by Susan Dunlap
“Wine?” Ned asked. “Is that okay on an empty stomach?”
“Fine. My stomach won’t be empty long.”
We ordered and I started on the French bread. Ned talked about the park, the trees that had already fallen, the creeks that were poised to overflow, the underbrush that was creating unwanted dams. “It’s a mess. No matter what I do, it’s a mess.”
“Maybe you should just wait.”
“Can’t.”
I shrugged and ate the last piece of bread.
“It’s awful about Frank,” he said.
“You two were good friends weren’t you?” I had, of course, planned to bring up the subject and was relieved when he mentioned it first.
He hesitated. “I saw him a lot.”
“But?”
“Well, it’s probably nothing. It’s just that the first time I saw Frank he’d been in a fight with a camper. It was over a woman. Frank got the decidedly short end of it. I patched him up quite a bit before he could go home. He didn’t say much, but the next year, a whole year later, the camper reported his tires slashed and a lot of his gear destroyed.”
“And you think Frank did that?” I asked, amazed.
“I’m almost positive. I saw him in the park the night it happened.”
“Still, why would he wait a whole year if he was looking for revenge?”
“I don’t know. I’m not defending his actions. I’m just telling you about the incident. I saw Frank plenty of other times, and he seemed pleasant, normal—just Frank. Everyone likes the park. And I enjoyed a few beers at Frank’s Place. We had some common interests, like preserving the area. He talked about that a lot.”
I could imagine. Ned talked about keeping the area unchanged to anyone who would listen. “Outsiders” were to Ned what finances were to Paul Fernandez. With Ned, Frank would have had difficulty avoiding the topic.
Still, I said, “I never heard Frank mention the population changes here.”
“Really? He was adamant about not wanting the town to grow or change.”
Dinner arrived—fresh salmon, a baked potato smothered in sour cream, and a heap of asparagus. I took a bite, a couple of bites, while I formulated a tactful question. “It would seem like expansion would have been good for Frank’s business.”
“He didn’t need more trade. He had plenty.”
“Did he say that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“It’s odd, though, that he never mentioned so strong a conviction—I mean, to anyone but you.” I took a forkful of asparagus, watching him from under my eyelashes as I lifted the spears to my mouth.
But Ned apparently saw nothing pointed in my question. “Frank,” he said, “was a merchant. He had to appear impartial on controversial issues unless he wanted to lose trade. So he only talked freely to individual friends. He even asked me not to mention his feelings. I had some questions about that, I certainly wouldn’t be able to keep my feelings hidden. But then I hardly need to attract more people to the park.”
“But how do you know Frank didn’t tell someone else something entirely different and swear them to secrecy?”
Ned stared at me. “Frank wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? Merchants do make use of people.”
“He wouldn’t have made use of me. I would have realized.”
“Well, he was murdered, so there was someone he either made use of or wasn’t straight with.”
“It wasn’t me. Do you think I’ve been in the woods too long, that I only deal with chipmunks and bunny rabbits? I’ve got enough sense to know if a friend is lying to me.” He grabbed his glass and took a big swallow of wine. “Besides, what would Frank have gained? He came to see me maybe once a week. That’s a lot of time to spend talking about something you’ve no interest in.” He picked up his fork and stuck it into his salmon. I had never really looked at his hands; they were big, thick, the result of years of manual work.
Ned was one of those men who always seemed smaller than he actually was. His clothes were always baggy, and he looked thin. His dark hair had just enough wave to make it look unruly, but not enough curl to give it imposing bulk. His features were small, sharp, his eyes a pale green, and now, in March, his skin was very pale. Had he been a poet, freezing in a New York garret (circa 1920), he would have looked the part. But he was strong; he had the endurance to spend entire days slogging through the park, lifting debris, cutting branches. Yet every time I realized how substantial a man he was, I was newly surprised.
“I hadn’t realized Frank came to see you that often,” I said.
“Well, he didn’t always stay.” Ned looked abashed. “Sometimes he was just walking in the park and I ran into him. Sometimes he stopped in.”
Things were getting a little clearer. “Did you ever see him with Patsy?”
“Of course.”
“In the park?”
“Well …”
“Well?”
“Yes, but not always.”
“But often?”
“Pretty often. Maybe once or twice a month. But, Vejay, I don’t think there was anything between them. Lots of people walk in the park. Lots of people run into each other.”
“Of course,” I said, not believing a word of it. If Frank had used the park as a rendezvous with Patsy, it explained why he needed to stay on Ned’s good side. And if Frank had so easily fooled Ned, I wondered how facilely he’d handled the rest of us. Was the Frank I had known anything like the real Frank?
We ordered dessert and listened to the waves slam against the cliffs outside. Then we made our way back to his truck and wound down a back route he found through the town.
“I love discovering new streets, seeing the ocean from a different vista. I even love the river when it floods,” he said, on one of the few straight stretches of road.
“It’s still a vacation, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I guess I’m still the kid I used to be when I came up here in the summers.” He slammed on the brakes at the bottom of the hill. “Even now, it’s not the same. It’s so much more commercial, the whole area. All those new spiffy motels, instead of the seedy old cabins with the white paint half peeled off.”
