by Susan Dunlap
Let this, I thought as I reached for the door, be someone I can handle quickly—a boy wanting to deliver papers, a civic matron circulating a petition, even a Jehovah’s Witness. Two minutes and back to bed. I pulled the door open.
“Good morning, Vejay.” Sheriff Wescott stood on the landing, water dripping from his hat.
“Good morning.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I come in?” The rain was soaking his jacket.
“What? Oh, yes, of course. Why don’t you go on upstairs to the living room. Give me a couple minutes to wash my face and comb my hair.”
“Did I get you up?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping he would offer to come back later. When he didn’t, I said, “Sleeping late is one of the few benefits of being suspended from work.”
He didn’t reply to that either.
As he went upstairs, I stepped into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, combed my hair, splashed on more water, dried off, and put on some make-up in a vain attempt to look less pallid and tired. I was barely coherent enough to carry on a normal conversation, much less be interrogated by the sheriff on the morning after I’d broken into Frank’s Place. I dabbed witch hazel around my face and headed upstairs.
Wescott was kneeling in front of the fireplace, holding match to newspapers. “I assumed you’d want a fire,” he said, turning toward me. “I couldn’t find enough newspaper, so I used a couple of your catalogs, too. They were Fall issues.”
“That’s what they’re there for.”
“Good.”
“How about making some coffee?” he asked. “I’ve had a long morning while you’ve been in bed.”
“Okay.” I could imagine where that long morning had been spent. I didn’t want to think why he’d come to discuss it with me. Instead I put the water on and went into the bedroom for a pair of jeans and a sweater. If I was going to be interrogated, at least I should be dressed.
I considered the propriety of making some toast, hesitated, then finally went ahead with it.
Wescott settled against the doorway, watching as I pulled the bread from the toaster. “I’ve been at Frank’s Place this morning, since daybreak.”
“Butter?”
“Yes.”
“I have peanut butter and jam.”
“Butter’s fine,” he said.
I put two more slices in the toaster.
“Frank’s Place was broken into last night,” he said.
“Burglarized?”
“It’s hard to say if the intruder took anything. I don’t know what he, or she, was looking for. I thought maybe you could help me.”
“Me? How?”
“You knew Frank well. What might he have had that someone else needed or didn’t want anyone else to find?”
I spread butter on the toast. “I have no idea.”
“Perhaps something they specifically did not want the sheriff to discover.”
The second batch of toast popped up. I jostled the pieces to the plate and spread a pat of butter onto each one. “I would assume if Frank had anything that valuable he would have kept it at his house rather than a spot as public as the Place.”
“His house wasn’t touched.”
I handed Wescott the plate, picked up the mugs of coffee, and walked into the living room by the fire. “What do you think it was, Sheriff Wescott?” I sat down.
He leaned an elbow on the mantel, taking his coffee mug in the other hand. “Goulet had a hidden room behind the bar.”
“I thought he had a trap door.”
“Both.”
“What was in this room?” I asked, hoping I was showing the right amount of surprise and natural curiosity.
“Two heaters and a dehumidifier.”
“That doesn’t sound very secret.” Was I being too flip? I wanted to watch his face, but I couldn’t because he was keeping an eye on mine.
“Did Frank ever tell you about anything he had that was valuable or incriminating?”
I took a moment to think. It would have been nice to come up with something real. “No.”
“Did he ever suggest he was involved in something less than legal, like the drugs you’ve been talking about?”
“He was no fool. He would hardly have advertised. And no one I’ve talked to has heard anything about it.”
“But he might have told you.”
“Why me?”
He just stared.
I finished my coffee. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to repeat this since it doesn’t seem to be getting through to you, but there was nothing between Frank Goulet and me. Zero.”
“Where were you last night?”
I covered my gulp by lifting the empty cup to my mouth, then forced a smile. “I was out to dinner, Sheriff, in Jenner, with Ned Jacobs. Ask him, if you like, how much he thinks there was between Frank and me.”
It was a definite victory, but temporary. And less likely to throw the sheriff off my track than to move him to consider me in a different light.
He picked up a piece of toast and took a small, thoughtful bite. The toast was cold by now, the butter congealed. A yellow glob stuck between two mustache hairs. “First Goulet’s murder,” he said almost to himself, “then your truck, and now this. Normally it’s only flood waters and burglaries this time of year. We wait in the office till the calls come, then we go to the empty houses—they’re almost always empty, either summer places or houses waiting to be sold—we go out and catalog the televisions, stereos, electric typewriters, and now home computers, that are missing. Usually a few radios, maybe some jewelry, but not often when the people aren’t living there. Sometimes some valuable decorations, but mostly just the standard electrical equipment.”
“Why—Do you want more coffee?”
“Sure.”
Picking up his cup, I headed into the kitchen, hopeful that this time he wouldn’t follow me. I reheated the water. I had almost asked if Wescott thought Frank were a burglar. Then I remembered the plastic knob. A television knob. Hidden in the secret room. Suddenly it hit me. Frank was the burglar, or at least one of the burglars. He wasn’t dealing drugs, he was burglarizing.
