumped, before I realized that attackers rarely knock. And indeed, it was not an axe-wielding killer, but the driver of the sheriff’s tow truck.
The driver of the tow truck left me at the garage. I was lucky, the mechanic told me. They could replace the air filter, put a sealant in the radiator, and do a couple of other things in the shop. I wouldn’t have to go to a dealership in Santa Rosa. That was good, he went on, since I’d need to be towed and their truck had been gone all day and probably would be just as busy next week. My good fortune was even greater since there was a lot of towing to be done now but not much work for the mechanic. My truck would be ready tomorrow.
My luck did not, however, include a ride back to Henderson. That was five or six miles. If I walked down North Bank Road in the daytime, hitching a ride would be no problem. And as long as I was in Guerneville, I called Ned Jacobs at the state park, to convince him to come into town and have lunch with me. No luck there either. Outsiders, Ned explained, had done a lot of damage to the state park over the year. With the flood coming there was a lot of work to do. He couldn’t take a couple of hours off just because he wanted to. And then, in a rush of remorse, he suggested dinner at six-thirty, when it would be too dark to work. He’d come by.
I agreed. I liked Ned. I knew he liked me. As long as Ned was kept off the topic of “outsiders,” he could be fun. But alas, he was not going to drive me home this afternoon.
I passed several restaurants, but somehow I couldn’t get up the ambition to go in. Eating a meal seemed too formal, too time-consuming for now, though I didn’t know what I planned to do with my time today anyway. I kept walking through town to the Safeway store at the end. It was the only supermarket around. With the exception of what I usually picked up at Thompson’s, I did most of my shopping here. As long as I was going to be in the house that afternoon and the next day, I thought I might as well not starve.
Purposely, I took a small plastic basket, the kind you carry over your arm. I needed to show some self-control, in case I had to lug it all home by myself. Self-control, however, did not extend to chocolate, and I started with a large bar with peanuts, a favorite of meter readers in general. I made many mid-afternoon stops at Thompson’s or its counterparts in other towns. Thompson’s had actually increased their order last year on our account. In any case, I decided chocolate was not going to weigh down the grocery bag very much.
I added some greens, a couple of cans of soup, a dozen eggs, a package of cheese, a bottle of brandy to replace the one left at the Fernandez’s, some tissues, and bread; just enough to disqualify me from the express check-out line. At slightly after twelve, the store was crowded, which surprised me. Then I realized this was pre-flood buying. The store was on low ground. On the wall by the check-cashing window was a photo of the flood of ’64. Water covered the lower half of the picture window in front. I stepped out of line, added a few more cans, some coffee, and some Sterno for when the lights went out. The basket was heavy; the bag would be even heavier. I joined the end of the shortest line and picked up a tabloid off the rack by the check-out counter.
I had just finished reading the headlines, when I noticed Madge Oombs behind me.
CHAPTER 11
APPARENTLY I WAS WELL-HIDDEN behind the paper, because Madge Oombs was surprised and obviously not pleased to discover me. She took hold of her grocery cart and looked quickly at the next line, but while we had been standing there a few moments, three people had moved in behind her, and the other lines had grown longer too.
“Madge,” I said, “I’m delighted to see you. Could you give me a lift home?” I watched her expression carefully, but the look of confusion, dismay, and resignation that greeted me told me nothing I didn’t already know.
“Where’s your truck?”
“In the shop. Engine trouble.”
“Rotten time for that. It’s a fairly new truck, isn’t it?” The questions seemed straightforward. There was no hint of guilt or knowledge.
“I just bought it last year.”
“Have you had problems with it before?”
The line moved forward. Two carts separated me from the check-out clerk.
“No, it’s been fine.”
“That’s good. A reliable truck is important here.”
I nodded. Glancing at the lines on either side of us, I spotted two women from tow
n. If I recognized two people, there had to be five or six more whom Madge knew. Lowering my voice, I said, “Tell me about selling the shop, Madge.”
She had followed my glances. Now she looked away.
“Madge,” I said louder.