“Charming.”
“What?”
“That’s what they call them in real estate lingo.”
He laughed. “I know they leave a lot to be desired. I wouldn’t be crazy about staying in one. But they were once part of the area.”
“Part of your childhood?”
“Yes.”
He was driving slower now, though still not at the speed limit. A few miles outside town, he slipped an arm around my shoulder with the same awkwardness I recalled in high school boys.
“You weren’t real involved with Frank, were you?” he asked in such a wary tone that it was apparent that this was the question the evening had been leading up to.
“No, not at all. Why did you think that?”
“Rumor. I don’t know. Frank was good with women. He was, well, Frank. Chris could tell you stories from when they were on ship together. He said he always got second choice, if there was a second choice left.”
“Frank certainly has got the reputation of going through women like fruit on a Safeway counter.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No. I’m just getting tired of hearing that question. I suppose we’re both tired. You’ve had a hard day and tomorrow won’t be any easier.” I liked Ned, but I saw him as a friend, and I didn’t want to deal with anything more. Not now.
If Ned caught my hint, he chose to ignore it. His arm still rested self-consciously on my shoulder. Instead he responded to my comment. “It’s always busy in the park. They need more staff. Tomorrow will be worse in some ways, but at least there won’t be people there. There are too many roads, too many entrances. I check the ones that I can, but there’s no way we can make sure all the gates are closed—all the people are out at night.”
“But that must just be in t
he summer.”
“You’d think. In the summer it’s party time, people strewing paper plates and beer cans, lighting fires. In the winter, who knows? Anything could be going on there. If I were a spy, it would be the number-one spot to pass my messages.”
“Or to deal drugs?”
He laughed. “That goes without saying. I’m just pleased when it’s something that doesn’t have to be lit.” He slammed to a stop at the Henderson traffic light. Whatever awkwardness he might have in positioning his right arm, he made up for with his left. He held the steering wheel rock steady.
It was dark, and, of course, pouring, as he pulled into my driveway. Goodbyes, I decided, were to be made in the truck. As I turned to him to say my thanks, he tightened his grip and drew me forward. His kiss was surprisingly soft, unexpectedly pleasant.
It wasn’t until I got out that I noticed the axe in the back of the truck.
It was perfectly reasonable for Ned Jacobs to have an axe in his truck. It would have been unthinkable for a ranger not to. Had he been the one who smashed my truck engine, he would surely have thought to put his axe out of sight. I told myself all that as I climbed up the stairs, ran the bath water, and turned it off to let it drain out instead. I told myself that I suspected everyone, that I saw killers surrounding me, harrassment from the sheriff, and menace from my friends. Again I wished that I had my pickup, that I could breeze down to Frank’s Place, turn that PG&E key I still had in my pocket, flick on my reliable PG&E flashlight, and find a handful of telltale marijuana leaves.
Now, not only did I not have transportation to get there, but Ned and Madge (and therefore Rosa and everyone she had talked to) knew that I had no way to leave the house. Whoever attacked my truck certainly knew.
I stood shivering over the draining tub. Then I pulled my down vest out of the closet, retrieved my PG&E rain gear from the hook by the door, took out the route keys and my own keys, and piled them all on the chair near the door. Perhaps everyone’s knowing I couldn’t make it over to Frank’s Place tonight would work to my advantage.
CHAPTER 13
IT WAS 10:15, STILL too early to leave the house without being seen. But there was one other thing I needed to do before I left.
I dialed the Fortimiglio number. Chris answered.
“Hi, Chris, this is Vejay Haskell.”
“Hi, Vejay.”
“How’re things at your house?”
“Okay. Dad’s at my sister Frannie’s in Guerneville helping her get ready for the flood. Her husband works nights now.”
“Isn’t he fishing with you?”
“No. He used to. But there aren’t enough fish to support us all. So Ralph got this job in Santa Rosa. If the fishing gets better he’ll come back.”
“Maybe for salmon season,” I said.
“Maybe. But the salmon hasn’t been doing well either. There’s getting to be too much pollution in the river. Too many businesses and people pouring stuff in.”
“Well, maybe when the sewer is finished, it’ll be better.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “Mom’s here. Do you want to talk to her? She’s making pasta and bottling sauce so we won’t starve if the power goes out.”
“You’ll be better prepared than I am.”
“We’ve been through floods before, and there’s always room for one more here, Vejay.”
“Thanks. Listen, it’s you I called to talk to. I have to ask you a rather peculiar question.”
“Uh-huh?”
“If you wanted to bring say fifty pounds of bulky stuff off a ship and up the river, how would you do it?”
Chris laughed.
It was not the response I expected.
“Chris?”
“Well, Vejay, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t bring anything upriver. They have to dredge the outlet every year so the salmon can get through. So if you’re planning on moving something bigger than a salmon, you’d better get a truck.”
“No way at all?”
“None that I know. Surely you’ve been to Jenner and seen the beach.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was there tonight. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”
“What are you bringing in? Are you considering smuggling?” He laughed again.