“Can I help?” Wescott asked as he walked into the kitchen.
“It’s only coffee.”
“Umm.” He made no move to leave. He wasn’t going to give me the opportunity to do anything, or even think anything, without his watching.
I turned my back to him, taking my time as I folded the filter paper and wet it before setting it in the holder and adding the ground coffee. Had Frank bought the Place with the idea of moving the burglarized goods along the river and in through the trap door? Televisions, stereos? In canoes, at night? Hardly. The trap door was inessential. Frank had bought the Place for the secret room then, and probably for the location. Closed-up buildings on either side would be a big advantage when moving contraband in and out.
The water boiled. I poured enough to wet the grounds and put the pot back on the stove.
How much could household burglaries bring in in Henderson? It was not something a man who lived in San Francisco, like Frank once did, would think of. Not something that would lure him to drop everything and move to Henderson. Not potentially profitable enough to encourage him to buy the Place.
Trying to sound as if I were making polite conversation while waiting for the water to boil, I said, “I would think there’d be more burglaries now.”
“Why?”
“Well, all the new people, all the empty houses.”
Wescott laughed. “Maybe a slight rise in the last year or two. But there’s only so much work our local burglars want to do. They’re just getting better pickings now.”
Two years, I thought, the amount of time Frank had been here. I poured enough water nearly to fill the filter paper. There was so much to consider.
Wescott walked back into the living room. The second cup filled up in a minute and, carrying both, I f
ollowed him.
He was standing, as before, with one arm leaning on the mantel.
Behind his elbow was the metal dish I took from Frank’s.
I lurched forward with the coffee.
“Here.” Wescott grabbed for the cups.
“Sorry.”
“Did it spill?”
“I don’t think so.” I took my cup from him. The metal dish! Not just an ashtray. A dish hidden in a secret room. One Frank had stolen. Could it be one of the Chinese bronze plates that had been taken from a summer house here two months ago? What had Madge said about bronze finishes being ruined?
I didn’t have time to think about that now. What I needed to do now was to get Wescott out of here before he spotted the dish and made the same connection I had.
But Wescott, leaning on the mantel, waiting for his coffee to cool, looked at home.
“How did you hear that Frank’s Place had been broken into?” I asked.
“One of the men discovered it on his rounds.”
“What about the old people across the street?”
“They wouldn’t have noticed the break-in. That must have been in the middle of the night.”
“Haven’t you asked them about it?” I demanded.
“We have our procedures.”
“The old people across from Frank’s seem to escape your procedures with some regularity.”
He scowled over his coffee. “Is there something you want to tell me about them?”
“Nothing more than I already have.”
He started to put the cup down—on the mantel—but stopped halfway. I could almost see him wonder what had gotten into me.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I’m being inhospitable, but you did wake me up. There are other people you could have seen at nine in the morning, people who are at work and awake anyway or retired people who can sleep late every morning. You may forget that it was your comments that led to my being suspended. The least you can do is let me reap the benefits.”
“This is a murder investigation.”
“Indeed.”
“You were friendly with Goulet.”
“We’ve been through all that. I know you don’t believe Frank and I were just friends. There’s nothing more I can tell you to convince you of that. Repeating your suspicion isn’t going to change it.” I walked toward the stairs as I spoke, drawing his gaze so that his back was to the mantel. I expected him to follow, but he didn’t.
I waited.
He made no move.
“Is there another question you intend to ask me, Sheriff?”
Still he waited, letting his silence take tangible form. “There’s something that you are not telling me, Vejay, and that is what I want to know.”
“And what is that?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who thought this up.”
He waited, then suddenly put the cup down and walked over to the staircase. “I know you are withholding information. I …” He shrugged and walked out.
CHAPTER 15
AS SOON AS THE door shut behind the sheriff, I raced back upstairs and grabbed the metal dish. Holding it near the lamp, I could make out the hint of curved lines in the center, but the coating of green was so thick it obscured any pattern. The dish had oxidized evenly. It was impossible to tell if the design was Chinese, if the dish was Chinese, or even if it was antique.
Madge Oombs would know. I recalled her telling me about the Japanese bronze buddha. It hadn’t taken it long to oxidize. The buddha had been exposed first to humidity and heat, and then to cold. Wrappings had held in the condensation that had formed and the finish was ruined. Similarly, if this dish were one of the Chinese bronze plates, then it had been in the dry warmth of Frank’s secret room where the heaters and dehumidifier were on. When the room was opened and the other plates removed, the cold, moisture-laden, outside air had flowed in and remained there to eat away at the plate when the room was resealed.
Madge had told Frank about the Japanese buddha. So Frank would have realized the need to protect the finish on the plates with the heaters and the dehumidifier.