When she still didn’t respond, I said, “I saw you and Skip at breakfast two days ago. I talked to Skip last night. I know about the two-year option clause. I know how valuable land right in town is, sewer or no sewer. And regardless how long it takes, the sewer is going to be completed sooner or later.”
The line moved forward. A tall woman began to unload the first cart. She looked like she was buying enough to stock Thompson’s. Beyond her, at the public phone, a man balanced a bag in one arm as he flipped through the yellow pages.
“Madge,” I lied, “the reason I know for sure that you’re selling is that I called the phone company.”
“The phone company?” She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“The business office. I gave them your name. I asked if they had all the information for your next year’s listing. They said they had no listing at all for the shop next year.”
She shrugged. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“That’s not what they said.” I hoped I wouldn’t have to go any further with this; I was straining my imagination. “You’re cancelling.”
“Vejay …”
“Who are you selling to?”
She looked quickly to either side and in a whisper, said, “Oh, okay. I’ve given a lease option on the property to a developer.”
“For a shopping complex?”
“Condominiums.”
I nodded.
She rolled the cart forward, then pulled it back. “Look, I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve worked at that shop for twenty years. It does reasonably well for what it is, but I don’t make any fortune.” Her voice was still a whisper, her face taut. “My life hasn’t been easy. I’ve had two husbands. One died and the other tried to drink himself to death. They left me with nothing. I’m tired of scraping by.”
“But you don’t want people to know, right?”
“It’s part of the deal. I agreed to say nothing until he completes a couple of other deals.”
The line moved again. The woman ahead of me began to unload her groceries.
“Options on the shops on either side of yours?”
She nodded reluctantly.
I wondered how much Madge’s silence was costing her neighbors.
“I’m not a fanatic about this town like some of you new people. I don’t sit on my deck and sip Chablis and fuss because sensible people want a sewer line. I just want to be able to live decently.”
“How much will you get when the option is exercised?”
She didn’t answer.
“Madge,” I said louder.
“Market price and a percentage of the condos,” she hissed.
“Did Frank know about this?”
She glanced around again, evaluating the line to our right. She nodded at an elderly man toward the rear. Turning back to me, she looked less flustered than before. “Frank?” she said. “Why would I tell him? I’ve only talked to Frank the few times he was in my shop, and that’s been twice in the last year. I already told you about that.”
“Tell me again.”
“I told you, he was asking how I ran the store. He wanted to know where I got the things I sold—did I buy them locally, did I go to auctions or follow up ads in the paper? Did I deal primarily in glass or metal, or was there any plan at all? All he needed to do was look around if he wanted to know what I sold. I told him that. I don’t have time for idle chatter.” Madge stopped talking, with obvious relief.
The woman in front of me had moved up. I lifted my basket to the counter, removed the groceries, put a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and turned back to Madge. “What else did he want to know?”
“I don’t recall, Vejay. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember his questions.”
“Well, what did you tell him?”
The clerk handed me my change. I stepped forward, giving Madge room to get to the counter. Her own cart was next to the register and the clerk was tallying her groceries.
“Madge?”
“I told him about various people who opened antique shops and failed. It looks, to an outsider, like you do nothing but sit behind the cash register and take in money, but you do have to know something. People are not going to pay the same price for redwood as they would for mahogany. You have to recognize which mirrors can be salvaged. You need to know how to care for leathers and bronzes. Brasses you can let sit forever, but bronzes you need to keep free from humidity. There’s a tale of an antique dealer who bought an expensive bronze buddha in Japan and had it shipped back here. He didn’t know what he was doing. He had the buddha crated but he didn’t seal it in a humidity-controlled package.” She took two twenties from her purse and handed them to the checker.
I waited, blocking her exit.
The checker put her bags in the cart and Madge took it. But if I’d worried about Madge escaping, the fear was needless. She continued, “So the ship left the cold of Japan and hit a hot spell, and then the weather changed back and became cold again. Condensation formed on the bronze exterior of the buddha. The moisture was held in by the wrapping. By the time it was uncrated, the finish was ruined.” She loaded the bags into the cab of her truck, opened the driver’s door, and climbed in. Without giving me a glance, she backed out of the parking lot.