“Nothing so exciting. A friend offered me a couple of heavy blankets and some nice quilts and two bean bag chairs, if I could get them from his boat when he comes down the coast. But now I think it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Does your friend fish around here?” Chris, in Fortimiglio fashion, longed for every detail.
I felt bad about lying to him, and worse about the prospect of this story getting out of hand. “No, Chris. He has a pleasure craft. He’s from Oregon,” I added for good measure.
“Oh.”
“Well, thanks Chris,” I said quickly. “Say hello to your parents for me.”
“Sure thing.”
“Bye.”
I hung up the phone. It was still too early to go to Frank’s. The walk would take an hour, maybe more. Once I got over the bridge onto South Bank Road, I would be safe. It was while going through town and crossing the bridge that I might be spotted. I had to wait until the roads were empty.
I pictured the walk along the three blocks into town, through this end of town, past Thompson’s, across the bridge, then right on South Bank Road, along the mushy side of the road, past closed-up motels, cabins, and two restaurants that opened only for the summer trade. I’d pass along a ridge that led down to the beach, past Paul and Patsy’s canoe rental, past more houses, more motels. It would be a long, wet walk. No one would suspect me of going there on foot because no sane person would try it.
The more I thought about it, the colder, wetter, and longer the trip seemed. Did I really need to know what was at Frank’s Place? Couldn’t I leave the investigation to the sheriff?
But the sheriff was investigating me. Someone was threatening me. And I was suspicious of every one of my friends. If I didn’t find evidence to show the sheriff, nothing would change—at least not for the better.
I had to go. But there was another way of getting there, although it meant waiting until later. Lacking a preferable plan for the next hour and a half, I reran the water in the tub. This time I climbed in.
It was after midnight when I left the house. Outside it was totally dark—no streetlights, headlights, or taillights—and the rain clouds blocked the slightest suggestion of a moon. The rain splattered loudly against my slicker; it blocked out the sounds of the night. As I carefully stepped down the stairs I heard nothing but the noise of my own feet and the rain.
The street was empty. Still, I wished my slicker were brown or navy instead of bright yellow.
I cut north the block before town, skirting the shops. There was no one in sight here either. No streetlights. Even the interior lights of the houses were off. Half-running, I covered the two blocks to the substation.
I glanced behind me, and ahead, and behind me again. Nothing moved. I hesitated. I was still safe. I could go home to bed and still be a law-abiding citizen. I still had a choice.
I looked around again, but no one came to save me.
Taking a breath, I pulled out my employee key, opened the gate, and walked through—a burglar. Silently I pushed the gate shut, listened, and, hearing nothing, ran across the lot to the office.
The back door light shone bright even in the rain. It made it possible for any passing car to see my outline. I looked behind, but nothing was visible. Fumbling, I found the door key on my ring, got it in the lock on the second try, and opened the door.
No alarm sounded. Beside the door was the peg-board with the truck keys. I grabbed the ring for number twelve, the newest and most reliable truck, and caught myself before reaching for the sign-out sheet to initial out the truck as I did each working day.
Pulling the door shut behind me, I stepped out of the light and checked the street. Still no sign of movement. I ran across the lot to the trucks, squatt
ing behind each one to read its number until I came to twelve. I stuck the key in the lock. I could still turn back. I still hadn’t done much. I could return the key and go home and no one would know. I could …
I climbed into the truck, listened again for the sound of a car. I wished I knew how often the sheriff patrolled the area.
Hearing nothing, I backed the truck into the center of the lot, pulled up to the gate, got out and opened it, drove the truck through, and then walked back to lock it. Only then did I turn on the headlights.
I headed left toward the ocean, staying on the back street till I got through town, then cut down to North Bank Road. I’d go by the long route and cross the west bridge, avoiding the town altogether. It was the route I’d taken back from Frank’s the day he’d been killed.
The road was empty. The rain fell heavily but did not blur the windshield. Once or twice I passed a house with a lamp on, but mostly the road was dark. It wasn’t until I turned onto the bridge that I saw headlights in the other lane. I pressed hard on the gas pedal, then reminded myself to force myself to ease off, to drive at a normal speed and not draw attention to myself. I passed the car and caught the image of an older sedan—definitely not a patrol car—in my peripheral vision. Still, my stomach was jumping.
I turned left on South Bank Road, back toward Frank’s. Here, somehow it seemed less deserted. Even though they were closed, boarded, and sandbagged, motels and cabins stood along the road. There could be people lurking behind them. But surely, no one, not even the horniest teenager, would be parked beside a low-lying motel right before the flood.
I slowed as I passed Frank’s. Would the sheriff have a guard there? I hadn’t considered that. There was no patrol car in the parking area, no one visible standing outside the door. I couldn’t see into the lot behind the building. It might hold twenty sheriffs, but there was no way to check. I drove on.
Two hundred yards past Frank’s, I pulled the truck into an alley across the street and parked behind a deserted motel. I wished there was a utility pole there, something to give the truck the suggestion of legitimacy. But then even that would not be really safe. I was driving a meter reader’s pickup, not a repair truck.