Madge would require only one look to decide if this were one of the Chinese set, but she was hardly someone I could ask. What could I say, Madge, can you tell me about this dish I stole from Frank’s Place last night? Would you mind not mentioning it to the sheriff?
I picked up the sheet of newspaper again, checking every article, then reading each one, all the while knowing that my first conclusion would be borne out: nothing printed here related to the burglaries or the bronze plate. Still, I didn’t toss the paper in the fire. I folded it and put it under the plate.
The knob took less time. Now that I suspected it was from a television, I wondered why I hadn’t realized that sooner. It was a standard plastic television knob, the type used to adjust the color. As such, it was not an item that would be missed immediately, like an on-off knob or a channel selector. Had the owner of the bronze dishes also lost a television? Or was this from a different haul?
I took out the papers I’d found in Frank’s cabinet and arranged them chronologically, noting Frank’s weekly orders for liquor and mixers, his monthly bills for laundry and paper products. I put the letters that reminded him he had not submitted orders in their proper places by date. Frank had been relatively organized, which didn’t surprise me. He had bought approximately the same quantity of goods each week. He had forgotten to order once before Christmas, a time when many things are overlooked, and twice more recently, within the last two months. After stealing a valuable set of Chinese plates, forgetting to order beer, wine, and mixers was understandable.
I was definitely going to have to find out about the plate. The library in Guerneville would have the old newspaper clippings, perhaps with photos clear enough to link this plate to the set.
I took one last long look at the plate, grabbed my slicker, and headed for the door.
A sheriff’s car was parked across the street.
It could have been a coincidence, but I’d never seen a sheriff’s car there before.
Leaving the door open, I went back inside, gathered two library books, and headed back out.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was still gun-metal gray. It seemed to hang like a wet canvas from invisible hooks just above the treetops, ready to fall on the earth whenever one of those hooks would no longer hold.
I made my way down the fifty-two steps, relieved that they were all still there, all still steady. My pickup truck was in the service station in Guerneville, repaired (I hoped) and waiting.
As I came abreast of the sheriff’s car, I tapped on the window. The young deputy at the wheel jerked his attention from the rear-view mirror and rolled down the window.
“I’m going to the library in Guerneville,” I said. “I wondered if you could take me.”
He was blond with pinkish skin. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “What? The taxi service—”
“My truck is in the shop. It’s a long walk.”
“I see. But I don’t—”
“My name is Vejay Haskell. Sheriff Wescott had my truck towed there. I’m sure he would want to help me get it back. You can call and ask him.”
He stared, then nodded, and rolled up the window. The call took little more than a minute, after which he motioned me in the back, behind the wire mesh.
“I’m going to the library,” I repeated, “but you might as well drop me at the service station for my truck.”
He said nothing as he started the car, and nothing on the drive into Guerneville, and nothing as I thanked him and got out.
The truck, of course, wasn’t quite ready. Another half hour, the manager said. They could do the billing now, though.
Normally, I wouldn’t have put pen to check before seeing my truck, but today I went ahead, took possession of the numerous forms, and waited to have my check okayed. When the procedures were completed, the truck still needed another half an h
our.
The sheriff’s car was outside. I waved and mouthed “not ready” as I passed. I walked down the main street, stopping at the bakery for a donut. The rain-free day had brought out everyone in town. The sidewalks were crowded and people pushed their way in and out of every shop.
The library was behind the main part of town, away from the river. The book-drop was full; there was no one at the check-out counter.
The librarian had copies of the San Francisco Chronicle for the last three months and issues of the local papers dating back one year. Earlier than that, I would have to do my research on microfilm.
I started with the local paper on the premise that the coverage of the theft would be big news here, be an item of interest in Santa Rosa, and barely merit mention in the San Francisco paper.
An hour later I realized that my assessment had been only partly right. The local paper was indeed thorough—to the point of repetitiveness—so that it took me nearly an entire hour to read its coverage, only to discover that after the first week no new facts were reported. But I dared not skip over it. The Chronicle, however, had given this out-of-town theft greater space than I had foreseen because the owner of the Chinese plates was a Martin Walucyk, an art collector and part-time professor who lived mainly in San Francisco. Together the papers explained that Walucyk had purchased a house in Henderson three years ago as a summer and weekend retreat. As a collector he sometimes brought valuable items there, and therefore had a temperature/humidity-controlled case in the house, where he kept the Chinese plates. Along with the plates, the usual range of electrical equipment had been taken in the burglary. The sheriff had no clues as to the identity of the culprits, but said that burglaries of empty dwellings had been a problem throughout the Russian River area. What neither paper contained was a distinguishable picture of the plates to tell me whether mine had been one of them.
To discover that, I would need to see Walucyk.
And he, of course, would be in San Francisco. I was here at the library; my truck was four blocks away; and the sheriff’s deputy sat outside. I could hardly have a deputy tail me to Walucyk’s house.
I couldn’t creep through Guerneville with the ease which I’d covered Henderson last night. Certainly not at midday.