It might have been more sensible to wait till I’d gotten my ride home before asking unwanted questions. But, of course, in the privacy of her own truck Madge wouldn’t have admitted anything.
Burdened with my groceries, I walked through the lot and around to the main road. It was an odd story, the one about the buddha. Had Frank found it odd? Had Madge thrust it on him to get rid of him as she had done with me? Was it a true story, or did she create the whole thing to kill time until she could shake me off?
And more to the point, what did Frank know or suspect about her selling the shop? It was clear she wanted, and needed, secrecy. Had Frank been a danger to that?
CHAPTER 12
I MANAGED TO HITCH a ride home, but not before I walked through a few puddles and was splashed by several cars. When I got home I settled into a warm bath. My life these days seemed to be spent continually in water. Only the temperature changed.
I contemplated everything Madge told me, but it was not fitting in like the missing pieces of a puzzle. Why did Frank ask her about her business? I couldn’t believe, as she did, that he was planning to branch out into antiques. There would have been no reason for that. As Madge said, the business didn’t bring a great income, and it did require a lot of time. Frank needed all his time for the Place. So what was he after? Was he interested in knowing who came regularly to Henderson; who might buy and sell things besides antiques? And that led back to the question of drugs and the fact that I had no proof. It became clearer and clearer that I was accomplishing nothing but alienating people with my probing and I would continue doing so until I had definite evidence about the drugs. I was having dinner with the only friend I hadn’t yet put off, and by the end of the evening he probably would join the list of the offended. I heartily wished that I had checked out Frank’s Place the previous night when I still had the pickup. This evening I was going nowhere.
I heard brakes squeal in the driveway just before six. Ned Jacobs was a notoriously rotten driver. Perhaps it was all that unsupervised time in the state park. Perhaps it was the monotony of the job and the long distances along dirt roads he had to cover. Whatever, Ned had virtually no familiarity with the first three gears; anything under fourth was merely a fleeting stage. At every start, he would challenge the zero-to-sixty record. It was fortunate Ned had a professional relationship with the sheriff’s department, or he would have spent most of his time in residence at the jail.
Now he jogged up the steps with mountain-goat surety an
d banged on the door.
“Not formal, okay?” he said. He was in jeans and a wool shirt.
I was in jeans and a wool sweater. “So you’re not taking me to the Top of the Mark?”
“I thought we’d go to Jenner and see what the ocean’s up to.”
“Is the road clear to the beach?”
“So they say. My truck’ll make it.”
We clambered down the steps—he easily in his ranger’s boots, me clinging to the rail—and into the truck. I was sure his faith in it was justified. It was a big Chevy four-wheel drive that made my little pickup look like something a toddler would be straddling. As he stepped on the gas, spraying mud in all directions, metal things in the truck bed jumped and clanked. He skidded to a stop at the light three blocks away.
From there the journey was an act of faith. We passed under the canopy of trees I loved in the blink of an eye. The empty shops and houses along the river were mere sodden blurs. On the radio the announcer reported the high-water levels all the way up the river; he listed the increasing number of slide areas and the evacuation centers readying for the flood. Some of those centers, I’d heard, held annual gatherings which served the same families year after year. For them evacuations had become events in themselves, and as soon as the water reached thirty feet upriver, mothers began cooking their specialties, fathers carried camping gear to the centers, and children gathered balls and games and transistor radios.
Jenner was half an hour along the river from Henderson. Here the river emptied into the Pacific, and the town, clinging with surprising tenacity to the hillside, overlooked the ocean. The Jenner Point Restaurant was at the top of the hill on a rocky cliff. If you sat by the front window you saw nothing below but the spray of breakers. We made the trip in twenty minutes, and since most sensible people were home filling sandbags or boarding windows, we had our choice of tables.
“I’m starved,” I said. “So far today I’ve had a candy bar.”
